Vicky

Vicky's mouth is packed with a red ball gag that stretches her lips and locks the sound in her throat. Her tits take the worst of it. Ropes bite into the base of each breast and cinch tight until the skin bulges dark and angry. She hangs from the ceiling by the wrists, feet barely scraping the floor. Every swing sends fresh pain through the swollen flesh. Nipples catch clamps next, sharp steel biting down until her shoulders shake. A gloved hand lands a crop across the top of one breast, then the other, marking them in clean red lines. Vicky jerks. Sweat runs down her ribs and drips off the clamps. The crop lands lower, catching the undersides, drawing tight yelps past the gag. Her eyes water, mascara streaking, but she stays upright. The ropes hold. The clamps hold. Her body sways and the next strike catches both breasts at once. The sound is sharp, wet, final.