Locked in wooden stocks, Bramble thinks she’s still in charge. Wrong. Fiddler tapes a stopwatch to the cross-beam: “Breathe when you’re told.” He slaps a palm over her mouth and nose. Twenty-five seconds before she squeaks. Pathetic. Lesson one: penis-gag rammed to the mouth, nose pinched between merciless fingers. She drools, bucks, eyes wide as the seconds crawl past thirty… forty… fifty. He lets her gasp once, then stuffs it back in. Again. Harder. Longer. Lesson two: pumping gag inflates until her cheeks bulge and whimper vibrates steel. Stopwatch hits sixty-one. Goal met – but he keeps pumping, because he decides when air returns. Every shudder, every string of spit hanging from her chin is a trophy. By the time the final count ticks past a minute-twenty, Bramble is a trembling, red-faced mess who knows exactly who owns each molecule she begs for.
