Rhiannon Bray

Rhiannon Bray is trouble in a tight dress. She fights like hell when the ropes go on—kicking, biting, spitting—until the knots cinch tighter and her whole body starts to listen. Once the gag forces her jaws apart, the fight drains out in one long exhale and all that’s left is the steady creak of leather and the slow flex of bound muscle. Each fresh pull of the rope drags another broken sound from her throat, and the discipline lands with a clear, measured thud that she can’t dodge or bite back. The more she’s fixed in place, the quieter the room becomes, until all that moves is the pulse jumping at the side of her neck and the single bead of spit that slips past the gag and trails down her chin.