Wild Bill and Cole Conners

Cole Conners wears the uniform like it was made to be peeled off. She slams Wild Bill against the cell bars, grabs his nuts in one gloved fist, and squeezes until his knees buckle. "These belong to me now," she hisses, twisting until he whimpers. His balls are already red and throbbing, but she isn't finished. She yanks them lower, slaps them with her open palm, then pins them flat against the cold metal while her other hand works his cock. When his mouth opens in protest she forces two fingers past his teeth and shoves them to the back of his throat, testing how far he'll gag. Satisfied, she frees his cock and feeds it to him until his nose presses into her belt. He chokes, spit running down his chin, while she holds him there and works a lubed finger up his ass. One knuckle, two, then the thick head of her strap-on follows. She drives in hard, hips snapping, using his bound wrists for leverage. Every thrust slams his balls against the bars again. Cole sets a brutal rhythm—deep, fast, merciless—until his legs shake and his hole clenches around her. She keeps talking low and dirty the whole time, reminding him who owns what, until the only sounds left are skin slapping skin and the metal bars rattling under the weight of both bodies.