Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 61508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
I tapped, of course. I hadn’t had any success in getting Amy out of my mind in the two weeks I’d been traveling from what felt like one end of the globe to the other. If globes had ends, which they didn’t. I shook my head at the silly thought, taking it as proof that I desperately needed a break.
What popped up on my phone screen, a scene that I instantly transferred to the big screen in my den, seemed the perfect antidote to my weariness, even if it proved to have an emotional cost. Gorgeous, busty, naked Amy Pizzarelli confronted by one of the facility daddies, who held what looked like a pink straitjacket.
A little thought-bubble sort of text popped up, attached to the straitjacket.
The ‘adjuster’ is a proven piece of technology developed by Institute assessors for bad girls who’ve reached an impasse in their rehabilitation.
Impasse. What did that mean?
Amy clearly wanted the answer to the same question, or one very close to it.
“What?” she asked, her eyes going from Miss Frieda’s face to the daddy’s. “Why? What did I… did I do something wrong?”
“Well,” Miss Frieda said. “You definitely did something wrong, Amy, when you climaxed without permission with your daddies just now.”
Amy’s face fell. Just as my curiosity—and envy—about the incident and its outcome became overwhelming, the camera angle changed to show a cock-hardening view of Amy’s backside, covered in curled red welts.
I had started stroking myself idly the moment I saw Amy’s enticing nudity, her pussy kept thrillingly bare by the Institute’s flawless regime in such things. Now, with an involuntary grunt in the back of my throat, I found I had to release my hardness from my fly.
“Yes, Miss Frieda,” Amy whispered.
“Your daddies took care of that with the towel, though, didn’t they?” the facility daddy asked.
At that point I noticed the wetness of Amy’s hair, and the stray droplets of water on her shoulders. The whole arousing scene she must have just undergone seemed to unfold in front of my eyes, making my cock as hard as an iron bar in my hand: two or three daddies taking her to the showers and doing degrading, stimulating things to her… Amy, deprived, unable to help herself… the daddies whipping her mercilessly with a rat-tail…
My jealousy grew along with my penis, but that of course only represented what I had let myself in for.
“Yes, Daddy,” Amy whispered. The view on my screen remained on her adorable, thoroughly whipped bottom. I swallowed hard as I watched her cheeks squirm a little, as if in memory of the agony she had felt in the showers.
“On the other hand,” Miss Frieda continued smoothly, “your assessors have become certain over the last few days that you’ve reached what they call an impasse.”
The camera angle changed to show a close-up of Amy’s face, her expression confused.
“Impasse?” she asked. My question, too.
Miss Frieda nodded. “Yes. You’re going to have a night in the adjuster, to see if we can help you through it.”
Amy
“But…” I said, my voice trailing off as I saw the stern look in Daddy James’ eyes. I realized I didn’t have any more words to put after the but, too; I had already asked why, and Miss Frieda clearly had no intention of telling me.
Daddy James stepped forward, the pink straitjacket held out before him. My heart raced as I took in the details of the garment—the stiff fabric, the multitude of straps and buckles, the strange piece of fabric hanging down, with a strap at the end, clearly meant to go between a prisoner’s legs. I wanted to protest, to ask more questions, but the words died in my throat as Daddy James approached.
“Arms out, Amy,” he commanded, his voice pitiless.
Trembling, I obeyed, extending my arms in front of me. Daddy James slipped the sleeves over my arms, the fabric cool and unyielding against my skin. I couldn’t help but squirm as he pulled the jacket tight around my torso, the stiff material constricting my movements.
“Hold still,” Daddy James growled, his large hands working swiftly to fasten the various buckles along my back.
I tried to comply, but my body seemed to have a mind of its own. Every time Daddy James tightened a strap, I found myself wriggling, testing the limits of my new confinement. The jacket pressed my breasts together, creating a deep cleavage that felt both arousing and uncomfortable.
As Daddy James worked his way down my back, I became acutely aware of the triangular extra part I had noticed earlier. It hung between my legs, and was made of the same pink fabric as the rest of the jacket. I whimpered as I considered how it would feel over my pussy, pulled taut by the strap in back.
My bottom was now very sore from the horrible rat-tailed towel, but I hadn’t been fucked in days. Looking down at the heavy cloth that would cover my smooth, needy cleft tonight, an ache settled into my womb. I hadn’t really had much trouble obeying the cardinal rule of the facility against touching myself—most of the time my pussy was just too sore even to contemplate putting my fingers there. The sight of the adjuster’s ultimate confinement, though, made me clench hard, paradoxically at the knowledge that my hand couldn’t help me at all tonight.