How much do you love zippers?

Dylan stares straight into the lens, lips still wet, body trembling like she just stepped out of a fight she wanted to lose. We stretch her out in fuck-me position: wrists roped behind her skull, knees spread until the tendons pop, cunt hovering over a Sybian that grinds upward like it has a grudge. Clamps bite her nipples flat. The cane lands sharp on her bare soles, one sting after another, until her toes curl and her breath hisses. Then the zippers. Cold teeth line each flank, the cord knotted to a bowling ball that swings from the bit between her teeth. Every time she clenches, the ball stays put. Every time she breaks, it drops and the metal tears free in one vicious rip. She’s already coming before the first choice is even hers to make, sweat-slick, furious, beautiful, riding the machine while her jaw fights the weight that promises to wreck her. We watch the muscles in her neck shake. We count the spasms. The bit creaks. The ball waits.