Property of Chanel Preston

Mia Austin drops to her knees like she was made for it. She presses her mouth to Chanel Preston's heel and licks, slow at first, then hungry, tongue tracing every inch of skin. Chanel watches, lips curled, one hand gripping the back of Mia's neck, guiding her where she wants. Soon Mia's tongue slides higher, working its way between those slick lips, tasting, sucking, breathing Chanel in like she needs it to live. Chanel doesn't wait for permission. She pushes Mia onto the bench, straps her wrists, spreads her thighs. Then the floggers come out. Heavy leather cracks across bare skin, leaving streaks of heat. The cane follows, sharp and deliberate, every strike measured, every flinch catalogued. Feet bare, soles up—Chanel beats those too, bastinado until Mia's toes curl and her moans turn ragged. Clothespins snap down one after another, a cruel dotted line from nipples to cunt. When the zipper rips away, Mia screams, thighs shaking. Chanel doesn't slow down. She fists her instead, sinks in deep, works her open until she's dripping down her wrist. Then the strap-on comes out—thick, relentless—stretching pussy first, then pushing past that tight ring into her ass. Chanel fucks her like she owns her, because she does. Mia takes every inch, body jerking, mouth open, wrecked and grateful for it.