Diabolic Revelation

Krysta stands locked in steel. A chain pins her cunt to the floor. The metal bites every time she tries to straighten. Hands tear at her dress until nothing covers her small frame. Red welts already mark her skin. Then the frame moves. Her arms are yanked higher, her ankles forced wider. The chain pulls tight. Pain spikes through her core. She gasps, then howls, but the device keeps turning, dragging her onto her toes until the chain drags fire across her clit. The back bend comes next. Her spine bows until her ribs stretch like wires. Her cunt hangs open, slick and throbbing. The first cane lands across her inner thigh. Then a crop. Then a flogger with braided tails. Each strike finds a new patch of skin already burning. She shrieks, voice cracking, the sound ricocheting off stone walls. Every sensitive inch is worked over until she can barely catch air between screams. They set her on the narrow perch, legs spread, cunt aimed down. Omega pushes inside and starts to thrust. Slow at first, then faster. Her thighs shake. Her head drops. The machine punches harder, deeper, until wet sounds fill the room. Her eyes lose focus. Spit trails from her lip. She stops forming words. Just raw, broken noises as her body jerks and the perch grows slick beneath her.