Molly's First Time

Molly shows up tight and trembling. She's never been filmed like this. The ropes bite first, pulling her open while her pulse hammers in her throat. One wrong twitch and the cattle prod answers with a crack that lights up her ass. She jerks, curses, and learns fast: stay still, speak sweet, or burn. Electricity follows. Clamps pinch her nipples until she hisses; the violet wand dances down her belly, snapping blue arcs that make her thighs quiver. They push her deeper, folding her into a stall, hips canted over cold porcelain. The fist comes next, thick and relentless, working past the tight ring until her whole body shudders around it. Every inch stretches her, every withdrawal leaves her empty and desperate. She moans, drools, takes it. The scene cuts close on sweat-slick skin, rope burns, and the slick slide of a hand vanishing inside her. Molly leaves wrecked, marked, and already hungry for more.