Revenge on Roxanne

Roxanne Hall hangs limp in the ropes. One second she's gone, the next her eyes roll back and her mouth drops open like she forgot how to breathe. The woman who used to bark orders is now just meat on a hook. The cane lands across both cheeks, raises thin red lines, and she jerks like someone hit a live wire. A hand locks around her throat and squeezes until her face flushes dark. When they lift her off the floor, three fingers hooked deep in her cunt do all the work; her toes scrape air, thighs shaking, while she dribbles down their wrist. They stuff her everywhere at once—cock in her throat, another stretching her ass, knuckles sinking past the ring until the whole fist disappears. Her hole blooms wide around the wrist, glistening, then closes again when they pull out slow just to punch back in. Pain and heat twist through her so hard her whole frame rattles. She comes without warning, a raw, ugly sound, legs kicking, ropes creaking, the kind of orgasm that looks more like breaking than pleasure.