In a Montreal Dungeon

Goddess Starla’s new dungeon in Montreal smells like cold stone and hot skin. Ava’s already in the cage. Knees spread, wrists bound, nothing on but sweat. Starla circles her, crop in hand, tapping the bars—sharp, deliberate. Ava flinches each time. Starla drags the leather tip across her tits, then snaps it down on a nipple. Ava gasps. Next comes the glass. Starla sets it on Ava’s lower back like she’s furniture, not flesh. Every sip she takes, she pauses to strike—crop biting thighs, ass, the soft crease where leg meets hip. Ava tries to stay still. Her arms shake. The drink spills anyway. Starla laughs once, low. The cage stays locked until Ava’s trembling too hard to hold anything upright. Only then does Starla unlatch the door. Ava crawls out on elbows and knees, marked red from shoulders to calves. Starla doesn’t give her time to breathe. She bends her over the stone hearth—heat still rising from last night’s fire—and lays into her bare ass with an open palm. The slaps echo. Ava’s pussy glistens. Starla slides two fingers in without warning, fucks her hard, knuckles slapping wet skin. Ava moans, head down, hips jerking. Starla keeps going until Ava’s legs give out, until the only sounds left are skin on skin and the crackle of dying embers.