A diaphanous blouse follows, designed to reveal in direct sunlight the underlying lengths of pink beneath. No other undergarments, Miss Margie draws Roger upright as My Ling quickly encircles his waist with a frilly red silk skirt, the hem barely covering his dangling testicle bells.
Roger’s special shoes return. Curious steel with ungainly high heels. Miss Margie slides the slipper-like footwear onto the right foot. Cables entwine between the toes and are then strung to the ankle where such encircle. There comes a click as the shoe is locked in place. The left foot follows.
“Good girl!”
Miss Margie lifts. Roger cannot resist, the fentanyl inducing a pleasant euphoria. Yet he attempts speech, the slurred words an apparent verbal plea to remain in naked bondage.
“No Roger, you’re final
