Kira Noir is Mindfucked

Kira Noir walked into that room thinking she’d found the fast track. Now the door’s shut and the leader’s eyes are cold. Strip. She peels off every stitch, skin suddenly bare under his stare. The first jolt from the bug zapper snaps across her thigh and rips a cry from her throat; the next lands lower, right where it burns. Electricity dances over her, each pulse making her muscles jump and her breath hitch. He trades the zapper for canes—thin, wicked lengths that stripe across her ass in hard, precise cracks. The leather strap follows, heavy thuds that echo off the walls and leave red welts rising. Sweat slides down her spine. When he finally points to the floor she sinks without a word, lips pressed to the polished leather of his shoes, mouth working like it can wash the last scrap of doubt away.