Portia thought today would be quiet — a lazy afternoon spent lounging on her soft couch, curled up in her favorite leopard-print shorts and cozy socks. She’s been saving this moment, waiting to finally crack open that mysterious new bondage novel she’s been aching to read. The anticipation alone sends a shiver down her spine.
She peels off her socks, stretching her smooth legs and wiggling her freshly painted red toes, letting the air brush against her highly arched feet. She settles in, book in hand… but before she can even read the first line, there’s a sharp knock at the door.
Startled, she glances around. Who could it be?
Standing in the doorway is Officer Michaels — tall, authoritative, with that look that says he’s used to being obeyed. His voice is deep and deliberate as he tells her he has a warrant for her arrest. Someone has reported her for possessing “illicit material.”
Portia’s pulse quickens. She hides the book under a cushion, feigning innocence. But the officer isn’t fooled. He tells her he’ll have to restrain her while he searches the premises.
She hesitates — then complies, letting his strong hands guide her. His touch lingers a little too long. His hands slide over her waist, her thighs, her *******, her ****, her wrists… firm, commanding, exploratory. The metallic *click* of the cuffs behind her back echoes in the quiet room, followed by another around her ankles.
He leaves her like that — cuffed, helpless, breathing shallowly as she shifts and squirms, trying to get comfortable on the couch. Each movement makes the cuffs bite just a little tighter.
When he returns, he’s holding rope.
This time his tone is lower, darker. He pulls the hidden book from behind the cushion and flips it open — proof that she’s guilty. But instead of arresting her, he makes her a proposal.
Be arrested… or be tied up.
Blushing, trembling, and secretly intrigued, Portia agrees.
The cuffs are replaced by rope — expertly wound, cinched just tight enough to make her gasp. Rope at her wrists, her chest, her thighs, her ankles… until she’s pulled into a snug, beautiful hogtie. Her body arches, her red toes point, her breath catches behind a thick cleave gag.
Officer Michaels steps back, admiring his work as Portia writhes, testing her bonds. Minutes pass. Her eyes flutter. Is she enjoying this? Or is this punishment?
When he returns once more, there’s a shift in the air — heavier, charged. He lifts her, her bound body pliant in his arms, and places her on the couch again. Her lips, still gagged, are now exactly where he wants them. He pulls the cleave gag down, unbuckles his belt and brings her mouth in — and then… silence.
The camera pans slowly to the book lying on the couch.
Was it evidence of a crime?
Or just the dream of a woman who fell asleep reading… and never quite woke up?
