Mardi Gras Gag Gift Party
by Victor Von Doum: alum1989@yahoo.com
with illustrations by Mike Lee
Part two
Connections
Before I pass too much into reverie however, I ask Korey, “So how do you two know each other?”
“Oh, our kids are playing winter basketball on the same rec team. She’s really sweet.”
You have NO idea, I think. I also realize that Tina must have moved back into town.
“Anyway, she and I went out for drinks a few nights ago. She told me she’d gotten divorced.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. Her husband was pretty much a dick, from what Tina tells me.” I purse my lips in disappointment.
Korey’s tone changes. “Speaking of dicks—“
Where is she going with this? I wonder to myself.
“Tina tells me you’re big.”
“I’m a little over six feet ta—“ as Korey interrupts me, with a flat, “Not what she meant, Charlie.”
I’m actually getting a little bit uncomfortable here. (Sure, I remember Tina telling me how big my dick was — men mind hearing that remark probably as much as women mind hearing they’re pretty — and I accepted the compliment the way any man would: by letting her have every last millimeter of it.) Still, there’s no way that Korey is actually hitting on me, is there? I mean, she’s all around off-the-charts hot. And married. And a neighbor. And a room mom. And Sheila’s friend. No way. Recipe for disaster on so many levels. She can’t be. Can she?
“Here’s the deal, Charlie,” she continues. “I need to finish some coursework to complete my graduate Psych degree to get a shot at an open assistant professorship at the college. Kevin’s been out of work for a few months now, and our investments in the market are down. Money’s running a bit tight, and even with my assistantship I’m beaucoup in hock to the college for tuition. The head of the Psych department tells me the job is mine if I can just wrap up this last class to give my whole dissertation. The trouble is, I’m running into a block expounding on a subject I’ve never encountered.”
Through the absinthe, the other booze, and the couple of hits of pot, I’m starting to get somewhat of a picture of the financial and writing challenges she’s encountering. Still don’t know how it involves me, however. It’s not like we know them that well to loan them any money, given that we’re not exactly rolling in it either.
“The coursework involves an experiment in Abnormal Psych: fetishism, sexual deviancy, BDSM, hostage role play, that kind of thing,” Korey continues, her boot-heels still making those pronounced clomps on the dry winter sidewalk.
Whoa, I think. She’s not propositioning me with an offer like that, is she? I gulp, probably just like the way Wayne Knight did during the interrogation scene in Basic Instinct.
Korey notices, “No, it’s not what you think, Charlie. We’re both married. I wouldn’t dare ask you to cheat on Sheila.”
“Phew,” I reply, relieved, taking a sip of my absinthe.
“I do need you to tie me up, gag me, ransack my bedroom to make it look like a burglary, and watch me get off.”
Immediately I spit out my rather large sip.
(Fuck you, you would too.)
Luckily, my face was pointing away from her, because it must have traveled about three feet ahead of me.
“Burglary?! Korey—”
“Just LOOK like one, to make it SEEM authentic, for the excitement. Yeah, I know it won’t REALLY be real, but I’d need that element of simulated danger. Think of it as Method Acting.”
Whoa.
“Listen, Korey, I’m very flattered,” I stammer before regaining my composure somewhat. “But also very married.”
“Happily?”
“As much as any man can be,” I answer flatly and more than a bit cryptically. My marriage with Sheila isn’t perfect by any stretch, but we’re generally happy. Could definitely use more time between the sheets, but hey, we’ve been married a while now, and these things happen.
“Charlie,” Korey continues, “It wouldn’t involve any sexual contact: not on your part, anyway.” I think I know what she’s implying, and while certainly phenomenally exciting, it would also absolutely count as cheating in my book.
“Korey, I’m not Bill Clinton, you understand. Anything like that, I’d consider—“
Korey interrupts me. ”Don’t flatter yourself, Charlie. I wouldn’t cheat on Kevin that way either.”
Now I’m confused.
She continues, “Kevin’s fantastic: nice, funny guy, good family, really great dad. Thing is, we met during our senior year in college. Got married a year out, at 23, pretty young, you know? Well, we both come from neighboring small towns where that’s just what people do.”
Maybe she and Kevin grew up together and he knew her before she turned into Helen of Troy, I think. It could explain why she clearly settled, with him, at a relatively young age. Hmmm.
“Now Kevin, he’s very religious; considered going in to the seminary, he told me. Was a virgin when we got married. While I wasn’t exactly a slut in college before I met him, I wasn’t a saint either. Sex with him, well…” Korey’s voice trails off as she makes the universal bent-pinky sign, raising it up in my direction.
“He’s got a crooked pinky finger?” I wisecrack.
“Very funny. You know what I mean. Besides, Kevin likes straight sex. Meat and potatoes missionary. Won’t even let me give him a blow job. Believes in not ‘wasting the seed.’”
This guy’s fucking nuts. What kind of idiot would possibly turn down HEAD from an incredible hotbox like Korey? And did she just say the words “blow job” to me?
Korey goes on, “So you can see, there’s no way I could ask him to tie me up and gag me—for ‘science’ or not. He’d fucking flip, and probably file for annulment on the grounds that I didn’t tell him about such ‘evil desires’ before we got married.”
I’m still listening, and still confused. We walk the two blocks or so to my house and, with my top hat it starting to bother me, I take it off and fling it, Oddjob-style, onto the front porch. Two blocks later and we’re not far from approaching Korey’s house.
“So here’s the deal: once I realized that Kevin was going out of town, I wanted to work on my Psych research project but self-bondage would get risky if I couldn’t free myself, and let’s face it, it lacks the ‘fun’ elements of surprise and excitement. Once I talked to Tina over those drinks and she accidentally let your name slip when we were talking about our best sexual experiences—which she told me about in great detail, by the way—I thought you’d make a likely assistant. Still, the plan didn’t come together until Sheila told me at school that she was going out of town this weekend too.
“Listen, I’ve made it really simple: I went to separate hardware stores a few towns away and bought latex gloves and cotton rope, which I’ve already cut into lengths. Also popped by separate costume shops to buy a toy gun and a Michael Myers mask. Paid for everything in cash and already wiped down all surfaces with alcohol. Already had plenty of material for gags,” as she points to her headscarf, “but now I’ve got even more, what with these two bandannas from the party.” She’s carrying them in the brown bag.
“You know who brought them, don’t you?” I ask her.
“Did you, Charlie? Well, I brought the ball gag, ALSO paid for in cash today at an adult bookstore. See, it’s serendipity. Still have it?”
“In my front pocket,” as I pat it through my serape/cloak.
“Good,” Korey replies. “I thought you might have just been happy to see me.”
Gulp.
We approach the sidewalk leading up to Korey’s house, which I notice looks a bit like ours: prewar, American four-square construction, sidewalk winding around back, to a back yard and then to an alley. Can’t really make out the color in the darkness, but it looks like a mid-tone something.
“Walk me to the back door?”
Decision time
What the fuck are you doing, Sabbs, I think, referring to myself with the nickname all my buddies call me. You’re seriously going to fuck your life up if you follow through with this whole thing.
I look up and down the street. I see no one. As Korey proceeds down the sidewalk that leads to her back yard, I hesitate for a moment. I see her boots peek through the waves of her black witch’s robe and although it’s pitch dark out, I swear I see their milk chocolate brown color perfectly. I wonder whether I seeing things as I wish they were or as they are not.
Whatever: this is fucked up, I say to myself as I walk a few steps behind her, my curiosity and outright lust for this mystery woman completely overtaking my rational thought process.
We reach the small screen-in back porch. No back porch light goes on as Korey begins walking up the steps. I wait on the patio near the bottom of the stairs, still unsure. Not hearing me follow her, Korey stops on the porch and then walks down the couple of stairs back to the first step off the ground. Placing her hand on the railing, she starts talking to me in a sweet but matter-of-fact voice, her ever-so-slight interdental lisp in action:
“Look, Charlie, I can understand your hesitation, so let me say it again: no funny business. No sex. Just you tying me up and seeing me enjoy myself, both of which I know you’d like to do. It’s no different than watching Skinamax, except that it’s live. Speaking of, you have your Smartphone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can film me and keep it for your personal viewing pleasure.”
She’s just sealed the deal.
“One thing: if it ever finds its way onto YouTube or wherever, it’d be M-A-D for both of us.”
“Mutually Assured Destruction?”
“Mutually Assured DIVORCE. So, once you take it, I’d recommend e-mailing it to yourself then deleting it from your phone right away.”
I pause, but just for a second. I’m finding my will power melt away in torrents.
“So what do you say? You’ll be doing me and my Psych career a huuuuge favor. I really need to know what goes on in the heads of these fetishists when they’re doing their thing.”
“Heads,” as I laugh on the inside. “Well, as long as it’s in the name of science, I’m in.”
“Great. Thanks. Plus, between Tina’s tales and all the times I saw you checking out these boots and the ones the other moms were wearing—yeah, your head-scratches and fake coughs you use to point your head downwards may fool everyone else, but I’m a doctoral candidate in Psych, remember? —I think that your securely roping up and gagging a chick in boots who’s not too terrible on the eyes, then watching as that tied-up and gagged chick struggles and gets herself off might work for you too,” Korey winks at me as she unlocks the back door.
“You need to wait outside for three minutes while I take off my robe and fold it and get ready. After all, if you’re going to ransack my bedroom looking for valuables, you’re going to have to take me by surprise. In this handled paper grocery bag in the corner of the porch, you’ll find a few items. Put on the gloves and the Michael Myers mask, load up with the other stuff, bring the bag and wait till I walk to the back door again. In exactly three minutes.”
Korey pauses. “Oh, and by the way?”
I arch my eyebrows waiting for the next line.
“Gangnam is an anagram for ‘Man Gag’n.’”
Wow, I think she’s right.
“Also, Henry got the Oscar Wilde quote about absinthe wrong. It’s actually ‘After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not.’ He got third part right, but forget about that part: we’ve had two absinthes each, right? So we’re about to see things happening here that are not really happening.
“So, when you tie me up tight over a footstool in the upstairs den room and gag me with the ball gag from your pocket while you ransack the bedroom; when you don’t find what you’re looking for and then angrily pick me up and carry me to the bedroom and tightly hogtie me with my palms facing each other; when you take off the ball gag, stuff my mouth with your underwear, and cleave-gag me with the red bandanna before handing me the fully-charged, battery powered vibrator that you’ll have found in my top dresser drawer; when you’re punishing me for the lack of valuables by filming me get off by ‘forcing’ me to use it while I’m looking at your huge erectness as you’re checking me out from the vantage point of the master bath; when you get ready to go home and replace your underwear mouthpack with the cream-colored bandanna and blindfold me with my headscarf before you leave me tied up all night? Those are all things that we will have seen that won’t have really happened.”
“Of course. Because we’ll have seen things as they are not.” Hot damn if she hasn’t thought this whole thing through.
“Precisely. Then let the role play begin, Mr Michael Myers-masked prowler intruder,” Korey tells me matter-of-factly, as she takes only her half-filled plastic glass of absinthe and pours it out over the railing before throwing it into recycling. Mine, about 1/3 full, stays on the railing.
“Last thing: the ‘safe sound’ is three looooong mmmphs, foghorn-long. Any other sounds that I make will be coming quite naturally, I suspect.”
“Three looooong mmmphs, got it,” as I wait outside on the porch, will all previous hesitation now completely evaporated. Impressive that she’s just assuming I know about role-play, which of course I do.
“Oh, I saw your eyebrows rise when I mentioned your underwear mouthpack.”
Didn’t even know I had, but I must have; what she said did surprise me.
“Well, I figure that since I can’t actually take you in my mouth—I mean, I’m sure I could, but not without cheating on my husband— at least I can taste you while I watch you watch me.”
Wow. Just. Fucking. Wow.
Ball Gag Masqué
From the outside, I see Korey turn on the bright kitchen lights, set the microwave timer for three minutes, take off her robe, revealing a black satin collared shirt, a wide milk chocolate brown belt with a large open square antique bronze buckle, her jeans now bunching slightly at the top of her knee-high zipperless milk chocolate brown knee-high boots. She folds the robe and lays it on the kitchen table, takes off her silk headscarf, tousles her blond pageboy ‘do, and then heads toward the dark interior of the house. I wonder why, but I’m guessing bathroom.
I put on the gloves, and mask, feeling my two-day-old stubble rub up against it. I pick up the toy gun and peer inside. I see microwave timer count down to 30 seconds, and then finally see Korey emerge from the darkness. She heads toward the table, picks up the brown bag with the bandannas, opens it, takes them out and puts them in her left front pocket. She then picks up her headscarf, bunches it up and puts it in her right front one, and then she approaches the back door and reaches for the dimmer-switch.
My heart starting to race, I instantly think of the Kelly Clarkson song lyrics:
Oh, I can't believe it's happening to me / Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…
I’m really thinking of that song? Apparently so. But now I’m a burglar, breaking into and entering this house to steal its valuables: a bad ass thug, right out of a cop show. I’m guessing that burglars —and Skid Rue bums — don’t take their shoes off upon entering a home for whatever reason, but I always do in my house to keep the floors clean. Plus, it’ll make my approach behind her cat-like and quiet. I use the side of my right shoe to take off my left shoe at the heel, then my socked left foot to take off my right shoe the same way. They end up next to each other in a V-pattern — more orderly than one might expect, giving the circumstances — on top of rather large black mat at back door entrance. I take off my serape and drop on top of the shoes.
Korey slides the dimmer switch down to a minimum, and then shifts her green eyes in my direction and nods her head slightly, as if to say, “Now.” She turns her back to the door, which I take as my cue to start proceedings.
I narrowly open the screen door and slide through the slight opening that I make in the inner door. With the gun in my right hand, and the bag of tricks in my left, I quickly move the couple of feet up to Korey. I bring the gun to up to her right temple with my right hand, drop the bag, and quickly hand-gag her with my gloved left hand. She gasps with fright.
I put on a gruff blue-collar accent under the mask. “Hands behind your back, bitch. Do what I say and no one gets hurt. Nod if you understand.”
Korey nods.
“Now I’m gonna to take my hand away for a second. If you scream, you’ll be breakin’ our deal. You don’t want to see what I do to people that break deals wit’ me. It ain’t pretty.”
Korey shakes her head. I remove my gloved hand from over her mouth, reach down and grab a length of pre-cut rope from the bag. Already in a figure-eight pattern, I notice the ends show black tape on them to keep them from fraying: impressive. She’s really done her research.
“Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpers, as I stick the toy gun in my right front pocket and begin tying her wrists together, one over the other, just like how I tied Tina’s way back when, I think. Right behind Korey’s wide milk chocolate brown belt I finish making the loops around them and then bring the ends over, tying them tightly but only in a single knot for now; I remember what Korey has told just me about the den footstool and I’m not exactly sure how that set-up is going to work. I notice Korey wince a bit at the tightness of the tie, and I realize I still remember how to.
Just like riding a bike.
I add a, “Good. Real good. Now tell me: where’z yer valuables, babe?”
“Upstairs. In the bedroom: top dresser drawer. Take anything you want. Just please don’t hurt me,” Korey’s voice comes out fast and shaky.
“Look, lady, I told ya no one’z gonna get hurt! Just show me where yer valuables are, and I’ll be on my merry fuckin’ way.” I begin nudging her forward towards the staircase that I see.
“Move it, sister,” I instruct her. “And no tricks or you’ll find out what kind of a good shot I am.” That line borders on a hokey 1930s movie gangster’s delivery, so I shove her a bit forward again to compensate. I pick up the bag with my left hand. We reach the stairway and begin walking up it. I flip on the stairwell light and upstairs hallway one with my left elbow and I get another whiff of her perfume and notice the shine off the stiff leather of her new boots as her legs move up the stairs. My right hand is pushing the gun in between her shoulder blades, with my left hand holding the bag and below above her tied wrists, I’m grabbing the top of her belt and back belt-loops to guide her forward.
Korey reaches the top of the stairs and turns right, toward her bedroom.
“There it is,” she tells me in a quavering voice. “I keep my jewelry in a box in the top drawer of my dresser. Go ahead and take it all…”
I push her into the bedroom, spot the light switch and turn it on. I demand, “Now which one is your dresser?!” Korey tilts her head over to the right, “It…it’s that one over there.”
“Good. While I check the place out, I’m going to get you comfortable in one of the other rooms. Since I’m in a good mood, you get to choose which one.”
“Ok…ok,” Korey replies meekly. “The den is just the next room over.”
“Then move it!” I instruct her, as we walk into the hallway. I drop the bag of tricks in the short-ish hallway, a good few feet outside the bedroom door. The top of my gloved left knuckles pushes on the small of her back, my left thumb rubbing against the bottom of her wide western tooled milk chocolate brown leather belt, the gun once again poking her shoulder blades.
Korey walks toward the den, her boot steps muffled from the hallway carpet runner. Turning into her den, they hit hardwood floor and start with a slow clomp. I look for the light switch and hit it.
“Listen, I figure a chick like you is smart enough to know not to mess with me, so here’s the deal: you stay tight here and I won’t have to tie you up any more. Got it?”
“Got it.”
However, I can’t have you finding a phone and calling anyone, so I’m gonna have keep you quiet.”
“No! No, please don’t gag me, please don’t gag me,” comes Korey’s plea. “I won’t call anyone, I promise. I swear!”
“Can’t take that chance, lady,” as I produce the ball gag from out of my left front pocket and pop it out of its case.”
“Gasp!” Korey exclaims.
“Open wide,” I tell her as I shove the ball in her mouth.
“Mmph, mmph!” her protests come out as I pull the straps around the back of her head and tighten them before buckling the fastener. I drop the ballgag’s plastic case into the nearby bag of tricks and pick the whole bag back up. Seeing me bend down, Korey quickly turns her body and makes a break for the stairwell. I turn and grab her left elbow to stop her escape, the reach my arm further under her tied-behind-the-back arms, grabbing her right elbow yanking them closer to me.
“Mmmph!!” she yells into the ball gag.
“Bad idea, lady,” I tell her, chuckling on the inside because I know she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I pull Korey towards the den then forceinto it with a “Keep wallking!” I spot the footstool in front of a big chair in thecorner of the den.
“Park yourself onta da stool. Do it!” Korey complies, and sits on the footstool, looking around nervously and breathing somewhat heavily through her nose. I think about how to tie her to it securely enough to allow me to go back and make her bedroom look ransacked, but I see instantly that the stool is too short for her to sit with her knees fully bent and touching the floor.
Could have her have them outstretched, but how could I run a rope from her wrists to her boots? Oh, I’m sure I could find some other ways, but hell if I’m not more than a bit fucked up from the absinthe and the pot, plus I’m raging hard at the prospect of this whole evening. Suddenly, I get an idea.
“All right, blondie, grab doze high-class boots of yours,” I order her. I can see Korey’s eyes light up and I swear I her a slight distinct sound of pleasure from behind her ball gag. Still seated, her legs bent forward at 45 degrees, then tucks them on either side of the stool, her boot-tips touching the floor. She grabs her boots just above the ankles. I reach into the bag and take out two coils of rope.
“I bet you like doz boots so much I figguh you can play wit’ ‘em now,” I tell her. “Told ya I wuz in a gen-riss mood,” my tough guy delivery continuing.
I begin tying her wrists to her boots: first I take the right wrist, and pull the double rope- end through the loop, pull it taut, and hearing a little scrunch when it digs ever so slightly into the leather, smelling the boot’s fresh new leather smell and noticing for the first time the rigidness of the leather: a hard shaft like a cowgirl or equestriene boot — but with no stitch-designs on the shaft or feet, and with a snip-toe end. I then wrap it around five or so more times, securing her wrist tight up against the brown leather. I swear I hear Korey purring as she grabs her boot-shaft with her palm and starts caressing the leather with her fingertips. I move over and apply the same process to her left wrist and left boot, and I notice her breath getting heavier and digging her fingernails ever sl slightly into her boots with her fire engine red manicured nails.
I get another idea.
“Ya tried to run away once; ain’t gonna happen again. Flat on your back now, on top a da footstool here,” I direct Korey, who obediently arches her back and lies backward, her blond tresses now falling down towards the floor. I look into the bag of tricks for a few more lengths of rope. Finding them, I put my idea into action: I firsr run some rope around Korey’s waist—just above her belt but well below her boobs. I feel her breath quicken as I wrap the ropes around her torso and directly to the footstool, leaving her wrists still tied tightly to her boots. I encircle her lower ribcage several times; as I tighten the ropes for the tie-off, I hear a slight squeal escape from behind the ball gag.
I repeat the process with another length of rope, but this time securing her upper thighs to the footstool. As I wrap the ropes aound her well-fitting jeans, just below her crotch, I see her hips start to tremble ever so slightly.
Shit, she’s digging this.
I put back on my criminal voice, “All right, you rich bitch, that’s oughtta hold ya. Don’t move, while I check out yer val-ya-bullss. And they better be fuckin’ good!” She shakes her head no, then yes, whimpering a bit. As I leave the room, I swear I see her working her body down the footstool, to line up the upper-thigh ropes onto her hotspot. I smirk as I pass into her bedroom.
Remembering what she told me about increasing her fantasy by making it look like a burgarly, I pull open some drawer and drop them on the ground, spilling their contents: one full of Kevin’s socks, one full of his T-shirts. Before I get to one with his underwear, I remember what Korey said about her underwear drawer and what I’d find there.
In between drawer-ransackings, I hear Korey’s protests through her gag coming from the next room: no three long ‘mmmphs,’ thankfully. She’s playing along great. I head over to her dresser and open the top drawer. Dead center, in clear contrast to her neatly folded dark-colored bras, sits a white box: longer than a woman’s shoebox, and definitely narrower, the sealing tape already cut. I open up the case and I see a white Hitachi wand. I pull the wand out; about ten inches long, stem-to-stern, from what I reckon. Never have handled one before, but I sure dig it when I’ve seen women on websites use one to pleasure-torture their bound and gagged hottie victims.
It looks clearly battery powered due to no visiible electrical cord, but with what appears to serve as the charger cord looks barely used: neatly arranged in a figure-eight pattern and tied off with a black plastic-covered wire, the kind that often wraps the ends of the plastic bags holding sliced loaves of bread. I chuckle to myself when I realize how much it reminds me of how Korey tied her rope-lengths and taped off each end with black tape.
OK, obviously no jewelry anywhere. Guessing Korey wants me to find this kind of ‘valuable’ instead, eh? Yes, I know that I’m not going to administer this wand on Korey, but if this scene were only playing out twenty years ago when I wasn’t fucking married…enough of that shit, Sabbs. Get back to business!
For good measure I pull out another dresser drawer and dump it out; her socks and some old t-shirts fall onto the floor. I walk out of the bedroom and into the den, where I see Korey struggling in vain against my tie job. She’s semi-frantically pushing the footstool’s legs up and down by using her her boots, making thumping sounds on the den floor, grunting through the ball gag lodged in her mouth.
Shit, she’s really working it.
Korey sees me walk in, and shakes her head at the prospect. I’m holding the vibe behind my back but let’s face it, she KINDA knows it’s coming. I remember what she said from earlier, after I tied her up over the footstool and ransack her bedroom, “when you don’t find what you’re looking for and then angrily pick me up and carry me to the bedroom and tightly hogtie me with my palms facing each other…”
Still, I figure I can weave a little burglar tough guy role play in. “All right, you rich bitch, I ain’t found no cash and no jewelry, but I did find this magic wand,” as bring it from behind my back and show it to her.
“Mmmph! Mmmph!” she yells from behind the ball gag, shaking her head repeatedly.
“Dontcha worry yer pretty little locks about it. It won’t HURT a bit,” I declare flip the switch and turn it on, feeling it buzzing against my latex gloved hands. Korey screams behind her gag again as I bring it closer to her. I of remember our mutually agreed-upon no-touchee policy, but hot damn do I want to use every tool in my disposal with her.
As I turn it on and bring it up towards her face, Korey opens her eyes wide in mock trepidation. She then looks away, whimpering, fearful of what this bad-ass burglar might do to her with it. Damn, she’s good.
I also recall what she told me about the next phases of the operation, specifically about “punishing” her for not finding any valuables by “forcing” her to get off as I look at her from her master bathroom.
“All right, chickie, time we move you to more comfortable quarters,” I tell her.
“Mmmpwha?”
“Oh, you heard me. But don’t worry, I figure that since I can’t find no diamonds, I get to work on helping out some other rocks — mine.”
“Mmmnn!!”
I smirk as I start untying the several lengths of ropes fastening the top and bottom of Korey’s boobs to the top of the padded footstool. By now, she’s wriggled so much that her black satin shirt has mostly come out of her faded jeans and it’s riding up her very firm abs, with part of that set of ropes now partially hard against her skin. Part of her disheveled shirt is hanging over the left side of her belt, but not over her buckle. I see her firm stomach tremble at what she knows is going to happen. Her breath quickens.
With both ropes now undone, I lean the footstool forward and place Korey on her knees, her wrists still tied tight to her boot-shafts.
Well, THAT won’t work for the next phase of the operation.
I see her fingertips stroking the brown leather.
Fuck me, can she stroke shafts. Snap out of it, Sabbs…
I stop and think for a second. How am I going to get her to her bedroom without—ahem, inadvertently—touching any of her lady parts? Wait, of course, I think I’ve got it now….