Isabella Soprano and Chanta-Rose

Isabella Soprano stands there, twenty-two, stacked and shaking. Chanta wastes no time putting hands on her. One slap cracks across Isabella’s cheek, then another, quick and mean. The sting jolts straight between her legs. Chanta’s palm stays pressed to that hot mark while she tells her exactly what a filthy slut she is, every word sharp as teeth. Isabella’s tits bounce with each hit, heavy and helpless, and Chanta keeps them swinging—grabbing, slapping, using them like handles. Ropes bite into her wrists and ankles, pulling her open. When Chanta’s fingers work their way between those cheeks and push inside, Isabella’s whole body jolts. She’s never felt so small, so used, so fucking alive. Each thrust deeper, each fresh insult, every degrading little laugh Chanta gives—Isabella takes it all, shaking and dripping, begging for more without saying a word.