sarah joe chamoun

“We’re going to need some of this,” she said, unscrewing the cap. “Lubrication,” she said with a smile, seeing the confused look on my face. She poured a generous handful of oil and slathered it onto my shaft and my balls. She spied the label as she set the bottle down. “Hmm…extra virgin. That’s the only thing in this house tonight that is virgin anything.” I laughed nervously. I remember now my clueless mom never figured out why her bottle of olive oil kept appearing in my bathroom.

Something was wrong. I struggled to open my eyes, blearily forcing myself to focus. I was in a red-panelled room, dimly lit, one I'd never been in before, with... things, on the walls. Whips, floggers, toys of all descr*ptions, most of which I couldn't even name. It was only then that I realized I was naked, bound on my back to a table with my legs spread into a slight V in the air, wrists above my head, a belt around my waist holding me down. I lifted my head, and saw that my six-inch dick was hard and straining, twitching without my command. Why the fuck was I hard? Arousal was the last thing I was feeling! Confusion, fear, panic, yes. But not arousal.

“That’s it! You are disqualified from the tournament!”“Fine by me, just make sure it goes on the record that this is his loss, understand?” The ref was silent. “Understand? I don’t care about the next match, just so long as I am the winner of this one. So go ahead and say it. I want to hear you say it.”