Isabella Soprano and Isis Love

Isabella’s on her knees, wrists snugged behind her back, chest pushed forward. Isis crouches over her, gloved fingers tugging rope between the brunette’s thick thighs. The knot sinks hard into her cunt; Isabella gasps, tries to lift her hips away, but the line only pulls tighter. Every shift grinds the hemp deeper. Sweat already beads along her collarbone. Nipple clamps bite next—sharp, shining steel jaws snapping onto each dark tip. Isabella jerks, breath hissing through her teeth. Isis doesn’t soothe; she tugs the connecting chain, just enough to make the girl’s back arch in a perfect bow. Then the wand appears. Pressed flat to the rope that splits her, it thrums to life. Vibration shoots straight through cotton and flesh, straight to her clit. Isabella’s thighs tremble. Her moan cracks into a whimper, then a ragged plea. Isis keeps her there—helpless, dripping—switching between the wand and a gloved hand wrapped around her throat. When she finally loosens the crotchrope, it’s only to slide two fingers inside, thumb still working the swollen nub above. Isabella comes hard, hips jerking, clamps flashing with every spasm. Isis isn’t finished. She shoves Isabella onto her back, legs spread and tied wide, and climbs on. Mouth to mouth, cunt to cunt, she rides the bound girl until her own climax rolls through her, low and guttural. Sweat-slick skin sticks; rope creaks. When Isis finally pulls away, Isabella is glassy-eyed, chest heaving, every inch of her marked by rope and teeth and the shine of her own slick. She said she hates the rope and the clamps. Her dripping cunt tells a different story.