A slow grin formed as she fought the urge to play rather than type. Deleting everything she had started to write, she began again. This time, she wrot... about being forced to cum over and again, forced to masturbate until her arms were limp. She included as much detail as she could come up with, throwing in heated adjectives that she was sure would stir him into at least taking her even if he didn't follow the actual scene she'd written.Caught up in her writing, she thought of nothing more than. " She smiledencouragingly; Davey's heart sank.An hour later, Davey was trying not to faint with a lack of oxygen ashe stood in 3" black court shoes, sheer black panty hose, a tightgaffe to hold his manhood in place, a very tight corset with paddingto emphasise his hips and bum, an impossibly tight waist clincher anda padded black bra with 36D breastforms. He felt tight, constrainedand trussed up like a Christmas turkey. They had tried lots ofdifferent styles and sizes before Julie pronounced. He could feel that her nipple was erect, just as he had wondered. But he also realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He caressed the breast through her shirts, slipping his hand inside the second one. ‘I want to see you,’ he whispered. He unbuttoned her blouse and took it off slowly. The suspense was killing both of them. She couldn’t wait for his mouth on her breast, gently licking and sucking on her nipple. His head was swirling in anticipation, too. Then, by the light of the TV, he saw. Ron, the bassist, was the rock music stereotype: long, curly hair, short mustache and beard, threadbare jeans, and a drug habit. Thankfully his addiction was to marijuana, a drug that made him pleasantly mellow and filled him with hundreds of interesting song ideas. Dean was a musical genius who flaunted his bisexuality by wearing lipstick and eye makeup on stage. Neither was with them that night, Ron was writing songs, and Dean had a date with the bouncer from the last club they’d played. .
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