Blinded by the taut cloth around your eyes, your other senses are heightened. You can hear the deep voices around you murmur and chatter excitedly. You can pick out the distinct rustle of clothing being shed, belts unbuckled, semi-soft cocks being blooded by eager hands. The taste in your mouth is odd and unfamiliar. The silicone ball gag is just uncomfortable enough between your teeth to make your jaw ache and your saliva stream down your chin, pooling in the dip above your sternum and running down your cleavage. You can feel the temperature of the air shift against your exposed breasts. Your nervous sweat picking up every rising degree as the mood in the room edges closer to the event. Heavy boots shift and stumble across the concrete, sending what feels like seismic waves up through your fishnet-clad knees, up and down your spine, and into the surgical steel hook firmly nestled inside your arse. The pulses of movement are short and sharp, but they’re enough to make your hole twitch around the slickly lubricated metal and your drooling cunt ache to be filled. The hook is tied to thick, raw rope, expertly secured around your wrists, held behind your back just enough that your shoulders burn a little from the pressure and that every attempt to alleviate the stress on your muscles presses the hook deeper inside you.

Also available as audio at girlonthenet.com/blog/author/spencerpritchard/