..", and of course he does. I turn in his arms, releasing his hands. They, however, don't stray from my hips but grip them tighter. He kisses me, deep...y, and I forget how that line was supposed to end."You'll do what, exactly?" Stop talking...", I lean in to kiss him again but he slithers away, completely. He has gotten out of bed, and is looking down on me, again. This time, though, I'm reminded of a wolf surveying its prey."Mmmn.. I think I'll let you suffer a bit longer, love." My hands. He would never hurt me, and I trust him completely. I am his for whatever purpose he needs, because he is the only man who has ever truly understood the desire, the craving, the hunger in me that's never truly satisfied.He keeps me in a bra and pantyhose most of the time, barefoot for the most part, but when I'm restrained and standing I must be wearing high heels. My hands are always bound. Always. If I need assistance, I must call the woman he's hired as a live-in "attendant" if he happens. More

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