Under the Pump

Elise and Damon have circled each other for years. Tonight the circling stops. Damon buckles Elise to the table, legs forced apart, wrists pinned. From the wall of gear she picked the heavy, hand-stitched collar—thick leather, thick promise. He fits it around her throat, gives the pump a single squeeze. The collar swells, presses. Another squeeze. Her next breath comes thinner, sharper. She feels the leather dig, feels the table under her back, feels everything she can’t hide because she’s spread and strapped and open. Damon sets the pump aside only to reach for clear suction tubes. One cups a nipple, seals, pulls until the flesh rises inside the plastic. Another follows on the second nipple. The last tube finds her clit; he works the bulb until that tender nub stands inside its own tight vacuum. With every tug of the pump the collar thickens another notch, squeezing her windpipe while the suctions bite and drag. Elise strains, eyes wide, throat working against the relentless press. She drags whatever air she can find, and every shallow gasp feeds the throb in the tubes. Damon watches, patient, turning the release valve just enough to let a single breath slip through before he tightens it again. Her fear tastes metallic; her body answers anyway, slick between the straps. He leaves her there, collared and suctioned, caught between the next pump and the next stolen breath.