Local Girl

Ky. Friend of a friend. Been circling the bar where the crew drinks after shoots, leaving hints thick as smoke. She tells me she wants rope and pain, so I hand her off to Sarge. He’s thick as a tree trunk, all callused hands and military posture. I like watching him fold women like origami. First thing he does is scoop her up, yank her clothes off, slap her ass red, and buckle her down. She stops moving the second the straps click; she knows she’s caught. Sarge works slow and mean. Thumbs jammed into the nerves under her jaw until her breath breaks. A sharp smack right on her cunt that snaps her hips forward and rips a yelp out of her. He threads cold chain between her legs, yanks it up to the ring in the ceiling so the links bite straight into her slit. Her eyes lose focus fast. Whatever brave little speech she practiced in the mirror is gone. All that’s left is a girl floating somewhere between hurt and hunger while the chain keeps its nasty promise. He keeps her there until her thighs shake and spit trails down her chin around the ball gag. When he finally lets her down, she can barely stand, but the look she gives me says she’ll crawl back the second I call.