Red-hot Twat Part 2 Mei Mara

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One minute she's riding her bike in the country. The next, cable-ties hold her to a chair in a dank basement. You stand before this defenseless youthfull woman. She is in your power. There are games you want to have fun with her. Masochistic games. It is something in your figure that drives you to do these things to her. Perhaps it is a shape of love. Because in your eyes, her figure gets taller more splendid by the hour. Until there is an imprint of her wherever you go, whatever you see, whomever you are with. And you embark to wonder if you will ever get free. You bony down and open a door set into the floor. Fettered and chained, she lies sideways in a shallow cell below floor level. She fastly learns to throttle sound, maybe to throttle everything. You praise her. You're teaching her the contortionist's art the equanimity of self-deception. You trap her so that her head is on one side of a wall, and her body, bent backward, is on the other side. She's adorable like this, don't you think? Almost perfect. And so you have fun another game. It is a game she can only lose. You have fun this game to make her more perfect, more lovely. And this is the imprint of her that you carry. The sound of her screaming, and of her figure twisting and straining. A hook in her cunt pulls her cunt upward. You stimulate her to orgasm. And as you get ready to put her away in her box, you're already thinking of coming to her later. More games? Is that what you want? How lengthy can this go on? When will it be over? By then, she'll be able to throttle everything, ambling a dim muffle of dream.