The Naughty List: Brooklyn Gray and Tommy Pistol

Brooklyn Gray lounges by the fire, Christmas Eve quiet and warm. Someone mentions Krampus and she snorts, brushing it off. She curls into the couch, eyelids heavy. The moment she drifts, the room changes. Something hungry is already inside. A hand clamps her wrist, another yanks her arms overhead. Rope bites. Brooklyn’s eyes snap open to a bearded face and the smell of pine and ash. Tommy Pistol—Krampus—drops the sack of birch rods at her feet. The first swing cracks across her ass and leaves a burning stripe. She twists, tries to pull free, but the rope holds. Another stroke lands higher, another lower, until her skin is cross-hatched and throbbing. He steps between her legs, frees his thick cock, and presses the head against her asshole. One hard thrust and he’s buried, stretching her open while the rods keep striking her thighs and ass in the same brutal rhythm. Brooklyn gasps, curses, then moans as the two pains blur. Every thrust drives her forward into the next swing. She’s pinned, shaking, taking it deep, ass clenching around every inch. Tommy keeps going until her legs tremble and the only sounds left are wet slaps and the creak of rope. When he finally pulls out, thick ropes of cum stripe her ass and drip down her thighs. The fire pops once and settles. Brooklyn hangs limp, marked and used, the night’s gift delivered.