Dana DeArmond and Phoebe

Dana DeArmond grins like a cat with a fresh mouse. I give her Phoebe, wide-eyed redhead, untouched. The cage door slams. Phoebe shrinks. Dana shoves the cattle prod between her ribs. Crack. Phoebe jerks. Dana grinds down on the shock, breath sharp, chasing her own climax until her body shakes. Only then does she drag the gag between Phoebe’s teeth, buckle it tight, and spread her open. One finger, two. Phoebe moans around the ball. Dana works deeper, slower now, every thrust calculated. She watches Phoebe shake and beg without words. When the cuffs lock and the toy goes in, Dana’s eyes never leave the redhead’s face. She wants her coming apart on her terms.