Fresh Meat: Madi Collins

Madi Collins looks sweet, almost too sweet for what she’s about to take. She’s stripped of the lie and cuffed upright to a wooden post, wrists locked, ankles pinned in steel. The Pope’s hands are all over her—checking, testing, owning every inch—before the flogger starts its work. Leather cuts across her skin until a blindfold steals her sight and sharpens everything else. Clothespins bite down; one brutal pass of the flogger rips them away, and the first orgasm rips through her right after. A fat knot of rope splits her pussy and drags twelve pounds between her legs, pulling tight every time she moves. Next she’s bent backward, spread-eagle on the floor, back arched so hard her ribs lift with every breath. Different tools land—canes, straps, whatever he grabs—until she’s shaking on the edge. He gives her a couple more climaxes, quick and cruel, just enough to keep her needy. Last, she’s flat on her back, legs trussed high and helpless. Rubber bands snap across her soles, the cane follows, then the crop, and finally the thin knitting needle traces fire along every tender line. She’s wrung out, gasping, used hard, yet The Pope keeps milking her until her body gives him every last shuddering orgasm he demands.