Sativa Rose and Dick Richards

Sativa Rose storms in ready to work. She cuffs him down, arms pinned, legs spread. The first blow lands across his face—open palm, sharp. Then she kicks him in the nuts with her bare foot, watches him fold and laughs. The flogger whistles next. Stripes burn down his chest and thighs while she calls him names and he tries not to whimper. She mounts his back and heels him forward, rides the aching bastard like a cheap pony until his knees shake. When she tires of that game she plants her ass over his mouth, smothers him till he thrashes for air, then slides forward so he’s choking on pussy instead. Every time he gasps she slaps his cock hard enough to make it swing. Finally she takes what she wants. Straddles his bound hips, sinks down on his dick and rides him till her voice cracks on a screaming orgasm, leaving him wet and straining inside her. Finished, she flips him, works two fingers and then her strap-on straight up his ass. He yells till he’s hoarse—“I’m a fucking dick whore”—and she keeps pounding, eyes cold, mouth curved in a grin that says she’s only getting started.