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t I know now, I'm absolutely sure) he would have been able to--but
just as I was getting excited he put the plastic carapace back on me.
I whimpered in frustration when I saw what he was going to do, and
begged him not to put it on, but he didn't listen.
I had to cook dinner that way, marinating in gooey body condi-
tioner inside this damned plastic torso and feeling extremely...
ready.
All during the romantic candle lit dinner that followed, he
ignored my rather eloquent body language--body language that, if it
were braille, a one-armed blind man in a dark room could have read
through a concrete wall. I was reduced to squirming in my seat, (the
padlock between my legs gouged the wood--the torso sits directly on
it) stroking my encased body sensuously (but pointlessly: as though I
could feel it through the plastic) and casting what I hoped were
smoldering, lust-filled looks his way. I could see I was having some
kind of effect, and I hammed it up a bit. I know he was aware that I
was excruciatingly horny, (I was only half kidding when I was hamming
it up) but he just ate his dinner as though we were in a formal
restaurant. He kept up a cheery but subdued banter, refilling my wine
glass, deflecting my heavy-handed innuendo
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