In the last chapter, I had spent a humiliating, painful and emotional morning with my beautiful, captivating girlfriend. I went to her, even though she may be a criminal. Despite her moments of cruelty, I was upset when she threatened to leave abruptly and tearfully begged her to stay; I am so hopelessly possessed. Now I was dressed like a nearly naked girl, dick hard, prancing across a closed motel parking lot to find out what further surprises awaited me.
1
As I stepped outside into the sunlight I saw no power equipment was waiting, a good sign. The curtains moved in the room my girlfriend occupied, no doubt she was checking on my compliance. As I began to skip and flail my arms and make limp wrist gestures, a couple loud semi-trucks rumbled by the motel entrance, gearing down for the interstate ramp ahead. Hopefully none of the drivers would look over and notice me, cock hard, prancing around in nothing but heels and a very short nightgown.
As I flitted along, stiff meat and balls dancing, I looked around and saw nothing but the thick forest that surrounded the derelict motel, and wondered if Constance was still stalking us. I doubted it; she had more than enough video already to blackmail me into doing her dirty work forever, and this dump in the Poconos was not an exotic destination like the Caribbean. I had e-mailed her everything I knew so far, and the blonde agent was pleased to hear that Za'ana wanted me to come live with her in Manhattan this summer. I tried not to think about all that, I just wanted to be with and please my crazy girlfriend.
The orange door to my destination was ajar, its plywood veneer split from age. The room, like the other, was furnished in antiques from the seventies. The drapes were shut but all the lights were on. Two unmade beds sat against the side wall, which was covered in cheap wood grain paneling. Za'ana was stunning as usual, lying on her side on the bare mattress, dressed kind of like a cocktail waitress in a cropped white peasant blouse and a short black skirt. Also in white, high platform shoes were strapped to her feet and a wide headband held her long, wavy, raven hair off her gorgeous face. The outfit showed off her tan shoulders, midsection and legs. My dick twitched just from looking at her. I couldn't believe I had been having sex, however twisted, with this beauty. The scent of her perfume was heavy in the air. Her eyes, accented by full makeup, flashed as she spoke.
"Lie down, you fucking disgusting sissy masturbator!" She yelled indignantly, as if I had known in advance what her demands would be. Her improved mood during lunch had eroded quickly.
She stood and had me lie on the center of the bed face up, arms stretched completely out to the side. My hands overhung each edge of the mattress.
Continuing her recent fascination with tools, she picked up a pair of flush-cutting pliers. My dread of more blade play diminished when she grabbed a spool of white lamp cord that had been out of sight on the floor. "I wasn't planning on this, but you seem to have a problem controlling your hands today, you nasty cocksucker! I'll deal with your lack of control of your penis later."
As I was being restrained, it was awesome seeing her cleavage and watching her braless tits undulate within the gauzy white top that was sheer enough to just barely reveal her areolas. Za'ana tied each of my wrists to the bed frame below and snipped off the excess wire. I could move, but only slightly.
She stood and looked up and down the bed for several seconds, then seemed to have flash of inspiration. Whatever it was could not have been good for me.
She began by looping the electric cord in a full circle around my sack, then pulling both ends lengthwise up my stomach under the nightgown and then out the arm holes to my shoulders. They were then anchored on my upper arm near my pits. If I moved one arm or the other more than a couple inches, the tension transferred down to my scrotum, yanking my balls uncomfortably upward. She then positioned my legs, thighs parted just enough to give her knee room to pummel my lassoed nuts. Knots graced both my ankles as each foot, still jammed into a high-heeled pump, was tied down like my wrists.
"Good. Now you can't fuck things up."
So, there I laid, nearly immobile, wearing some teenage girl's discarded slumber party attire, hard dick upright. My girlfriend slapped my stiff meat back and forth several times and then my face twice, spitting on my cheek afterward.
"Do you like my nightgown?" she asked, referring to the pastel yellow cotton that covered my chest
"Yes, of course," I replied; I did feel pretty nasty wearing it. "Is it really yours?" I asked, my face stinging.
"It was my sister's, then mine. We slept many summer nights in it, developing breasts and dreaming of future boyfriends. Years later I ruined the matching panty when I filled it with shit, masturbating while home alone during my first leave from the army." She smiled at the memory. "Are you ready for your surprise, bitch?"
"Yes." I had no idea what she had in mind, as her onion-scented saliva drained down my cheek. She repeated her question, insisting I beg for her gift, which I did while the image of her soiling herself occupied my thoughts. Then she spoke.
"Good! He's been in the restaurant all morning, and now he's waiting in the bathroom," she said, smiling with the same smug expression she had in St. Martin when I was led to believe she was going to fuck someone else right in front of me.
