The jute rope sank into my wrists like it was starving, fibers tightening over the raw skin I'd already split open from twisting too hard last time.
I hung from a frame bolted to the garage ceiling. My toes barely touched the oil-stained floor. My ankles were cuffed to a spreader bar, forced so wide my hips burned.
The blindfold was his old Navy T-shirt, soaked with my sweat and the faint salt of tears I hadn't let fall yet.
Every breath dragged in the stink of motor oil, leather, and my own cunt. Bald. Swollen. Dripping down my inner thighs in thick, sticky ropes that cooled too fast in the draft from the cracked door.
The garage door rattled. Wind or the neighbor's mutt sniffing around again. Bark-bark-f**k-off-bark. Mrs. Sanchez's yappy little s**t, probably smelling the s*x pouri
