Phantom and Jasmine Byrne

Jasmine Byrne walks into the cell like she owns every inch of it. Black hair slicked back, attitude sharp as a blade. The rookie sits on the metal bench, hands cuffed behind him, uniform half-torn, cock already half-hard from fear and want. She doesn’t ask. She grabs him by the throat, pulls him forward, and drives her patrol stick between his legs just to watch him flinch. That’s how she plays. She makes him strip with his hands still bound, then shoves him face-down on the bench, ass up. The stick comes next. She works it in slow at first, one hand gripping his hip, the other controlling the pressure until his breathing breaks. She’s patient, relentless. When his moans turn desperate she swaps the stick for her strap, thicker, meaner, and starts fucking him in hard, measured strokes that rattle the bench against the wall. He comes without permission, thick ropes hitting the concrete, and she laughs once, low and satisfied. She doesn’t stop. She keeps driving until he’s shaking, then yanks him to his knees and plants her cunt on his mouth. He licks like his freedom depends on it. She grinds down, thighs flexing, until she comes with a sharp exhale and a fist in his hair. When she’s done she wipes herself on his face, cuffs him back to the bench, and leaves without looking back. The cell door slams. He’s still dripping.