Molly Matthews

Molly Matthews stares into the lens, eyes dark, lips parted. She stands naked, wrists already pulled behind her. Marty steps close, thick rope in his fist. He loops it around her elbows first, cinches hard. Every pull forces her chest out. The rope bites deep. She sucks air through her teeth. He moves lower, wraps her forearms, ties them off so her hands can’t meet. She tests the knots and feels them hold. Then he reaches for the gag. The red rubber ball gleams. He presses it between her teeth, straps it tight. Molly’s jaw locks open. Spit already starts to slide down her chin. He guides her onto the bench, face down. More rope lashes her ankles to her thighs. The last wrap runs from shoulders to heels, folding her tight. She can’t roll. She can’t stretch. She can only breathe through her nose and wait. Marty leaves her like that, rope digging, muscles shaking, body on full display. The camera holds on the lines that cut across her skin, the sheen of sweat, the way the gag forces every moan out wet and helpless.