Sabrina

Sabrina stands in front of the camera, built and quiet. Leather straps snake around her upper body, tightening across her chest and shoulders, pinning her arms behind her. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts. They add wrist cuffs, pulling her elbows close, then stretch her arms high until her toes barely touch the floor. Sweat breaks along her collarbone. Next come the irons—thick cuffs for wrists and ankles, heavy and cold. They lock her legs apart, metal kissing metal, and the weight drags at her. A thick gag fills her mouth, the strap pulling tight at the base of her skull. She breathes hard through her nose, eyes bright with a mix of fight and surrender. The camera lingers on the tremble in her thighs, the iron pulling her balance off-center, the leather biting into her skin. She twists once, testing the hold. It doesn’t give. She stares into the lens, jaw flexing around the gag, tension wired through every muscle.