Rosetta

Rosetta waits like a gift already opened, her blond hair yanked tight into the rope. The strands hold her skull back, force her neck open, mouth spread wide around the rubber ball between her teeth. The gag is slick with spit. She hangs suspended in the sitting tie, thighs spread, weight balanced between the crotch rope and the band circling her waist. That rope runs deep between her lips, every tiny shift making it grind into her cunt. Her legs tremble, but the rope keeps them spread. She breathes in short, hot bursts through her nose, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. The strain of staying upright makes her muscles jump, and every tremor drags the rope harder against her clit. The suspension looks almost peaceful. It isn’t. She is a picture of stillness that vibrates with barely-contained need.