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I awaken groggily as the stench of chloroform assaults my nostrils, my blurry vision returning to me. I take in the surroundings of a dimly lit basement and my nude figure bound tightly to a dingy mattress and a piece of tape securing a panty-gag in my mouth. This... was not in the ad.
The scantily-clad woman leered over me with a scowl and a revealing, leather jumpsuit, looking over my features. I stiffen up in fear at the meer site of her, knowing full well my free will has vanished into thin air.
She smirks at the sight of my sensitive feet, pits, balls, and stomach just waiting for her to pounce upon with those long acrylic nails. This arrangement certainly wasn't my choice anymore.
Her walls are adorned in torturish tools galore: feathers, hair brushes, massage oil, electric toothbrushes, paint brushes, etc. Her arsenal was limitless, and she was clearly a master in the trade of torture. The mirror on the ceiling staring back at me was the pathetic reflection of how she saw me: an object for her pleasure.
I thrashed and squirmed in fear, pleading through the old, clearly used panty-gag... and it was the biggest mistake I had ever made.
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