You'll Hurt So Good

Mistress Cherry Kiss drags on her cigarette and exhales right in your face. "Beg, Toy, beg." The smoke stings. You know what she does to toys. She fucks them raw. Her thick strap-on juts from her hips, already slick, already waiting. She grabs a cane, swings it once through the air so the whistle cuts your nerves in half. Then the clamps—wooden clothespins bite down the length of your shaft, each snap a bright needle of pain. You flinch. She smiles, forces you down, wrists cinched behind your back in cold leather cuffs. The first strike lands across your ass, a white-hot stripe that blooms red. Before you catch breath another falls. Each blow lands sharper than the last, until your skin sings and your cock throbs against the clamps. When she’s had her fill she shoves the fat head of the dildo against your hole, no warm-up, no mercy, just one hard shove that splits you open and rams deep. You gasp around the gag. She sets a brutal rhythm, pounding every inch inside you, the base slapping your bruised cheeks with every thrust. Pain, fullness, want—they slam together until you’re shaking. She leans in, smoke curling past your ear. "Hurt so good, doesn’t it?" And she drives in harder, grinding until the world narrows to the slap of her hips, the bite of the clamps, the fire licking across your skin, and the relentless stretch splitting you wide.