«Kelli was a dangerous and dominant convict. She had spent the last three years in a maximum-security prison, and her muscles still carried the memory of every fight, every hour in the yard gym, every moment she had to assert herself over other inmates to survive. Her athletic build and pronounced curves were the result of that brutal environment: broad shoulders, defined arms, hips that moved with predatory confidence. Her brown skin glowed faintly under the evening light, covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the escape.

She had managed to find civilian clothes for herself: a tight black top with openings at the shoulders that revealed the firm skin of her collarbones, and tight black pants that clung to her strong legs like a second skin. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that stretched her features, accentuating her high cheekbones and tense jaw. Her gaze was cold and intimidating, dark eyes that did not blink when they fixed on something.

But she had escaped with another inmate, a smaller, weaker woman who had not been able to find clothes to blend into the outside world. That companion waited for her hidden in an alley, covered with a dirty blanket, shivering. Kelli needed clothes for her. Women's clothes. Clothes she could find in some unsuspecting woman's house.

Armed with a gun she had taken from a guard during the escape, she walked through the residential neighborhood until she found a house that looked promising. Lights on. A car in the driveway. A woman alone, perhaps. It was perfect.

She knocked on the door with her knuckles. Three knocks. Firm. Unhurried.

Jasmine, for her part, was an attractive woman with long, wavy brown hair that fell over her shoulders and down her back like a soft cascade. Her build was curvilinear but very slender—a defined waist, hips that widened just enough to give her an hourglass shape, medium breasts that moved gracefully under the white fabric of her dress. She had fair skin, almost pale, which contrasted with the dark color of the stockings she wore. On her feet she wore knee-high boots, black leather with side zippers, which rose up her calves and closed firmly around her slender legs.

She was finishing a cup of tea when she heard the knocking on the door. She stood up from the sofa, adjusted her dress over her hips, and walked to the entrance. She opened the door without looking through the peephole—a mistake she would not make again, she would think later—and found herself facing a brown-skinned woman with an icy stare and a gun in her hand.

Kelli smiled. A slow, mocking smile, full of superiority.

She entered, pushing Jasmine inside with the barrel of the gun.

"Take off your dress," Kelli ordered, her voice deep and confident, as she closed the door behind them with a sharp thud.

Jasmine raised her hands, trembling. Her long, slender fingers found the zippers of her boots and removed them. Then her dress. The fabric was soft, cool, completely different from the heat of panic rising in her chest. She slid the dress upward, feeling the fabric brush against her thighs, her hips, her stomach. She had to raise her arms above her head to remove it completely, and that movement made her breasts lift beneath the bra she wore underneath.

The dress fell to the floor with a soft whisper. Jasmine stood before the convict, covered only by her black stockings and, beneath them, her lingerie.

She was then *** to remove her stockings.

Her lingerie set was extremely sexy. A black bra with cups that barely contained her breasts. The cups had thin straps that rose toward the shoulders and a cut that lifted and pushed them together provocatively, creating a deep cleavage that showed the softness of her pale skin against the black fabric. The lower edge of the bra curved beneath her breasts, accentuating their round, natural shape.

The panties were a shiny black thong with silver or metallic details on the front. The small triangle that barely covered her mound had a metallic sheen, like tiny drops of metal embedded in the black fabric. The side straps were very thin, almost invisible, and sank into her skin, leaving much of her hips exposed. The fabric was soft and shiny to the touch, caressing the curve of her stomach below her navel.

From behind, the panties became a thin strap that disappeared between her round, firm buttocks. Almost all of her ass was exposed—two perfect hemispheres of white, soft skin, trembling slightly from nerves. The strap sank deep into the cleft of her buttocks, marking the boundary between one cheek and the other. It was a classic minimal thong, the kind that offers barely any coverage and accentuates the shape of her glutes, making them look rounder and more prominent.

Kelli looked her up and down. Her eyes traveled slowly over Jasmine's body: the breasts barely contained by the lace, the defined waist, the wide hips, the shiny triangle of the thong, the strap lost between her buttocks. The convict smiled again, a grimace that did not reach her cold eyes.

"Good," she said. "Now, on the floor. Face down."

Jasmine obeyed. She had no choice. The barrel of the gun was still aimed at her chest, that black circle promising a pain she did not want to imagine. She knelt first, feeling the cold of the wooden floor. Then she leaned forward, placing her palms on the floor, and finally lowered her entire body until she was face down, her cheek pressed against the cold boards.

Her breasts flattened against the floor, the lace of the bra pressing into her soft flesh. The shiny triangle of the thong tightened against her crotch. The back strap sank a little deeper between her buttocks with the movement.

Kelli knelt beside her. Jasmine felt the weight of her body close by, the heat of her brown skin, the smell of sweat and metal from the gun. The convict took her wrists—bony, delicate—and crossed them behind her back. Then she took out a roll of white rope, thick, rough to the touch, which she had brought with her from the prison. She began to wrap it around her wrists.

The rope bit into her skin. Jasmine felt each loop: the first, loose; the second, tighter; the third, pulling her arms back, forcing her shoulders together, making her shoulder blades arch. The fourth loop secured everything, and Kelli tied the rope with a sharp tug that made Jasmine exhale a whimper of pain.

"Get up," Kelli ordered.

Jasmine could not get up on her own with her hands tied behind her back. She tried to turn, to brace one shoulder on the floor, but her movements were clumsy, slow. Kelli lost patience. She grabbed Jasmine by her long hair, pulling her up by the roots, and *** her to stand. Then she pushed her toward a wooden chair that stood against the wall. It was a simple chair, with a straight back and four legs. Jasmine fell into it, the hard seat pressing against the lower part of her buttocks, the strap of the thong shifting uncomfortably.

Kelli knelt in front of her. She ordered her to open her legs. Jasmine hesitated. Kelli grabbed her ankles—one, then the other—and tied them to the front legs of the chair with more white rope. But she did not tie them together. She separated them. One tied to the left leg, the other to the right leg, forcing Jasmine's legs open in a "V."

Jasmine felt her thighs separate further, the shiny fabric of the thong stretching between her open legs. The front triangle, that small piece of black fabric with silver details, tightened against her mound, marking every curve, every fold of her intimacy through the thin fabric.

Kelli stepped back. She evaluated her work.

Jasmine was sitting on the wooden chair, tightly bound. Her arms were bent behind the backrest, her wrists crossed and tied, and in turn tied to the back of the chair. Her legs were spread and tied to the front legs of the chair, her ankles well secured. She could not close her legs. She could not bring them together. She could only remain like that, open, exposed.

Jasmine began to protest. Her mouth opened, and the words came out in a nervous, high-pitched torrent. She complained and threatened.

Kelli rolled her eyes. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white cloth, clean, folded. She approached Jasmine, who was still talking, the words falling over each other uncontrollably. When Jasmine opened her mouth again to keep complaining, Kelli shoved the cloth deep into her mouth. The white fabric filled her oral cavity, pushing her tongue down, pressing against her palate, stretching her lips.

Kelli took the ends of the cloth that stuck out from her lips and tied them tightly behind her head, over her brown hair. The fabric tightened between her teeth, forcing her to bite down on it, noticeably stretching the corners of her mouth to the sides. The skin around her lips turned white from the pressure.

It was a classic cleave gag, effective. Jasmine could not close her mouth completely—the cloth prevented it—nor could she open it further. The fabric gave her face an expression of discomfort and humiliation: stretched, reddened lips, large brown eyes showing frustration and anger in equal measure.

She tried to speak. Only a muffled sound came out: "Mmmph. Mmmph." The vibration of her own voice against the cloth tickled her throat.

Kelli smiled. That mocking, sadistic smile that did not reach her eyes. She patted Jasmine on the forehead a couple of times.

She picked up Jasmine's clothes from the floor—the white dress, carelessly folded—kissed her on the forehead, and said: "I appreciate this. I'll see you later." Then she headed to the door. Before leaving, she looked back at the woman tied to the chair, legs open, the shiny thong marking her intimacy, the white gag distorting her beautiful face.

"Thanks for the clothes," she said. "Have a nice night."

She left. She closed the door. The key turned in the lock.

Jasmine heard Kelli's footsteps receding down the driveway. Then silence.

Jasmine began to struggle.

At first it was soft, almost timid—as if she feared Kelli might still be listening, as if her movements could draw her back. But when the silence stretched on, when seconds turned into a minute and then two, her struggle became desperate.

She pulled at her wrists. The white rope bit into her skin, the rough nylon scraping against her bones. She felt a hot sting that promised bruises. Her fingers opened and closed behind her back, touching only air.

She tried to move her arms. They were bent behind the backrest, elbows pointing backward, shoulder blades squeezed together.

Her legs could not come together. The ropes at her ankles kept them open, her thighs separated, the thong taut between her legs. When she tried to close them, she felt the rope pull at the chair legs, heard the wood creak under the effort, but it did not give.

She twisted her torso from side to side. The chair wobbled.

She twisted harder. The chair wobbled more.

Jasmine moaned against the gag, a long, muffled sound: "Mmmmmmmph." Saliva was beginning to accumulate behind the white cloth, and she had to swallow constantly to avoid ***. The cloth became wet, heavier, more uncomfortable.

She arched her back, pushing her chest forward. The black lace bra tightened over her breasts, the lower edge lifting slightly, revealing the lower curve of her breasts. Then she leaned backward, as far as the rope on her arms would allow, and the chair tilted with her.

She rocked on the edge. Two legs of the chair lifted off the floor. Jasmine felt vertigo, the fear of falling, but she kept moving, pushing herself with what little strength remained in her bound legs.

The chair tilted further. Further.

And then, the point of no return.

The chair fell to one side.

The impact was sharp. The side of the chair hit the wooden floor with a thud that echoed through the empty room. Jasmine fell with it, her body trapped in the wooden frame, her legs tied to the legs, her arms crushed between her back and the backrest, which was now horizontal.

Her left shoulder took the weight of her body. She felt a sharp pain shoot down her arm to her fingers. Her breasts flattened against the backrest of the chair, now parallel to the floor, and the bra twisted, leaving one of her breasts partially exposed—the pink nipple peeking above the cup.

The fall had shifted the thong. The thin strap between her buttocks had moved, sinking deeper into the cleft of her glutes. The front triangle had pulled to one side, slightly exposing pubic hair she normally kept hidden.

Jasmine lay trapped on the floor, on her side, her body twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Her head rested on one arm, her brown hair fanning out in a wavy mess over the wooden boards. The white gag was still in place, the damp cloth filling her mouth, the rope still pulling at the corners of her lips.

She tried to move. She could not. The chair was too heavy, and her bound legs could not generate enough momentum to right it. Her arms, trapped behind her back, could not reach the floor to push herself up.

She could only lie there, on her side, on the cold floor of her own living room, staring at the closed door.

Waiting.

The floor's texture pressed through the thin fabric of the thong that barely covered her buttocks.

The pressure of the rope on her wrists was constant, a dull pain that pulsed with her heartbeat. Every time she moved—and she moved every few minutes, unable to stay still—the rope rubbed against her raw skin, and a new burning sensation added itself to the old one.

The cloth in her mouth was soaked. Her own saliva had saturated it, and now it had a viscous, heavy texture that pushed her tongue down. She had stopped swallowing; it was useless. The saliva simply seeped through the edges of her lips, moistening the fabric of the gag, occasionally dripping down her chin to the floor.

Her neck ached from the *** position of her head. She had to turn it to avoid suffocating against her own arm, but turning it too much stretched the gag and pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Her breasts—one trapped inside the twisted bra, the other half-exposed—felt the air of the room. Each breath made them rise and fall, the exposed nipple hardening against the cool air, the other still hidden beneath the black lace.

The strap of the thong, sunk between her buttocks, had shifted during the fall. Now it rested in a way it should not, pressing against a place she would never intentionally touch. Every time she contracted her glutes—a reflex, a response to pain—the strap moved, brushing against that sensitive area.

Her crotch was exposed. With her legs open and the front triangle of the thong pulled to one side, the fabric no longer covered what it should. The cold air touched the lips of her vulva, and she felt the natural moisture of her body—not arousal, just the physiological response to friction and cold—begin to form.

Jasmine closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. The tears were there, just behind her eyelids, hot and dense. But crying would clog her nose, and she was already struggling to breathe with the cloth in her mouth. So she did not cry. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed through her nose, slowly and deeply, counting to ten over and over.

What Jasmine thought as she lay on the floor might have been:

"The fall… the chair fell. Did anyone hear it? The neighbors?"

"I have nothing else. She already took my dress. I'm only left with this. This lingerie… this lingerie I chose this morning because I felt pretty. Because I thought no one would see me."

"Will someone come? My boyfriend? He said he would come by today. He said he was coming for dinner. What time is it? Is it already night?"

"Please, let him come. Let him find me. Let him untie me. Let him hold me."

"But don't let him see me like this. I don't want anyone to see me like this."

"I'm so exposed. Legs open… anyone who walks in will see all of me. I can't close them. I can't cover myself. I can't ask for help."

"God, please let someone come soon."

"And let it not be her."

Minutes passed. Perhaps twenty. Perhaps an hour. Jasmine could not tell.

Her body had grown accustomed to the pain. Not that the pain had disappeared—it was still there, throbbing in her wrists, burning in her shoulder, aching in her neck—but her mind had learned to push it to the background, to treat it like background noise.

So she thought about other things. About her boyfriend. About the dinner she would not prepare. About work. About the white dress Kelli had taken, the one she loved so much, the one she had bought last week at a secondhand store.

She thought about how she had felt that morning, putting on that lingerie. She had felt pretty. She had felt powerful. Elegant. The black lace bra, the shiny thong with silver details, the stockings, the boots. It was a set she wore for herself, not for anyone else. A secret beneath her white dress.

Now that secret was exposed. That lingerie she had chosen to feel desirable was all that covered her—and it barely covered her—as she lay tied on the floor, waiting.

Jasmine struggled again. A weak, tired, hopeless attempt. The chair moved a couple of centimeters. Her body dragged clumsily across the floor. The exposed nipple brushed against the wood, and a shiver ran through her entire body.

She stopped. Panted against the gag. The wet cloth moved in and out with her breath, an asthmatic, irregular rhythm.

She closed her eyes.

Waited.

At some point, she would hear a key in the lock. Or knocks on the door. Or her boyfriend's voice calling her name from the foyer.

Until then, she could only wait.

Tied. Gagged. Exposed.

Waiting.»

«Where were these girls when I was looking for a tie-up partner? Haha she’s beautiful»