Cassandra Cain ends up Toe-Tally Screwing Herself in a FAKE Disappearance Doublecross

Cassandra Cain is a spoiled little shit. Her stepdad's a multi-billionaire and she's never heard the word no. When he cuts her allowance to eight grand a month, she throws a tantrum that echoes through the marble halls. Eight thousand? She can't even buy a decent pair of shoes on that. So she cooks up a plan: fake her own kidnapping, shake ten million out of dear old dad, and split two with the muscle she hires for the job. She calls in a goon who knows how to tie women so they stay tied. He comes to her penthouse and she lays it out: pictures of her helpless, bound beyond recognition, gagged past the point of protest, and the old man will pay without asking questions. The goon listens, nods, agrees to make it look real. Cassandra strips down to black lace, big tits spilling over the cups, black hair falling across her face, already smirking at the easy money. He starts with rope. Lots of it. Wrists first, pulled behind her back, elbows crushed together until her shoulders scream. He winds the line around her chest, framing those tits until they strain against the thin fabric. Ankles, knees, thighs—every knot yanked tight and tucked out of reach. She tests the first few binds and the cocky smile slips. When he rolls her onto her stomach and arches her into a hogtie, the reality hits. She can't move more than an inch. He shows her the red shop rag, thick and wadded. "Last chance," he says. Cassandra glares and opens wide. The cloth fills her mouth to the cheeks, forces her tongue flat. He seals it with tight elastic wrap, layer after layer, then ties a thick bandana over that, pulling the corners deep between her teeth. The triple gag is brutal. Every sound comes out wet, muffled, useless. He steps back, snaps pictures. Cassandra's eyes flash. She thrashes, tits bouncing, ropes creaking, feet kicking in frustration. A sharp slap lands across one ass cheek and she freezes. The goon leans in, camera still clicking. "Change of plans, princess. I'm keeping the whole ten million." Her muffled curses explode behind the gag—raw, furious, perfect. She bucks harder, every frustrated grunt feeding the lens. No one's ever seen Cassandra Cain this mad, this helpless, or this completely, deliciously screwed.