Neeka and Kym Wilde

Kym walks Neeka onto the pier and the fog hits like cold fingers. Strip, she says. Neeka peels off every stitch right there under the wet gray air, nipples pulled tight, skin stippled with gooseflesh. Kym doesn’t stop talking. Every word lands sharp—slut, toy, worthless thing—each syllable timed with the first flick of the crop. The leather cracks across Neeka’s ass once, twice, then lower so the sting blooms hot in the chill. Neeka’s breathing goes ragged. Kym keeps the pace tight, mixing lashes with low, filthy orders until the pier railing is the only thing holding the girl up.