The Interrogation
Spooky serial killer hood. Wrists and neck locked to a post, the stretch in her arms just a little long. All of her weight rests upon her ass and thighs, settling onto a bed of spikes. What predominates is her heavy breathing. He reminds her that today it's about suffering, not sex. And he cinches a belt snug about her waist. More than tight extreme. Because, he tells her, pressure around the torso has the same affect as around the neck. She goes glassy-eyed. He slaps her cheeks. Not much response. He relents. She's ordered to undress. It's difficult. She's still half-gone. A triangle of sweat wets her T-shirt between her neck and breasts. When he rubs her clit, she's soppy with want. Whether he gives her pain or pleasure, the lines in her face look like disaster. He tells her to get herself off. Her fingers flick and circle her pussy. She comes, but never once does she smile. With wrists and ankles locked in double stocks, she could be dismembered, no hands or feet. The bed of spikes braised the skin of her ass. Angry red welts. He flogs it her ass. He fucks her mouth-hole with a handheld cock. Her legs shake. She's fucked in her cunt. He torments her pussy with a vibrator. Her clit goes pointy and stiff. And after she comes, she's soaked at the cunt like some crazy slut trapped in a dense cloud of misery, giving anything for a single moment of release.