Zipper

Jandi’s got a hood zipped down tight, and every breath comes back hot against her face. The latex clings like it wants to own her. I pull the valve shut and the air thins; her shoulders jerk, then settle. I watch her chest rise slower, shallower. She fights it for a second, then the fear bleeds into something hotter, something wet between her legs. She starts to moan through the gag, muffled, needy. I open the valve just enough for one sharp gasp, then close it again, timing it with the strap I’ve cinched around her thighs. The ropes bite. The ball gag glistens with spit that slides down her chin and lands on her breast. I hold her there, count the seconds, let the panic bloom and die and bloom again. Her hips start to grind. She’s shaking. When I finally crack the valve she screams through the rubber and comes hard enough that the bench creaks under her. She’s shaking and laughing and crying, all at once, mascara running, latex streaked. I leave the hood on while the tremors fade, just to remind her who’s still holding the zipper.