Worshipping Beretta James

Mistress Beretta stands in heels and black straps like she owns every inch of the floor John kneels on. She cracks her hand across his ass once, twice, three times, just to watch the skin bloom red. Then she walks on him—her sharp weight pinning his chest while she grinds her sole down until he whimpers. When the pain makes his cock twitch upward she laughs and drops onto his face, smothering him with the scent of warm leather and her sweat. She works two gloved fingers inside him, finds that swollen gland, and milks him slow and steady until his spine bows and the first load spatters across his stomach. Beretta wipes it across his lips, then slips the harness tight around her hips. The strap-on slides in without mercy, stretching him open while she pumps deep, each thrust hitting the same spot until his second orgasm leaks out in long, helpless pulses. She doesn’t stop. She keeps fucking, keeps edging him, building pressure until the third spurt lands on her thigh. Beretta collects the mess on her fingers, feeds it back to him, then tightens the ring at the base of his cock so tight it throbs. “You came without permission three times,” she says. “Now you pay.” She leaves him bound, denied, and shaking while she steps away.