Worship The Boots That Punish

She has to, she just has to scratch that itch, just has to wipe that stream of annoying sweat, has to release the pressure at her bladder. She has to, she screams inwardly as she bucks and writhes and strains against the metal, and yet the metal does not budge. She sucks breath after bubbling breath from the thick and rotten-smelling liquid, and each laboured breath makes her struggle ever more valiantly, ever more uselessly against the metal bars which fix her in place.

No chains tether her, no cage impedes her progress, but for all her hours of struggling, she still stares fixedly at the same patch of floor, at the mitts which can find no purchase on the carpet. She needs to scratch, needs to wipe her dripping skin dry, but the itching and tickling only worsen the more she arches and twists her supple body against the metal, ravage and gnaw at her skin worse with each passing second she finds herself unable to scratch, unable to move for the thick and frame.

Black latex, sweat, submission. Delight.