‘You stole it, you bitch. I order you to tell me the bank, the account number, everything.’ In anger, he will struggle to remember my secret terse code that should make me submit to his orders once uttered. ‘Feline fingers furiously fuck fowls,’ my husband will say again and again as if it would affect me, as if it were a programmed code that could be told to me. I will laugh and giggle lost in a future world. He will stand wanting to throw the table over. It will be too heavy. Mr. Green’s hands, surely under the mahogany trying to zip and buckle, will heatedly accelerate his efforts as he prays that his pants show no stains. ‘Ah!’ he will say as I may squeeze his balls one last time before retracting my legs. I will sit up refreshed and energized despite no orgasm of my own. But the surrounding awkwardness and suspicion from the surrounding guests, including my husband, will be delicious to experience. ‘Of course,’ I will say loudly in the large hall, ‘if a certain phrase could. Next came the rope harness, as the driver expertly slipped the premade portions around your body, and tied the rest himself. All in all, the ordeal took about twenty minutes, and after it was finished you were left kneeling, thighs bound to calves, but not too each other so you were left to spread your legs and expose yourself, the harness snaking through the gap and beautifully up your body. Your arms were tied behind your back at the elbows and wrists, pushing your chest out even more. The rope clinched down around your tits just enough to turn them a slight red, before attaching to a hook in your collar. The driver seemed to admire you, making you curse yourself for getting wet. He took a step closer and kicked your thighs open, stinging and bruising your leg slightly. You grunted out of anger but were helpless to do anything but comply. He took a step closer still and stuck the toe of his dress shoe up against your pussy. “Grind on it cunt” he ordered, but you remained.
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