Page 2 of Jersey

The tips of her breasts are no longer tight. The apex of her thighs shows no slickened arousal.

This doesn't turn her on, and I'm not certain she's participating in this for that reason.

I stand, finishing off my drink before placing the glass on the side table and walking in that direction. I can't stomach the idea that she's on display and being touched against her will.

With plans to make it all stop, I find myself trapped in her gaze when she lifts her eyes to me.

She is no longer focusing on those with the tips of their fingers on her skin. She seems entranced at the sight of me.

Her lack of response quickly makes the other's attention wane, and before long, she's left alone, those around her going to find something else to do.

I simply stand, not paying any attention to the attendant who has maintained a close distance from her in case they have to step in if someone breaks the rules.

Her throat works on a swallow when I inch closer before pausing again.

This isn't what I'm here for. I'm meant to be watching, observing, and trying to discover if illegal activity is occurring.

Participation isn't part of the job, although it might help make my attendance less suspicious if I actually did something. I know that some types get their thrills by just watching others. Voyeurism is very popular, so I haven't felt the need to lower suspicions.

Now I have to wonder if I'm drawing too much attention to myself. It's a fine line to toe, for sure.

I leave very little distance between the two of us when I step up to her, and to her credit, she never breaks eye contact with me. She seems a lot braver than she did when she walked out here.

I glance up at her tied hands, noticing that rather than a tremble in them, she has them clenched into fists. I can tell by their tightness that her fingernails are going to leave indentions in her palms.

Her breath is ragged, coming out in uneven puffs that force her chest to rise and fall at irregular intervals.

"Are you having fun?" I ask, hands at my sides.

If this woman is a victim of any kind, I'd never participate in something like this.

I would never willingly further someone's victimization.

Her eyes dart away from mine, which answers my question. If she were enjoying herself, she might smile, or her eyes might brighten. This woman is not having a good time.

I step even closer and lean forward so only she can hear my next question.

"Are you here against your will?"

I pull my head back so I can read her face. She doesn't look over my shoulder at the attendant, so I can tell she isn't worried about getting into trouble, but she also doesn't speak.

Her brows furrow, the crease between them deepening to display her confusion, as if it never crossed her mind that such things occurred. It speaks of her ignorance of what the shadows of the world actually contain, but it doesn't explain why she's unhappy that she's strapped to a St. Andrew's cross in a sex club.

I take a full step back, satisfied that, although unhappy, she's a willing participant in this activity.

Knowing it lights something inside of me.

For the first time since approaching her, I allow my eyes to drop, fully taking in her body.

My mouth waters to taste the furled tip of her breast.

My fingers ache to brush across the goosebumps scattered across her torso.

My cock thickens with the need to slide through the growing slickness of her pussy.

My eyes snap back up to hers, narrowing, but before I can question my body's reaction, I sense movement beside me.

"Please step back," the attendant says as she moves forward. She looks at the lady on the cross. "That's an hour. Are you ready to go?"

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