Tied to a chair, completely helpless — just how I like it. Thick silver duct tape wraps tightly around my wrists and ankles, binding me down so hard my skin burns. A chunky cleave gag is shoved deep between my lips, splitting my mouth open, making every whimper, moan, and desperate cry for help come out muffled and raw. I’m writhing, squirming, fighting with everything I’ve got — denim shorts riding up, black opaque nylons clinging to my thick thighs as I kick and strain against the tape. My shoes? Long gone. Kicked off from the struggle, leaving my nylon-clad feet on full display, toes curling in sheer frustration and arousal. You can hear it in every gagged gasp — I hate how turned on I am by this. The more I fight, the tighter the tape binds. The deeper the gag presses, the wetter I get. Every failed escape, every **** sob, every strained pull against my restraints just pushes me further into submission. And you? You love watching me suffer. You love knowing I can’t speak, can’t run, can’t do a damn thing but feel. Can you handle the sound of my desperate gag talk? The way my breath hitches when I realize — no one’s coming to save me?
