Morgan March

She came in two-and-a-half hours late, already two strikes down. The room smelled of leather and old rope. She peeled off her street clothes, mouth still running excuses. The ball gag cut her short, plastic ball wedged behind teeth, straps tight. We tied her fast, wrists to elbows, ankles to thighs, body bent in a neat bow. She arched, blonde hair sticking to her temples, sweat already shining. The crop fell in measured strokes across her ass and the backs of her thighs; each mark bloomed pink, then darker. She tried to roll, ropes held. Every tug pulled the knots tighter, every breath dragged the ball deeper into her mouth. Her eyes watered, not from fear but from the effort of holding still. We kept the pace slow, measured, giving her room to take it. She did. She stayed in the frame, muscles locked, body jerking under the crop, blonde hair wild, mouth forced open, drool darkening the rope. No one needed to say what came next; the gag and the knots said it loud enough.