The Iron Pit

She hangs there, iron eating into her skin. Damon Pierce watches her twitch like he’s deciding where to start the damage. First he locks her head in that iron mask—bit forced between her teeth, drool already sliding down the metal. Her jaw strains. He doesn’t rush. He clamps her wrists, spreads her arms, chains her ankles to the cage bars until she’s stretched and pinned like a pinned butterfly. The steel bites. She can’t turn away, can’t close her legs, can’t even swallow right. Every shift makes the metal clank, and every sound tells her she’s not going anywhere. Damon leans in, eyes cold, already turning the screws tighter. This isn’t play. This is the slow, deliberate breaking of someone who walked in thinking they could take it.