The wrinkling of her nose and curl of her lip showed how much credence she gave to that possibility, and her head dropped back, and turned slowly aside - gaze coming to fix upon the hard manacle that held one of her wrists.<br/><br/>His hands were expert, inescapable, and precise in their torture. The man could read signs in her shifting, trembling body that she did not know herself - the flush of her cheeks the quickening of her breath and the gleaming ooze that trickled slowly forth from her virgin sex as he played her body upward, and then let it slide into an increasingly difficult to stand ache - yet she could stand it, she knew she could.<br/><br/>And when he carried on, taunting her with the promise of unwanted cock, making her stomach (or perhaps something lower) clench tightly, she pulled slowly against the manacles she stared at, making the rough metal bite into her wrist and using the pain to clear her own mind from the haze his touch was trying to sweep over it.