Olivia

Olivia sits in the chair at forty plus, her body no stranger to rope. Blonde hair spills over the leather gag that stretches her mouth wide. They’ve cinched her wrists behind the backrest, ankles lashed to the legs, chest harness biting across her tits with every breath. The gag keeps her quiet while the flogger lands—short, hot strokes across her thighs, then her breasts. Rope marks rise fast. She arches, sweats, takes it. The next strike is harder. She groans behind the gag. The room is dim, the tension thick. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t need to. Every lash tells her she’s exactly where she belongs.