Exile

The truck rumbled beneath me, its cold metal floor biting into my bare skin with every bump in the road. The smell of fish was overwhelming—briny and sharp, soaking into my skin, clinging to me almost as stubbornly as the adhesive that had plagued me earlier. Interesting how the universe enjoys its cruel symmetries. First, sticky glue holding me hostage on the pier; now, my arms were wrenched behind my back and cuffed horizontally, preventing me from covering my breasts or butt. My ankles were bound tight with rough rope, the fibers scratching against my skin.

The ball gag tasted like rubber and salt, and was strapped so tight my jaw ached, forcing my lips into a permanent, humiliating pout. I could do nothing to argue against the crude writing on my body. PERVERT in jagged black across my stomach and forehead. SPANK ME scrawled across my butt cheeks. A crudely drawn arrow pointed straight at my right nipple with PINCH HERE in crooked letters, and HONK FOR LUCK written on my left boob. No one would help me now, not with this lewd ink branding and repugnant fish odor.

The judge hadn't even asked where I lived before handing down her "exile" sentence. That bitch. She knew exactly what she was doing— probably sending me miles away from my city, from my office, from any chance of reclaiming my dignity.

The truck jolted over a pothole, and my balance shifted, sending me rolling slightly against a crate of tuna. Around me, the other cargo shifted—boxes, crates, bundles wrapped in plastic. But no other prisoners, no company in humiliation. Just me, cuffed and exposed, bouncing along to some unknown destination.

And behind it all, the burning need to find the Queen of Pranks again—this time, on my terms.

The truck hit another bump, and I let out a muffled groan.

This wasn't over. Not even close.