Housemaid's Revenge

Beretta James struts through her mansion like she owns every inch of flesh inside it. Lorelei scrubs on hands and knees, bare under the uniform because Beretta forbade panties. When the scrub brush slows, Beretta hits her with the cattle prod—quick jolt, sharp yelp, wet streak on the marble. Lorelei’s had enough. She waits until Beretta’s poured her evening drink, then slips the same prod under those silk skirts. One zap and the rich bitch drops. Now the ropes bite deep. Beretta hangs, wrists straining, toes barely grazing the floor while Lorelei slaps sticky pads on her nipples and the pale curve of her ass. Current sizzles. Beretta jerks, tits bouncing, ass clenching around nothing yet. Lorelei drops her onto all fours, knots rope at the small of her back so it cinches tighter every time Beretta strains. Tongue goes to work first—Lorelei spreads, Beretta licks like it’s her last meal, chin shiny. Then the harness comes out. Thick strap-on rams in without mercy, hips slapping skin already marked by volts. The electric plug slides next, cold steel parting her cheeks, then the switch flips and it hums to life inside her ass. Beretta’s moans climb an octave. Lorelei adds her fist—gloved in conductive rubber, knuckles sinking into a cunt that’s dripping despite everything—while both holes pulse with current. Each shock makes her walls flutter around leather and latex. Revenge tastes like ozone and sweat, and Beretta learns it on her knees.