Sitting across the table from my former lover, I self consciously tugged at the ends of my sleeves trying to hide the rope marks that had been left on my wrists by a current one. "You seem like you don't want to be here," observed the muse irritatedly.
The truth is I wasn't. In my head, I was still back in my hotel room, where 30 minutes earlier I had been bound with my hands behind my back while a new friend brutalized my ass, first with his hand, then his belt, a steel butt plug, and finally his cock. I could still feel his hands on my hips pulling me back to him each time I seemed in danger of wriggling away. The intensity was too much for me to be able to hold still. Or, apparently, for me to be able to focus later on while having dinner with someone else.
I didn't answer. My fingers traced the indentations on my wrists even as I tried to hide them. The restaurant, and the company, were cold. The warmth of my ass cheeks, still tingling from the spanking and the belt, kept taking me back to my warm bed and the soft rope my friend had left behind for me. Next time I won't be so easily persuaded to leave it behind.
