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.
Love you, too
