My belt is starting to fray from age. I’ve had it for years. Now it bears the brunt of Doll’s weight some nights as I drag her across the bed. It holds her calf pinioned to her thigh as I tease her clit, slap her face raw. The split black leather snaps down across her thigh. I can hear the buckle bite into that soft, pale flesh there. There are teeth marks pitting the surface where it’s held her tongue in place as I watched the drool run along it’s shiny surface. My favorite tool, it’s with me always. You should see the look on her face when I tear it free of the loops in one swift pull. The French probably have a word for that sullen fear mixed with anticipation, the dead-eyed lust it engenders in her.