Cream-colored Beaver II

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Her wrists, ankles, and neck are handcuffed to a dentist chair. She's semi-reclined - a comfy position. Before the shoot is over, sybil's wracked with pain. Even a flogging is preferable to what PD dishes out. His specialty. Restrain bondage as torment. The bit of the fresh iron head corset makes her gag over and over. It wrenches the ribs, the chest, the organs of the body. Then PD indulges in a lil' waterboarding. It's just terror. Nothing horrible. Not yet. When he vibrates her she comes like an animal, prodding her vulva upward, like she could slurp his mitt with her cunt. It's just another PD trick, those orgasms. The doorway to Hell. It's an angst machine. A assets breaker. He uses bilbos to fold her body. Nothing is soft. Nothing forgiving. And she gags repeatedly from the iron lump in her mouth. Spit runs down her chin like someone revved on a faucet. When he crops her, it's a relief. Because now it's flawless - her misery. Do you want to go back in the bilbos? he says. She sobs. When he whips her, she roars with pain. And when she comes, she roars with the same brute roar like she's busting out, erupting into some fresh creature made of nothing but devastation and want. She thanks him in her subservient sybil voice, because, she probably thinks - now it's over. But PD has other plans. A half hour on the cross, he says.