Anna Mills and Molly Matthews

Anna Mills sits strapped to a chair, wrists lashed behind her. Molly Matthews stuffs a fat red ball between her teeth and cinches the strap until it bites. The thick gag turns the air thick and muffled. Anna fights it, drool already sliding down her chin, but Molly keeps working the buckles tighter. When the leather holds, the wild light in Anna's eyes dims to something hungrier. She starts grinding her hips against nothing. Molly doesn't waste time. She steps back, grabs a second gag—bit this time—and forces the hard rod between Anna's teeth. The steel bar keeps her jaw stretched wide while leather thongs lock behind her head. Drool drips heavier. Anna's hips rock harder, thighs tense, thighs spread. Molly watches the leather bite Anna's lip and decides to push further. She reaches down, slips a gloved hand between Anna's legs, and flips the switch on the little machine clipped to the chair seat. The auto-pussy-whipper starts its steady, stinging rhythm. Leather tongue flicks Anna's clit again and again. Anna jerks, moans through the gag, and the moan turns into a low, wet growl. Her eyes roll. Every time she tries to speak, the ball or the bit turns the words into strangled spit and broken noise. The whip keeps working. Anna can't think straight. She can only feel the gag keeping her quiet and the leather slapping her open cunt until her legs shake and her breath comes out in short, desperate grunts.