"Sit down," I breathe.
And she does, tits pillowing out on the table, hands shaking as she passes me the hammer.
She knows not to speak. She knows not to cry out as I drive the first nail, teeth bared and belly spasming, her throat locked around a tight squeal for every loud, wet strike.
And though she can't look down, her nipples taut and distended and oozing deep, rich red, she can look at me. Brave. Beseeching. Dark pools brimming with eager tears.
So good. I smile, and I see her throat clench, her heart plummet--

"Now stand up."