Fog Torment: Cowgirl

She dragged him up the hill in a cart, wheels grinding over wet stone. Fog crawled in thick, cold enough to bite. They strung her at the summit, rope biting into wrists and thighs, arms wrenched high so every curve stood out against the gray. The ball gag forced her jaw open, spit dripping down her chin while the mist worked on bare skin like needles. Her nipples tightened, gooseflesh rising everywhere the fog touched, the cold slipping between her legs and turning her own breath against her. Blonde hair plastered to her cheeks. Every flex of muscle pulled the ropes tighter. She could hear the city below but saw nothing through the shroud; they had left her there on purpose, a living signpost for anyone who cared to climb. The chill sank deeper than rope or gag, settling into places rope never reached, and she shook harder with each passing minute. An early taste of the full session coming later this week.