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I'll begin with one of my most vivid stories
from my middle teens. No need for any of you to sit and speculate whether
this is a true story or not. It was all too real, believe me. You know
what they say: Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. As bizarre as
this story is, it really did happen. But I have repressed the memory of
it for many years, feeling a sense of discomfort, guilt, and shame in relation
to it. I finally told my mother this story only a month or so ago, even
though it happened in 1981. She could hardly believe it, and wondered why
I never told her after all these years. So for the first time anywhere,
I present it to you, the readers, as best as memory serves.

Let me say that in order to do the story
justice by preserving details, I have decided to divide it into three parts,
else it might get a bit lengthy. This first part is long enough as it is,
but please bear with me. I will begin the story today with Part I and give
you Part II next weekend. Okay--enough preamble. 

It was December 1981 and my dad was driving
me to work at the radio station (I was a disc jockey) in his blue and white
van. The roads weren't too snowy that day, but luckily he had a load of
bricks in the back of the van for traction, for those nasty winter days
that would come. You know how those hollow vans are on a wintry day and
on a slippery, icy road. You need something heavy to weigh it down.

We approached that four-lane highway that
was always so dangerous and nerve-wracking with all its constant traffic.
My father had the green light and was ready to go, having checked all traffic
in every direction. We were free and clear to navigate. Or so we thought. 

Literally out of nowhere, like a bat out
of hell, a tractor trailer truck pulled right across our path as my dad
started ahead. It was a big truck, and a long one too. It just started
crawling along in front of us as we faced its length, even though it was
going through a red light! 

Well, you know what that meant. Slam on the
brakes and you will hit it broadside, plowing right into it. But what else
could my father do? Just let the van collide into it all the harder? He
had no choice; he had to slam on the brakes. i saw what was about to happen
as I stared in disbelief. I heard my dad yell, "Watch out! We're gonna
hit!" as I stiffened up, bracing myself for the impact.

It was the wrong thing to do. I did stiffen
on reflex, but it was the wrong thing to do. The impact was tremendous
as we plowed into the side of the tractor trailer truck. I wasn't wearing
a seat belt, sad to say--I'm not even sure now if the van had any. My right
leg snapped like a twig, clean through the femur and tibia like chopping
a tree in half. The femur is the biggest bone in the body. I felt and heard
the bone snap clean in two. 

My left leg was pinned down by the broken
right one. The impact was so hard it knocked off my tennis shoe and threw
it clear into the rear of the van. My head flew forward and my mouth crashed
on the dashboard, shattering one of my front teeth in half. The windshield
shattered as well, and so did my glasses as they flew off my face. I was
all twisted around, half in and half out of my seat--almost to the floor.
I was spitting and sputtering blood, wiping it from my mouth with the back
of my glove.

That really scared my dad. He saw me bleeding
and thought I was bleeding internally. But Dad was in his own pain. A bolt
had driven itself through his ankle, and his ribs were crushed down hard
onto the steering column. I had never heard my father scream before in
his life with fear and pain, but he was screaming in agony now. I was frightened,
and called to him desperately. "Dad! Dad!" But in vain. I couldn't reach
him. I couldn't touch him. Thank God that load of bricks had not flown
forward on top of us, or we would have been dead. A miracle.

I felt hands lifting me up out of the seat.
The paramedics knew my leg was broken but weren't sure how to move me.
Should they pull me straight left out of the passenger seat? Or drag me
backward and out through the side door that was behind me? I was gritting
me teeth in agony, yelling at someone to support my leg. They decided to
take me backwards and out through the sliding side door, which gave them
more room to maneuver.

A blessing was occurring with the pain in
my leg. As the pain of my broken leg built to a crescendo, the numbness
was starting to set in. It helped dull the pain just as it reached the
point where I didn't think I could stand it any longer. A paramedic was
tugging hard on my leg. I growled at her in anger, "Who the hell is pulling
on my leg?" She admitted it was her, but said she was really tying the
broken limb in traction--it felt like hard pulling to my numbed leg. And
there I lay, half in and half out of the van, staring up at the sky, flat
on my back, with snowflakes falling in my face.

I was concerned for my badly injured father,
but he had been already rushed to the hospital by separate ambulance. My
ambulance ride was warm and cozy. Strange how you can't hear that siren
from the inside--guess it would panic you i you could. The girl held a
flashlight to my eyes and gently told me I was in shock. She held a bottle
of water to my lips. Both she and her female assistant spoke to me in soft,
gentle, kind voices of reassurance, trying to keep me calm. They asked
me what year it was, who the President was. I was hospital bound. Funny,
I was late for work for the very first time.

The driver of the truck who had caused the
accident never got a scratch. He went on to have TWO MORE accidents that
day BEFORE the police took his license! He was found to be under the influence
of marijuana and had been unable to tell what color the traffic lights
were! 

Okay, now we are ready for the bondage elements
in my story. Bear with me now, guys and ladies. 

When I arrived at the hospital and was taken
out of the ambulance by stretcher, the two female paramedics carrying me
rushed me straight to the emergency room. I was immediately put into the
care of two female nurses--an X-ray technician and her assistant. I would
not leave their care until it was time for the operation to mend my leg. 
I never did get their names--they wore no
name tags. 

The X-ray technician was striking. She was
very tall and statuesque, and had a very distinctive English accent. Most
of all I remember the white lab coat on her slender, willowy frame. Her
skin was milk-white and pale, and her lovely eyes were a bright baby blue.
Though she had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, she was very pretty
with a cute dimply smile. Her thin face looked aristocratic and quite British.
I'd say she was about 30. Her voice was soft, but rather Britishly droll
and sophisticated. I found her to be very attractive nonetheless and I
liked her pretty accent. It made her sound sexy. 

The other girl was not as tall, but just
as thin and willowy. She had flaming red hair flowing loosely around her
shoulders, and her pretty eyes were a bright Irish green. Her skin was
a pinkish white and she never stopped smiling with her radiantly dazzling
white teeth. Bubbly and full of energy, she was so cheerful with her chipper,
chirpy voice. She was 23, but looked like she had just graduated high school.
Athletically trim, the redhead wore a jade green smock that day. I gathered
that the two nurses were close friends from the way they talked.

The two female nurses quickly took charge
of me; in fact, they acted downright possessive of me. They kept shooing
other nurses and hospital staff away from me. Finally, they wheeled me
on a gurney down to the X-ray room. They needed to see what was broken.

I was dying of pain, gritting my teeth against
it and gripping my belt buckle. When my two caretakers saw how miserable
I was, they got authorization to give me a shot of Demarol. Demarol feels
wonderful--like you are all wrapped up in cotton and you feel safe, warm,
and fuzzy. And it kills the pain.

The first order of business was to cut me
out of my blue jeans, since the two girls couldn't dare move me due to
my broken bones. The English girl took out a big pair of scissors and started
to snip slowly up the leg of my blue jeans. I was in shock, so I blurted
out a protest. "Hey! You can't do that! Those are brand new Wranglers!
I just bou--mmmmppphhh!"

From her silent position behind me, the young
redhead gently slipped her left hand over my mouth to hold it, muffling
the rest of my sentence quite effectively. She shushed me gently and soothingly
over and over, keeping her small, dainty white hand clamped firmly across
my mouth all the while her partner cut away my pants from my body, from
the hem to the waist. Having a nurse cover my mouth with her hand wasn't
a medical procedure I was aware of, but I kept muffling and whimpering
into her soft, heavily perfumed palm as I watched my jeans being destroyed.
I wanted to talk and protest, but her insistent hand wouldn't let me say
a word. She seemed to be making no effort to remove her hand as her British
friend took her own sweet time. She just kept it there dutifully and patiently
till English Girl was all done.

To my surprise, as she continued with her
handgag, the redhead began to mimic my muffled cries in a voice full of
little-girl silliness, ridiculing, and teasing sarcasm. Her mockery was
painfully accurate and precise, even though exaggerated. She kept repeating
it tauntingly, giggling as she went. Since she was behind me, I couldn't
even see her face, but somehow I sensed her smiling. 

My frustrated anger was muffled into her
hand as I looked to the British girl for a response to her pretty friend's
handgagging action. She just smiled her dimply grin, shrugged, and teasingly
said, "Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls!" She was just trying to
lighten a tense situation, but I wasn't amused. I tried to say something
to her. Then she asked, "I didn't quite get that. Would you like me to
ask her to remove your gag? Then we need you to calm down so we can do
our work and concentrate. We can't have the whole hospital hearing you
carry on, now can we? Now you have to shush or her hand stays--on my orders,
all right? You've been badly injured and we have to take some X-rays. Shhhhh."
I nodded my compliance as the English girl nodded to her friend to release
my mouth, and after a minute or so, the gentle feminine hand was removed.
The redhead warned me she would regag me if I had another outburst. "If
you do that again, I'm going to put my hand back over your mouth again--I
will if I have to, so don't make me." Her superior added, "And she has
my backing on that, so please shush." I nodded my understanding. It sure
was nice to be able to talk again without the hand.

The young redhead said she had to go get
some admission forms for me to fill out with her, and soon she was out
the door. Now I was totally alone with the tall British girl and there
wasn't another soul around.

The English nurse who had cut off my blue
jeans draped me in a thin white linen sheet, since all I was wearing was
my briefs. It was so cold in that room! She wheeled over a big behemoth
of an imaging machine with screens on it that covered my body from waist
to chin. I felt trapped under it as I lay flat on my back--I couldn't move.
Even my hands were pinned under the breadth of it. It was time to take
X-rays of my broken leg.

She stepped into a little booth which had
a microphone. The booth faced me; all I could see over the X-ray machine
was the clock on the wall. "Breathe in." I held my breath for her. "Breathe
out." I exhaled gratefully. Then she put me in a cycle of breathe-in, breathe-out
that went on for some minutes. I noticed that when that pretty English
accent said "Breathe in," she took her own good time before she let me
breathe out again! I thought I would burst holding my breath for her!

Miss Nurse British-Accent came out of her
booth and started turning on the big machine that was hovering over me.
She was turning knobs, staring into a dark screen, and looking very stern
and intensely focused, all businesslike and no smiles now, appearing to
study the results of the X-rays. I lay quietly, letting her do her work,
not wanting to interrupt her.

Now I SWEAR to all you readers and to God
that this next part is 100% true, even though you may find it hard to believe.
It really did happen. Honest!

As I lay there shivering under my sheet,
the nurse was twiddling knobs and dials with her left hand. She stood at
the right side of me looking across the gurney into the machine's screen.
All of a sudden, without any warning, I felt her free right hand settle
flat onto my genital area--and just stay there! I was instantly in shock
and disbelief! Was she actually doing this?! It couldn't be!

Yet her warm hand was cradling my private
area through the sheet, cupped around and over it as innocently as you
please. I looked up at her in shocked amazement but the British nurse would
not meet my gaze. She just studied her machine with focused intensity as
if in another world. I lay there in awkward silence, not knowing what to
do. And her warm hand was not budging. It stayed--and stayed.

I literally was at a loss, damned either
way. I was trapped--what could I do? If I asked her what she was doing,
and why she had her hand on my groin, she'd probably scold me severely
and say I was interfering with her work. Yet was it medical procedure for
a female nurse to clamp her hand over a male patient's lower anatomy? I
wouldn't think so. I was sure this was wrong. But if I said nothing at
all and let her do it, she'd think I liked it and was enjoying it. What
should I do? Speak up bravely and confront her, or keep my mouth shut?

To tell the truth, as a shy and backward
teen, I was way too embarrassed to do or say anything. But that seemed
to allow her to win. She pretended not to know where her hand was resting.
Sure, yeah, right. It was as if she were daring me to say something, daring
any male to resist a feminine touch of that erotic nature that he could
have free of charge. It was as if the pretty English girl was just waiting
for it to move under her hand, to see if she could move her male patient.
She seemed to be testing me. My honesty versus my sexual arousal. Which
would I choose?

I waited the minutes out in awkward embarrassment,
hoping my genitals wouldn't betray me--yet feeling so guilty, because her
gentle hand felt so good there. Of course it moved, and she smiled down
at me when it did with a grin of devilish mischief, winking at me. She
needn't have worried if she still had the magic touch at her age--she surely
did. I was a male alone with an attractive female, "the older woman." She
could easily move me with the touch of her warm hand--and she certainly
did. And as guilty as I felt, I loved it.

I took a long, shuddering breath, nervous
and uncomfortable as her bony, long hand started to sneak its way slowly
under the sheet to begin caressing and stroking my member gently and tenderly.
Oh my God!! As her gangly fingers made contact, I guess I let out a loud
gasp of startled surprise and panicked disbelief. 

Instantly, her slender, long left hand clamped
down over my mouth, in a reverse handgag with her thumb under my chin to
more firmly anchor her grip. Her big blue eyes met mine as she bent down
closely over me to shush me. "Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Quiet. Don't say a word or
make a sound. It's our secret." Her impish dimpled grin never faded nor
did her gaze break from mine as she happily admired her handiwork on my
mouth. The look of erotic pleasure and delight on her face was unmistakable.
She wasn't kidding when she spoke of letting her assistant gag me to her
redheaded friend--she liked doing the handgag! It was obvious.

Despite her warnings, I felt the panicked
urge to try to talk anyway, to ask what was going on here. Why was she
doing all this? Why were her hands on my groin and mouth like this? Was
she permited to do this, was it medically necessary? Was this a nurse's
job? 

I tried to speak, but it only made the English
nurse shush me all the more intensely as she tightened the already clamping
grip on my mouth. My teeth were pressed against my lips as my mouth was
buried deep in a soft, satiny wall of feminine flesh. She said, "No. Don't
try to speak. I won't let you. Please?" in her crisply perfect accent.
My hands were pinned under the machine, so I couldn't pull her handgag
away. Maybe I could have found a way to get them free, but would it have
been polite to rudely pull my nurse's hand away from my mouth? She must
have been holding my mouth for a reason, I kept thinking.

Minute passed. British features and bold
blue eyes stared down at me with her pixie grin as she stood at my side,
not removing her hand.

I'll never foget that feminine hand as long
as I live. I can still feel, smell, and taste it to this day. The English
nurse had a hand that was so slim and narrow, with the longest, slenderest
fingers I'd ever seen on a woman. Her perfect complexion was flawlessly
Caucasian snow-white, and her palm was softer than velvet or silk. She
being a nurse, I could taste and smell just how antiseptically clean her
pretty white hand was. Funny, she wore no perfume at all--just the natural
sweetness of young femininity. Yet her soft gentle fingers had a mild trace
of floral fruitiness to them, a citrus smell. It was clear she had peeled
and eaten an orange very recently. The orange savor was sweet and highly
pleasant, as sweet and wonderful as any store-bought fragrance--maybe better.
I breathed it in appreciatively, forgetting myself completely. 

I lost myself in her hand, was breathing
heavily with erotic overexcitement, and I think she realized I was a teen
boy having an erotic reaction to having a woman's hand over his mouth--a
woman over twice his age. I felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed about
that, yet I was enjoying her hand as a gag. I tried to talk on purpose
just to get her to press her hand tighter, which she relexively did. I
could only mmmmmppphhh and muffle under that long, white British female
palm. And still she did not take her hand away. 

I muffled out to her in gagtalk, "Why is
your hand over my mouth?" But my ears heard only a muffled "Woo oov yoo
hoomb oovoo moo mooff?' I muffled out "Why are you doing this to me?" but
gagtalk turned it into "Woo oo yoo doom voof poo moo?" God, was that really
MY voice under her soft hand? I couldn't believe how muffled it sounded,
and how much power and control her feminine hand had to effectively silence
me! She giggled at the funny muffled sounds and shushd me soothingly. But
really, I no longer cared why she was gagging me with her hand.

Tim pased. The nurse seemed to realize I
liked her hand--a lot, an awful lot. Her handgagging semed to grow more
erotic and warmer by the minute, more personal and intimate. I especially
enjoyed her fingers, so soft and gentle, so slenderly long and pretty.
I was utterly awestruck at just how long she kept her hand over my mouth
as my muffled breathing under her palm softly broke the eerie silence.
The pretty nurse still pretended to read the screen on her machine as she
consciously kept her slender palm locked across my mouth, enjoying what
she was doing to me and aware that I seemed not to be resisting her. And
then I saw the clock on the wall staring at me--she had h
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