Pain Piggy Wants More

Brooke Johnson waits on a pedestal like an offering, arms wrenched back, knees buckled, locked in cold steel. A rigid collar keeps her spine straight. The Pope doesn’t ease her in—he punches her ribs, crops her tits, turns her pale chest red. Clover clamps bite a chain down her cunt and the ache spreads hot. He presses a Hitachi to the metal and the pinch becomes something darker, needier. Brooke gasps, begs, comes. Later she’s trapped again, throat shoved through a box lid, body helpless. Zaps from the wand sting her skin, then cattle prods hammer deeper shocks through her. A leather head harness drags her mouth wide and lifts her nose high. The Pope makes her oink for pain. She does—loud, wet, shameless—every grunt earns another shock or strike. Finally he belts her to a bench, every inch open. Cane, baton, flogger mark her skin in stripes. Between blows he pins her throat with one huge hand, slaps her cheek while she wheezes. When he’s finished bruising her he plants a vibrator on her clit. Brooke bucks, screams for permission, then floods the bench with one rolling climax after another while his fingers cut her air. He steps away, leaves her shaking, still pleading for more. Pain Piggy wants more.