Les Spy Games

She promised answers. Gia DiMarco has the suspect strapped naked to a metal chair under a single bulb. The ball gag forces her jaw wide; spit runs down her chin while she tries to shake her head. Clothespins bite the length of her inner thighs, each one placed close enough to tug when her muscles twitch. A riding crop cracks across her breasts again and again, the rhythm sharp and steady. Every time the girl tries to close her knees the pins shift and she whimpers through the gag. Sweat glistens on her stomach. Her nipples are already bruised and tight. Gia leans in close, one fist in the girl’s hair, and asks the question again in a low voice that never raises. The answer is still a muffled moan. Another line of fire snaps across the girl’s thigh. The clamps dance. She can’t keep still and she can’t speak. The only sound is the leather striking flesh and the slow drip of saliva onto the concrete floor.