The briefing room was cold, a sterile environment that always made me feel like an insect under a microscope. My commanding officer, Captain Tanaka, stood at the head of the table, his silhouette sharp against the bleak fluorescent light. The air was thick with the gravity of his words, each one a stone sinking into the pit of my stomach.

“The operation is simple on paper, Hana,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. “In practice, it’s anything but. We’re shutting down a major sex trafficking syndicate. They’re kidnapping attractive women from nightclubs, drugging them, and using them to provide sexual services to paying customers. We have two victims who escaped, but their intel is limited. They don’t know where they were held.”

He pushed two files across the table towards me. I didn’t need to open them; I’d already memorized every detail during my own preparation. The stories were horrifyingly consistent. Fun, flirting, a few drinks, then nothing but blackness and fear.

“The plan is a Trojan horse,” Captain Tanaka continued, his eyes locking onto mine. There was an intensity in his gaze that always made my breath catch, a professional focus I admired and, if I was being honest with myself, found deeply attractive. “You will be the horse. You will be the bait.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Sir?”

“You will infiltrate the syndicate. You will get yourself caught, just like the other victims. You’ll be taken to their base. Your only job is to transmit the location and identify the masterminds. You are not to engage. You are not to make arrests. You are a ghost, Hana. A very beautiful, very convincing ghost.”

He slid a plain cardboard box across the table. It was surprisingly heavy.

“Your uniform for this mission,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The victims were both wearing short denim miniskirts and shiny white strapless crop tops. It’s a specific type they look for. You need to fit the profile perfectly.”

I took the box, my fingers trembling slightly. The thought of wearing something so provocative, so unlike my usual conservative police attire, sent a jolt of something unfamiliar through me—a mix of apprehension and a strange, thrilling spark.

Back in my apartment, the silence was a stark contrast to the roaring in my ears. I placed the box on my bed and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was the outfit. A super short, tight denim miniskirt. A shiny white strapless crop top. A shiny black pair of over-the-knee boots with four-inch heels, far taller than anything I had ever worn. And a pair of long, black wet-look gloves that would extend past my elbows.

I held up the skirt. It was tiny. I held up the top. It was just as small. A strange thought struck me as I laid them out on my bed.

How did he know my exact measurements? The skirt, the top, the gloves, the boots—they were all perfectly, unnervingly, my size.

I shrugged it off, a minor detail in a much larger, more terrifying picture.

“Well,” I murmured to the empty room, a nervous giggle escaping my lips, “it’s Barbie time.”

I enjoyed the occasional indulgence of dressing up, of painting my face with makeup until I felt like a different person. But this was different. I stripped off my work clothes and pulled on the outfit. The denim miniskirt hugged my hips, the hem barely grazing the tops of my thighs. The crop top was tight, compressing my chest and pushing my breasts upwards, showcasing the hourglass figure I worked so hard for at the gym.

I looked in the full-length mirror, applying the most provocative makeup I could muster—dark smoky eyes, glossy red lips. The woman staring back was a stranger. She was beautiful, undeniably so, but she looked… inappropriate. Shy. I always got compliments, but I never saw myself as this, as a model type, as bait.

My phone buzzed. It was Captain Tanaka. “Send me a picture,” his text read.

My blush was instant, a creeping heat that flooded my cheeks and ears. My heart raced as I posed, my phone feeling heavy in my hand. It was a strange request, but an order nonetheless. I snapped the photo and sent it, my finger hovering over the send button for a second before I committed.

The reply was almost immediate. “The boots and gloves too. All of it.”

I bit my lip, a strange mix of defiance and obedience warring within me. I thought about it for only a moment before I found myself pulling on the tall, black boots, the leather encasing my calves and knees, making me feel powerful and precarious at the same time. Then I slid my hands into the wet-look gloves, the cool, slick material clinging to my skin all the way up past my elbows. I looked at my reflection again. The transformation was complete. The gloves and boots didn’t just add to the look; they amplified it, making me look exponentially more provocative, like a character from one of the films I’d only ever seen glimpses of.

I yearned for his approval, a desire that both confused and excited me. I took another photo and sent it.

I waited in anticipation, my heart rate accelerating, posing in my room, turning this way and that, feeling the unfamiliar texture of the gloves, the height of the heels. I felt a thrill, a dangerous current running through me.

Another message. I rushed to look at it. “Approved.” Just that. A dull, disappointing “approved.”

I took a deep breath, the momentary high crashing. I scolded myself for expecting anything else. This was it. Time to go.

***

The club was a sensory assault. Pounding music, flashing lights, a sea of bodies. The moment I walked in, I felt it. Eyes. Dozens of them, on me. My outfit, my appearance, it was a beacon. Men came to talk to me, their compliments slick and their intentions obvious.

But nothing happened. I moved from club to club, following the trail the victims had left, the knot of anxiety in my stomach tightening with each passing hour.

Just after midnight, in the third club, he appeared. A man in a sharp suit, impossibly handsome with a smile that could melt steel. He was charming, disarming. He bought me a drink.

“You always dress like that?” he joked, his eyes dancing with amusement as they scanned my body.

I blushed, the heat rising in my cheeks again. The tension between us was a palpable thing, a crackling energy that grew with every flirtatious word, every light touch on my arm. The last thing I remembered with any clarity was his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck, his firm chest pressing against my breasts. He kissed my neck, a soft, wet kiss that sent a jolt of pure arousal straight through me. His lips traveled up, found mine, and the kiss was deep and intoxicating, his tongue exploring my mouth.

After that, the world dissolved into a pleasant, hazy blur.

I woke up with a throbbing headache. The world was swaying. I was in the back of a minivan, moving. In the front, two men. One driving, one in the passenger seat. Beside me, another woman, unconscious, her denim skirt ridden up to expose her underwear. She was zip-tied and gagged with duct tape, wearing an identical outfit to mine.

My head hurt. I tried to massage my temples, but my hands wouldn’t move. I struggled, a wave of panic washing over me. A tight ring around both my gloved wrists. I craned my neck to look behind me. Zip ties. My ankles were bound the same way. Then I became aware of the taste in my mouth—cloth. I tried to open my mouth to spit it out, but my lips were sealed. Duct tape. I was gagged.

My training kicked in. I scanned the van. A wrench. A few feet away. I remembered the technique. I arched my back, brought my bound wrists forward under my legs, over my feet. I positioned the plastic cuff against the wrench and pulled up with all my might.

Snap. The ties on my wrists gave way.

I quickly freed my ankles, peeled the tape from my mouth, and spat out the wad of cloth. I grabbed the wrench. The passenger turned, his eyes widening in surprise just before the wrench connected with his head. He slumped over. The driver shouted, but he was next. I was on him in a flash, and he too was knocked out.

I was in control. I rummaged through their pockets and found an old flip phone. Undercover protocol was clear. I called my commanding officer, not the main police line.

“Don’t call the police,” he ordered, his voice tight. “I’m coming to you.”

He arrived in less than twenty minutes. He found me standing beside the van, the wrench still in my hand. His face was stern, a mask of disappointment that cut me deeper than I expected.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice cold.

I explained. As I spoke, he went through the knocked-out men’s phones. He held one out to me, showing me the screen. A series of texts from an unknown number.

“Where are you?”

“If you’re not here in an hour, the deal’s off.”

“The plan was for you to get caught and delivered, Hana,” he said, his frustration palpable. “You acted too quickly. You’ve ruined the plan. I guess we abort. We call the police, jail these two, and save the girl.”

The disappointment in his eyes was a physical blow.

Suddenly, the flip phone in his hand rang. He looked surprised. The flip phone’s shrill ring sliced through the tense silence of the dark street. Captain Tanaka’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise before his professional mask slammed back into place. He stared at the vibrating device, his mind clearly racing. He let it ring three times, the sound echoing in my ears like a countdown. Then, with a decisive move, he answered it and put it on speaker.

“Where the fuck are you guys?” a gruff, impatient voice snarled from the tiny speaker.

The captain paused, a master conductor waiting for the perfect moment to lead his orchestra. I held my breath, watching him. This was it. This was the moment I admired him most, the way his mind worked under pressure, turning disaster into opportunity.

“We’re coming,” he said, his voice transformed, rougher, colder. He was a different person. “We ran into a hiccup. The packages almost escaped. We had to spend some time catching them and tying them back up. We’re coming as soon as possible.”

There was a skeptical silence on the other end.

“Look, Takashi-san doesn’t care about hiccups,” the voice finally spat back. “If you’re not here in one hour, deal’s off. And Takashi-san ain’t going to be happy. I’m sure you know what happens if he’s pissed.”

The line went dead.

Captain Tanaka looked at me, the disappointment in his eyes now replaced by a calculating gleam.

“As I was saying,” he began, his voice back to its normal, commanding tone, “we can either abort the mission now, or we can take the hard route and finish this the right way.”

He gestured towards the knocked-out men and the other girl, still sleeping peacefully in the back of the van.

“I tie you back up. Probably tighter, so it looks like you were recaptured after you tried to escape. I wake these two up, pretend I'm part of Takashi-san's gang and we proceed with the delivery as agreed.”

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I looked at the unconscious men, at the other victim. I thought of all the other women who hadn’t escaped, whose stories would never be told. I thought of the promotion, yes, but more than that, I thought of his approval. I wanted to see that look of pride in his eyes, not disappointment. I had foiled the first part of the plan, but I could still save the mission. I could still be his Trojan horse.

“I’ll play the bait,” I nervously murmured, the words barely a whisper.

“Good,” he said, as if he had expected nothing less. “I knew you would.”

I knew what had to be done. I heard him rummaging in his bag, the sound of metal buckles and thick canvas. I stretched my arms and back one last time, a final moment of freedom. Then, I closed my eyes and, without a word, submissively put my wrists behind my back, waiting.

“You’re excited to be tied up again, aren’t you?” his voice was low, a teasing rumble right next to my ear.

My eyes flew open. I hadn’t even realized I had offered my wrists so automatically, so eagerly. I blushed, looking down at the ground, my wrists still held obediently behind my back.

I heard the sound of rope being gathered, a soft, slithering noise. Before I could brace myself, his hand shot out, grabbing both my arms just above the elbows. My slim build allowed him to hold them together in one of his firm, powerful hands. I gasped as he wrenched my elbows together, a position they had never been in. Coils of rough rope wrapped around my arms, just above the joint, cinching them with brutal efficiency. The ropes held my black wet-look gloves in place, preventing them from sliding down. My shoulders were pulled back violently, my chest thrust forward.

My breasts, already compressed and pushed up by the shiny white crop top, bulged even more, straining against the thin fabric. My good posture was now a weapon against me, the tie amplifying it, making me feel incredibly exposed and vulnerable. The moment my elbows were bound, my arms felt useless, dead weight attached to my torso.

I instinctively tried to move my hands, to test the bonds, but I couldn’t reach anything. I couldn’t generate any leverage. I swayed my hips, my upper torso doing a slow, helpless shimmy, trying to find some weakness in the rope. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me struggle. I wondered what he was thinking. As I moved my wrists, they naturally came together, a submissive gesture I hadn’t intended.

“You look like you’re enjoying this, haha,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll get your wrists tied soon enough.”

I blushed furiously. This wasn’t my intention, but deep inside, a strange feeling bloomed. It wasn’t discomfort. The helplessness, the tightness, being out of control for once, it felt… good. A new, thrilling experience. Butterflies erupted in my stomach.

I didn’t respond. He grabbed both my gloved wrists with one hand again. His aggressive and decisive motions unusually excited me and I could feel my heart beat more quickly. I tried to struggle my wrists, but it wasn't much of a fight. His grip was like iron, and my position with my elbows tied made it impossible to resist him. I relaxed, submitting to his control.

I felt the coils of rope wrap around my wrists, palm to palm, and another cinch tighten the space between them. Strangely, the wrist tie felt like nothing compared to the brutal compression of my elbows.

He rested his hands on my waist, applying pressure to turn me around to face him. There was almost no space between us. The tension was electric, a strange, charged intimacy. I had always known he was an attractive man, but my professional duty had kept that thought at a distance. Now, in the darkness, dressed like this, bound like this, so weak and vulnerable in front of him, that distance was gone.

He did a slow, deliberate scan of my entire body, from my heeled boots to my exposed and visible collarbone. I felt naked under his gaze. My eyes darted down, my cheeks and ears burning. I tried to hide behind my hair, but he gently brushed it aside, his fingers grazing my sensitive ear. With my arms tightly bound behind me, he freely reached over and lifted my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. I still avoided his eyes.

“Wow...” he whispered, his breath warm on my face.

I was now still and my eyes met his gaze and I held it there. I waited for him to say more. I wanted him to tell me how beautiful I looked like this and that he liked seeing me like this, but that was all he said. One word. Just before I could break the silence, in one fluid motion, he lifted me effortlessly and carried me into the back of the van, placing me face down on the cold metal floor beside the other girl.

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got to hurry. We don’t have much time left.”

He quickly tied my ankles, then ropes below my knees and above them. I was now completely helpless, my arms and legs useless.

“Is this really necessary?” I asked, my voice tight. “It’s too tight… I won’t be able to free myself.”

“It needs to look like you were recaptured... nobody is going to re-tie someone loosely after they tried to escape. I gave you a choice and you told me you wanted to go through with this. You're going to have to play your part seriously,” he said, his voice all business again.

“I won’t be able to defend myself or help with anything if I’m tied this tightly...” I muttered.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling a small, metallic object from his bag. “I’ll be putting this in you. A tracking device. It’s the greatest tool we have. If all else fails, this will lead us to you.”

“I don’t have anywhere to hide it,” I said, a knot of dread forming in my stomach.

“This can only go down there,” he said, pointing to my crotch.

My eyes widened. He reached under my miniskirt, his fingers hooking the waistband of my underwear. I had been feeling a growing arousal, a slick moistness, and I was terrified he would know. I turned my gaze away, looking up at the van’s ceiling, mortified. He rolled my underwear down slowly, deliberately, a torturous tease. It felt like an eternity. Then, I felt the cold, hard device press against my entrance. He began to push it in. The device slipped in easily, a testament to my wetness, and I shamefully knew he knew.

His finger went deep, deeper than was strictly necessary to place the tracker, I was sure of it. I felt the friction of his knuckle brushing against my sensitive inner walls, and a fresh wave of arousal washed over me.

Was that intentional? I thought to myself as a small yelp escaped my lips, followed by an involuntary groan of pleasure.

He said nothing, simply pulling my underwear back up. I felt my skirt being moved up, exposing my underwear again, and then more rope being tied around my waist.

What was that for? My question was answered a moment later as he pulled the rope down the front of my lower abdomen, threading it between my legs, deep into the cleft of my crotch, up the crevice of my buttocks, and up to my back waist.

It was a crotchrope. The pressure was immense, a firm, unyielding line against my most sensitive area. Luckily, my underwear was still on, but the discomfort was significant, especially against the flesh near my crotch. Yet, mingled with the discomfort was a shocking wave of pleasure. I tried to shift my hips to move the rope, but it was useless. The rope dug too deep into the crevice between my legs to shift. The pressure remained constant, digging deeper with my struggles.

The captain chuckled, watching my helpless squirming. “We don’t want the tracker to fall out, do we?” he remarked.

He pulled my miniskirt back down, but I knew it would just ride up again, just like the other girl’s. I then felt the rope from my crotch being threaded through the cinch between my bound wrists, then similarly through my bound ankles. He slowly pulled the slack, and my world shrank. My wrists were drawn down towards my ankles, my ankles pulled up towards my wrists until my wrists were touching my ankles.

I was being hogtied. My body was forced into a tight, immobile bow. Any movement, any shift, sent a jarring tug directly through the crotchrope. The ropes tied above my knees made the hogtie even stricter, preventing me from splaying my legs for any relief. Just when I thought the hogtie was complete, I felt his hands on my legs, lifting them up and placing them on his lap. My chest and upper body remained on the floor, but my lower body was elevated, forcing my pelvis to thrust forward even more.

The crotchrope dug in with an agonizing, electrifying intensity. I gasped. I realized what he was doing. With my legs elevated, there was more slack in the hogtie rope. He took that opportunity to pull it impossibly tight before finally knotting it. When he lowered my legs back to the floor, the new, brutal tension locked my body into a perfect, arched bow. There was no slack left. Any struggle would only punish my crotch further.

Who else has he tied up before? I thought to myself. He seemed to be so experienced with ropes.

For the final touches, he pulled a black leather choker from his bag. I could do nothing but watch as he wrapped it around my bare, vulnerable neck. My skin was sensitive there, and I remembered the man in the club, his kiss on my neck, the way it had ignited me.

Click.

The sound of the buckle closing was a gunshot in the quiet van. I felt a profound sense of vulnerability, like I was now someone’s property, a helpless slave offering.

I heard more rummaging, and then my world went dark. A padded blindfold was pressed against my eyes, the soft material molding perfectly to the contours of my face, even the bump of my nose. He tied the ends tightly behind my head, pulling my hair out from under the strap before fastening it even tighter. I tested it, moving my head up, down, shaking it side to side. Not a sliver of light penetrated the darkness. It was absolute.

“Wait, why are you blindfolding me?” I started to protest. “I wasn’t blindfolded before…”

My words were cut off as something large, smooth, and firm was forced into my mouth completely filling it. It was a ball gag. It must have extended at least two inches in diameter, stretching my jaw to its limit. I bit down reflexively, but the latex gave almost nothing. It was soft on my teeth but unyielding against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The taste of rubber filled my senses.

I struggled frantically, trying to push it out with my tongue, but it was easily overpowered as the strap tightened at the back of my head. He pushed my head down, which loosened the strap slightly, allowing him to pull it one more notch through the buckle.

“Look at that, a perfect fit on the final hole,” he remarked.

“Hey! Mmmph!” I protested, but it was a useless, garbled sound. He instantly moved to buckle up the strap under my chin.

My salivary glands went into overdrive. I could feel the saliva begin to pool in my mouth. I couldn’t swallow. My jaw was locked in place by the strap under my chin. There was only one place for the saliva to go. It started spilling over the top of the gag before trickling uncontrollably from the corners of my mouth and down my chin. My lip gloss smeared onto the ball.

Not only did I feel humiliated with drool coming out of my mouth, but the gag exponentially added to my feelings of helplessness. I tried to talk, to beg, to plead.

Why did you do that?

But all that emerged were pathetic, muffled whimpers and mmmphs.

“Sorry,” he said, though his voice was devoid of pity. “We have to do everything the proper way to make sure they don’t think something’s up. You’re our Trojan horse, after all.”

I felt myself being carried deeper into the van and heard the sound of more ropes. I began to roll and struggle in fear.

“Easy, Hana,” he said, his voice calming. “It’s not for you. It’s for her.”

He was tying the other girl in the same manner. In the five to ten minutes it took him, I lay there, strangely comfortable, my heart racing. The butterfly sensation in my stomach had amplified into a deep, throbbing hum. Cold sweat formed inside my gloves and boots. There was no escape. I was blindfolded, gagged, drooling, crotchroped, and hogtied into complete helplessness, at the mercy of anyone who found me. Strange, dark visions began to flicker in my mind’s eye—men’s hands groping me, their voices laughing as I struggled.

I was aroused.

“Okay, we’re ready,” the captain said. “Time to wake the boys up and get this show on the road.”

The van doors slammed shut, plunging me into a deeper, more resonant darkness. I heard splashing sounds, then slaps and shouting.

“Hey, hey, wake up! You’re late! Get the packages to the location now!”

It was the captain’s voice, but it was rough, thuggish, utterly convincing.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the men mumbled.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the captain snarled. “Look at the damn time. You’re way past delivery. I’m glad Takashi-san told me to supervise you guys as insurance. I caught them trying to slip away, you useless thugs. What were you thinking using a couple of zip ties? Rookie mistakes. I’ve tied them back up more tightly this time with ropes and put them back in the van. Now drive. If you don’t, I’m calling Takashi-san. There are no more chances.”

“Oh… he’s from Takashi-san’s side,” the other man stammered. “Our sincerest apologies, sir. We’re leaving right now.”

“Good. I’ll be watching you,” the captain said.

The van’s engine roared to life, and we started moving. I lay there, a helpless package, listening to the sound of the road.

Are they watching us? I wondered, and a secret, shameful part of me hoped they were. I wanted their attention.

Then I heard a whimper from beside me. The other girl was waking up. I could hear her struggling, rolling around and pulling on the tight ropes that restrained her freedom. Her sounds were muffled, desperate “mmmphs” and whines. She sounded like a real damsel in distress.

“What actually happened, man… my head hurts,” one of the men in the front said. “Didn’t we get into a fight? The girls escaped?”

“That’s what the guy said. He caught them and tied them back up.”

I heard footsteps approaching the back.

“Yeah, I just checked. The girls are both tied up but let me check the knots.”

I felt a presence right beside me. A firm hand rolled me over onto my side.

“Now that’s a crotchrope,” the man leered. “Why are you tied up like this, babe? Were you being a naughty girl trying to escape?”

I knew what I had to do. I had to play the part. I had to be the perfect damsel in distress. As if competing with the other girl for the role, I began to struggle with everything I had. I rolled, I thrashed my hips, I arched my back. I shook my head violently, letting out a stream of pitiful, muffled pleas.

No! Let me go! Untie me! Release me! But it was all just “Mmmph! Mmmmph! Hnnnggg!”

The ropes were unforgiving. Every movement only pulled the crotchrope deeper, sending sharp, mixed signals of pain and pleasure through me.

“Would you look at that,” the man chuckled. “That guy did a pretty good job, I’d say.”

He pushed me back onto my back and began yanking on the ropes, testing the knots. Each yank was a fresh torment on my crotchrope, pulling it tighter. Suddenly, I felt a soft touch on my chest, right over my breast. The butterflies in my stomach turned into a flock of frantic birds. I shifted my pelvis, the unbearable pressure of the rope sending a fresh wave of arousal through me.

He was drawing circles on my sensitive skin, on top of the thin, shiny fabric of my crop top. I felt my nipples harden, pressing against the material, betraying me.

“Mmmph… don’t… don’t touch me,” I begged into the gag.

I tried to roll over, to hide my face, but a firm hand pushed me back onto my side. He played with my breasts, massaging, groping, his fingers eventually finding my perky, aching nipples. He rolled them between his thumb and forefinger through the slick material, and I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped my gagged lips.

Then I felt a tug on the edge of my crop top. A cold dread washed over me. In my culture, to expose a woman’s breasts, her nipples, was the ultimate humiliation. I began to struggle violently, thrashing against my bonds with a renewed, desperate energy. I shook my head, my pleas becoming frantic, incoherent. My struggles were a dance of futility. Every frantic movement, every desperate arch of my back, only served to tighten the hogtie, which in turn pulled the crotchrope deeper into me, a cruel reminder of my complete helplessness.

My muffled screams were swallowed by the ball gag, my pleas for mercy becoming nothing more than pathetic, rhythmic “mmmphs” that seemed to amuse him.

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” he chuckled, his voice a low, predatory rumble.

I felt his other hand join the first, both of them now working at the hem of my shiny white crop top. The fabric was tight, stretched over my thrust-out chest. He had to work to get a grip, his fingers brushing against my skin, sending jolts of unwanted electricity through me. With a sharp, decisive tug, he peeled the top down.

The cool air hit my exposed breasts, and I gasped into the gag. My nipples, already hard from his earlier attention, tightened into painful, aching points. I was exposed. Utterly, completely exposed. The humiliation was a physical force, a wave of heat that washed over me, making me dizzy. I felt a single tear escape from under the blindfold, tracing a hot path down my temple.

I heard a low whistle of appreciation.

“Damn,” he breathed. “Takashi is going to love these. Look at those perfect, perky nipples.”

His hands were on me again, no longer separated by the thin fabric. His rough, calloused skin was a stark contrast to my own. He cupped my breasts, weighing them in his palms, his thumbs brushing back and forth over my sensitive nipples. I squirmed, trying to pull away, but the hogtie held me fast. There was nowhere to go.

His touch grew bolder, more possessive. He squeezed, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, a mix of pleasure and pain that made my head spin. He rolled my nipples between his fingers, pulling and pinching them gently at first, then with increasing pressure. I couldn’t stop the moan that vibrated in my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. My body was betraying me, responding to this assault with a traitorous arousal.

“Please… stop… mmmph…” I begged, the words a garbled mess.

“Stop? Why would I stop when you’re enjoying it so much?” he taunted. “Listen to yourself. You’re loving this.”

He wasn’t wrong. A dark, shameful part of me was loving it. The helplessness, the degradation, the forced pleasure—it was a cocktail of sensations I had never imagined. The constant, grinding pressure of the crotchrope, combined with his expert manipulation of my breasts, was building a fire deep in my core. I could feel the tension coiling, tightening, threatening to snap.

I heard a groan from the front seat.

“Hey, man, stop playing and get back up here,” the driver grumbled. “We’re almost there.”

The man sighed in frustration. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he grumbled back.

He gave my left nipple one last, sharp pinch that made me cry out, then he pulled my crop top back up, covering my breasts. The relief was immediate, but the ghost of his touch remained, my skin tingling and on fire. I could feel my sensitive nipples pulsing against the fabric. He patted my cheek, a condescending, possessive gesture.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he whispered. “Your new owner will have plenty of time to play with you later.”

He returned to the front seat, leaving me in the back, a trembling, aroused, and utterly humiliated mess. The other girl was still whimpering softly beside me, a constant reminder of the reality of our situation. We were packages. Objects. And we were about to be delivered.