Her Body, Her Pain!

Lyla Storm hangs spread-eagle, wrists and ankles chained wide. The Pope clips a heavy chain to her cunt lips and clips two bowling balls at the end. Every twitch drops fresh weight across her raw slit. She strains, muscles locked, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Sweat runs in streaks down her ribs while the chain sways and tugs. Next he strings her into a partial suspension, one knee pulled high, the other leg anchored wide. Her cunt stays open, shiny and exposed. He crops the soft inner thighs until the skin flushes dark, then slides the tip across her swollen clit, making her jerk and the ropes creak. Every strike lands sharp and exact, each one a new jolt straight through her core. In the final tie her limbs are drawn tight behind her back, chest forced forward, ass up. The Pope peppers her with wooden clothespins—nipples, cunt lips, the tender crease beneath each ass cheek. He flicks them one by one, watching her whole body snap against the ropes, every sharp release of pain leaving her panting, dripping, utterly at his mercy.