The Brat Tamer

Octavia Red looks sweet but the ropes turn her into a mouthy brat. The Pope has a fix for that. He stretches her out on a giant wooden spool under the scorching sun, her back arched and tits aimed skyward. He slaps the heavy mounds, then drags a flogger across them until the skin burns red. His hand clamps around her throat. He says choking always wakes up a wet pussy, and hers proves him right. She’s slick before the first buzz of the vibrator. He works her clit in circles and drives her into the first round of shaking orgasms, sweat mixing with rope marks. Next, he stands her under a shady gazebo, palms slapping and pinching those nipples, flogger striping her ass. One more thrust of fingers and the Hitachi has her legs buckling, cunt pulsing. Up she goes—full suspension, arms back, holes wide. He fingers her deep while the vibe stays glued to her clit, and she drools around the gag as she cums in mid-air. Finally, he rigs her in a brutal criss-cross strapado, chest forward, neck looped so any wrong shift cuts her air. Crop snaps, nipples get yanked, clothespins bite hard on the tender backs of her arms. He calls it the brat tamer. Between the breath-play rope and relentless vibration she loses count, body thrashing, forced over and over into screaming release.