Dukka

The little room bakes. Lamps throw steady heat, sweat trickles down my forehead, and the collar sits heavy on the table, waiting. She walks in late, blows her nose, and we trade quick limits. She sniffles, says it’s just a cold. She changes while trading jokes with the crew. One of them mentions blowjobs; she laughs and admits she hates watching her own scenes. I set the gear. Heavy collar. Chain. Manacles clamped to a short steel bar that will fold her knees to her chest. Ball gag that’ll fill her mouth until spit runs. Gritty silver tape to bind her fingertips. Big mirror angled so she can’t look away. She strips and I lock the collar on first. Chain snaps to a ring at her throat, yanking her forward until her lips meet the fat silicone head waiting on the bench. She gags, drools, eyes watering. I slide the bar into place, pin her wrists behind her knees, lock everything tight. Tape rasps over her fingertips—rough, punishing. She can’t wipe the snot without feeling it. Mirror holds her stare. I push the dildo between her teeth, then pull it out and drive it into her cunt, then back to her mouth. She’s shaking, nose running, spit shiny on her chin. The vibe touches her clit. Her whole body jerks against the steel, but the cuffs hold. I let her come once, hard, then yank the toy away before the second wave can build.