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I shouldn’t like that soundat all.
Jameson adds gentle pressure, bringing the bodysuit into closer contact with my pussy. I’m suffocating to death. He hasn’t tied the gag tight enough to kill me, but the fabric is like a firm hand between my legs. I instantly, shamefully wonder whathishand would feel like. It would be wider than the bodysuit. It would be warmer. It would be—
Sweet summary dismissal, this cannot be good. No part of this can be good. It’s too mortifying. It’s too awful.
He cocks his head to the side, watching me, and changes the angle he’s pulling the bodysuit so there’s more contact on my clit.
“Why?” I say into the gag. “Why?”
Jameson doesn’t answer. He keeps staring into my face, and I keep staring into his, my face on fire. Hiding would be appropriate. Closing my eyes would communicatesomething. But I can’t look away.
I can’t escape what he’s doing. I can’t escape that it feels good.
I can’t escape him.
My mind arrives at the eventual conclusion of the rocking motions he’s doing with the torn bodysuit, and I shake my headhard. “No. Not like this.”
He shrugs, eyes glinting. “Couldn’t hear you.”
“Please.”
This time, he actually rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
He lets the pieces of the bodysuit fall listlessly to my sides and undoes the buttons of my slacks. Then he puts one hand on either side of the zipper and tears them in half, too.
Destroyed custom-fit slacks fall to the braided rug. He rips my ruined bodysuit off and drops them on top of the slacks.
Nothing survives.
Not my bra.
Not the no-show socks I wore with my flats.
Not my panties.
I stay as still as I can, but the trembling in my muscles won’t stop no matter how much I try. It’s tough to breathe through the gag. I’m torn in half, too. Half of me wants my clothes back. Half of me wants him to finish what he started.
I’m disgusted with myself.
I want to be far more disgusted with him.
Iam. He’s an evil man.
Jameson takes my bag from the floor with a glance at me. “Stretch your legs.”
I motion up at the gag with my bound hands. “Please. I need some air.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Jameson purses his lips. “I’ll take it off, but you can’t scream anymore.”
“Okay.” I nod, in case there’s any doubt at all what I mean.
He steps closer, balancing my bag over his arm, and reaches behind my head. Jameson’s fingers tug gently at the material, undoing the knot.
“I have a headache,” he murmurs, then blinks. Shakes his head a little. Like he didn’t mean to say that. Like he’s not sure he did.
