Orgasm Quota

He straps her into the rig—naked, blonde, spread. The metal frame locks every joint so she can't close her thighs, can't shift away from the toy pressed tight against her clit. She tries to twist, but the bars hold. The gag swells her cheeks, turning every whimper into a wet, useless sound. He clicks the vibrator on low. Her body jerks. Her natural tits bounce once, hard, then settle. He watches her strain. Watches how the rope digs into her skin each time she fights the pulse. No way to come, no way to stop the ache. She looks straight at the camera and hates how wet she already is. He turns the speed up. Her knees buckle inside the frame but there's nowhere to go. Sweat slides down her stomach. Her hips twitch like they're begging on their own. He keeps her there—on edge, dripping, every muscle shaking—while the seconds crawl and her eyes start to glaze. She tries to shake her head. He leans in, close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek, and turns the toy even higher. Her whole body locks. The gag catches a broken moan. He smiles, steps back, and lets the machine run.