Creamped Deep In That Wet Pussy

The temperature is lower and I go goosey. I still can't open my eyes. Something clicks loudly. They are turning me cautiously on my left side. It hurts like hell. I hear the same sound again. A moment later, I am turned on my back and wheeled out.People are scurrying about. They are talking. I can make out at least three different voices but can't make sense of the conversation. For them, I am an object. My personality is not important. They are working on me, trying to fix me. I am thankful. No one is going to hurt me anymore. In this moment, I feel my left foot being lifted. Someone's strong hands are holding it. They clasp around it and push. At first, I am unable to understand what's going on. The pain overwhelms me. I feel bone fragments moving, grating against each other. I scream. The torture stops immediately. My foot is on fire. I open my eyes. A man is scolding one of the nurses. She blushes. A mask is placed on my face, and I slowly drift into unconsciousness. The torture. We made out for another half hour and he took me home. That night I sent him a few more pictures to help him get off. I hadn’t ever sent pictures like that to a man but he now had many of them and I wanted to give him more. We texted all the next day and I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper into feelings for him. He assured me that he was feeling the same. Two days later I received a text from him in the morning. “I’ve been thinking quite a bit.” My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. I knew what this was before he could even go on, but with a painful glimmer of hope that it wasn’t, I asked him to go on. It was exactly what I thought it was. He wasn’t going to see me again. He said it was because he didn’t want to hurt me. He wasn’t one-hundred percent sure that our story would end well and he didn’t want to take the risk of hurting me like the other men in my life had. What he didn’t realize was that every word he wrote felt like someone stabbing me in the chest. He.
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