Deja Vu

One year flips the script. Gia used to be the wide-eyed rookie domme cracking the whip for the first time. Iona was the wide-eyed rookie bottom trying to stay still. Now Gia’s the icicle-cool bitch in charge, and Iona’s the iron-willed pain whore who begs for more. They walk back into the dungeon like they never left. Heavy straps bite into Iona’s tits while she hangs in the rig. A single tail snaps across her ass; she doesn’t flinch—she soaks it up. Gia plants a boot on the small of her back, grinding the tread until Iona moans into the leather. She forces that boot higher, shoves Iona’s face down to worship every inch of it, then yanks her up by the hair and canes the same tender flesh she just marked. Cane welts stack on top of whip marks, red on purple. Nipple clamps twist tighter with every strike. Iona drips down her own thighs. Gia yanks the clamps off, then fists her from behind, wrist disappearing while the girl swings like a pendulum. Every punch of knuckles knocks another orgasm loose; clear squirt splashes the floor. Gia swaps fist for thick strap-on, drives in deep, fucks the stretched hole without mercy until Iona’s screams hit the rafters. Boot worship, ass worship, every inch claimed, every inch used. The only rule is there are no rules.