her neck, and then the tight leather belts securing her to the chair began to loosen. A hand gripped her arm, pulling her to stand just as Donald began his accusation again. She sobbed and wailed, hearing none of her cries, imagining she could.
Blindly guided to a table, she was bent over backwards with her feet on the floor. A boot batted her ankles apart and she rubbed the back of her head on the metal surface, trying to work off the mask. Without warning, a cock thrust into her, and her body shuddered and strained. A finger spread her pussy and began stroking her clit. She was already so sensitive and close to erupting that her hips began a humiliating thrust, embedding his huge rod deeper… in and out, in and out… Oh, god. Even the sound of Strickland’s voice could not squelch her burning, and Claudine’s muscles gripped tightly around the cock of the frighteningly handsome man who had done this to her.
Perhaps, that was the worst torture of all. In the dark quiet of the coffin, Claudine’s mind wandered to the man. He was tall and lean, with sweeping wavy locks of blue-black hair. His eyes were such a light blue that they appeared to be made of tinted glass, piercing with passionate intensity. His features were strong and determined, and his voice was a deep, low, menacing sound. She found herself dampening, flexing her core in the darkness, imagining him fucking her like he was doing now.
In and out, in and out… with a well practiced hand strumming her clit. She moaned and gasped to the drone of Strickland’s insults, finally wrapping her thighs around blue jeans and forcing the jerking, spewing cock fully inside her while she climaxed. Her muscles spasmed against his cock, milking and encouraging his eruption.
With the sounds in her ears, she could not even concentrate or consider her debasing performance. Her body felt electrified, and when a hand stroked over her breasts she pressed her tight nipples against his palms, craving one soft touch, a gentle caress of appreciation. Sharp pain radiated through her tips as his fingers twisted and pinched. Instinctively, Claudine understood that this man would never reward her demands, and her mind echoed with her desperate moan.
Over the course of weeks, Strickland’s voice joined with the white static and Claudine was no longer taunted by his words. In her dark rubber mask she waited, slowly following the length of the pipe, memorizing the steps until she bumped into her encasing wooden bed, feeling the stones from the bathroom under her bare feet, praying strong hands would stop her pacing and guide her to eat or lead her to the other room and once more quench the dripping desire between her thighs.
She had been fitted with a molded top that covered her fingertips, sealed to her mask, and ended just below her waist. The material was much stiffer than the rubber of her mask. Her breasts chilled in the air, exposed and squeezed through holes that were purposely cut a little too small, forcing her large mounds to project lewdly. Claudine imagined they looked magnificent, and she rubbed them against the man whenever he was near. He would slam them together between his palms, twist her nipples, or slap them until they reddened. Although she knew he would torment them, she continued to try to coax his attention.
Her wrists were unlocked when he pulled on her top, sliding first her arms through the sleeves and working her breasts through the openings. It closed in the back with a sealing, permanent, adhesive. Within a few days she had matching pants, with a gaping slice in the crotch. She barely remembered the burn of the cream permanently denuding her labia. Her feet were covered, with each toe fitting into its own custom pocket and a spiked heel permanently affixed to the back. It too was made out of rubber, and widened to a non-lethal flange on the bottom.
Claudine shivered
Blindly guided to a table, she was bent over backwards with her feet on the floor. A boot batted her ankles apart and she rubbed the back of her head on the metal surface, trying to work off the mask. Without warning, a cock thrust into her, and her body shuddered and strained. A finger spread her pussy and began stroking her clit. She was already so sensitive and close to erupting that her hips began a humiliating thrust, embedding his huge rod deeper… in and out, in and out… Oh, god. Even the sound of Strickland’s voice could not squelch her burning, and Claudine’s muscles gripped tightly around the cock of the frighteningly handsome man who had done this to her.
Perhaps, that was the worst torture of all. In the dark quiet of the coffin, Claudine’s mind wandered to the man. He was tall and lean, with sweeping wavy locks of blue-black hair. His eyes were such a light blue that they appeared to be made of tinted glass, piercing with passionate intensity. His features were strong and determined, and his voice was a deep, low, menacing sound. She found herself dampening, flexing her core in the darkness, imagining him fucking her like he was doing now.
In and out, in and out… with a well practiced hand strumming her clit. She moaned and gasped to the drone of Strickland’s insults, finally wrapping her thighs around blue jeans and forcing the jerking, spewing cock fully inside her while she climaxed. Her muscles spasmed against his cock, milking and encouraging his eruption.
With the sounds in her ears, she could not even concentrate or consider her debasing performance. Her body felt electrified, and when a hand stroked over her breasts she pressed her tight nipples against his palms, craving one soft touch, a gentle caress of appreciation. Sharp pain radiated through her tips as his fingers twisted and pinched. Instinctively, Claudine understood that this man would never reward her demands, and her mind echoed with her desperate moan.
Over the course of weeks, Strickland’s voice joined with the white static and Claudine was no longer taunted by his words. In her dark rubber mask she waited, slowly following the length of the pipe, memorizing the steps until she bumped into her encasing wooden bed, feeling the stones from the bathroom under her bare feet, praying strong hands would stop her pacing and guide her to eat or lead her to the other room and once more quench the dripping desire between her thighs.
She had been fitted with a molded top that covered her fingertips, sealed to her mask, and ended just below her waist. The material was much stiffer than the rubber of her mask. Her breasts chilled in the air, exposed and squeezed through holes that were purposely cut a little too small, forcing her large mounds to project lewdly. Claudine imagined they looked magnificent, and she rubbed them against the man whenever he was near. He would slam them together between his palms, twist her nipples, or slap them until they reddened. Although she knew he would torment them, she continued to try to coax his attention.
Her wrists were unlocked when he pulled on her top, sliding first her arms through the sleeves and working her breasts through the openings. It closed in the back with a sealing, permanent, adhesive. Within a few days she had matching pants, with a gaping slice in the crotch. She barely remembered the burn of the cream permanently denuding her labia. Her feet were covered, with each toe fitting into its own custom pocket and a spiked heel permanently affixed to the back. It too was made out of rubber, and widened to a non-lethal flange on the bottom.
Claudine shivered
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