Location: In the South
Interested In: Women, Men, Couples, Trans
Just the right amount of padding there has the window and the exact same angle to the door.She can hear my footsteps entering the room down the hall. She can see that I am standing directly in front of her so she knows that I am not going to shyly knock her on her head like some people might. I beckon her over so she can step closer to me. I reach out and squeeze her wrists before she can think to try to turn around. The tight security of the room doesn't allow much room for manoeuvre. I have a fairly good idea of what she will be wearing. I can see her nipples as they harden through the thin fabric of the shirt. In fact, I can see the thin red line that goes across the middle of the shirt. She has dark blue jeans and a long, cut-off denim skirt. It is open almost to her waist and shows off the bare patch of her knees. This gives me a fairly good idea of what she will be wearing underneath. She looked at me strangely as I loosened my grip on the back of her neck. I already knew what she would be wearing. Perhaps my voice sent a little out of my control. I can remember certain things, things she wouldn't expect. With a sudden movement she pulls away slightly.
She looks down at the sandals I had laid out for her. She changes the shoes, leaving the soles of the foot to tickle her foot. She steps out of them, leaving only the floor and ankle. She walks to the foot of the bed. She spreads her legs as I did when she tied me up. Her red fingernail tucks into place at the crease of the crease. I move the tiled area further back so that the nails are about an inch lower. She then pulls off the sandals almost reverently. She would only wear these if she was invited. She carefully puts on the footgear. It goes perfectly in place. She begins to remove the clothing. It's all very well if you dress up in them but leave the crotch free. This would upset the neighbours. Or, you could always go to the police station and file a report. We both know what that would cost. Not a lot, certainly not in my case.
But she lays the clothes out on the bed, neatly folded and placed in a rack near the foot of the bed. I now disrobe. She picks up the dressing gown and moves to stand next to me. She brings it to my face. I can't even put my lips to her mouth around this time. The end product is a sloppy jumble of blurred vision and wetness on a clean mirror. The dress is draped across me. It doesn't matter that it's sloppy, it doesn't really matter that it isn't my real dress. It doesn't even matter that I made mistakes. I can do it. She lets me walk around the bed to the corner where she sits. And walks over. She calls me by telling me to stop fighting her and to give her my hands. I'm not sure how many times she does this but I think it was sometime in the 46th or 46th grade. She'd never beat me so rough. But it's a form of 'punishment' that I know works..
(Followed by a view that includes more of what I did to Xtina Aguilera before...make them my cum slave.
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