Torque and Kym Wilde

Torque doesn't ask. He tells. Kym Wilde finds out fast what that means. She starts defiant, chin up, eyes hot. He leaves her like that for a while—naked, wrists lashed above her head—until the cocky look drains out and her breathing gets shaky. When the first strike lands across her ass she gasps like she forgot how pain feels. The cane sings again, sharp and clean, and she jerks in the ropes. Torque works steady. No warm-up, no mercy. He lays stripes where he knows it'll burn longest, watches each welt rise. Kym stops fighting the rope and starts fighting herself, biting her lip, thighs shaking. He steps in close, grips her hair, makes her look at him while the next stroke cuts across both cheeks. She breaks. Real submission, raw and quiet. He keeps going until her skin is a map of welts and her voice is nothing but soft, broken sounds. Every time the cane lands she offers herself a little more. Torque takes it all.