of disbelief followed by admiration, then again disbelief. I stare fixedly at the glass ceiling, amazed by my own vivid imagination and so very pleased with this free and independent spirit that has come to inhabit my mind and my body.
Thank you, Min, you naughty boy.
I watch the girl in the mirror on the ceiling draw her legs up, cross her ankles, press her thighs into the divan so her knees point in the opposite direction. I’ve never seen myself from this position and it’s quite interesting. I have no idea what to make of it. I can’t see my pussy up close and personal, but what I can see makes me appreciate the guy’s point of view when he heads south for a nibble.
A little tremor goes through me. I hope Paul Borquet also enjoys the view.
I lift my body up slowly, trying to feel if there’s any sensation in my arms, my legs. A tingling makes me aware of my limbs, although a supreme heaviness keeps pulling me down, as if wet sand traverses through my veins. What’s wrong? I can’t sit up, something is pulling on my wrists, making them numb. I pull again. What’s holding me down?
I lean my head back and, with a hopeless sigh escaping loudly from my lips, I collapse back on the divan. My God, I’m tied to the couch, my wrists bound by silken cords. This fantasy has taken a wrong turn. I’m in a danger zone. Helpless. Paul Borquet can do anything he wants to me and I can’t stop him. Anything. Lock a collar around my neck, secure my wrists in handcuffs, cover my head in a leather hood that cuts out every ray of light and nearly every sound. The only thing I’ll have left is physical sensation.
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