Private Domination & submission Files Of Tyler

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A guy in dark-hued smiling evilly as he tosses me to the floor, tapes me up, and twitches my underwear off. My pal tyler is in the tub squealing and grimacing with mouth taped and tee-shirt over her head. There is nothing I can do to help her. I can't even help myself. I see myself alone, belted down to a card table, trembling in fear. He stands above. Smoking. Watching. Determining what to do now, what the next torture will be. The heat of his ciggie heats me when he nears. My skin is greedy to feel its burn. He gropes it down to my breasts. Softly at first, then harder, so that crimson dotted rings show up around my nipples. Then he hauls it leisurely down across my tummy and presses it rigidly into my clit. I shriek and yell in . I am staked out with hands and gams spread broad and back leaned over a thick, round log. Eyes closed, bod fixed and soaked with oil. Fatigued and incapable to struggle, I am nothing but a lifeless, greasy mass of flesh, an ornament for his lawn. Then there's a cabin encircled by forest and that same guy with that same grin. He unclothes us down and leads us into the wilderness like two on a single leather leash. Our gams are held open with branches and he looks back to smile at our ditzy waddling walk. The hard, splintery fake penis pushed deep into my cootchie fucks and prods with each step, searching for a tender spot. He tethers us to a tree and leaves us there, naked, vulnerable, and restrained. Only able to communicate with desperate eyes and silenced groans. Simultaneously, we strain to free-for-all ourselves. I reminisce trees. Two of them, encountering each other. And we are trussed to them, to share our suffering. Faceholes plunged with wooden gags, our sobs mix to create a single, anguished tune. I see tyler squirm under the ropes, rubbing her fragile skin against the tough, scratchy bark. I see the despair in her eyes. She is trapped. And so am I. He strikes her with a bony tree branch till tits and thighs are covered with crimson lashes. I cringe at the sound of each stroke and look down at my own tender breasts, made purple and bulging by the leather around them. My time will come briefly enough. The last thing I recall: he is grumbling and throwing me into a hole. "Gotta submerge the evidence," I think he said. He frosts me in mud packed tightly up to my neck. He brings tyler out, drowns her head, and secures her soles with wooden stakes. After positioning a ring gag in my mouth, he unbuckles his trousers and relieves himself, unloading urinate all over both of us. Then he ambles away, abandoning us. I am left with that photograph in my mind. A disembodied head and a decapitated bod baptized with the urinate of our captor. Just the thought sends chills crawling down my spine. But I am safe at home. And there is no guy in black. Because it was all just a dream. Right?