Miss Brooke and Scott Lee

Brooke owns every inch of her body and she knows it. Perfect face, perfect shape, and a stare that could crack a lesser man in half. She keeps Scott Lee on his knees, wrists bound, Asian skin stretched tight across lean muscle, his black hair falling over his eyes. He waits in silence, a fat ball gag jammed between his teeth, drool already leaking down his chin. She makes him watch while she touches herself, fingers moving with lazy purpose, hips rocking against her own hand like he isn’t even there. The moment he strains forward she’s on him—crop cracking across his thigh, voice low and vicious. He jerks. She smiles. Then she sinks two fingers deep inside herself again, sighing through parted lips while he struggles to stay still, every nerve screaming for the next touch that never comes until she decides it does.