Passion

She’s bent forward in that concrete room, wrists lashed high to a steel post behind her back. The rope bites, keeps her chest out, keeps her ass up. Nothing soft about it. She takes it the way she wants it. Mouth crammed open with a black ball gag that forces every breath into a wet, throaty sound. It shines when the light hits the drool sliding over her bottom lip. He moves behind her, leather strap coiled in his fist. He lets her feel the weight of it first, drags the folded length across her bare cheeks, lets her know what’s coming. Then he swings. The crack lands sharp, and her hips jolt forward against the post. Red blooms across skin that was pale seconds ago. She doesn’t flinch away. She pushes back for the next one. Another strike follows, harder, and the post groans with the sudden pull of her weight. Sweat gathers along her spine. The brunette strands that escape her ponytail cling to her neck. Every impact pushes another muffled sound past the gag, and the drool slips lower, wetting the swell of her tits. He pauses long enough to grip a handful of hair, yanking her head back so he can watch her eyes. They’re glassy, hungry, daring him to keep going. He does. Strap snaps again, lower this time, across the crease where thigh meets ass. She jerks, muscles flexing, fighting to stay upright. The rope creaks. Her thighs tremble. He lands three more in quick succession, each one burning deeper, and the room fills with the wet slap of leather on skin and the ragged pull of her breathing around that gag. When he finally stops, his palm replaces the strap, smoothing over the heat he’s raised. He presses two fingers between her legs, testing how soaked she is. She shudders. He laughs once, low, and brings the strap up again.