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Foxy’s back and the ropes are already biting. They’ve got her trussed up tight, arms yanked behind her, knees spread wide on a cold slab. A fat black ball gag stretches her jaw open, shiny with spit that keeps sliding down her chin. A single hanging bulb throws hard shadows across her bare tits and the red welts already rising on her thighs. Someone drags an ice cube down the center of her chest, slow, cruel, until her nipples snap hard. Then comes the candle. Hot wax lands in fat drops that make her jerk against the ropes and gag out a muffled scream. More wax follows, deliberate, painting her stomach and the tops of her breasts. Every time she flinches, the ice is right there to chase it, sliding lower, circling closer to where she’s wet and helpless. The gag keeps every filthy sound trapped in her throat. She strains, muscles twitching, but there’s nowhere to go. Just rope, wax, ice, and the steady drip of pain that keeps her shaking.