” The woman’s face contorted. “It feels ... It hurts, but ... but ... It feels ... It makes me ... I...”“You love it,” I purred, clamping another clothespin on her tit. They swayed. There were dozens of them per breast. “Don’t you? You’re just a naughty slave that loves the pain.”Mrs. Armstrong whimpered and nodded her head.“Do you see, Daddy?” Stefani said, her hand grabbing another clothespin. She pinched this one on her mother’s stomach between lengths of red rope crisscrossing her torso. “Mommy’s just a submissive whore.”“She is,” groaned her father. “She just needs to be controlled, doesn’t she?”“Yes, I do,” moaned Mrs. Armstrong. “I’ll just be wanton. I want to eat our daughter’s pussy. I lied. I loved it. I was just shocked. I felt I should hate it. I was ashamed she knew I loved pussy. I’m such a hypocrite. Yes!”I clamped a clothespin on her belly, pinching the toned skin. She shuddered, whimpered. We went lower, working down her stomach, adding more and more clothespins to. The airflow pushes the water across the glass in complex but predetermined patterns. Everything suddenly seems clear. It all begins to make sense. I am the passenger, the submissive. The Dark Mistress smokes a cigarette quietly as she drives us to her home. We had talked for a long time at the munch. She had turned out to be a great listener and I chatted away enthusiastically, carelessly spilling my inexperience into her lap. I ignored the glances people were throwing my way, the shaking of heads at yet another victim happily wriggled in her sticky web, merrily awaiting a sharp, venomous and slow fate. Arriving at her place I get out of her car into the rain. She is waiting in the car. I wonder if she has changed her mind. Suddenly something clicks and I walk around the car to open the door for her.“About time,” she says, “I can see you need to learn some manners.”“Sorry,” I mumble feebly. She rings the doorbell and opens the door with her key and pushes the door open. “Enter,” she.
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