They strapped me down under the lights like I was never meant to leave.
My wrists were buckled above my head, leather biting into tender skin, arms stretched wide until my back arched naturally—forced posture. Forced exposure. My legs were kept open by a metal spreader bar bolted to the floor, knees bent, thighs trembling, dripping wet and already on display. There was no hiding. No mystery. My holes were theirs to see.
The lights were blinding, but I could feel them. The audience. Dozens of eyes burning into my naked skin, the scent of sweat and arousal thick in the air. Their moans were low, eager. Some were already stroking.
I wasn’t gagged. That wasn’t the point tonight.
Tonight, they wanted to hear me. Every gasp. Every scream. Every broken whimper when I begged.
A door creaked
