Dylan Ryan and Judas

Dylan struts in for her conjugal visit and finds her boy toy already raw. His cellmates just left him stretched and shaking, but she doesn’t slow down—she sharpens it. She ties him to the metal cot, arms spread, ankles strapped, every inch of him on display. Her blonde hair swings as she circles him, boots echoing on concrete. The first kick lands square on his balls. He folds, but the cuffs hold. She moves in with the strap-on, coats it with lube she finds in his kit, and drives straight into his ass without asking. He’s still sore from the earlier fucking; she doesn’t care. Each thrust pounds the shame deeper while her gloved hand slaps his nuts in time with her hips. The sounds are wet, desperate, loud against the cinder-block walls. She grabs his hair, yanks his head back, and growls what a worthless fuck he is—how he’ll take whatever she gives. Sweat slides down his ribs. His cock leaks without permission. She edges him twice, then palms his balls hard until he whimpers, collapses, and splatters across his own belly. She leaves him bound, dripping, used again, while she lights a cigarette and watches the smoke curl above his ruined body.