The cold metal table chills her skin. Goosebumps chase each other across her legs and stomach. But they are nothing compared to the butterflies careening in her stomach.
The light streaming down on her nude body illuminates every curve and rise. The freshly shaved mound of her sex fairly gleams in the direct light. Each drop of her wetness becomes a single shining point like diamonds hanging from her folds.
Bound by hand and foot, strapped cruelly and tightly to the table, the only sound in the empty room is of her own labored breath, in and out, in and out, shallow, rapid, it is all her bonds will allow.
The room is dark. Deep shadows disappear into corners and the walls are beyond the reach of the waning light. There is no way to know how large the space is, the sole bulb shines only on her small struggles against the ridged table.
She hears a door open and then footsteps shuffle through the darkness into the room. Shapes begin to solidify from the gloom. Men shuffle into view. Lots of them. They stay in the shadows, surrounding the circle of light that radiates on her as its center.
Their faces are obscured, their bodies disappearing into the shadows, but she can see enough to know that they are watching her closely. Each man's eyes trained on her sex, or breasts, or legs or belly. They watch her squirm and hear her whimpers. Shapeless, formless men, like shadows of lust and desire surround her on one side.
