forced lesbian submission

Full Body Search (Forced Lesbian Submission)

Ally has everything a girl could want: money, beauty and a fabulous modeling career. But something is missing.

Her life as a model leaves her unfulfilled and desperate until one day she makes a reckless, fateful decision that will threaten her freedom and put her at the mercy of a beautiful Greek customs official called Adriana.

Excerpt from Full Body Search:

My name is Ally, and I’m a model. It really isn’t as glamorous as you might think. Sure there are the ten to twelve foreign trips a year, the fabulous clothes, and the occasional thrill of seeing yourself on the front cover of a magazine or in a perfume advert or on a bill board posing in a pair of sunglasses. I mean, that can be fun, if you like that sort of thing.

But it has its downside. For a start, you have to meet some of the world’s most awful people. I mean, seriously unpleasant individuals, from the leering, groping photographer who always wants you to show more flesh, to the utterly amoral publicists, bookers and promoters who treat you like a princess one moment, and then trash you the next.

To be honest, very few people I’ve met in the modeling business are the sort of people you would want to introduce to your family.

Speaking of my family, they think I’m living the high life. They’re happy for me, of course, but they’re jealous too, particularly my sister-in-law, who is always making snarky remarks about my privileged life. Yes, sure, I’m always tanned, toned and immaculately dressed, but that’s my job. They don’t see the nights when I can’t sleep for hunger, the times I throw up from having done too many crunches, and they don’t understand the anxiety of constantly worrying about your appearance, knowing that any decline, any sign of aging or weakness could be the beginning of the end of your livelihood.   

My mother is thrilled that I’m a model. It’s the culmination of her life’s work. She always told me I was pretty, which was great for my self-esteem. In fact, all through school I suffered with what you could politely call an excess of self-esteem. I was a brat, if you will, or a bitch, if you like. The most beautiful girl in school? Maybe. The most hated girl in school? Definitely. My mother would tell me that the other kids were just jealous. Maybe they were, but that didn’t make me feel better, and it didn’t make up for not having real friends. I hung around with a lot of beautiful people, went to a lot of parties, but none of them were friends.

What I really wanted to do was paint. I loved painting. I loved the way the oil paint felt as I eased it onto the canvas. When I was painting, no matter what I was painting, I would feel truly free. Hours would go by with just me and my paints and a canvas. Nothing fulfilled me more than painting. I would spend my summers and all my holidays painting, that was at least when I wasn’t being packed off to pageant practice or cheerleader camp. My first holiday back after leaving home, I found that not only had my mother redecorated my room, she’d thrown out all of my paintings. She seemed genuinely puzzled when I complained.

“But sweetie, you’re a model now,” she said. Yes, I was a model. I was also miserable and lonely. I’d started smoking. I was rude to most people I met. And I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Modeling is boring. It’s hard, repetitive and boring. That’s why I suppose I was open to suggestion, to distraction, to being tempted into doing something really, really stupid.

We’ve all done stupid things. Come on, I’m sure you have. My stupid thing, my really, really stupid thing, happened in Greece. I had flown out there for a modeling shoot, which was cancelled when the magazine that was paying for it went bust. So there I was, sitting in my hotel, working out whether I had enough money to get back home. My agent had made himself unavailable, as he always did when I needed real help. I was sitting in the hotel bar, planning on getting blind drunk as an alternative to coming up with a proper plan, when one of the staff at the hotel took the seat next to me.

I was pretty sure at the time that she was a lesbian. She was pretty, no doubt, with long dark straight air, a gorgeous complexion and a tight, slender, almost frail physique. She had been flirting with me a little, at breakfast, and whenever I went to the reception desk. She was wasting her time. I thought I had a very firm idea about that kind of thing. In fact, a girl once tried to kiss me at a party, and I spent the next week telling everyone in school that she was a lesbian. I was sure that lesbians were disgusting. I mean, who would want to be touched by another girl. Touched there. It was just, well, wrong.

But on this particular night, the girl in the hotel didn’t want to flirt with me. She had a proposition. She was willing to offer me ten thousand dollars to take a package through customs. Of course, that was never the sort of thing you should do. Obviously you say no, right? Sensible Ally, painter Ally would not have said yes. But bitchy, unhappy, lonely Ally, assisted by two and a half shots of vodka, said yes. That same night, the package, and half the money was waiting for me on my hotel bed when I crawled back to my room.

The next day, I couldn’t find the girl anywhere in the hotel. I thought about just leaving the package and the money there, but then I needed the money. I had to buy a ticket home. So, hungover, wilting in the heat, and just desperate to get back to New York, I put the package in my suitcase, stuffed the money into my purse and headed for the airport.

Soon I was standing in the long, winding queue for the check-in desk. I’d bought myself a new sun hat with some of the money and a lovely beaded bangle, but the thrill of shopping had quickly burnt away in the Greek sun and now I was tired, hot and having serious second thoughts about the decision I’d made.

The queue in front of me was moving slowly. There were bored looking couples lining up to return to normality, harassed single parents struggling to cope with their screaming children, and a smattering of locals and businessmen. It was warm, really warm, and the air conditioners were losing the battler to keep the hall temperature at a tolerable level.

I was grateful that I had decided not to wear the little jacket I’d bought at the boutique that morning. I wore a peach-toned crop top and a floral, wrap-around skirt in a cool, light material, and my decision not to wear a bra was also a good one. I was slightly concerned that the outline of my nipples was visible through the thin material of the top, but I had bigger things to worry about: specifically, the package in my suitcase. Several times I had considered ducking out of the line, going back to the hotel or outside and throwing it into the nearest bin. But there were several things wrong with this plan. The people who gave me the package would presumably not be happy if I ditched it. I’d also spent some of their money and wouldn’t immediately be able to pay it back, which I assumed would also not go down well.

The line inched forward and I was torn between impatience to get onto the flight and away, and a desire for the line never to reach the check-in desk. That moment came, soon enough, by which point my panic was clearly visible in my face and my wavering voice.

The man at the check-in looked me over slowly. I was used to that. Men had been doing that to me for as long as I could remember. Usually I would scowl or make a sharp remark. This time I tried to assemble my face into a smile. He took my passport, studied it, showed it to his co-worker, shrugged and then handed it back to me, indicating with a nod of his head and a kind of grunt, that I should put my luggage on the check-in ramp. My hand shaking, I lifted up the designer handbag with the regal pattern and the polished handles. The conveyor belt began to trundle and the bag slid into the dark interior.

Well, it was too late now. I wandered away from the check-in, clutching my boarding pass and passport, feeling sick. I sat a little way off, looking at the flight arrivals and departures board, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. But where would I run to? What would I do next? I ran through several increasingly elaborate scenarios in which I could get rid of the package, give back the money and safely return to New York, and was in the middle of one involving the American embassy and the United Nations when I was interrupted.

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”

I looked up. A customs officer in a crisp white uniform was standing over me.


“There has been a problem. Come with me, please.”

Panic struck me. I looked wildly around. There were the exits. Maybe I could run for it. Then I remembered the four inch designer sandals I was wearing. Neither I nor the sandals were built for running. I could sashay to the exits, I could walk elegantly to the exits, but run to the exits? I would probably fall flat on my face, like I did that one time on the catwalk in Budapest.

So I followed him meekly, through the departure lounge, through a cordoned off area, through a white door and along a white corridor. He stopped to knock on a door, and hearing a muffled reply, opened it, and beckoned me to enter.

Inside the room was a table, at which sat a man and a woman, both in the white uniform of the airport. Off to one side, I noticed my suitcase. I could feel my heart racing. How could I have been so stupid? Just one moment’s drunken weakness, a stupid decision, and now I was about to be arrested in Greece. What would happen to me? What would my agent say? What would my mother say?

The woman officer beckoned to the man beside her to leave the room, which he did. She beckoned me forwards and then spoke in perfect English, but with a strong accent:

“I need to inspect your hand luggage.”

With shaking hands I placed my Christian Dior travel bag onto the table. I watched as she unzipped it and began to search. Her name, according to her airport badge, was Adriana. Despite my rising terror, I couldn’t help noticing that she was extremely attractive. It was instinctive. Most of my life I’d been comparing myself to other girls, other women, scrutinizing the opposition. I couldn’t help it. Adriana was stunning. She had a sporty physique, and her deep blue eyes were framed by high cheek bones and shoulder-length cascades of dark, wavy hair. Her lips were impossibly full, but entirely natural, as was her deep, rich tan.

My bag was pulled wide open. I watched her search through my things, examining them. She fingered my purse, checked my driver’s ID, counted the notes and change. She lingered on the perfume, the deodorant and the compact. I started to blush as I remembered what else was in there. She lifted up a delicate, lacy black thong, twirling it a little on her gloved finger before replacing it. Then she smiled a little as she slid a slim, purple vibrator from the bag. I flushed. I had packed in a hurry, and had only found that when I had already zipped up the suitcase, so had stuffed it into my travel bag along with the…I flushed again as I remembered what else I’d stuffed in there. The anal beads I’d ordered online! She held them up and smiled at me again. I felt a little anger rising in me. What was this? So I wanted to experiment a little? It’s not a crime! But I didn’t say anything, and soon she had finished with the bag search.

“Now, Miss Johnson, I am afraid that this is really boring, but we need to do a full body search. It is necessary, and won’t take long.”

“A body search?” The idea terrified me.

“Yes, it is routine.”

Routine? Could it be that this was just a routine inspection? A practice? I glanced over at my suitcase. Surely they would have found the package? Maybe not though. I thought I’d chance my luck and try to bluff my way out of it.

“I really don’t see why I should have to submit to a body search. I haven’t done anything wrong.” This didn’t seem to have any effect on Adriana. “I’m an American citizen,” I said, as though that was important.

“It really will not take long,” she assured me. I sighed. Perhaps I would get some credit for co-operating.

”Fine,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Let’s get it over with.”

She twisted her lips into what seemed to me to be more of a smirk than a smile.

“Can you please just step into that room?”

She indicated a door at the back of the room. I click-clacked across the polished floor to the door and opened it. Inside was a high, padded leather bench. There were various notices and signs in Greek on the wall and a desk to the right. To the left there was what appeared to be a toilet cubicle and a shower. It looked like a cross between a doctor’s consulting room and a prison cell.

“Please wait here,” said Adriana, closing the door behind her. I sat on the bench, looking around me glumly. I could hear voices outside, then the voices stopped, a door closed and I could hear what sounded like a key turning in a lock.

Adriana came back into the room. She walked over to one side, unfastened her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall. She turned to me and smiled and I couldn’t help noticing how the round of her breasts bulged against the turquoise material of her shirt. They must have been 38D at least. If they were her own, they were mightily impressive.

“Stand up please,” she said, coming close to me.

I slipped off the bench and stood there. In that instant, it reminded me of being in the nurse’s office at school, preparing for yet another examination.

She stood so close that I could smell her perfume, a fusion of lilac and lilies and something more exotic, something that was redolent of citrus fruits and berries. I closed my eyes as she patted me down. She was a lot gentler than I expected, certainly a lot gentler than that TSA guard who did the same thing at JFK six months earlier. In fact, as she bent down to pat my legs, it seemed to me that Adriana was almost lingering on my thighs.

“Turn around,” she said, and I did. I felt her feeling my calves, my knees, my thighs, and the round of my butt. I felt her hands on my back, and then, around my stomach and up, over my breasts. I closed my eyes as I realized she would find I was bra-less. Her latex-covered palm brushed lightly over my right nipple and I shivered a little, involuntarily.

“Thank you, Miss Johnson, you may turn around now.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite. You will now please take off your clothes.” Her voice had a hard edge to it this time, and her smile had gone.

“No way,” I said, raising my voice instinctively. “No freaking way am I getting naked for you. What do you think this is? I want to speak to an attorney. I want to speak to the Embassy. You have no right to do this. I am an American.”

Yes, one thing that I was good at, aside from looking nonchalant in lingerie, was throwing a tantrum. I had been doing it since I was a toddler, and twenty years of practice meant I had gotten really good at it. My tantrums almost always led to me getting my way.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to have that effect on Adriana. She stepped forward, close to me and grabbed my face with her gloved hand, squeezing my cheeks. I was so shocked I couldn’t breath. Her face was close to mine and I could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Listen, American whore, there is no attorney for you. Do as you are told.”

“You can’t tell me what to do” I said, my voice all wavery and weak.

“Oh no? Really? And what about the kilo of cocaine we found in your luggage. Do you think that gives me the right to tell you what to do?”

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Trailer Park Girl (Forced Lesbian Submission) Excerpt

People often say, when they’ve done something dramatic or reckless that they didn’t know they had it in them. Sometimes it happens that way. You think you’re one kind of person then you end up in a situation that you didn’t expect and you shock yourself.

That’s what happened to me. I’ve changed. Boy how I’ve changed! The woman I am today is not the woman I used to be. And it was all down to one person, one time, one place. Her name was Billie. The time was about a year ago. The place? A small town just outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

I’m Karen, and I was born, raised and destined to forever remain in Omaha, Nebraska. My Dad owns the second or third biggest chain of carpet wholesalers in the mid-West, so when I got my business degree it was kind of inevitable I would go into the family business. I’d sit in on meetings, I’d make snotty phone calls on my Dad’s behalf, and sometimes I’d travel across the country to sign things.

I will be honest. I was unbearable. I was rude, I never apologized, I treated all of Dad’s employees like dirt, and I pretty much got everything I wanted. I was also bored, utterly bored. I lived at home and I rarely went out. My parents had been picky about the friends I made at school, and by the time I was at college, I’d become the kind of person you wouldn’t want to spend time with anyway: judgmental, rude, demanding, selfish and completely oblivious to other people’s feelings.

Oh and then there was Brian. My fiancée. The Methodist minister who thought that the no-sex before marriage rule extended up to and including touching. We kissed, occasionally, but most of the time he talked about the church. He talked, I listened and I tried to appear attentive. My parents loved him, the whole neighborhood loved him; he was the darling of Omaha. I was going to marry Brian, and spend all day every day baking, looking after our children and doing dutiful church things.

So yes, looking back, although I was undoubtedly a stuck-up, uptight, prissy little thing, I was, deep down, bored. Some days I was so bored I wanted to scream, usually while I was sitting in our dining room listening to Brian talking about the church.

Like I said, one of my jobs, probably to give me something to do, was to travel to other parts of the country, sign things or sit in on meetings. It was dull, but it got me out of Omaha, and whenever I could, I would drive at least part of the way. I loved to drive, loved the feeling of complete freedom that came with hitting the freeway and letting rip.

Last summer, my Dad was doing business with a company in Mississippi. It was something to do with imported carpet materials or vinyl squares, I really don’t remember. But it meant I had to go to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, listen to a presentation, make notes and shake hands. The company wanted our business, so it was up to them to impress me, not the other way round. I guess if diplomacy was called for, he wouldn’t have sent me!

I took a flight to Jackson and picked up the hire car, a Mercedes. Having complained about the color of the interior and argued my way to a discount that I didn’t need, I headed out on the road to Hattiesburg. It was an easy drive all the way down, that is, it would have been if I hadn’t turned off too early and ended up on a country road. It took me a mile or two until I realized I had gone the wrong way, but the Sat Nav was still pointing me down this road so I carried on. The road got narrower and dustier and there was nothing but parched looking trees in all directions, so eventually, I pulled over and restarted the Sat Nav.

“Perform a 180 degree turn and rejoin 49.”

I screamed in frustration and started up the engine. There was only a scraping sound.  tried it three times but with no joy, and then, because it was always my instinct in such circumstances, I banged my fists on the steering wheel repeatedly. That didn’t help.

So I called the hire car company. They asked me to tell them where I’d broken down but I couldn’t, not exactly, and I recognized the woman I was speaking to as the receptionist I had been rude too earlier. She was laughing as she hung up. I was just about to scream again in frustration when I saw an elderly couple walking along the track towards me. I sighed and got out of the car as they approached.

“Morning dear,” said the woman.

“I broke down,” I said, ignoring her greeting. “I need help to get to Hattiesburg.”

“We’re just on our way to church, young lady,” she said.

“Great. I need to get to Hattiesburg.”

“Oh well Hattiesburg’s that way,” said the man, grinning.

“I know that,” I said through gritted teeth, “How am I going to get there?”

“Well if you broke down, you need Billie.”

“Who is Billie?”

“Billie fixes all the cars round here.”

I sighed.

“Fine. What’s Billie’s number.”

“I’ll call for you,” said the man, fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. When he finally extracted it, it was the oldest phone you can ever imagine, like seriously, from 1994 or something. He dialed and then had some kind of bizarre conversation that I couldn’t follow properly because of his accent, while his wife looked on grinning.

“Billie’s coming,” he announced, triumphantly.

“How long?” I asked.

“Be about twenny minutes,” he said.

“But I have to get to Hattiesburg in the next half an hour. I have a meeting.”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin, “I reckon you’re gunna be late.”

I closed my eyes in frustration.

“Goodbye now,” said the elderly woman, still smiling, and they shuffled on into the dust. I slumped back against the car and sighed again.

Turned out I didn’t have to wait that long for Billie. About ten minutes later a red pick up trundled down the track. The door opened and out stepped Billie. Billie was wearing a red cap, a red lumberjack shirt, jean shorts, and had long, tanned, smooth gleaming legs. As Billie walked closer, I could make out the tail of a tattoo snaking a little way down her thigh.

“How are you Miss,” said Billie.

I looked at her. She was a little taller than me, she had the tanned skin you get from a life spent outdoors and shoulder length dark curls, bleached at the ends, tumbled from under her cap. It was just my luck to get the woman mechanic. In Nebraska, we generally learn that there are some things a woman can do and some things a man can do and I didn’t have time to indulge in political correctness.

“Can you fix my car?”

Billie looked me up and down. Then she smiled.

“Sure. Ah can fix pretty much anything.”

I shrugged.

She brushed past me and I caught a sent of roses and oil that was pungent but sweet and lingered around my nostrils. Billie tried to start the car. Then she cranked the hood and sauntered round to have a look at it. After a couple of minutes during which time I gazed forlornly at the dust, she waved me over.

“See that there?” she said. She was bent over and her tight shorts were bulging with the round of her ass. I tried not to look at it.


“Your oil tank’s empty. Jammed up completely. Must’a sprung a leak somewhere.”

“That’s impossible,” I replied, “I only hired it this morning.”

“Well, they borrowed you a wrong ‘un,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on her jeans. The taught blue denim was smeared with black oil prints. I think I may have shuddered at the sight.

“How long will it take you to fix it?”

She shrugged.

“I guess three or four hours.”

“I need to be in Hattiesburg in twenty minutes!”

She slammed the hood down and the sound made me start.

“Well that ain’t happening.”

She stood in the dust, altogether too close to me for my liking. I was conscious how weak and weedy I looked, in my pastel cardigan, my prissy blouse, my pale violet skirt and heels that were already picking up dust.

“But don’t worry. Ahll be done quick as I can. Hop into the car an ahll tow yer.”

I think I may have pouted a little as I stood there, but Billie was already walking back to the tow truck. So I sat in the front seat of my hire car, sulking. After a few minutes of fiddling with ropes and cables, she gave me a thumbs up and I sneered back at her as I watched her preposterous ass in those ridiculous little shorts wiggle back to her cab.

We set off down the dusty track, then we turned a corner onto an even dustier, bumpier track. The car was jolting along and at every lurch I swore under my breath, because, well I wasn’t the sort of girl to swear out loud. After several long minutes of this we pulled up outside the most ramshackle garage you’ve ever seen. The courtyard merged with the road, and there were weeds everywhere. Five cars in various states of repair were parked in a chaotic arrangement next to a rickety looking building. Off on one side was a garage, the doors of which were wide open, showing an interior that was a mess of parts and junk. Billie was already unhooking the car.

“You can wait in the office if you like,” she said, without looking at me.

I didn’t have much choice. I stepped out of the car into the midday heat and walked with some trepidation to the office. As soon as I entered I was met with an unholy stench of oil and coffee and sweat. There appeared to be three rooms in the place: a tiny cramped office with a rickety chair and table, a slightly bigger room with three threadbare, filthy armchairs and an unspeakably vile toilet.  I was still standing, aghast, when Billie came in.

“You wanna take a seat, Miss,” she said, smiling at me.

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t sit on those!”

“What’s wrong with em?”

“They’re filthy! Seriously, don’t you have anywhere for customers to wait that isn’t like something out of a hillbilly horror movie. I mean, really. Customer service anyone!”

Billie looked at me while I gave my little speech. This sort of thing usually worked in most places, from hotels to gyms, but it didn’t seem to work with Billie. She stood without saying anything, arms folded, but when I’d finished talking, she smiled.

“Yeah sure. I got a better place,” she said brightly.

“Well that’s more like it, I thought. Elitism never failed.

“Just follow me,” she said.

She walked to the back of the office and opened a wooden door onto what appeared to be an overgrown back yard. I followed her along a dirt track through grass that was strewn with rusted car parts and debris. My heels were wobbling with every step and I swore I could already feel insects biting at my bare ankles. Eventually we rounded a corner in the edge of the forest and stood in front of a ramshackle wooden cabin.

“Is this it?” I asked.

“Sure is. Why don’t you judge it from the inside?”

I shook my head and followed her inside. It was at least clean. Off to the left was a kind of living room with a couple of wooden chairs and a table.

“You can wait here if you like.”

“Fine,” I sighed, “but I expect a discount. And I want a glass of water.”

“Sure, missy. I’ll get that for you.”

I looked around the place, forlornly. Was I really going to have to wait here for three hours. It was like a nightmare.

“There you go,” she said. I turned round to see Billie pointing a gun at me.

My blood ran cold. I suddenly realized what was happening. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere. I was driving a Mercedes. Of course she was going to rob me.

“What do you want? I don’t have any money on me.”

Billie smiled.

“Oh I don’t want nothing like that honey,” she said. “Now put this on.”

She handed me something. It had a black strap with a pink rubber ball attached.

“What is this?”

“It’s a gag. You put it round your head and fasten it at the back. Now put it on.”

“You want me to put this on? Why?”

“Because even though this is the middle of nowhere and ain’t nobody gun hear you if you start screaming, if I have to hear your goddam whiny Mid West voice any more I swear I’m gonna go batshit crazy.”

Whiny? I didn’t even have an accent!

The gun was lifted straight at me. I could clearly see the rim of the barrel.

“Put. It. On.”

My hands were shaking a little as I fumbled with the gag, but I managed to fasten the buckle behind my head. The ball felt enormous in my mouth and the strap was squeezing my head because Id fastened it too tight. My mind was leaping ahead as the situation caught up with me. She could just shoot me. My handbag was in the car. She could take the Mercedes. The situation was catching up with me.

Still, Billie didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She walked around behind me. Then, out of nowhere, I felt her fingers in my hair.

“You’re pretty. You’re an uptight pain in the ass, but you got a pretty face. And a cute body. I like you.”

That was weird, I thought.

It got weirder. I felt her breathing close to my ear, and then, suddenly, I felt her hand on my ass, squeezing, stroking. She took her hand away, then a second later, I felt a stinging slap on my right ass cheek. I yelped through my gag. I was more terrified than when I thought she was going to shoot me.

“Please,” I tried to say, repeatedly. “I’m not a lesbian. I’m not a lesbian. I’m engaged.”

Of course, all of this wasted and turned into random noise by the gag. Billie was still standing behind me. I felt her ample breasts pushing into my back and I looked down with horror to see her hands stroking and squeezing my thighs through my skirt, sliding up slow.

I was horrified. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried to pull away.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “You ain’t going nowhere.” She held me tight with her left hand and in her right hand appeared a length of rope. I realized that she must have put the gun down but I was too slow to react and anyway she was much stronger and taller than me. She wound the thin rope around my wrists with expertise and tied it tight, so the rough material dug into my skin.


She wandered round in front of me and stood there for a while, tilting her head to one side like she was admiring a sculpture she’d just made. The heat and the fear were getting to me and with my hands tied in front of me it was harder to balance in my heels, so I swayed a little as I stood. Then, she pulled off her red cap. Her hair was released, and for a second I completely forgot my situation, because her hair was so beautiful wavy and rich and dark, like curls of chocolate dipped in ginger.

“Now what could we do with you? I bet you got a rich daddy, ain’t you. Maybe ah could get rich off a girl like you.”

She walked over towards me again and I tensed up. Her face was close to mine now. I could feel her hot, sweet breath close to me, see her sun-burnt, freckled skin, her clear blue eyes, her perfect nose and lush lips.

I felt her fingers brush across my blouse, and beneath I could feel my nipples stir. Oh God no! I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to apologize for the blasphemy. Her fingers didn’t stop, then I felt an increase of tension in my chest before a sudden release. I opened my eyes in alarm to see that she was unfastening my blouse.

“No! Please! No!” I urged but I couldn’t make myself heard through the gag.

My blouse was wide open now, all but the last two buttons. With both hands, she began to squeeze my breasts. At the first squeeze, I yelped and tried to wriggle free but it was hopeless. She squeezed and kneaded me hard through my flimsy white lace bra. I could feel my nipples hardening, but I told myself that was just involuntary, that it meant nothing.

Her face was close to mine now and as her lips drew closer, I closed my eyes. I thought somehow, if my eyes were closed, this wouldn’t be happening…..

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