Getting The Devil Out

Certain girls wake up every sadistic nerve I’ve got. Violet just made the list. She looked me in the eye and asked to be torn apart, so I gave her exactly what she begged for. First I truss her tight, ropes biting her wrists, ankles spread, body open. I test her: one hard clamp, one sharp slap, and she doesn’t flinch; she leans into it. That green light tells me she means every filthy word. From there the scene turns brutal. I mark her skin with cane and flogger until welts rise deep and purple, then I bury every inch of my cock in her stretched hole, pounding while the welts throb. She shakes, drools, begs for more, and I give it. Every orgasm rips through her like an electric current, one after another, until her legs buckle and her voice cracks. Still she smiles—wrecked, soaked, shaking with aftershocks. That’s why Violet earns a permanent spot on the list: she can take the worst I have and come out grinning.