One moment you’re walking home, the next you’re shoved into the back of my car, hood over your head, wrists already stinging from the zip-ties. We drive for hours while you squirm, listening to my heels tap the pedals, knowing exactly what kind of motel toilet you’re about to become. Inside the grimy bathroom, the camera watches every move as my nails make you into the cracked porcelain tub, rope biting into your forearms, ankles hooked to the faucet so you can’t flinch away. Then the real stuff begins. Open, is the only word you’re allowed before my golden stream floods your mouth. You gulp, try to keep up while my steady flow coats your tongue, spills down your chin, puddles around your ears. Close-ups of my stern stare, the slow roll of my hips as each spurt hits, the cruel smirk when you sputter. When the torrent finally finishes, you’re still swallowing. Leaving you hog-tied and dripping, the camera lingers on your soaked body as I leave you there helpless and alone.

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