sassy slave, always trying to up the ante a notch.
It seems odd that tonight she doesn’t say a word.
Obviously unnecessary, I lift the ball gag and she opens her mouth without being instructed to do so. Our gazes lock and hold. I wait to see challenge in her eyes but see only resolve.
With her gagged and bound, I hide what I am doing behind the guise of lubing her up, vagina and anally. Fingering her, I am more certain and even more concerned. She isn’t outwardly showing, but the top of her uterus is level with her belly button.
I don’t know how pregnant she thinks she is but my gut and limited medical training tells me she is farther along than either of us imagined and that worries me. I want to get her to an obstetrician immediately.
That doesn’t mean I intend to end the scene.
I slide a small butt plug in place and attach it to the ball gag straps. Each jerk of her head will remind her she is filled.
I face her, holding a ball-top vibrator. “Don’t even think about coming.”
I’ve given her an impossible command. Squatting in front of her, I intend to prove to her just how impossible. I lift the hood covering her clit and keep the bud exposed as I apply the vibrator. It is an immediate shock that has her dancing in her bonds. The sounds coming from behind the ball gag aren’t happy ones. I ease the pressure, but barely enough for the sharp jags of sensation to become pleasurable. I know the instant she is lifted into a stream of bliss, the moment there is no turning back. “Do. Not. Come.”
She crashes through her need, orgasm exploding despite my command or maybe because of it.
I don’t ease off the wand now that I have her sweet-spot targeted perfectly. Her orgasm doesn’t let up. Wave after wave of pleasure turns into wave after wave of overstimulation. Eventually, the overstimulation becomes pain. She is screaming and crying, snot and drool covered by the time I decide she has had enough.
When I turn off the wand and remove the gag, she sags with relief but I don’t give her a second’s reprieve. I strike her. Slaps on the tops of her thighs and the back of her legs.
“When did you first suspect you might be pregnant?” I expose the bud of her clit and begin again with the vibrator.
“December.”
“December what?”
She starts to keen, responding much more quickly to the sensation this time around. “The twentieth, maybe the twenty-first.” She is crying. “I regret not coming to you the minute I suspected.”
“You regret it, but you aren’t heartsick. You feel no grief, no remorse, even though you lied to me, kept secrets from me, and planned to go behind my back to have an abortion.” I think her blood is boiling, she is perspiring, and before she can answer the question another orgasm is lifting her. “Don’t you dare come.”
“I’m sorry!” She shrieks and I am not certain whether she’s sorry for the secrecy or the orgasm.
“Yes. Sorry. But what I want to know is what exactly went through your mind that you felt your responsibilities as my slave included keeping such a serious matter a secret?”
“I was scared.”
“You didn’t trust me,” I accuse. I remove the butt plug and reposition her, tying her in an inversion, feet secured with full-support ankle cuffs. She is upside down. This time rope is wrapped across either side of her pussy, trapping her genitals, cutting into her. More rope is attached to nipple clamps. All of the rope is anchored in front of her several feet away, forcing both nipples and twat to feel a constant sensation. It isn’t comfortable. Or pleasurable. I make certain she is experiencing pain before I hold the vibrator to her clit. I begin again with the questions. “What did I do that you stopped trusting me?”
She is mid-orgasm when she screams, “You didn’t trust me first.”
What?
I allow her to ride the wave out before demanding, “Explain.”
“When you found out I was a reporter, you chose to believe that
It seems odd that tonight she doesn’t say a word.
Obviously unnecessary, I lift the ball gag and she opens her mouth without being instructed to do so. Our gazes lock and hold. I wait to see challenge in her eyes but see only resolve.
With her gagged and bound, I hide what I am doing behind the guise of lubing her up, vagina and anally. Fingering her, I am more certain and even more concerned. She isn’t outwardly showing, but the top of her uterus is level with her belly button.
I don’t know how pregnant she thinks she is but my gut and limited medical training tells me she is farther along than either of us imagined and that worries me. I want to get her to an obstetrician immediately.
That doesn’t mean I intend to end the scene.
I slide a small butt plug in place and attach it to the ball gag straps. Each jerk of her head will remind her she is filled.
I face her, holding a ball-top vibrator. “Don’t even think about coming.”
I’ve given her an impossible command. Squatting in front of her, I intend to prove to her just how impossible. I lift the hood covering her clit and keep the bud exposed as I apply the vibrator. It is an immediate shock that has her dancing in her bonds. The sounds coming from behind the ball gag aren’t happy ones. I ease the pressure, but barely enough for the sharp jags of sensation to become pleasurable. I know the instant she is lifted into a stream of bliss, the moment there is no turning back. “Do. Not. Come.”
She crashes through her need, orgasm exploding despite my command or maybe because of it.
I don’t ease off the wand now that I have her sweet-spot targeted perfectly. Her orgasm doesn’t let up. Wave after wave of pleasure turns into wave after wave of overstimulation. Eventually, the overstimulation becomes pain. She is screaming and crying, snot and drool covered by the time I decide she has had enough.
When I turn off the wand and remove the gag, she sags with relief but I don’t give her a second’s reprieve. I strike her. Slaps on the tops of her thighs and the back of her legs.
“When did you first suspect you might be pregnant?” I expose the bud of her clit and begin again with the vibrator.
“December.”
“December what?”
She starts to keen, responding much more quickly to the sensation this time around. “The twentieth, maybe the twenty-first.” She is crying. “I regret not coming to you the minute I suspected.”
“You regret it, but you aren’t heartsick. You feel no grief, no remorse, even though you lied to me, kept secrets from me, and planned to go behind my back to have an abortion.” I think her blood is boiling, she is perspiring, and before she can answer the question another orgasm is lifting her. “Don’t you dare come.”
“I’m sorry!” She shrieks and I am not certain whether she’s sorry for the secrecy or the orgasm.
“Yes. Sorry. But what I want to know is what exactly went through your mind that you felt your responsibilities as my slave included keeping such a serious matter a secret?”
“I was scared.”
“You didn’t trust me,” I accuse. I remove the butt plug and reposition her, tying her in an inversion, feet secured with full-support ankle cuffs. She is upside down. This time rope is wrapped across either side of her pussy, trapping her genitals, cutting into her. More rope is attached to nipple clamps. All of the rope is anchored in front of her several feet away, forcing both nipples and twat to feel a constant sensation. It isn’t comfortable. Or pleasurable. I make certain she is experiencing pain before I hold the vibrator to her clit. I begin again with the questions. “What did I do that you stopped trusting me?”
She is mid-orgasm when she screams, “You didn’t trust me first.”
What?
I allow her to ride the wave out before demanding, “Explain.”
“When you found out I was a reporter, you chose to believe that
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