You come to just as Kelsey finishes wrapping you securely with saran wrap. A full mummification, leaving just your mouth, nose, and eyes exposed.
Your mind races, you remember leaving the bar, just barely. The two girls. But weren't they drunk? How much time has gone by? You feel sluggish, your mind still fogged with alcohol.
Kelsey and Star taunt you. They oscillate between a cold, sober, demeanor and gleeful laughing. They're going to fuck your whole life right up. They laugh as you struggle against your plastic casing.
Star produces a large plastic bag from her purse and demonstrates it before approaching you and pulling it roughly over your head. She stares into your eyes, enjoying the show. Watching you try to regulate your breathing. She's not finished yet. After mocking you for awhile, she takes another piece of saran wrap and winds it tightly around your neck. Now you're really running out of air.
Star & Kelsey sit across the room, observing you. Star explains how all that plastic makes for easy clean up, but sometimes Kelsey likes to get messy. They muse on whether they should make it a clean kill or a have a little fun.
Too late, you're almost gone. The blood pounds in your skull. They watch closely as your eyes glaze over.
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I've tightly gagged you and tied you to a chair. I walk away with the cash stuffed bag in hand. You're distracted from the severity of the situation by my assets. I taunt you with my curves & tease you about the visible bulge in your pants.
Suddenly there's a noise. I freeze and my eyes dart towards the door. You begin to call for help, moaning through your gag. I hiss at you, do I need to shut you up?
I retrieve a plastic bag from my duffel and deftly pull it down over your head. You'll quickly learn not to make any loud noises, any unnecessarily deep inhalations. How long do you think you can last with that bag over your head before suffocating to death?
I turn to leave, pick up my things. I turn back and glance down. I smirk. Your cock is still hard.
Does the thought of suffocating to death for me really turn you on that much? I suppose with the way you've
been staring at me this whole time I shouldn't be surprised. You've probably memorized every inch of my body by now haven't you? Big
mistake. Now I have to make sure you won't make it out of here alive. I remove a roll of tape from the duffel and tape the bag shut securely around your neck.
Now you're certain to suffocate and die before they find you. I tease you a bit, talking about your sweat, your breath, the look in your eyes. I should probably get going.
I glance down at your still hard cock, grab it through your pants, turn and sit on it. I grind and moan. It would be fun to stay, torment you, speed up your demise, considering how much trouble you're
having controlling your breathing with me on your lap. Unfortunately I have to leave - getting caught in a room with a corpse is bad for business.
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You beg to worship me. Of course you do. Men like you can't help but dream about me, drool over me. It's perfectly natural for you to crave communion with your Goddess.
Tell me, which part do you want to worship most?
The feet? So obvious - my high arches, soft nylon soles, my perfectly aligned candy coated toes . . .
My legs. What would you do for my legs? Die for them? Kill for them? Beg and cheat and steal for them? Of course you would . . .
Dare you imagine - my breasts, my neck, the aroma of my armpits. The thrill of having your hands on any part of my perfect body.
Let's test your loyalty - a little chance to prove that you truly worship me, will take any chance to touch a true goddess.
I will allow you to sniff, lick, worship . . . my perfect, pink, Goddess . . . asshole.
Stick your tongue out. Good, it's nice and long. I don't want you touching any other part of my body. I forbid it.
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What does one wear to a meeting with the CIA? Good thing I went with pantyhose. I was a little worried it might be a trap, but it seems that even the CIA have a thing for long legs and nylon feet. Apparently they are aware of my services, and they've enlisted me to take you out in the ultimate cam show, use your fetishes to make you kill yourself.
Returning to the studio with my briefcase full of cash, I send you a quick message, detailing my plans for the ultimate cam session. You bite immediately , so eager.
We start the session the usual way, with you drooling and begging to see my nylon feet. I taunt & tease you - we both know that the second you see my nylon soles you'll be begging to bag yourself. I mock your desire to suffocate yourself for me, to play such a dangerous game. I make you beg to suffocate yourself to death, to pull that dangerous bag down over your head. Finally I allow it, but only once you've agreed to keep the bag over your head as long as I keep a nylon stocking mask over mine.
So eager, so willing to stupidly suffocate, starve your blood cells of oxygen. It's a fine line between heightened orgasm and total organ failure. I produce the rubber band, make you beg me to allow you to place the band around your neck, making this game even deadlier. Finally I taunt you, pulling the camera close, breathing laboriously through my nylon mask as I watch your face discolor, the bag suck into the bag of your throat as you suffocate for me. I mock your deadly stupidity as the game goes too far, my nylon mask remains on until you have suffocated yourself to death.
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I arrive. You're seated as instructed. I sit, glancing at the black bank bag.
I'm surprised you showed up. It's a dangerous fantasy you have. Most men are all talk.
You shouldn't take it so lightly. I certainly don't.
Don't you think I chose this location for a reason. In case something goes wrong? There's just the little matter of your tribute.
I arch my eyebrows, look at the bag, lift it & feel it's heft. I peer inside.
This is more than we discussed.
10,000 pounds. In small notes. How dramatic.
Shall we begin?
I walk over & handcuff your hands behind your back.
Funny how a little metal bracelet can make a strong man like you so helpless. Show me how much you can move. It's a heavy chair isn't it. You really should work on that core strength.
Shhhhh - the cuffs should be the least of your worries.
Breathplay - such a playful euphamism.
I remove the bag from my purse, slowly unfurling it.
Bet you haven't seen one of these before - Turkey Bag, an American invention. Strong enough to withstand a roasting oven for hours on end.
Now the safe way to do this, would be to poke a couple of holes in - right around nose level. But that wouldn't be any fun now would it?
I pull the bag over my head, just to demonstrate, this is 100% hole free. I breath in & out.
Now beg me.
Beg me to put this simple, innocent, plastic bag over your head.
Beg me to suffocate you for real. Until you're unconscious.
Beg me to suffocate you to death.
Convince me.
As you wish.
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