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You were always joking about how much you wanted to get me into bed. How disappointed you were that I'm straight. How much more fun I'd have sleeping with girls instead of boys. Every time we hung out you'd make at least one comment to this effect. And every time I laughed it off, telling myself you were just playing around. Friends are supposed to compliment friends, after all.
But then, I've always been a bit too naive for my own good. Unable to see warning signs when they're right in front of me. A bad judge of character. I guess I never heard the lust in your voice, or properly noticed the intensity of the way you looked at me. I certainly never viewed you as someone to be on my guard around.
The night out was a bit of a blur. We started off as a group of about 10. You kept plying me with drinks, which I kept gratefully accepting. People slowly started heading home, until only the two of us remained. I was really drunk, and you offered to walk me home. That's the last thing I remember clearly...
...when I wake up, I'm confused about everything. Where I am, what time it is, the pounding in my head. Why I'm not under the bedsheets, and why I'm dressed only in my underwear. It takes a second before I realise I can't move, and a few seconds further before I figure out why. I'm handcuffed to my bedposts. No, not my bed. Yours.
(kinks: noncon, and pretty much anything except age, scat, gore, beast)
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- 5 years ago
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