Jennifer never listens.
Not to warnings. Not to rules. Not even to the quiet voice inside that whispers: "Stop. Before it's too late."

Every scenario becomes a dare. Every restraint, a challenge. And every time she chooses the slops.

I'm editing footage from my latest session--shot in a garage that still reeks of lard, licorice, and low tide. Off-camera, my kidnapper watches, silent, smiling, already mixing the next batch.

There was only one rule:
"Stay bound or suffer."

A microswitch sat between my bound palms--cold, unblinking, wired to the machine's heart.
Release it, and the gunk chutes open.
A hundred litres of filth erupt.
Obliteration isn't possible.
It's guaranteed.

No prizes for guessing which path I chose.

(Spoiler: I wasn't the obedient one. )

Not enough predicament bondage wam around. Great job!