Captive Audience

Jack Hammer’s job is simple. Keep the box sealed, keep the cargo whole. But the second he sees Elise Graves on the tiny screen—strapped into that screaming red straitjacket, leather shorts hugging her hips, silk stockings shining under the glare of stiletto heels—he knows the box is coming open. He pulls her out. The straps bite. She glares, breath fast. He winds fresh rope around her, cinches it cruel, and starts working her over. His palm cracks across the silk stretched tight over her thighs, again and again, until heat blooms under the fabric. She spits curses; he stuffs a fat gag between her teeth, buckles it home. A thick leather hood drops over her face, laces pull tight. Only then does he fold her back inside, limbs drawn tighter this time, knees kissing chest, ankles lashed to the jacket rings. The lid slams. Wheels turn. She rolls on, more helpless than when she started, every muffled sound proof that the detour was worth it.