Kym Wilde and Ivy

Ivy stands still, wrists locked tight above her head. Kym works slow and mean, dragging the crop across Ivy’s skin until the first red line blooms. Ivy jerks at every strike but never once asks for mercy. The blows come harder, faster. Kym’s breathing is sharp and hungry. Ivy pulls against the rope, teeth bared, chasing the sting. They trade places. Ivy takes the crop, lays into Kym’s back until welts rise. Kym arches, half moan, half laugh. The crop drops. Ivy shoves Kym against the wall, mouths collide, teeth clash. Their bodies slam together, skin burning where the marks already throb. Tongues meet, fingers dig into raw flesh. They bite, they kiss, they fight for control until they’re panting and bruised and filthy with sweat.