The world is nothing but pressure and heat. Darkness wraps around you like wet velvet, the living walls shifting and flexing with every movement she makes. It’s humid, suffocating, alive. Her body heat seeps into your bones until you lose track of where you end and she begins. The rhythm of her breathing vibrates through the space, a slow, steady pulse that shakes your ribs.
Each shift is an earthquake. When she twists at the waist, you’re dragged sideways, pinned between slick, unyielding surfaces. When she sits, you’re compressed from all directions, the heat doubling, your breath snatched away by the weight pressing you into place. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours. The roar of the park filters faintly through the flesh around you — laughter, splashes, shouts — but here, buried against her, time has no meaning.
You try to move, but every attempt is met with resistance, the living flesh flexing back against you. Your limbs feel encased in warm clay. Sweat beads on your forehead, stinging your eyes. Panic rises and falls in waves until it becomes a dull, aching hum behind your ribs. This is what helplessness feels like. This is what she’s reduced you to.
At last, light. The world explodes open as her fingers reach in, pinching you delicately between thumb and forefinger. You’re ripped out of the furnace and into the blinding sun, gasping, your body slick and trembling. Air floods your lungs like water to a dying plant.
Bianca’s face looms above, framed by the bright sky. Her eyes are molten brown, lashes wet and long. A slow smile curves her lips. “Míralo, mi pequeña muñeca…” (Look at you, my little doll…) Her voice is warm honey over steel, teasing and intimate all at once.
She turns her hand so you sprawl across her palm. The skin beneath you is hot from the sun, smelling faintly of coconut sunscreen and salt. Her thumb strokes lazily across your chest, tracing your outline as if confirming you’re real. “You survived. I’m impressed.” Her tone dips lower, almost affectionate. “You’re stronger than I thought.”
You’re too drained to respond. Every breath is shallow. She notices — her smile softens, becoming almost tender. “Shhh, tranquilo.” (Shhh, calm.) Her finger nudges your hair back from your forehead. “You’ve been through enough.”
She lifts you higher, close to her collarbone. The polyester of her lifeguard uniform brushes your back, rough and warm, while beneath it her skin radiates heat like a heartbeat. She tucks you into the space between the edge of the fabric and the soft rise of her chest. It’s like being placed on a living drum — her pulse steady beneath you, her scent enveloping you completely.
You’re held there by the tension of the uniform and the curve of her body, pinned gently but firmly. Every rise and fall of her breathing rolls you slightly against the fabric, the warmth of her skin bleeding through. It’s both a cradle and a reminder — safety if you’re still, danger if you resist.
Bianca tilts her head down, lips close enough that her breath grazes your back. “Here,” she murmurs, “right by my heart. You like that, don’t you?” Her tone is teasing, but her eyes glint with something else — satisfaction, control, maybe even affection.
Her finger strokes you once more, pressing you more snugly against her. “Look how calm you are now,” she whispers, her voice low enough that only you can hear. “That’s better. Obedient… I like that.”
The world outside carries on: gulls crying overhead, water splashing distantly, the scent of sunscreen and sea salt heavy in the air. But here, everything is the soft thud of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the hush of her breathing.
She whispers lower, her voice brushing your ear. “You could stay here all day, if you’ve learned your lesson.” The words hang between threat and promise.
Her hand hovers just below you, ready to catch you if you slip — or hold you still if you dare to struggle. “You’re so small,” she says, almost fondly. “So fragile… and all mine.”
Her expression shifts — a faint smile curving at the corner of her mouth. “Now,” she murmurs, her tone equal parts soft and commanding, “tell me, my doll. Are you ready to behave?”
You lie there, trembling against her heartbeat, your world narrowed to the rhythm of her chest and the sound of her voice. The choice sits heavy on your tongue — but you haven’t spoken yet.
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