Vanity

Vanity's bound in black straps that cut tight across her bare skin. A ball gag stretches her mouth wide open, spit already leaking down her chin. Someone's been working her over with a crop—red stripes mark her ass, thighs, the backs of her calves. Her wrists are locked behind her back, elbows pulled tight, shoulders straining. Every time she shifts, the leather creaks and the welts flare fresh. She can't speak. Can't move much either. All she can do is stand there and take it, nipples hard from the cool air, eyes wet and defiant. The gag muffles every sound that tries to escape her throat. Another strike lands. She jerks, breath hissing through her nose. More red blooms across her skin. She stays upright, muscles trembling, breathing hard around the rubber jammed between her teeth. The crop keeps coming. So does she.