Anti-Gravity Slut Depravity

Betty Solace has Maya Woulfe hanging six inches off the floor, every limb lashed tight to cold iron rings. The chains creak each time the girl swings. Her nipples already wear rows of wooden clothespins, biting down hard; thin red lines mark where the last strokes landed. Betty circles her slowly, cane tapping her own thigh like a countdown. She flicks her wrist and another stripe blooms across Maya’s inner thigh. Maya jerks, spins, then settles—quiet, trembling, dripping. Betty sets the cane aside, pulls the harness tight around her hips, the thick black cock bobbing heavy. She steps in close, rubs the head between Maya’s spread folds, smearing slick over the shaft, never pushing inside. Maya whimpers, tries to rock forward; the chains stop her cold. Betty laughs once, low, and picks the cane back up. “Earn it,” she says, and the next stroke cuts across Maya’s ass.