Wake Up Call: Jenya

She walked into the bar looking for a fuck. She left with me. Morning light hits her face and she opens her eyes to cuffs biting her wrists and ankles, legs spread wide on my sheets. The first jolt lands square on her nipple. She bucks. The second hits lower, across one ass cheek, and she screams into the gag. I keep the cattle prod busy—tits, thighs, ass—watching her twist and jerk. Electricity rips through her until her cunt is dripping on the mattress. I trade the prod for wired toys and work her over for hours: clamps on her nipples, steel probes in every hole, shock after shock that drags orgasm after orgasm out of her trembling body. When I finally drag her into the shower, I clamp her pussy lips tight, shove a fat vibrating bullet inside, and blast her with cold water while the current buzzes deep. She shakes so hard her knees give. By afternoon we’re on the road back to San Francisco. She’s still twitching, still marked, and she knows she’s mine now.