Mya Mason

Mya Mason weighs barely ninety-five pounds. I strap a mercury switch between her cheeks and tell her to keep that leg high. One slip and the circuit closes right against her tight hole. She balances on one foot like a dancer with bad intentions. I run the current through an old speaker so every jolt spits out a burst of static and she belts out a scream that rattles the room. Her thigh trembles. The speaker crackles. She holds the pose, sweat sliding down her calf, while the threat hangs between her legs like a live wire waiting for one wrong move.