Shackled by the Dictator (BDSM Erotica) Read Online Free PDF Page A

boyfriend?”
    I say, “No, it’s the other one. The blond.
Max.”
    Mansk nods to the clowns and says something
in Urskan. Then he turns to me. “Everything is correct. String them
both up.”
    He moves away without as much as a backward
glance.
    At first, I am bewildered. The
grooms/clowns/whatever grab my arms and upend me as if I’m a
ragdoll. My balance is completely disrupted. My hair shivers and
trails to the floor like seaweed. Rough hands grab the flesh of my
thighs, my legs, brushing against my pussy and buttocks
interminably. The groom before me squeezes them. His painted face
leers very close to mine – so close that I can smell the fruity,
chemical paste of his gaudy makeup.
    Hands grab my ankles and tie them with ropes
to one of the horizontal bars. I’m in a precarious position – wrong
side up and secured to the flimsy bar by only my feet at either end
of the silver rod. My arms are left free.
    Someone pinches my clit, and a spool of cream
unearths from the recesses of my pussy. Because I am upside down,
it pools at the mouth of my cervix.
    My grooms are certainly taking liberties with
my body, unlike so many of the grooms who have attended to me back
in America – including Greg. Fingers prize open my pussy lips,
stroke my clit, worm themselves ‘accidentally’ into my holes.
Pincer grips tweak my nipples. Hands slide into my clefts. My
juices begin to pool and pool, because I am excited despite my
apprehension . . . or maybe because of it.
    I desperately long to be fucked. I can sense
it – this hollowness permeating my vagina, spreading all the way to
my anus. I long to be fucked in both holes – invaded and penetrated
so wonderfully and deeply that I can almost feel the towers of
flesh inside me right now.
    What is happening to me? Am I turning into a
nymphomaniac in any circumstance – even one fraught with
uncertainty and danger?
    When they have finished with me, I feel like
an acrobat. A bound acrobat. My pussy is a pink flower – just
begging to be played with and despoiled.
    They are doing something to Greg on the other
horizontal bar. He’s not being put upside down. His wrists are tied
to the bar in pretty much the same way my ankles are. His muscles
flex and gleam beautifully. His eyes arrest mine – full of stark
meaning. They hoist the bar up and his legs trail toward the floor.
His cock is stiff and upright at three quarter mast, pointing
directly at me.
    They manipulate the trapeze bars so we are
parallel to and facing each other. Closer . . . closer . . . so
that Greg’s warm body is pressed against mine, and his cock nudges
my belly. Greg smells of clean soap and shampoo. He probably has
been washed spanking clean in pretty much the same way as I
have.
    One clown says something to another. I can
see the sly grin on his face – a rictus of a leer. He seizes Greg’s
penis, which is extremely hard and upright, and maneuvers it into
my open pussy. It’s a feat that requires a certain amount of
adjustment due to my precarious position.
    I close my eyes as Greg’s abdomen slithers
across mine – taut flesh rubbing taut flesh, spiking my
arousal.
    The spear of his cock enters my glistening
vulva. It’s a rush of hard tissue into my soft, velvety passage,
which is already oh-so-moist and oh-so-ready. I hold my breath to
savor it. My greedy little nether mouth sucks him in – deeper and
deeper, until the crown of his penis is butting against my closeted
innermost mouth. My walls stretch further and further apart.
    Ohhhhh.
    “You OK, Gina?” Greg murmurs.
    “Yes. Are you OK?”
    “Obviously.”
    “What did they do to you last night?”
    His expression turns guarded. “It’s of no
consequence. What matters is that we’re all OK.”
    I suppose he’s right. No use dwelling on
yesterday. Or today either, come to think of it.
    One of the grooms raps Greg on the buttocks.
I take it that it means ‘No talking’. Greg and I are hoisted up,
up, up – until we are about eight