C.J.

Twenty-year-old C.J. slams her knees against the mattress as the ropes bite in. They lace over her wrists first, yank her arms straight behind her back, then cinch her elbows until they almost kiss. More rope circles her breasts, squeezes, makes them swell. Her ankles get locked together next, pulled up, and the last strand of cord knots them to the new wrist ties. She’s folded, arched, helpless. The thick red ball-gag slides between her teeth and straps tight at the nape of her neck; drool already leaks down her chin. Blonde hair sticks to her cheeks while the leather strap across her mouth holds every sound inside. The first paddle strike cracks across her bare ass. She jerks, rope creaks, and the next blow lands before the sting fades. Each hit lands harder, the skin flushing hot under the strikes, the burn building until every nerve sings. She strains, fights, but the knots have no give. The only thing moving is the steady drip of spit from the gag and the sharp gasps she can’t swallow back.