shy love and Wild Bill

Wild Bill should’ve known better. Left alone in Mistress Shy Love’s dungeon, the little shit digs through the laundry, finds a pair of her worn panties, and presses them to his face like a starved man. He sniffs deep, then drags his tongue over the damp crotch. Next he grabs one of her leather boots, cold and slick, and rubs the stiletto heel right across his balls, pressing until the ache turns electric. Mistress walks in mid-moan. One second he’s grinding. The next he’s slammed face-down on the rack, wrists buckled, ass up. She doesn’t waste words. She yanks his legs wider, spits on his hole, and drives her strap-on straight in. Each thrust knocks a grunt out of him while she reaches around, wrapping her fist around his cock and flogging the shaft in hard, stinging strokes. Leather lashes lick his skin, sharp enough to make him jerk and clench down on the thick silicone buried inside him. She rides him faster, hips snapping, boots planted, never letting up until the air reeks of sweat, leather, and spent lust.