«Description...
Vonka Romanov walked along a remote rural path, the sun beating down hard on her skin. She was a woman of curvilinear and voluptuous build, with long hair dyed platinum blonde at the roots and bright blue at the tips—the colors of ice and electricity tangled together. Visible tattoos decorated her arms and legs, dark ink winding around her biceps and calves like stories written on her flesh. A small piercing glinted on her nose.

She wore a tight purple tube top that clung to her large breasts, the fabric stretching across them with each labored step, and a shorts that swayed around her thick thighs. Her walk was tired but determined, her heels clicking on the asphalt. She was clearly lost. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and trickled down her chest, disappearing into the valley between her breasts.

A car pulled up behind her. The driver, Jasmine St. James, rolled down the window. Jasmine was an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that stretched the skin at her temples. She wore thick-framed glasses that magnified her eyes, making them appear larger and more vulnerable than she probably intended. Her white blouse was fitted, the fabric straining slightly across her chest, and her black secretary-style skirt hugged her hips. Her expression was kind and professional—the face of someone who helps strangers without a second thought.

Vonka thanked her for stopping and asked if she could take her to a phone. Jasmine, smiling, offered the use of one at her house, which was nearby.

Once inside the house, Jasmine handed Vonka a glass of iced tea. Condensation ran down the glass, wetting Vonka's fingers as she took it. The cold was a shock against her sun-warmed skin. Jasmine also gave her a cell phone, then asked for a favor in return: to fill out a questionnaire about phobias on her iPad. She said she was a researcher in the field. Vonka agreed without hesitation, sipping the sweet tea as her thumbs moved across the screen.

When she finished, she noticed that Jasmine had also filled one out, but Jasmine snatched it quickly from her hands, the paper crinkling as she folded it and tucked it into her pocket.

Soon after, Vonka began to feel dizzy. The room tilted. The ice cubes in her glass clinked against each other as her grip loosened. The world spun once, twice, and then went dark.

When she woke, she was on the floor. The wood was cold against her cheek.

She was tightly hogtied. Her arms were bound behind her back with thick black ropes that bit into her skin, her wrists pressed together and her elbows touching. The ropes circled her forearms, leaving red marks already forming. Her legs were bent back, her ankles tied to her thighs, forcing her body into a deep arch that pulled at her lower back. The position made her hips lift off the ground, her torso pressing down, her bound arms trapped between her bent legs. Each breath pushed her stomach against the floorboards.

Jasmine had tied a black cloth over her mouth, knotting it tightly at the back of her head. The fabric was thick and slightly damp—maybe from being washed, maybe from something else. A knot sat directly over her lips, pressing the cloth deeper into her mouth, silencing her more effectively than a simple gag. Vonka's muffled groans came out as "mmmph, mmmph," her face red with indignation, the flush spreading from her cheeks down her neck.

Jasmine, now speaking in a clinical tone, explained that she would use Vonka as a test subject to study reactions to phobias. She said it was lucky that Vonka had arachnophobia, because she had spiders in the house.

Vonka tried to protest through the gag. Her words were unintelligible—just angry, wet sounds that spattered against the cloth. She interrupted Jasmine again and again, her body writhing on the floor.

Frustrated, Jasmine took out a cloth with chloroform and pressed it firmly over Vonka's nose and mouth. The smell was sharp, chemical, sweet in a way that made her stomach turn. Vonka's vision tunneled. The last thing she saw was Jasmine's magnified eyes watching her through the thick glasses.

Then nothing.

They moved her to the basement.

Vonka woke again, this time stretched out on a bed. Her wrists were tied to the headboard bars, her ankles to the footboard bars, her body pulled into a taut X shape. The mattress was thin beneath her, the springs pressing into her back. Her arms were raised above her head, pulling at her shoulders, making her breasts push upward against the purple tube top. Her legs were spread just enough to feel the cool air between her thighs.

A new gag had been placed. A cloth was stuffed deep into her mouth—so deep that her tongue was pinned down, the fabric pressing against the back of her throat, making her want to gag. Over her lips, strips of silver duct tape were wrapped tightly, three layers thick, stretching from below her nose to her chin. The tape pulled at the skin of her cheeks, flattening her lips against her teeth. When she tried to move her jaw, the tape held firm, and only a high-pitched whine escaped through her nose.

The tape was warm now, heated by her skin, the adhesive growing stickier. She could feel the edges of the tape against her nostrils when she breathed in. The cloth in her mouth absorbed her saliva, swelling slightly, becoming heavier on her tongue. Her jaw ached from being held open. The position stretched her arms so that every few minutes a cramp would start in her biceps or her shoulders, and she would have to shift, which only made the cuffs rattle against the metal bars.

The basement was cool, almost cold, and she could feel the air on every exposed inch of her skin—her arms, her legs, the strip of her stomach between the tube top and the skirt. Her tube top had ridden up during the transfer, exposing the lower curve of her breasts.

She could not see the spiders. But she knew they were there. Somewhere in the shadows of the basement, in the corners of the ceiling, under the shelves. Her skin crawled at the thought. Every tickle of air on her legs felt like legs. Every shadow in her peripheral vision made her heart lurch.

Jasmine stood nearby, observing. Taking notes. The scratch of pen on paper was the only sound besides Vonka's muffled, terrified breathing.

But Jasmine left her alone.

The basement door closed. The lock clicked.

Vonka waited. She listened to the silence. Then she began to work at her bonds.

It took time. It took pain. It took the skin off her wrists. But she had been tied before—not like this, not by a woman with glasses and a clipboard, but she knew how ropes worked, where the weak points were. She twisted. She pulled. She bit at the tape with her teeth until her lips bled. And finally, the ropes gave.

She was free.

Her body ached as she stood. Her wrists were raw, striped with red. Her jaw throbbed. But she was free.

She moved through a córner od the room silently. Jasmine returned. Her ponytail swung as she hummed. Vonka stepped forward, wrapped an arm around Jasmine's neck, and applied pressure until the woman's eyes rolled back and her knees buckled.

Jasmine slumped to the floor.

When Jasmine woke, she was completely at Vonka's mercy.

She was no longer wearing her clothes.

Vonka had removed everything slowly—almost tenderly, like unwrapping a gift she had waited for. First the glasses, folded and set aside. Then the ponytail, the hair elastic slipping free so that Jasmine's dark hair fell in waves around her face. The white blouse, unbuttoned one button at a time, the fabric parting to reveal the swell of her breasts. The black secretary skirt, unzipped at the back, sliding down her hips and thighs and puddling at her feet. The heels, slipped off one by one.

Jasmine now wore only a delicate black lingerie set.

The bralette was a halter style, the black fabric sheer and slightly stretchy, clinging to her breasts like a second skin. It was opaque; through it, the darker circles of her nipples were visible, pressing against the thin material. The neckline dipped low between her breasts, showing the shadow of her cleavage. The straps went up over her shoulders and tied behind her neck, a small black bow resting at the nape.

The bikini bottoms were matching black—a true bikini, but cut high on the hips and low on the back. The front was a triangle of the same sheer fabric, just wide enough to cover her mound, the dark shadow of her pubic hair visible through the material. The sides were thin elastic straps that sat on her hip bones, emphasizing the curve of her waist. The back was cut high, the fabric curving up to cover just the upper half of her buttocks, leaving the lower swell of each cheek exposed. The fabric hugged her body perfectly, sinking into the crease between her cheeks, making her rear look rounder, fuller, more provocative. It was the kind of bikini that was only for being seen in.

And over the bikini bottoms, Jasmine wore a sensual, transparent garter belt. It sat low on her hips, a band of delicate black lace and elastic that was mostly see-through, the skin of her stomach and hips visible through the pattern. From the garter belt, four thin black straps—two in the front, two in the back—descended to clasp her sheer stockings. The stockings were transparent, so thin that they were almost invisible against her legs, just a slight sheen that caught the light and made her skin look smoother, more polished. The clasps were small silver metal pieces that pinched the top of each stocking, dimpling the flesh of her thighs just below the garter line.

The whole ensemble was a study in contrasts: the sheer black fabric against her bronzed skin, the delicate lace against the firmness of her body, the functional straps of the garter belt against the soft curves of her hips and thighs. She looked expensive and vulnerable at the same time—like something unwrapped and displayed.

Vonka, now wearing Jasmine's white lab coat and her thick glasses, stepped into the role of scientist. She tied Jasmine standing up.

Jasmine's arms were raised above her head, her wrists bound together with coarse white rope that was then tied to a hook in the ceiling. The position *** her to stand on the heels of her feet barely touching the floor. Her shoulders ached from the stretch. Her body was pulled upward, elongating her torso, making her breasts lift and press against the sheer bralette.

Red ropes circled her torso: one above her breasts, digging into the soft flesh just below her collarbone, and one below her breasts, pressing against her ribcage. The ropes were tight, tight enough that her breasts swelled above the upper rope, the sheer fabric of the bralette straining. Every breath she took was shallow, restricted by the pressure around her ribs.

Her legs were tied together, pressed tightly from thigh to knee to calf to ankle. Ropes bound her above the knees and again at her ankles. Her high heels were still on her feet—the ones Vonka had not removed—and the stilettos elevated her, making her calves flex and her thighs look longer, leaner. The sheer stockings shimmered in the dim basement light, and the garter straps pulled slightly with each tiny shift of her weight.

Vonka tied a red cleave gag around Jasmine's mouth—a wide strip of red fabric, maybe a scarf or a torn cloth, pulled between her teeth and knotted tightly at the back of her head. The red fabric stretched the corners of Jasmine's lips, flattening them against her teeth, forcing her mouth into a grimace. The knot pressed into the soft spot behind her skull. The cloth was thick enough that her tongue could not push it out, and wet enough that it quickly became damp with her saliva.

The contrast was spectacular.

The red ropes that bound her—wrists, torso, legs—matched the red gag. Against the black lingerie—the sheer halter bralette, the high-cut bikini, the transparent garter belt and stockings—the red was a shout, a violence of color. And against Jasmine's bronzed skin, warm and sun-kissed, both the black and the red seemed to glow. Her dark hair, now loose from the ponytail, fell in waves around her face, brushing against the red gag. Her eyes, large and dark behind the thick glasses that Vonka now wore, were wide with fear.

She looked like a painting. A painting of a woman bound and displayed, every line of her body leading the eye from the red at her mouth down to the black lace at her hips, down to the sheer stockings and the stilettos.

Vonka discovered Jasmine's phobia: a fear of sharp and pointy objects.

She found them in the house—scissors, knitting needles, a small paring knife, a letter opener with a brass handle shaped like a sword. She gathered them on a tray and brought them close to Jasmine's bound body.

Jasmine's reaction was immediate and primal.

Her eyes flew wide open, the whites showing all around the dark irises. Her nostrils flared above the red gag, pulling air in quick, shallow gasps. Her body began to tremble—fine tremors at first, like a plucked string vibrating, then larger shudders that shook her whole frame. The ropes creaked as she pulled against them, her wrists twisting, her body jerking backward as far as the ceiling tether would allow.

Tears spilled from her eyes. Not polite tears, not the slow roll of a single drop down a cheek. These were desperate tears, flooding from her lower lids, streaming down her face, wetting the red gag, dripping from her chin onto the sheer black bralette. Her chest heaved with muffled screams, the sound distorted by the cloth between her teeth, coming out as a series of high, panicked "mmmMMMPH! mmmMMMPH!" noises that vibrated through the basement.

Vonka held a knitting needle close to Jasmine's stomach. The silver point hovered an inch from the sheer fabric of the bikini bottom. Jasmine's abs contracted, pulling her body inward, trying to curl away even though she had nowhere to go. Her hips twisted, her legs strained against the ropes at her knees and ankles, the stilettos scraping the floor.

Vonka moved the needle to Jasmine's thigh. The point hovered over the sheer stocking, dimpling the fabric but not piercing it. Jasmine's leg jerked, a spasm that made the garter straps pull taut. More tears. More muffled screams. Her whole body was shaking now, her teeth clenching against the red cloth, her fingers curling into fists above her head.

Vonka picked up the sword. Held the blades near Jasmine's body.

Jasmine's eyes rolled up for a moment, her head tilting back, her body going rigid. She was hyperventilating—breath coming in short, sharp whistles through her nose, the sound desperate and wet. When she looked back at the swords, her expression was not just fear. It was terror. The kind of terror that strips away everything else—dignity, resistance, hope. She looked like an animal caught in a trap, knowing the trapper is approaching.

And still she pulled at the ropes. Still she fought. Her wrists were raw now, the skin abraded by the coarse white rope. Her shoulders screamed from the ceiling tether. Her legs trembled from holding herself up on the stilettos. But she could not stop struggling, because stopping meant accepting that the sharp things would touch her.

Vonka finally stopped.

She had had enough. The satisfaction of revenge sat warm in her chest, better than the iced tea had been. She stepped back, set the knives on the tray, and looked at Jasmine—panting, crying, trembling, her beautiful black lingerie soaked with sweat and tears, her makeup ruined, her hair a dark tangle around her red-gagged face.

Vonka took Jasmine's car keys. She took Jasmine's cell phone, and walked to the front door.

She paused. Looked back.

Jasmine was still straining against the ropes, her body pulled upward, her stilettos scraping the floor, her muffled sobs filling the basement. The red gag was dark with saliva. The black bralette was with sweat. The garter straps had left red lines on her hips. The sheer stockings were torn in one place where she had jerked against the ropes.

Vonka closed the door.

Jasmine was left alone in the basement—still tied, still gagged, her body aching, her eyes burning, her throat raw from screaming into the red cloth. Sweat cooled on her skin, raising goosebumps. The basement was cold, and her lingerie was wet, and she could not stop trembling. The memory of the knitting needle hovering over her body was still fresh in her mind.

She was exhausted. Not the tiredness of a long day, but the deep, bone-level exhaustion of someone who has been terrified for hours. Her head hung forward, her chin touching her chest, her arms still raised above her. The ropes held her up even when her legs wanted to fold.

Her eyes, half-closed, stared at the floor. Tears still *** from them, slow now, sliding down her cheeks and disappearing into the red gag.»

«My wife and I saw Vоnkа in a New York City hotel last month. She was probably there for the Comic-Con.

I know we should've stopped and talked to her but it was so fleeting, and she seemed to be in a rush, so we didn't. Pity »