Babydoll and Torque

Torque has her hands full. Babydoll’s bound wrists jerk against rope while he straps the gag between her teeth, leather cutting into her cheeks. She spits curses through the ball, but the words come out thick and wet. He likes that sound. He likes the fight. The first swing lands low across her ass and her back arches hard, muscles jumping. She doesn’t break. She never does. Torque steps in close, grabs a fistful of hair, yanks her head back until her throat stretches long and exposed. She glares up at him with eyes that say she’s still in it, still ready for more. He smiles like he’s got all night, and maybe he does. The next strike comes down even harder, and the room fills with the crack of leather meeting skin.