Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
With little to no fanfare, I spot a woman being led toward a St. Andrew's cross. There's nothing uncommon about the occurrence. It seems even more uncommon that there hasn't been anyone on the contraption in the two hours I've been sitting here.
What always floors me is the way the woman's eyes are turned downward. The behavior isn't unusual. Most submissives keep their eyes lowered as a requirement by their Dom.
It's the tremble in this woman's hands as she wrings them in front of her that makes me wonder if she's here of her own volition. I understand being pulled from your comfort zone in a place like this, but I can't tell if that's what's going on or if she's participating against her will.
The attendant walking with her pulls the robe from her shoulders, and I sit a little taller at the sight of her nipples suddenly peaking when the air in the room hits her skin. Her milky white skin is immediately covered in goosebumps, and the trembling in her hands doubles with her nakedness.
The attendant whispers something in her ear, pointing to the cross, and after listening, she dips her head and steps up to it.
Deft fingers secure her arms and then her legs to the contraption. Before the last buckle can be secured around her right leg, a line has already begun to form.
"Simple touching," I hear the attendant explain to the group. "Fingers only. No penetration. Break these rules and you forfeit your membership."
Those are some very serious rules. I've seen women secured to the cross before, and it was a no-limit situation. This being a sex club, it's odd to even limit someone using their mouth to please her.
I watch as men and women alike circle her, their fingers trailing over her skin, but I don't concentrate on their touches. Rather, I watch her face and the tension in every muscle in her body. I watch the tears roll down her cheeks as if she's being tortured in the worst way.
The tips of her breasts are no longer tight. The apex of her thighs shows no slickened arousal.
This doesn't turn her on, and I'm not certain she's participating in this for that reason.
I stand, finishing off my drink before placing the glass on the side table and walking in that direction. I can't stomach the idea that she's on display and being touched against her will.
With plans to make it all stop, I find myself trapped in her gaze when she lifts her eyes to me.
She is no longer focusing on those with the tips of their fingers on her skin. She seems entranced at the sight of me.
Her lack of response quickly makes the other's attention wane, and before long, she's left alone, those around her going to find something else to do.
I simply stand, not paying any attention to the attendant who has maintained a close distance from her in case they have to step in if someone breaks the rules.
Her throat works on a swallow when I inch closer before pausing again.
This isn't what I'm here for. I'm meant to be watching, observing, and trying to discover if illegal activity is occurring.
Participation isn't part of the job, although it might help make my attendance less suspicious if I actually did something. I know that some types get their thrills by just watching others. Voyeurism is very popular, so I haven't felt the need to lower suspicions.
Now I have to wonder if I'm drawing too much attention to myself. It's a fine line to toe, for sure.
I leave very little distance between the two of us when I step up to her, and to her credit, she never breaks eye contact with me. She seems a lot braver than she did when she walked out here.
I glance up at her tied hands, noticing that rather than a tremble in them, she has them clenched into fists. I can tell by their tightness that her fingernails are going to leave indentions in her palms.
Her breath is ragged, coming out in uneven puffs that force her chest to rise and fall at irregular intervals.
"Are you having fun?" I ask, hands at my sides.
If this woman is a victim of any kind, I'd never participate in something like this.
I would never willingly further someone's victimization.
Her eyes dart away from mine, which answers my question. If she were enjoying herself, she might smile, or her eyes might brighten. This woman is not having a good time.
I step even closer and lean forward so only she can hear my next question.
"Are you here against your will?"
I pull my head back so I can read her face. She doesn't look over my shoulder at the attendant, so I can tell she isn't worried about getting into trouble, but she also doesn't speak.