Handcuff Kingby Eve Strillacci In Siberia they stripped you, peeled your suit from pale shoulders, searched the pockets before fingering the backs of your knees, your fine slacks forgotten in a dusty prison corner. It's no wonder that they reveled in your hirsute calves, your darkly matted thighs, bowed bones allowing for your escape, time and again, from the manacles whose ghostly grip was test, was daily undertaking. Did they joke with you? Did they stroke your shoulders, pull your cock a little, braying at the size of it in the shriveling Russian winter? A small man, half a foot taller than your wife, and what they could not expect from you was victory, escape. Inconceivable, that they had grazed your furred chest with curious thumbs and not taken in the glint of you, the swallowed key burning in your soft stomach. Sensing only your heat: from shame, they guessed, brushing flamed cheeks, but it was guile, or something like it, shifting beneath their hands like borrowed fire. |