The shower stall’s cold tiles glare at me, their stark white surface locking my reflection in this claustrophobic hell. My blue hair’s plastered to my sweaty forehead, a messy frame for my pounding heart. I’m Zoe, and I’m trapped, alone, the locker room’s silence choking me. Fury burns through me, confusion twisting my gut. How the fuck did I end up like this?
My wrists and neck scream, pinned in a heavy wooden stock bolted to the wall. The rough wood bites my skin, splinters stabbing as I yank and twist, desperate to break free. My shoulders burn, shoved back, my chin forced up like I’m on display. The wall’s grip is unyielding, holding me rigid in this dry, sterile stall. I can’t move, can’t escape, my body stretched and exposed.
These ballet boots are torture, laced tight, forcing my feet into a cruel point. My toes throb, calves cramping as I try to balance, pain shooting through my legs with every twitch. The leather creaks, mocking me, my ankles trembling under the strain. I shift, trying to ease the agony, but the stock keeps me pinned, every step a fresh hell.
The chastity belt’s a cruel bastard. Its metal strap clamps my pelvis, so tight it cuts into my hips, the padlocks’ weight dragging with every useless squirm. The thin cable up my ass is worse, unremovable, invasive, its slight flex making me clench and shudder. Every move sends a jolt through me, shame mixing with a hot, unwanted pulse that makes my skin burn. I want to rip it off, to scream, but the locks hold tight, and my voice would just echo back.
The metal bra’s a fucking vice. It crushes my tits, cold plates digging in so hard they hurt. My nipples scrape against the tight, unyielding surface, raw and hypersensitive, every breath a stab of pain and something else, something I hate admitting. My tits hurt, aching with every heave, trapped in this metal cage that makes me feel every inch of my confinement. I’m covered, untouchable, but my body’s screaming, exposed in all the wrong ways.
I thrash against the stock, wood scraping my wrists raw. I twist my hips, the belt’s strap biting deeper, the cable sparking a humiliating rush. I push forward, pulling against the wall’s bolts, muscles shaking, but nothing gives. My boots slip on the tiles, pain lancing through my feet as I try to kick free. The bra squeezes tighter, my tits throbbing, my breath ragged. I arch my back, straining to find any slack, but the stock and wall laugh at me, unbudging. Sweat drips, mixing with the cold metal, making every sensation sharper: the cable’s violation, the bra’s cruel grip, the boots’ agony.
I’m Zoe, and I’m not giving up. I yank again, harder, the wood cutting into my neck, my calves screaming in the boots. The belt’s pressure, the cable’s intrusion, they’re all I can feel, my body betraying me with a heat I don’t want. I try to bend, to shift my weight, but the stock holds me upright, my tits aching, the cable relentless. My mind claws at a memory: her, that bitch from spin class, all fake smiles. “Zoe, I lost my key, can you check?” she said. I followed, dumbass that I was, then felt a sting at my neck. Darkness. Now this. Betrayal burns, but who is she? Why me?
I’m panting, fury and pain tangled with that damn heat. I want out, need to break free, but every struggle just makes me feel it more: the belt, the bra, the boots, all locking me in this fucked-up dance. A sudden hiss snaps my head up. The showerhead sputters, and a sweet, heavy mist fills the stall. Gas, not water. My eyes widen, heart slamming against the bra, my tits hurting with every beat. I thrash harder, yanking at the stock, twisting my hips. The cable bites, the boots scream pain up my legs. No fucking way I’m going down like this.
The mist curls around me, cloying, seeping into my lungs. I hold my breath, muscles burning as I pull one last time, the wood scraping, the wall unmoved. My head’s fuzzy, the bra’s cold grip sharper, my tits throbbing, the boots heavier. My body sags, the stock holding me up as my strength fades. The belt, the cable, the bra, they cling to me, my last anchors as the world blurs. I’m Zoe, and I want to curse, to fight, but my eyelids droop, the locks’ weight dragging me down. The gas wins, and darkness takes me, the shower’s hiss fading to nothing.
