Babydoll and Ivy

Babydoll sneaks off with Ivy's boyfriend. One night out turns into a trap. Ivy walks in, eyes cold, mouth set. Babydoll tries to lie, but her mouth gets stuffed with a ball gag before the sentence lands. Ivy's laugh is short and sharp. She yanks Babydoll's wrists behind her back, ropes biting deep. Babydoll drops to her knees. Ivy shoves her down, sits on her face, blocks every breath. Babydoll kicks once, then twice, heels drumming the floor. Ivy leans in, clips clothespins across Babydoll's tits and inner thighs, twisting each one until the yelp catches behind the gag. Each twist brings another burst of air that never comes. Ivy licks slow and filthy between Babydoll's legs, tongue pushing past the tight ring of muscle, tasting every inch while Babydoll shakes. Breath play starts again—nose pinched, thighs clamped—until Babydoll bucks and her eyes roll. Ivy stands, straps on, drives in without pause. The strokes are steady and mean, one hand wrapped around Babydoll's throat, the other flicking the clothespins off in quick succession. Babydoll's body jerks with every snap of plastic. Ivy keeps going, grinding deeper, owning every shaking inch. Babydoll comes hard, ruined and dripping, face streaked with tears. Ivy pulls out, slaps her thigh once for good measure, then leaves her tied and twitching on the floor.