restraint 01

It begins as a gift.

She’s waiting in a hotel room. Her big, smokey eyes are heavy with something soporiphic, but given her nice clothes she might have taken it herself. Little black, red and orange dress, full face of makeup. Her red lips purse around the ball of a gag. This pretty girl looks up at you with an avalanche of emotions crossing her face at glacial pace: surprise, confusion, hope, fear. The last one must have been because of the way you are looking at her.

“I’ve never gagged you,” I murmur from where I’m securing the door. It feels like sacrilege. But I think I’ve found a way."

She’s on the bed, hands bound behind her in a comfortable TK. Rope crawls under breasts and over shoulders. With her laid back on the bed it means she arches in a way that shows off her figure. Her weariness or her drug leaves her head lolling. She presents you her neck.

“You can’t gag me with her. I’ll just bite or swallow her down.”

Between the way you stare at her, the matter-of-fact-way you talk about eating her, and the sheer heft of your enormous belly, your gift is instantly convinced that you are being literal. Adrenaline makes her struggle to get to her feet but even her struggles are torpid. She fails to make progress as you stalk at the base of the bed.

Suddenly I’m behind you, arms encircling your waist and chest, and my mouth at your throat. You inhale as I kiss your neck.

“Want to play a game? It’s called ‘restraint’. You’re going to lie on the bed with your mouth on her throat and not bite.” I bite you, playfully. Your eyes never leave your dinner as you sigh, the sensation making you shiver.

“And what if I do?” You murmur, reaching up to pull my head against you. My hand at your breast trails down your whole front to pluck at the waistband of the leggings you threw on. There is enough stretch in them to contain both your ample frame and hers at the same time.

“Then the pleasure stops, and I give you pain, till you apologise to me and to your meal.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?” you say, sickly sweet and grinding your backside against me.

“No more than you can handle. You don’t scar.”

With a jolt you remember last week’s experimentation. I spontaneously brought a wide-bodied knife to you. After I sliced my forearm with an ultra-light motion I placed it an inch from your firearm. You just watched as I lowered it and cut your skin. After you had finished licking up both our blood you asked why, and I said explained I wanted to see how you healed. We left it at that.

Behind her gag, the woman whimpers. When she tries to speak the words are unintelligible but the tone conveys it: please let me go. We ignore her.

You finally turn your eyes from her and fix me with a stare instead. “And the pleasure?”

“Of being a good girl,” I say, with a broad grin. The woman on the bed begins to weep.

You make a not-impressed face but cuddle in closer. A little nod. “So… How do we begin?”

“Undress yourself,” I say, immediately. It’s clearly been on my mind. “And undress her. Leave the ropes.”

You do both simultaneously. Your clothes peel off your gorgeous round form while impossible tendrils of darkness lash out. They raise squeaks of pain and terror from your dinner. Her clothes peel away, red-edged where you didn’t preserve her skin.

“Lick her clean,” I say, stern in the face of your smirk, “put your lips on her throat, and then open your legs.”