The rope had done its work.
Both her knees were bound in the frog position — ankles tied to her own thighs, legs folded and held wide by nothing but the cord and the bruised, overworked muscles that had stopped arguing about posture hours ago.
Her hands were still behind her back.
The panty was still hooked over her nose — the waistband stretched across the bridge, the fabric pulling her nostrils wide, the smell of herself pressed directly against the center of her face in a way that had become its own specific, unrelenting humiliation.
She was on her stomach.
Or she had been. The position had shifted enough times tonight that her body had stopped keeping track of what counted as up.
What remained constant was his cock.
He entered her ass from the side.
