Make sure she’s secure

There’s nothing on the ceiling that looks sturdy enough to hold weight, but the heavy oak desk in the middle of the room is another story. You lead Wonder Woman over and bend her forward over the desk, her plump breasts pressing against the wooden surface. “So what’s your real name, anyway?”

“Diana.”

“I know that much. Diana what?” You make sure her wrists are tightly bound behind her back, and then run the free end underneath the desk pinning her arms and torso.

“Princess Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta Queen of the Amazons.”

You grab a handful of black hair and pull her head up off the desk, arching her back. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, you want to know if I have secret identity.” Her voice is level and proud as if getting captured and tied up half naked by some rando was no big deal. You slam her face down onto the desk with a **** that would stun a normal woman, but she doesn't seem bothered by it.

“So do you have a secret identity, and what is it?” You untie the length of lasso between her ankles, pull her right leg out to the side, and begin binding her ankle to that corner of the desk.

“I occasionally go by the name Diana Prince. I have an apartment and bank account under that name. But I don’t use it very often. I am who I am and I see little reason to hide it.”

“Tell me something interesting about Ms. Diana Prince.”

“There is nothing interesting about her. That’s the whole point of her. She dresses frumpily, wears large glasses, and doesn’t draw attention to herself.”

“How very boring. And do any of your identities have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?” You repeat the process with her left ankle.

“I have several friends, both men and women. But I am not involved with anyone romantically at the moment.”

“I don’t imagine you have a hard time getting dates.”

Her back hair covers her face so you can’t see her reaction, but her voice sounds less matter-of-fact and a little more thoughtful. “No, but…being Wonder Woman comes with a lot of what you would call baggage. The power. The notoriety. The responsibility. The image I try to present to the world is limiting in its own way. And I get tired of the press’ obsession with who I may or may not be seeing.”

You tie off the remaining rope to her bound wrists and step back to admire the view. Her long, athletic legs are spread wide, her ankles tied to the desk’s feet. Her upper body is tied to the desk, her star-spangled ass sticking out enticingly. The sides of her boobs spill out from where they’re pressed against the surface of the desk. Her arms are pulled behind her back, wrists tied together in an X. Spectacular!

You can feel your erection pressing against your pants; the urge to whip it out and get down to business is nearly overpowering. But you’re not quite done playing yet. You walk around to the other side of the desk, grab her mane of thick black hair and again pull her head up off the desk. You crouch down so you’re face to face with her. Her breathtaking face scowls at you. You make sure of your grip on the lasso and ask, “So, are you a virgin or not? The tabloids seem divided on the subject.”

She stares you in eye and without blinking replies. “No. I am not a virgin and have not been one for many years.”