Tied Up and Sprayed Down

Penny gets hit mid-shift. One swing from the nailgun and she’s pinned to the frame by the straps of her own coveralls, feet kicking, shoulders locked high. The canvas strains and her tits press hard against it, nipples already tight. She curses, twists, but the staples hold. Later she’s stripped, arms wrenched behind her back, wrists lashed to the crossbar. The first barrel looms, filthy water sloshing. She plants her feet, teeth bared, swearing she won’t go under. I shove. Her body drops, water swallows her face, bubbles ripping out around her. Up she comes gasping, hair plastered, mascara streaked. She spits, fights, calls me every name she knows. Second dunk. Third. Each time she thrashes harder, tits bouncing, thighs trembling, yet the rope bites deeper. She’s strong, she’s stubborn, and every failed jerk just drags another laugh out of me. She never wins, but fuck, watching her try is half the thrill.