Stake Out: Paige Richards

Stake Out: Paige Richards. Paige Richards. 2002. She sits in the car, wrists cinched to the wheel, ball gag forced between her teeth. A streetlight cuts across the dark, the only eye they have on the night. A gloved hand reaches in, forces her head back, tightens the strap behind her skull until her jaw strains and drool slides over the gag. Every breath she takes is a wet, useless sound. Then the belt comes off. Leather snaps, kisses her bare thigh, leaves a stripe that burns white then fades red. She jerks. The cuffs bite deeper. Another stroke lands low across her ass, the car seat creaking under the shift of her hips. Paige takes each lick, eyes hot, mascara smearing. She tries to swallow, but the gag keeps her open, keeps the noise inside. When the strokes come faster, her thighs tremble and the steering wheel rattles in her grip. Sweat slips between her breasts. The window fogs. A final crack lands across both cheeks, and she arches, muscles locked, a sound caught behind rubber and leather. The hand drops the belt, grips her hair, turns her face to the light, checking what the night has done to her.