Turning The Paige: Chapter Seven

Mistress Paige’s silk blouse clung to her skin, soaked through from the spill. Ami froze, glass still trembling in her hand. She dropped to her knees and tried to blot the water away with shaking fingers, but the damage was done. Paige’s voice cut the silence: clothes off, now. Ami stripped, bare skin already flushed under the lights. Doc stepped in close, spreading her open. The cold metal bite of the labia clamps made her hiss, then he fastened the heavy bell between her thighs. Paige gave it a sharp tug. The clang echoed across the room, marking every twitch. Doc raised the cane. The first strike landed across her ass with a clean, vicious snap. Each swing came faster, the bell swinging wild, its ring cutting through Ami’s choked cries. Paige kept hold of the bell’s handle, her wrist giving quick flicks that forced Ami’s hips to jerk. Red welts bloomed. Sweat slid down the curve of her ass. When the cane clattered to the floor, the paddle took its place—broad, heavy, unforgiving. Each thud drove the clamps deeper, the bell still clanging like a countdown. Finally, Paige let the toys drop. She shoved Ami onto her back and climbed over her, thighs pinning the trembling girl to the mat. Mouth on mouth, fingers sliding between bruised folds. Paige’s tongue worked hard, relentless, until the only sound left was the wet slap of skin and the ragged breath of both women coming apart.