Hacienda Takedown

Silvia Saige stuffs bills into a duffel like she can outrun a bullet. Tommy Pistol kicks the door in and the exit plan dies right there. They dig the gun out of her waistband and stacks of cash from under the mattress, but she knows where the rest is hiding and Tommy isn’t leaving without it. She spits in his face. He grins, wipes the saliva across her cheek, and shoves his cock straight down her throat. No warm-up, just raw gagging until strings of spit and black mascara slide over her chin. Every time she coughs he drives deeper, until her big tits bounce and the nipple clamps bite. Still nothing. So he straps rope around her wrists and thighs, pins her face-down on the mattress, and goes to work. Hard slaps, leather flogger, then the head of his cock splitting her pussy. She curses, jerks, but the ropes keep her spread. Tommy pulls out, presses the wet tip to her asshole, and sinks in slow. Her breath catches; the stretch drags a broken moan out of her. He pumps until her rim grips him like she’s trying to keep him there. When she still won’t talk he pulls the Hitachi, presses it hard against her clit while his dick saws in and out of her ass, and watches her start to shake. She’s locked in the attic now—heels dangling, crotch-rope sawing between swollen lips, arms stretched to the rafters. The vibe and the flogger take turns until her thighs tremble and every slap makes her drip down the inside of her legs. Close. Real close. Later he drags her back to the bed, wrists cinched, legs spread so wide her hips ache. He fucks her ass until she begs, flips to her cunt, then back again, never giving her a second to catch air. She’s dripping, clenching, eyes wild. When he finally pulls out and paints her tits, she’s hoarse from screaming his name. Silvia still hasn’t said where the money is—but she’s stopped saying no.