Claire Adams and Rick Hunt

Claire’s already on him. Rick Hunt flat on the concrete basement floor, ropes biting into his shoulders and thighs. She kneels close, breath on his ear, asking questions that don’t have right answers. Every flinch earns him a shock—electrodes taped to quads, ass, the head of his cock—and she smiles when he yelps, like it’s exactly what she wanted. She cinches the ropes tighter, pulls the whip from her belt, and starts painting red lines across his back and ass. When his answers still aren’t good enough, she lubes up, straddles him, and drives the strap-on deep. He’s grunting, begging, voice cracking under her orders. She keeps going until the pleading bores her, then shoves his cock through a wall hole and switches on the machine. The sleeve starts stroking, relentless. Claire sits back with the remote in one hand, eyes bright, voice still working him while his hips jerk and he spills against his will.