Avarice

Averice goes down hard, face-first on the boards, wrists and ankles cinched together so tight the rope sings. Black hair spills across her eyes, and before she can spit it out they force the ball between her teeth. Straps bite, metal clicks. Every breath is a fight. When the first stroke lands she jolts, rope creaking, back bowing so hard the floor almost rattles. The next comes lower, sharp enough to crack like a gunshot, and the gag turns her scream into a low, wet growl. Sweat beads on her spine, slides under the cords, and still the strikes keep coming—steady, mean, deliberate. She jerks, drool strings from her chin, and the rope answers every twist with another sharp bite. Nothing else moves in the room except the stick rising and falling and her body remembering every inch of it.