Dena hung on his every word, probably thinking he was talking about the two of them, but I also felt as if he was talking about the last time we played together.
They left me at attention in the cage and weaved through the club, stopping occasionally as Spencer explained the purpose for a piece of torture equipment or to watch a scene. At a rack Dena was fascinated as Prince Nazeem, I mean, Chris, put the stretch on Andi. The former Lady Imeena was covered in sweat, her pert breasts and flat stomach glistened. No more fake, little “Oh! Oh!”’s issued from her. Instead her lips set in a thin line, a grunt or sharp breath the only noise she made. But when Chris wacked her across the legs with a birch rod her scream was genuine. They had come a long way since my interference on them.
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