You try your hands but it’s no use, you’re bound into the leather chair in your room, mouth gagged, dry. Your wife is stretched tight, each limb to a bed post, gagged, sturdy, she’s stopped pulling as you both listen to the men searching your home. She’s dropped her head back and you see the thin fabric of your wife’s panties, sense her vulnerability, disappointed by your body’s stiffening.
They came when you were sleeping, ignored your protests, gagging and securing first you, threatening your wife if you didn’t comply, then her. Something about the way they handled her makes you think this isn’t just a robbery. Why isn’t she in a chair and why were you dragged to the foot of the bed wife’s snatch in your view. Is it a showdown or is there a line of moisture, the fabric a little transparent, pink plump lip, reddish pubic hair peeking out the elastic against pale skin. Your cock is so hard, your boxers barely holding it. When you were struggling the head started cleaving through the slit at the front, you can see it.