A Chain Reaction

She’s back. Marisol. Hot secretary, black hair falling loose, nipples tight under the silk of her blouse. She’s mad, wet, and strapped down. Metal cuffs lock her wrists and ankles to the bed frame, chains clinking every time she twists. Her tits shake with every jerk, heavy and bare now, the blouse ripped open and hanging off one shoulder. The chains hold. They bite into skin, cold, shiny, unforgiving. She fights them anyway. Hips lift, heels drag, big tits rising and falling fast. Sweat catches in the hollow between them. Every breath sounds like a dare. She wants loose. She wants it rough. She pulls until the bed creaks and the metal sings, tits bouncing with each useless tug. Still locked. Still dripping. Still glaring at the man who put her there. The chains don’t care. They just hold.