Charlotte Sartre: Savagery

Charlotte starts the day rope-bound to a wooden column. Her hands locked behind her back, a length of rope cinched tight at her waist. The Pope works her over with the flogger, striking skin until it glows, then clamps her nipples and lets the weight tug. He presses a vibrator to her cunt until she’s dripping, then runs a brutal crotch rope through the wet and hangs a twelve-pound bowling ball from the knot. She strains. Next she’s yanked into a single-point inversion, arms wrenched in a strappado that’s lashed to one ankle. Every ounce of her hangs from the rope around her middle. The flogger returns, coloring her red from shoulders to ass, while his hand pinches her nose and mouth, controlling each breath. She thrashes, then comes—hard, loud, shaking—again and again until her voice breaks. Final position: on her back, lashed to a slanted bench, wrists pinned to her hips, legs and torso strapped down tight. The Pope brings a bucket and a soaked cloth. She fights it, bucks, spits, but water floods her face, steals her air, and wins.