Stroking again, then tickling, then repeat again until the tears under his mask were burning his eyes, his nose was stopped up making his breathing even more problematic, and then, finally, the mask was removed.
“Let’s have a little conversation, just you and I,” said the cold-eyed blonde who leaned over his strapped-down and helpless form. She stroked one finger down his too-sensitive flesh, making him gulp with fear and then moan spontaneously, humiliatingly, as her hand brushed up against his throbbing organ, ever so lightly. “Like that? There could be more, you know. If you’re cooperative and pleasant, of course.”
He knew the drill. Talk now or talk later, after another bout of torment. Learning to withstand torture wasn’t about never talking, but rather delaying one’s confession for
