A tight situation
"C'mon babe, look at the camera. I just want to take a picture of you. You look so sexy all tied up and gagged...I just want to show you off to my friends at the bar"
The neon lights outside the bar flickered, casting an eerie glow across the rain-slicked sidewalks. Inside, the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses created a comforting ambiance that belied the stormy night. It was a typical Friday evening, the kind where the city's worries melted away with each sip of a cold drink and the promise of anonymity whispered sweet nothings in everyone's ear.
I stepped into the bar, dressed to the nines, with a short black miniskirt that barely contained my curves, tan pantyhose that whispered secrets with every step I took, and black high heels that clicked confidently against the sticky floor. The bar was a place I frequented, a familiar haunt where the faces changed but the stories remained the same.
My eyes scanned the room, looking for a friendly face or perhaps something more. I found myself drawn to the corner booth, where a man sat alone, nursing a whiskey. His eyes met mine and held, a silent invitation that sent a shiver down her spine. He was tall, with a ruggedness that seemed almost out of place in the neon glow. His smile was crooked, charming in a way that made her stomach flutter.
Against my better judgment, I approached him. The conversation flowed like the drinks that night, easy and potent. He spoke of adventures and freedom, of a life unshackled by the constraints of the nine-to-five grind. His words painted a picture of excitement and danger, and I felt my resolve slipping away like the rainwater down the drain outside.
When he offered me a ride home, I accepted without a second thought. His car was warm, the leather seats enveloping me as the storm raged on. But instead of heading home, he drove to a secluded apartment complex on the outskirts of town. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of excitement and trepidation.
Inside his apartment, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a flickering TV playing an old horror movie in the background. He offered me a drink, something to calm my nerves, he said. I took it, my throat dry from the anticipation. But as soon as the liquid touched my lips, a cold, metallic taste filled my mouth and the world started to spin.
The next thing I knew, I was in a chair, my wrists and ankles bound tightly with rope, a gag stuffed in my mouth. Panic set in, my breaths coming in frantic gasps through my nose. I struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger than he looked, and the ropes bit into my skin, a stark reminder of my new reality.
He leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck. "Let's get some good shots, babe. I know you want this just as much as I do." His hand trailed up my thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath my skirt. I tried to scream, to protest, but the gag muffled my complaints into whimpers. The camera clicked away, capturing my humiliation in stark detail. His eyes gleamed with excitement, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he snapped away.
I stepped into the bar, dressed to the nines, with a short black miniskirt that barely contained my curves, tan pantyhose that whispered secrets with every step I took, and black high heels that clicked confidently against the sticky floor. The bar was a place I frequented, a familiar haunt where the faces changed but the stories remained the same.
My eyes scanned the room, looking for a friendly face or perhaps something more. I found myself drawn to the corner booth, where a man sat alone, nursing a whiskey. His eyes met mine and held, a silent invitation that sent a shiver down her spine. He was tall, with a ruggedness that seemed almost out of place in the neon glow. His smile was crooked, charming in a way that made her stomach flutter.
Against my better judgment, I approached him. The conversation flowed like the drinks that night, easy and potent. He spoke of adventures and freedom, of a life unshackled by the constraints of the nine-to-five grind. His words painted a picture of excitement and danger, and I felt my resolve slipping away like the rainwater down the drain outside.
When he offered me a ride home, I accepted without a second thought. His car was warm, the leather seats enveloping me as the storm raged on. But instead of heading home, he drove to a secluded apartment complex on the outskirts of town. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of excitement and trepidation.
Inside his apartment, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a flickering TV playing an old horror movie in the background. He offered me a drink, something to calm my nerves, he said. I took it, my throat dry from the anticipation. But as soon as the liquid touched my lips, a cold, metallic taste filled my mouth and the world started to spin.
The next thing I knew, I was in a chair, my wrists and ankles bound tightly with rope, a gag stuffed in my mouth. Panic set in, my breaths coming in frantic gasps through my nose. I struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger than he looked, and the ropes bit into my skin, a stark reminder of my new reality.
He leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck. "Let's get some good shots, babe. I know you want this just as much as I do." His hand trailed up my thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath my skirt. I tried to scream, to protest, but the gag muffled my complaints into whimpers. The camera clicked away, capturing my humiliation in stark detail. His eyes gleamed with excitement, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he snapped away.
