Brandon and Lyssa

Lyssa’s eyes go wide as the rope bites in. Brandon knots another loop around her wrists, jerks her arms high above her head until her toes skim the floor. She sways, bare feet scraping wood, and the suspension swings her body forward like meat on a hook. Black hair clings to her damp cheeks. He takes his time. Another strand around her hips, cinching tight, then a final length between her thighs that grinds rough against her when he pulls it through. Every tug makes her gasp; every shift of the rope sends a bright pulse straight between her legs. She tries to curse, but the ball gag turns it to wet, sloppy noise. Brandon steps back, admiring the way her shoulders strain, breasts lifted, nipples already tight. He gives the rope a slow, mean tug. Her whole body jerks and she makes a choked sound, drool sliding down her chin. He circles her, palm brushing her ass, then delivers a sharp smack that rocks her again. The ropes creak. She shudders, caught between pain and heat, toes curling in the empty air.