Kassy

Kassy didn’t come to play. She walked in carrying the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. Two years she’d watched, two years she’d asked. The answer was always the same: prove it. So she did. Hands locked behind her back, dark hair pulled tight, ball gag wedged between her teeth. They clamped clothespins to the soft parts that begged for it, every pinch a sharp promise. Rope laced tight enough to mark, but not enough to let her drift away. She took the strain, breathed through it, jaw working against the rubber until drool slid down her chin. She never begged to stop. She just held the line and waited for the next pin, the next pull, the next hard twist. The question now isn’t whether she could take it. It’s who’s got the guts to follow her.