With a look of total helplessness is in her eyes, she begs with out saying a word, that is magic.

Lily LaBeau stares up at you, eyes wide, mouth stretched wide around a ball gag. Her wrists and ankles are pinned open. The thick vibrator is already buried deep, buzzing without mercy. No teasing. Just steady, brutal pressure that makes her thighs tremble and her stomach clench. She tries to beg—tries to make a single sound past the gag—but every time her lips move the vibration punches another orgasm out of her. Her lashes flutter, her back arches hard against the straps, and another shock of pleasure rips through her like lightning. She’s soaked, dripping down the table, the air thick with it. The wand doesn’t stop. It never will. Her hips jerk, twist, try to escape, but there’s nowhere left to go. Her stare grows glassy, wet, desperate. She’s come so many times her vision is already fading. Every orgasm blinds her a little more. The fight drains out of her in heavy, wet waves until she’s just a body strapped down and shaking under the endless, heartless rhythm.