The rings, despite being gold coloured, were sturdy. Pull on the chain, and the chain would probably brake, but pull the ring too hard and shed be ripped open. She was then transformed into a half horse and was branded with a red hot iron in a strange shape. However, because of either the thick horse skin or his control, it was a slight burning, like having a rash under sunburn rather than the pain she had expected. Apparently, this sight was too much for him, as his crotch seeming to spasm uncontrollably, into a mass of tentacles. Two seized her by the ankles, pulled her legs open and restrained her. The rest began entering her pussy and ass, one by one, expanding her with each tactical that entered, stretching her painfully. The mind control was released and she began trying to fight, the pain of the fist sized tentacles too much to bare, the grip of the tentacles around her ankles to strong to brake. However, through body manipulation, she was forced to orgasm. Repeatedly. If. There was no time for all that anyway, and it wasn’t why I was here. This was the fifth nightclub in as many nights that I and my covering force had visited. I wasn’t here looking to get laid, although I planned to do that too after duty hours. I was here hunting. Six nights ago, in response to Robert’s phone call, I had driven from the scene of my recent tryst with a female accountant named Sandy in Kentucky up to Washington, D.C. I had parked a few blocks away from the J. Edgar Hoover Building and walked to a little used entrance on the side of the building. I had shown my Agency credentials and finally been let in after several phone calls and a 20 minute wait. But then the Agency/Bureau feud goes all the way back to the 1940’s. When I was in the OSS I once got caught in the middle of it, but that’s a story for another time. I was shown into a windowless office. From the pictures, knickknacks and the nameplate that read ‘Special Agent R.A. Dale’, I figured out it was Robert’s.
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