Wearing the thing, having it glued to my face by the fruits of cock worship, make me think I am garbage.“If you were trained properly, you wouldn’... need the bag,” he says, sighing with regret. “But that would mean a cock in your mouth. For hours, every day. For years. Men don’t want works-in-progress, do they?”I’m crying. One second, I’m sucking his thick prick dutifully as always, and the next, I’m sobbing. Suddenly I’m grateful for the duct tape keeping my hands behind my back, keeping me. They were in their 20s or early 30s, slender, dressed in sexy outfits, chatting and laughing while their eyes checked the room. They were not quite passable, but very sexy. Both were dark-haired, with natural hair long enough to pass for feminine if styled that way. One was wearing a red minidress, with full-length arms and a skirt a few inches below her ass. The other was all in black, with a scarf d****d loosely over her shoulders. The one in red turned as I stared at them and caught my eye,. More

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