Hunting Season

Ivy moves through the trees, silent, hunting. She finds Brogan hiding in the brush and the pop shooter cracks like a dry branch. One hit and he drops. Then he’s naked, wrists lashed to a wooden chair, every inch of pale skin on display. She starts slow—beats his thighs with the pop shooter, then switches to the leather paddle. Each strike lands with a heavy smack. Clothespins bite into his sides, crawl down to his balls, tug with every twitch. Nipple clamps flash silver under the light. When the zapper touches bare flesh he jumps, breath hissing. Later she drops him to all fours on the floor, ropes cinched tight at knees and wrists. A smooth egg slides into his ass, swallowed whole. Ivy straps on, lines up, and works both holes in steady thrusts until his shoulders shake. On his back again, arms stretched overhead, Ivy leans over his cock. She licks, sucks, takes him deep until he’s throbbing. Then she climbs on, rides hard, fast, hips slapping skin. Finally she plants her knees over his face, lowers until his tongue works her cunt while his own fist strokes the load free, thick ropes pulsing across his stomach.