Fair Trade

Isabella Nice gets caught selling overpriced junk. Derrick storms in pissed about the money, ready to make a scene. Instead of cash, she slides out from behind the counter and offers the kind of payback that comes with rope and bruises. He eyes the bench and asks what the hell it’s for. She answers by peeling up her skirt, climbing onto the wood, thighs spread around the padded leather. Red lace rides up the curve of her ass, and that’s enough to hush him. Fifteen grand buys more than an apology. She strips down, lets him clamp her nipples, stuff a ball-gag between her teeth, and lash her spread-eagle to the cross. The crop snaps across her thighs, her tits, her ass, turning every slap into a red stripe. He teases her with the zapper, making her flinch before the spark lands, then buries the Hitachi between her legs until her juices drip down her thighs. She strains against the rope, desperate to come; he denies her twice just to hear her whine. When he finally lets her drop to her knees, she takes his cock like it’s part of the deal—deep, sloppy, gagging until spit strings from her chin. He ties her bent over the bench again, slides a cold steel hook up her ass, and leaves her stretched and waiting. First he fucks her cunt, pounding hard enough to rattle the frame, smacking her ass redder with every thrust while she gasps thank-yous around the gag. A dragon-tail whip licks across the same skin, sharp and mean, then he yanks the hook free and shoves his cock straight into her ass. She shudders, right on the edge. Last position: flat on her back, ankles cuffed wide. He flogs her pussy, fingers her until she’s begging, then slams back inside both holes, choking her, slapping her tits, using her until she’s shaking. She pleads for his load; he gives it to her across her open mouth and flushed cheeks, leaving her wrecked and smiling.