They’ve turned the strength cage into a torture rack.
Thick nylon lifting straps have been looped over the highest pull-up bar and knotted into suspension cuffs.
Two more straps hang from the squat-rack crossbeam like stirrups.
The entire setup sits dead center under the locker room, lit by one brutal overhead floodlight.
I walk in at 9:14 p.m. already naked, thighs slick, n*****s raw from six nights of abuse.
My cunt is swollen shut from the whirlpool, but it still pulses at the sight of what they’ve built.
Jace doesn’t speak.
He just points upward.
Marcus and Riley lift me like I weigh nothing.
Suspension cuffs snap around my wrists.
The straps hoist me until I’m dangling, toes barely brushing the ground, arms crucified high and wide.
Stirrups lock around my ankles and yank my
