Kylie Wilde and Chanta-Rose

Kylie pushes open the bedroom door and the moment it clicks shut behind her, Chanta-Rose has her pinned. Blonde hair spills over her eyes as Chanta-Rose yanks the robe cord free, strips it down Kylie’s arms, and shoves her onto the mattress. A length of rope comes out of nowhere. Wrists crossed, ankles spread, Kylie is lashed open on Liz’s bed in seconds. Chanta-Rose drags the tip of the cattle prod across Kylie’s inner thigh, slow, letting the cold metal wake every nerve. One tap and the jolt slams through her, a white flash that jerks her whole body. Another spark lands right on her nipple and she cries out, thighs twitching, the mattress already damp beneath her. Chanta-Rose gives her no room to breathe. She swings a leather strap across Kylie’s ass, the crack loud in the quiet house, then another across the backs of her thighs. Red stripes rise fast. When Kylie starts to beg, Chanta-Rose only grins and works the prod between her spread cheeks. One kiss of current against her asshole and Kylie’s back arches hard. The strap keeps falling, steady and mean. Each strike lands with a wet slap on punished skin, each shock makes her sob louder. Chanta-Rose circles the swollen hole with the metal again, presses, holds, waits for the next scream before she even thinks about sliding anything inside. By the time she finally pushes two fingers into Kylie’s ass, the blonde is shaking so hard the headboard knocks the wall. Sweat and spit soak the sheets. Chanta-Rose never stops moving, never stops hitting, never stops shocking, driving Kylie straight past the point where pain and pleasure blur into one raw, desperate sound.