Lorelei Lee and Torque

Torque has her from the jump. His fingers work her ribs until she’s bucking, breath catching between giggles that turn into gasps. Lorelei’s wrists are already cinched overhead, ankles strapped wide, body stretched out and open. He keeps the pressure light at first, then digs in—watching every twitch, every desperate twist. When the laughter dies, the real game begins. He stuffs the red ball between her teeth and yanks the strap tight. Saliva starts almost instantly, sliding down her chin. That’s when the clothespins come out. One by one he clips them along the curve of her breast, down her stomach, across the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Each pinch pulls a muffled sound past the gag. He flicks a couple with his fingertip just to watch her jolt. She’s dripping before he even touches her cunt. The ropes creak when she strains, shoulders flexing, hips rolling toward nothing. Torque steps in close, breath hot against her ear, and mutters something low that makes her eyes go wide. He doesn’t rush. Every pin stays put. Every strap stays locked. He just stands there, letting the ache settle in while she fights to stay still and fails.