Mr. Sicko and the Little Lady

Tommy Pistol snatches Sophia Locke like it’s business. JP dumps her in the truck, drives her to a lonely house behind a fence, pockets his cash, and rolls off for milk. Inside, Sophia’s tied, gagged, and shaking. Tommy goes straight for the tools. He taps her skin with the rusty claw of an old hammer, lets her feel the cold metal on her nipples, her thighs, that soft space under her ear. Every tap tells her she’s alone and he’s not in a hurry. Then the rope work: knees spread, ass high, face buried in the mattress. He slaps her pale flesh until it’s red and hot, drops his tongue between her cheeks, and eats like a starving man. His cock stands thick and ready, so he climbs on, drives in deep, and presses a pillow over her head to kill the noise. When he peels the tape off her mouth she begs—money, jewelry, anything—just let her walk. He laughs once, low, and shoves the same cock down her throat. She gags, spits, strings of spit on his beard, and he grins. Next he’s on her feet, licking between her toes, biting the arch while two fingers stretch her open. He flips her, fucks her from behind, slaps the crop across her calves, her ass, the tender skin behind her knees. Sweat rolls. Plastic crinkles. He pulls a clear bag over her head, seals it with his fist, and keeps pounding. She sucks air that isn’t there while he works the smooth wooden handle of the hammer between her legs, grinding it against her clit, pushing just inside. Her whole body shakes. He yanks the bag off, jerks once, twice, and paints her tits with thick ropes of cum that drip between her big, heaving breasts. Then he steps back, breathing hard, already planning what Joe will do next.