He balls up my knickers, infused with the musk of arousal, and forces them into my mouth, subjugating my voice, my defiance, my will to resist. A singular act with myriad strings which pull and tug until, like a butterfly on a board, my submission is pinned in place.
The lace feels rough against my tongue, jaw aches, mouth dry, but my mind, my mind is blown, all that’s left is me, authenticity exposed.


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Sinful Sunday