Brat's Personal Request

Brat dropped us a message. Said she wanted us to break her down for real. Sent a still of Morgan’s old session, the one where the whip left marks that lasted a week. She stared at it until her knees gave out. Petite frame, black hair falling over her shoulders, flushed cheeks, begging with her eyes. We showed up hungry. Blonde leather, tight and shining, riding crop in one hand, the other already pulling Brat’s wrists behind her back. Every strike landed with a crack that echoed off the walls. Every moan turned into a plea. Morgan watched from the corner, grinning as Brat trembled under the weight of her own challenge, getting exactly what she asked for.