Lyssa

Lyssa craves rope like oxygen. The moment the first strand crosses her wrists, her breath shortens. A man works behind her, pulling each knot tight until the hemp digs deep and red into her skin. She stays quiet until the gag arrives. Hard rubber fills her mouth and a leather strap snaps behind her skull. The buckle clicks once, twice. She pushes her tongue against the ball and feels it hold firm. Saliva already pools. He tips her forward, face to the floor, and yanks her elbows back until the joints pop in protest. Fresh rope lashes them together, higher, tighter. Her shoulders burn. When he finally lifts her upright again, the tension pulls her spine into an arch that leaves nothing hidden. Every breath now comes shallow around the gag. He walks a slow circle, looking, measuring. His belt hisses free from its loops. The first stroke lands across her ass, sharp, immediate. Lyssa jerks but the ropes hold. She breathes through her nose, eyes wet. Another stripe follows, then another, each one landing where the last heat still lives. She pushes back for more, ropes creaking, gag shining, skin turning dark and mottled. Her body is bound, bruised, and begging without a single word spoken.