I grinned to myself, watching her stretched against the stupid restraints, head hanging, tits still catching the tremor still riding her body, twitching here, pulling there. Her breath, begging over her almost ruin.

What do you call a ruined ruin?

I think her cunt was crying. Hurt. As if something had been stolen from her. Like finding a treasure that was never yours to keep. I wanted to fuck her like that, but she hadn’t pleaded right. Yet.

I stepped forward. Pressed into her. Felt her heat pulse against me, but fought the urge to end her on my cock.

“Fuck you…” she whispered.

I dragged my fingers up her thighs—slick with sweat, with the filthy gloss of her own slick painting her skin. My thumbs traced the swell of her ass while the edges of my pinkies whispered in deeper, just enough to test her tremble.

“Could you even beg more if you still had a voice?” I murmured, feeling her tense as if my voice alone would allow her to come undone.

She screamed. Legs thrashing. Cunt spilling over with drunken stupidity.

I tracked her spine with my thumb. Just one stubborn press, counting her vertebrae until my fingers found her hair, bunched in my fist, and pulled her head back up.

“Why the sad face?” I leered. “Looks like someone took something from you?”

I shifted fast, grip still steady on her hair as I moved around her, and ducked between her stretched arms. Pressed against her as I pulled her head back. Her tits shot forward, brushing my chest, slick with salt, her drool, nipples hard enough to cut.

She gasped, half-startled, half-breathless dread.

I didn’t kiss her. Just leaned in and ran my tongue slow and firm up the length of her throat, from collarbone to chin. Felt her swallow under me. Felt her knees weaken again.

Found her eyes, but no one was home. Not really.

“I hate you…” she whispered.

I cupped her tits. Watched the struggle behind her eyes as I squeezed, felt her hips ride air as I pinched, her mouth seeking mine when I ghosted her lips.

She didn’t know whether to pull away against the cords or fall into me. I cared not. Just watched the single drop of sweat that rolled down her cheek. Or maybe it was a tear.

I licked that too.

I didn’t let go of her tits so much as drag them upward—hauled them along her sweat-slick chest, forcing her body to follow as I reached for her arms. She muttered something as they dropped free, slapped together, still twitching, refusing to settle.

The heat had thickened, as if the morning outside had given in to the scorch. As if the desert had found its way past stucco and sealant. Every wall gave away that faint ache of stone too long in the sun, the taste of dust, bitter as dried sweat.

I looked at her, wondered if this was how the creosote bush found itself at the dawn of a new day. Starved. Famished not from drought alone, but a diet of grit and stone. And still, just like her, held upright by need itself.

I grabbed her wrists. Stretched her high enough for the cord to slip free from the hook.

Then let go.

Let her decide whether to fall on her ass or into me.

Of course, she fell into me. There was nothing else left to keep her upright. The ties dragged her arms tight around my shoulders as her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes flickered wide—panic, need, recognition—before her breath broke hot against my mouth. Her face ground into mine as she sagged, her whole body sinking until her weight carried her straight onto my cock.

I brushed her hair from her face. Let her inhale me as I wrapped it into a fistful of control, the kind that decided just how far she'd take me.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her breath breaking hot against the base of my cock, lips parting even as she tried to pull back.

“Don’t what?” I murmured, tightening the pull. “Fuck your mouth?”

There was a flicker behind her eyes. The struggle of keeping the lights on as the fuse short-circuits. Her breath hitched again, hotter this time, the kind that trembled through her lips before she even knew she’d opened them. She tried to pull back, or pretended to, but the movement only tightened the line of her throat against my grip. Another breath, sharper, dragged the tip across her mouth; she froze, and I watched the lights switch off, gone, like her “don’t.”

Her lips quivered around the heat of me, not closing, not retreating, just hanging there in that pathetic hover no one could mistake for anything but surrender.

I tugged her hair again. Harder. Her gasp broke against my cock, a wet, startled choke that shook through her jaw. Her tongue flickered out—not intention, just instinct—and the brush of it gutted her last attempt at flicking the switch back on. Her knees slid closer. Her breath stuttered. Her mouth opened wider, a slow, involuntary bloom that made her eyes flare like she’d betrayed herself.

“You’re foul,” she breathed, but her lips were already closing around the head.

The first inch forced a raw, helpless sound out of her—a choked, bubbling little moan that trembled against the underside of me. She tried to swallow it, but I didn’t let her; I pulled tighter, tilted her head back, aligned every helpless line of her throat with my cock until the next breath dragged her down another inch. Her hands, trapped behind my legs, only clawed to keep her upright.

A gag. Wet. Sharp. Beautiful.

The tight column of her neck fluttered around the intrusion, trying to refuse it, trying to take it, caught somewhere between terror and need. Each pulse swallowed a little more of me, her breath breaking against my skin in hot, ragged bursts she couldn’t hide. She blinked hard—lashes clumping, eyes wet, glossy—not from emotion, but from the body’s feral scramble to keep up with what she was taking.

I didn’t give her time to choose.

One steady pull. One low grunt. Her throat opened around me.

Her lips sealed tight at the base, her breath vanished in a panicked, shuddering swallow, and her eyes—wide, glistening, feral—dragged up to meet mine again, cock lodged deep in the heat where air now only existed as memory.

Her hands clawed at my thighs—desperate, blind—whether for breath or more, even she didn’t know.

“Blink once,” I said, voice low, “if you want to stay right there.”

I tugged her down harder, her face pressed so close her features blurred against my skin.

“Twice if you want me to fuck you.”

She stared, eyes flickering beneath the wet shine—rolling back, then fighting forward, trying to meet mine even as that tight passage clenched. Tears streaked from the stretch, heat flushing her cheeks. Her gasps for air only sucked me deeper, tighter.

She blinked. Once. Slow.

The second came like the last bit of her surrendering to what had been inevitable since she stepped into the gym. Her hands gave up their grip, falling slack behind me, her hips sinking as if she tried to grind the floor, or outright fuck the tile itself.

But I waited until even her throat went slack and open for me.

She gasped when I pulled out, drool spilling down her chin, snot and despair replacing anything that resembled thought. Only the need to have me back in her. She blinked twice. Didn’t even brace. Just let me slide into her face-cunt again—wet, needy, wanting.

I pulled her halfway down, watched her neck stretch wide, watched her eyes bulge, not in panic, but in hunger. Then I stopped. Held her there, trembling, drooling, lips spread around the width of me, with nowhere to go. She tried to sink further, tried to fuck me with her throat, but my fist in her hair kept her exactly where I wanted her. Open, starving, undone.

A choked cry escaped her, her hands trying to pull me into her. And only then did I fuck her.

I tightened my grip and dragged her down to the base, burying myself in the slack heat of her throat. Her whole body jolted, a wet choke breaking around me as her arms pulled at the ties, desperate to take more of me. All of me.

I gave her quick, shallow thrusts that made her gag on every second pull. Her eyes flicked upward, unfocused, drowning in tears that slipped over her cheeks as she choked herself open for each drive of my hips. She sounded like a cunt.

And she almost had me. High on her need, high on how easy it had been to get her into this state. Worst of all, she felt me tense. Felt my loss of breath control. Felt how fucking her made me lose focus.

So I stalled myself. Midway through a downward thrust, before releasing her.

I stepped back, stumbled through the loop that was her arms, almost lost balance. That was enough to give her a flicker of control behind her eyes.

Feral. Monstrous. Angry. Crawling toward me like a three-legged mountain lioness, the way a predator should drag itself forward when hunger outlives dignity.

No. That gave her too much grace. This wasn’t a queen of the desert. This was something uglier, scavenger-born. A fucking coati. The kind of creature that survives because it refuses to die, all awkward limbs and starving insistence.

More hissing than growling.

“Fuck me, you bastard.”

I think, given a chance, she’d eat me alive. Something so raw it needed to be tied down and put in place.

You don’t catch a coati with gentleness. You grab her by the skin of her neck and force her down and onto her back. Then you pray the ties hold.

Even behind the automatic sunscreen, her living room baked in the lunch-hour stare of the sun. The smell of burnt-out drywall and baked tile, even as the vents tried to spit recycled cold into the room. Always the same smell in the desert, where man tried to invade nature with unnatural housing. Dwellings that were supposed to bring us away from the elements.

I didn’t give her a moment to steady herself. I yanked the cord between her wrists, dragging her across the tile, helped by sweat, her own fucking slick and piss, until I had her almost crashing into the table’s leg. Solid wood, square-edged. Heavy as a workbench—four thick legs. No frills. Something that’d stay in place when the desert monsoon rattles the windows.

She gasped, folded over, and that gave me exactly what I needed. I caught her under the ribs with one hand, pulled up hard, and used the bindings like a handle to haul her the rest of the way.

She came up awkwardly, half lifted, half dragged, feet leaving the floor as I rolled her onto the tabletop. Her back hit the wood in a flat, helpless sprawl. She tried to curl sideways, to get her knees under her, but there was too much leg and far too little control left in her body. I shoved them up and in, forcing her fully onto the surface. Spine flat, thighs open, spread beneath me.

“Why all those hours on the hip abductor? When all your legs are able to do is fall apart so easily?” I grinned.

Her answer was only a snarl, lip curled, teeth bared. She didn’t even bother trying to speak; she just hissed.

I dragged her arms over her head, stretching them long across the table until her ribs lifted with the pull. Then I shoved her wrists past the far edge, pinning the bindings against the underside lip with one hand and my weight. She tried to yank them back, but all she managed was to arch herself higher on the table, body tightening in one long trembling line from ankles to throat.

Almost as I wanted her.

I rolled off her and found footing on the tile. Dragged my fingers down the inside of her right thigh, behind her knee, down her calf. I stole her shoe. Soaked. Tore the remnants of her trainers, looped them around the soft hollow of her heels. She lay silent now, stretched and arched, and when her eyes said yes, I pulled and stretched her wide, tied her tight to the leg of the table.

I worked slowly, finding her other foot. She twitched a little, but nothing resembling a kick. I watched the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes flickering before fixing on the ceiling fan, the silent moan that escaped her when I pulled her leg a little too hard, a little too tight.

I made sure her wrists were secured. Locked. Made sure her hair was spread properly, a burgundy fan of sweat and sin. Found her jaw with my fingers, tilted her head slightly, and bent down, only the heat of my breath touching her.

“That’s it,” I whispered. Low. Hungry. “Good girl.”

Her whole body answered for her. A slow, helpless exhale. A loosening in the line of her throat. The faint tremor across her ribs. I waited—just long enough to watch the praise sink into her.

“Ohhhf...uckme…”

I undressed. Slowly, still only watching the rise and fall of the beautiful arc that was all of her. I folded everything neatly, pulled out one of the dining room chairs, and set it down.

I walked to the window, found the remote, and opened the screens. Let the sun flood the room. Let it bake her.

Her backyard was the desert itself, and now, it threatened to consume us both. The squat mesquite seemed to inch closer; the gravel seemed to move in ripples. Nothing waves or cascades in the desert. If you stay long enough, the wideness of light and exposure will claim you, make you its own until your bones are the dust that seeps into houses.

I turned to watch her roast, but she was gorgeous. Open, defeated, waiting for her reward. Her legs stretched in two long, helpless lines across the table, knees fallen wide, the ties pulling her heels back just enough to keep her parted, trembling, and unable to close herself again.

Even her cunt had resigned. Open and drooling of its own accord, as if she’d imagined herself fucked too close to release too many times.

Her breath had steadied, deep and from her gut, making her chest rise and fall, her tits rolling like dunes.

I climbed between her legs, resisted the temptation to fuck her open with my fingers. She didn’t need it, and she might even come undone too soon.

I did lick the dip at her hips, though. Salt that now clung like stubborn residue. First her right, then her left side. Listened for when her breath hitched, and when it didn’t. I knew it was a mistake, but I had to taste her, just one greedy lick before locking my lips around her clit. Teeth. Then pure suction.

She tensed against her restraints, every muscle in her body twitching, tensing, and not letting up. A sharp inhale. Held. Too long.

Her pulse woke me. Pounding into my mouth like jolts of fuck, when I still wanted her to stay famished. Just a little longer.

I think she sobbed when I released her, but I was too consumed by my own pulse to pay attention. I more drooled than licked the shape of her stomach, but managed to refuse to suck her tits dry. Licked the salt beneath them, before pressing myself flat against her. My pulse, beating against hers. Her breath against mine.

I’d intended to lick her armpits, drag my tongue slow and greedy, before I kissed her, sucked her mouth into mine, but when her eyes left the fan, when she told me to carve her open and fuck her, I was at the end of restraint.

Her lips stole mine, and I felt myself sink into her, slow, smooth, every vein in her walls pounding into my throb.

It wasn’t even a moan, just vowels wrapped in heat. And they weren’t even hers, but mine.

She?

She was all there.

“Yeah,” she breathed into me. “Fill me. Stretch me.”

She swallowed me. All of me. Coated me in her drench. Drowned me in her lust. A desert monsoon after drought and famine.

“Now. Fuck me over the edge of everything.”

I’d detail everything that happened if I could remember anything aside from sensation. The heat of her against the need of me. If I stayed in that kiss or if I got lost in her eyes. Whether she came at once, later, or even at all.

How her body tensed under me, arched into me. If she screamed, whispered, or both at once. I only know my body kept driving, kept collapsing into hers. Chasing something I couldn’t shape with thought anymore.

The table shook under us, wood groaning like it wanted to split.

She had nothing to hold on to, no leverage, no mercy, stretched open from the tips of her fingers to the curl of her toes. Every thrust dragged her body tight against the wood, her shoulders braced only by the strain of the ties.

Heat was everywhere. Not pressing in from the desert outside, but pushing back against it. From between us. Under us. Inside every breath. The sound of humanity claiming the space the desert tried to reclaim. The wet slap of skin on skin, her slick refusing friction and only allowing pulse and claim. Her cunt ate me. Drooled with appetite and greed.

The low, broken noise that kept spilling out of her, even when she tried to swallow it back.  The way her legs tensed and tried to trap me despite the impossibility of her ties. Not in control, but in surrender, shaking with every push because she had no other way to meet me.

Every drive into her hit deeper, lower, someplace she couldn’t guard. I felt her start to come apart beneath me, her whole body bowing off the table, spine lifting, throat open on a sound she couldn’t form.

And I followed. Helpless. Starving. Finally, taking the collapse she’d demanded the moment she told me to fuck her over the edge of everything.

I remember blackness—no, not even blackness. A kind of collapsing inward, where the heat, sand, desert, and skin caved inside me. My spine didn’t bend; it liquefied. Ran out of me in hot, melting threads. I felt myself unspool. Felt the structure of who I am lose its name.

There was screaming.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I don’t know whose.

There was no climax. No finish. Just that moment where everything inside me tore loose at once and left me staring at nothing, inside nothing, becoming nothing.

I remember thinking—

“Emptied.”

Something that happened.

A state. A condition. A label slapped onto the inside of my skull because language needed somewhere to land before it dissolved too.

Emptied.

Drained. Consumed. Hollowed in a way that felt like truth instead of loss.

Breath came back in stutters—raw, broken, like air wasn’t sure it belonged to me anymore. My vision returned in pieces. My pulse in shards. My body, in scattered, twitching reminders of itself.

And through all of it—through the collapse, through the aftermath, through the unraveling—I felt her. Still there.

Still gripping.

Still pulsing around me like the only thing in the world that remembered what I was supposed to be.

I remember the guilt that always returns when I untie her. The need to tell her, again and again, how much I love her.

How my ring carries the line she offered when she refused to let me fall. “You’re too special to go ‘splat’.”

Her refusal to soften any of it. Or her need to be seen. Fully. Her sardonic answer to my needless care.

“I’m hitting the gym again tomorrow, love.”

Not even a snarl or curl in her lips.

“Fuck me in the garage then.”