Shocked In The Mud

They told me Dylan was new. Fresh. Tonight she learned what the mud does to skin when you’re already slick and shaking. I got her wrists first—rope biting in, elbows yanked tight. Then I shoved her face-first into the filth. She squealed once before the ball gag cut it off. Blonde hair dragged like a filthy mop through the wet earth. She tried to squirm, but I had other plans. I kicked her legs apart, dragged her onto all fours like livestock, and drove into her ass while the cattle prod hummed beside us. Every thrust pushed her deeper into the muck. When she clenched too hard I zapped the soft skin just above her ass—quick, mean, electric. She jerked like she’d been branded, but the gag kept her from forming words. I worked her clit with two fingers until her thighs trembled and she came hard, hips bucking against the rope. The second she stopped shaking I laid the prod against her nipple. Another scream, another shock. Her body bucked, helpless, used. Mud streaked her tits, her face, her open mouth around the gag. When I’d had enough I rolled her onto her belly, pulled her ankles to her wrists, and cinched the hogtie cruel and tight. Face-down in the dirt, ass up, drooling around rubber. The cattle prod rested against her spine like a promise. She didn’t fight it anymore. She just breathed—short, ragged, grateful.