Walked“Do you mind being leashed, Mortimer? I read where once you’re capped on Indiening Island there is longer the need for strict feminine supervision... frottaging with the other donors obviated.”
Miss Mattie leads I follow. The pink silk leash has returned, the ending strip of soft cloth firmly knotted about my bloated scrotal sac.
“But I feel better, you at the other end of something I hold in control. And you? You may speak.”
Dare I fully verbalize my thrill? Download word after word in describing my masochistic joy as I prance behind gazing at chiseled globes of firm feminine flesh? Her leash hand tugs, tightening as she turns to look at little Mort, so firmly standing in succumbing, her frown demanding an answer.
“It’s... it’s... okay,” I must assume my succinctness adequately
