Where the Rubber Meets the Road

The hood waits on the table like a dare. Petgirl bought it herself, yet the sight still stops her cold. Elise sees it, says nothing, just starts the rope. One loop, then another, until Petgirl’s wrists and chest are pinned to the wooden chair. Petgirl’s breathing turns quick and shallow as Elise lifts the thick rubber. The first tug drags the hood over her head; the second seals it down. Air hisses through the narrow snout and nothing else. Petgirl jerks once against the ropes, then forces herself still. Elise’s fingers check the seal, linger at the throat, press just enough to test how the rubber gives. Petgirl’s chest rises hard, fighting the heat that builds inside the mask. She stays. She breathes. Every breath is her own proof she can take it, and Elise keeps her right there until the panic melts into something darker and steadier.