Viking and Sasha Monet

Sasha Monet hits the floor hard, Viking already got her wrists cinched behind her back and a fat black ball gag shoved between her teeth. He yanks the strap until the leather bites the corners of her mouth, drool already leaking down her chin. Her tits bounce free—full, heavy, pushed up by the rope circling her chest—and Viking wastes no time slapping them red, the smack of skin echoing off the walls. She twists, heels sliding on the concrete, fighting just enough to make him grin and pull the next knot tighter around her elbows. Every pull squeezes her chest harder, deep red lines cutting across pale skin. Viking grabs a fistful of dark hair, forces her head back, and makes sure the gag stays lodged deep. She glares up at him through wet lashes, eyes bright, nipples stiff, thighs slick. He answers by yanking her ankles up and lashing them to the same cinch that traps her wrists, bending her backward until her shoulders nearly touch her calves. Rope creaks. Her breath hisses past the ball. He leans in, thumb drags across her nipple, then he slaps the swollen flesh again, leaving fingerprints in red. Sasha’s moan vibrates against the gag like a dare. Viking just laughs low, pulls the knot one last time, and steps back to watch her squirm. Bound, gagged, tits on fire, she rolls her hips against nothing, testing how little room he left her—and finding even less.