Wild Bill and Janay

Wild Bill walked in thinking he could call the shots. One look at Janay—athletic, coiled muscle under soft blonde strands—and the game flipped. She had him stripped, blindfolded, wrists cinched behind his back before he got a word out. Every time he tried to move, she corrected him. A slap, a yank, a low laugh. When the gag hit his mouth—thick, black, unforgiving—his protests turned to wet noise. She didn’t rush. She worked slow, methodical, taking his body apart one breath at a time. He came to regret every ounce of fight he’d brought with him. By the time she was done, the ache lived in his bones. He stayed on his knees, quiet, used, the blindfold still damp from the strain.