Target Practice

Tawni’s body is strapped spread-eagle to cold steel. A clear harness gag stretches her mouth, smearing lipstick across her cheeks. The dress comes off with a knife, quick and brutal. Clothespins bite her breasts, pink targets for the single-tail that snaps across them again and again. Her breathing goes shallow fast. Cyd clips weights to her nipples and watches her chest heave. Then he yanks her hair back, knots it to the chains behind the chair, forcing her face toward the ceiling in a hard, arched line. The cane lands lighter than she expects, but the vibrator is merciless. She comes hard, body locked, scream muffled by rubber and spit. When the orgasm fades, he clamps her nose upward and ties the clamp off, leaving her staring at the lights, nostrils flared, drool sliding down her throat. She stays like that—marked, humiliated, still twitching—until Cyd decides she’s ready for the next position. Later she’s hog-tied on a low box, wrists to ankles, rolled onto her side. Thick poles fill her cunt and ass, locking her down. An eroscillator buzzes on her clit, pleasure turning sharp and unbearable when it doesn’t stop. To chase the pain away she rocks against the dildo fixed on the pike in front of her, fucking herself in short, desperate strokes. One orgasm folds into another until her whole body shakes, limp and soaked, nothing left but the sound of her own helpless breathing.