Fresh Meat - Beverly Hills

A wide-eyed brunette gets hauled in from her usual gigs. No more easy sets. They bind her wrists, rope biting into soft skin, and stand her in front of the cameras that never blink. Hands drag her into position, chest out, back arched. One strap lands across her ass; she jerks, heat flashing up her spine. The next stroke follows fast, then another. Each hit leaves a hot stripe. A gloved hand spreads her, exposes the tight ring of muscle she’s been saving. Lube’s slick and sudden. A thick plug pushes past the ring, fills her slow and deep. She breathes through it, knees shaking. They tip her forward over a bench, legs spread, ankles strapped. The cane whistles. It kisses the backs of her thighs. She bites her lip to hold the sound back. When they let her suck for air, drool slides down her chin onto the floor. The plug twists inside her with every strike. Tears gather but she stays bent, takes it all. Nothing about her looks saves her now. Only how long she can stay open and quiet under the weight of the rod.