Across her lower face and around her head was a form-fitting, jaw distending semi-circular leather gag that totally filled her mouth while covering everything from her nostrils to her chin to her ears, which is where the straps went from tapering ends to buckle ridiculously tightly behind her neck -- keeping her in a constant state of silent scream as she sat on her kidnapper’s lap, his cock plugging her cunt and his hands squeezing her juicy tits like party balloons the birthday boy wanted to pop.
“She bought it for a costume party,” Daniel Mendaski remembered. “But we frowned on it … so she never wore it.”
“Well,” deputy Ted muttered, “she may see reason to use it now….”
“That’s enough, Ted,” the sheriff interrupted. “Thanks.”
“I can’t believe it…!” Mrs. Mendaski said quietly, turning away.
“I know, I know,” Jim said sympathetically. “It was hard for me to accept the first dozen times or so, too. They all seemed so responsible, but there’s so much out there that’s so tempting, and when they’re concerned their folks might disapprove….”
The deputy smiled to himself, admiring the way his superior had integrated what Mr. Mendaski had just told him about the bustier. He went to the window, looked down the street and, using his body to block the Mendaskis’ view, gave a quick thumb’s up to the nondescript sedan with the opaque windows parked forty feet down the street.
“There we go,” Andy said, squeezing his “wife’s” tits as hard as he could.
She made the horrid humming noise that now served as her screams of pain and outrage -- unavoidably pressing her back, single-sleeved arms, and head into his torso. “Your folks are buying the story. You’re well and truly mine now…!”
Leesa’s bright blue eyes snapped open in disbelief.
She couldn’t believe her life had become this: bound, gagged, nipple-clamped, breast-and-cunt-roped as he shopped for new slut-wear; fucked in parking garages and motel rooms; straining to escape her “wifely duties” as her “hubby” prepared the next phase in their “honeymoon.”
Leesa Mendaski wailed in hopelessness as he came inside her again.
Sheriff Jim let his words drift off as Mr. Mendaski led his wife to their room so she could lie down.
Danny Mendaski caught up to the cops as they made their way down the stairs. “Well, we’ll keep looking,” Jim told him. “There’s a lot of this kind of thing going around nowadays it seems….”
“Yes,” Mendaski said, “yes, that’s right. The Sherman girl, wasn’t it? Have you made any progress on that?”
“Nice of you to ask,” said the Sheriff as they entered the kitchen. “You can sympathize with her folks, but don’t empathize, Dan. That’s a totally different situation. Your girl, well, we’re pretty sure she’s on … well, let’s just call it a vacation. The Sherman girl, we’re pretty sure she was taken by that biker gang we heard about. That’s not good. But we’ll find ‘em, don’t you worry about that.”
All they had to do was check the gang’s dark, dank stinking, reeking, fetid dive bar HQ—where the juke box was punding out acid and southern rock while Kerry Sherman was in the back room, naked, laying back first on the leader, his cock jammed all the way up her anus, his hands bulging with her abused tits. Another gang member was atop her, at her hips, his cock up her cunt.
The lead mama was kneeling by her throat, one boney talon holding Kerry’s jaw open for the cock being pushed into her moaning mouth, the other stroking her throat, forcing her to repeatedly swallow.
Two more mamas had Kerry’s wrists in their hands, “urging” her to continue jacking off two more hard-ons between her fingers. Another guy sat by her head jerking himself off with her smooth, thick, lustrous hair. Another pair of bikers had her ankles, sliding their erections across her feet tops and bottoms. Finally there were the others who just waited their turn.
TO BE CONTINUED