Crucified on a Car.

Mika Tan lays flat on her back across the hood of a polished German car, arms stretched overhead, ankles lashed to the grille, and another rope biting across her waist. Black hair fans out over metal. A ball gag stretches her mouth wide, and a strap across her forehead keeps her head still. She twitches when the high-pressure hose hits her thighs. Cold water slams her skin, runs under her, soaks the ropes. The beam blaster is turned down just enough not to bruise, not enough to be gentle. Her nipples stiffen against the night air. The car idles beneath her, heat soaking through steel. Every pulse of the engine sends a small vibration up her spine. She strains, hips lift, metal creaks. The hose traces lower, forces water between her legs until she arches hard against the bonds and the car hood. Her eyes roll. A thin line of spit slips past the gag. The hose stops. The silence is thick with her breathing and the slow drip from the chrome.