Tommy’s screaming went from agonized, to gutteral, to strangulated until, finally, it stopped. Samantha went back into the bedroom to find Tommy laying on his side, red faced, vomit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth like tea through a strainer. Carey looked up and smiled.
‘He was choking on it. It’s too early for that.’
‘You’re learning,’ Samantha said, and grinned. ‘Still, your little playmate in there’s getting curious. Let’s move on to the next stage, shall we?’
Carey gave a disappointed grunt, got off the bed, and picked up the panties.
‘Which will it be? Strangling? Naw; his neck’s larger than his head. Smothering? Naw, death by pussy inhalation’s every douche nozzle’s dream. Has to be some form of air restriction, though, doesn’t it?’
Samantha gestured toward the paring knife.
‘It’d be a shame to waste such a lovely object.’
Carey looked confused. ‘But won’t that just make him bleed out?’
‘Not if you know where to cut.’
Carey rolled Tommy over onto his back once the flow of vomit ceased, and Samantha unfastened each of the belts, pausing for a few seconds each time, watching with satisfaction as each harried muscle popped back out and relaxed. She picked up the knife and started to hand it to Carey, then thought better of it.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
Carey had had just about enough theatricality for one evening.
‘What NOW?’
‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve always enjoyed a good threesome.’
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