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Summary
She looks delectable like this. Like some kind of desert on a platter that you know you can’t have yet. She smirks, and you know her eyes crinkle with delight under her sunglasses if her crows’ feet have anything to show for it.
“Go on, it’s not going to eat you,” she whispers, “that’s what the clones in the back are going to do.” She grins when you squeal against her cunt, four sets of hands grabbing your ass and love handles scooting you back so you’re in a doggy-style-like position against the throne. More string clones hold your hands against the small of your back, and you feel the taught string wrap around your wrists. It’s so thin, sharp even, and you know it’ll leave welts.