The Wrong Girl

Tommy Pistol wasn't supposed to take Marica Hase. Wrong girl. Wrong mountains. Doesn't matter now. He hauls the Asian cutie over his shoulder and dumps her in an abandoned cabin deep in the trees. Plaid skirt hiked, shiny black heels catching light, ankles and wrists lashed tight. No one for miles. He props her against a pole on the little stage, unbuttons the blouse, and her bare tits pop free. The ball gag forces thick ropes of drool down her chest, nipples shiny with spit. Lift the skirt—no panties. His fingers slide through wet pussy. She’s soaked. He finds a stash behind the bar. Floggers. Canes. Zapper. Marica picks cock over the zapper. Gag out. He rams down her throat, then stands her up and slams into her dripping cunt. Later he bends her in doggy, metal hook buried in her ass, tied back to her hair. Flogger snaps across her skin while he keeps fucking her. Hook comes out, goes straight into her mouth. Then he spreads her open and drives into her ass. She squeaks and chirps, those tiny doll noises getting louder with every thrust. She licks him clean, sucks his balls. Finally he flips her onto her back, one leg high, and works every hole until she cums hard and he paints her thighs white.