Seven

Marty grabs Seven and gets to work. She is in the air before she can speak. Ropes bite into her wrists and pull her arms high. Ankles spread. The winch takes the slack. Seven hangs, body taut. Marty pulls the gag through her teeth and buckles it behind her head. Leather packs her mouth. She drools around the bit. He steps back, checks the lines, then moves in again. A crop in his fist. He strikes. Once across the back of her thighs. Twice. Harder each time. Seven jerks. Rope creaks. Marty watches her skin bloom red. He circles, reads the sway of her body, then lays another stroke. He keeps the rhythm tight. Sweat glints on her stomach. She strains. He swings again. The crop snaps. Seven twists but the ropes hold her where he wants her. Marty pauses, then lands one more, low and mean. She hangs limp in the air, breath ragged, gag slick with spit. He sets the crop down, steps close, checks the knots again, makes sure nothing slips. Seven stares at him through wet lashes. Marty gives the ropes a final tug. She is still there, suspended, marked, silent except for the leather that fills her mouth.