Ripping Out the Rug

Sara showed up with that thick bush between her legs. Bad move. They fold her into a strict hogtie and shove a ball gag deep in her mouth. One by one, Cyd clips wooden pins along every strand of hair. Each tiny tug burns. Then the real pain starts—slow, steady rips that tear the curls out at the root, leaving her squirming and drooling around the gag. She barely catches her breath before they bolt an iron spreader between her wrists and throat, locking her arms high and wide. A skintight rubber hood gets yanked over her head, crushing her jaw shut, cutting every sound to a muffled grunt. She’s left stretched, silent, and waiting.