Dust motes swirl in the dim light of the attic, where I’m suspended in a web of black ropes, my body arched and exposed, wrists and ankles bound to the rafters above.
The rough hemp bites my skin, and the brand on my lower back throbs from last night’s lake ritual, but my p***y is already slick, dripping onto the worn wooden floor below. Elias, masked as always, stands before me, his silver mask glinting as he adjusts the ropes, tightening them until my legs spread wider, my breasts thrust forward. Behind him, a second figure—a man in a bear mask, broader and taller—watches silently, his robe open, c**k already hard.
“Night six,” Elias says, voice low and distorted, echoing in the cramped, musty space.
“Tonight, we tear you apart.” The air smells of old wood and my own arousal, thick
