A Bastard And His Clothespins
Monmouth always knows how to show a girl a good bondage time:
We spent an afternoon together at a hotel with a large bed and very sturdy anchor points. I tied her stretched across the bed, her hands bound over her head, legs spread wide and attached to the corners of the frame. Very secure. I blindfolded her, saying something about how she needed a good tease, pinched her nipples, and stroked the inside of her thighs in a way that suggested that I might just let go of my restraint and fuck her in this position.
Despite gagging her, I could tell there was surprise the noises she made when I began to attach soft-grip clothespins to the sensitive, pale skin of the inner thigh, creating a line on each side from the stocking-tops to her crotch.
I took my time. No rush. She wiggled helplessly against the ropes, desperately trying to close her legs against the encroaching row of pinching little jaws. What she couldn’t see, being blindfolded, was that the clothespins perfectly matched the pink knickers and bra set she had on, and more importantly she had no idea that they were all linked together with a narrow white string.
“How does that feel?” I asked, facetiously.
Having her mouth stuffed full of pink ball gag, she seemed to have a remarkable lot to say. Probably calling me a bastard, but who could tell under the circumstances? I took an educated guess.
“Yes,” I agreed and pulled all the pinchy little pink clothespins loose from her left thigh with one sharp yank on the string.
She screamed. Even with the gag, this was quite a loud noise.
I decided, since she was screaming and thrashing around anyway, that this would be a good time to pull the other row off.
When the angry, muffled noises subsided, I pulled the gag out of her mouth.
“You bastard,” she huffed.
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