Kory Vixen and Thane

Kory Vixen lies bound tight in Thane’s rope, arms locked behind her back, body arched. Every knot sits like it belongs there. Thane works slow, deliberate, pulling the strands until her shoulders bite and her tits push forward. She feels each twist, each cinch, the burn of rope on skin. He gags her hard. The ball fills her mouth, leather strap digging at the corners. Spit starts to run. She can’t speak, can only breathe through her nose and take what comes. Thane circles her, checking his work, then lays the first strike across her ass with the crop. The crack fills the room. Kory flinches but stays silent, jaw clamped around rubber. Another hit follows, then another, measured and mean. Heat blooms on her skin. She strains against the ropes, heels digging in, thighs trembling. Thane watches, reading every twitch, every muffled sound. He’s done this for years. He knows how long she can hold, how much more she wants. The next blow lands lower, harder. Kory’s breath snags. Her body jerks, but the ropes hold. She takes it. Every strike. Every second. And she knows he’s only getting started.