Annie Cruz, Sil and Sir C

Annie Cruz is already working a fresh piece of meat. She pins Sil down, stretches his arms, cinches his ankles—rope and steel turning him into her private toy. His cock and balls hang exposed, twitching under the first solid smack of the paddle. She keeps the rhythm steady: slap, pause, slap again, watching his sac jump and redden. Every hit pulls a short, raw grunt out of him. She adds teasing strokes between the blows, just enough to make the ache throb, then pulls away before he can chase it. She moves the paddle higher, lighter, drumming over his length until the skin burns hot. A soft feather follows—Annie trails it across the sore spots, making him twitch and squirm against the ropes. She finds the places that make him laugh through gritted teeth, then slides the feather lower, brushing his balls while her free hand tightens the leather cuff around his shaft. He jerks, half-laugh, half-moan, and she smiles without humor. When she trades the feather for the flogger, the first heavy tails land across his chest, then his thighs, each strike louder than the last. His skin mottles fast. Sweat beads at his hairline. Sil is panting now, cock still hard despite the punishment. Annie climbs over him, takes that thick length in her fist, and lines it up with her own strap-on. She pushes in slow, inch by inch, making him feel every ridge until her hips meet his ass. His eyes go wide; she keeps him right there, filled and stretched, letting the ache settle in before she starts to thrust. Each stroke rocks his bound body, rubbing his sore balls against her strap harness. She leans in, bites his ear, and whispers that he’s not allowed to come until she says. Then she rides him harder, pushing deeper, turning every denial into another layer of torment.