" Then he'd pull his cock from his jeans, flop it around, stroke it, make me beg for it. I'd have to watch his cock and lick my lips as he pointed out...the many wonderful parts of his manhood, asking me if I liked his knob or if I wanted to feel his pubic hair. He liked to control me, tell me what to say, when and how to touch or lick his cock. I often felt ashamed and wanted to stop meeting him. But he had that photo--he showed it to me and when I saw his cock exposed in his lap and my face. I had no idea of the time, the day, or how long I had been sat in this position. Every tiny movement sent courses of pain through my body, causing me to cry out in pain. I could feel the blood dried across my face. I could taste the rust on my dry cracked lips. Searching through my mind, I tried to remember why I was here. What I was doing, who I had been with, and why I hadn’t been found. These thoughts were among the few keeping me sane. I needed to cling to the memories of what had been,. More

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