Bobbi Starr starts off the New Year screaming in orgasm

Bobbi steps in dressed for the boardroom, suit sharp, hair tight, lips painted. That look lasts three seconds. I grab her, rip the jacket open, yank the blouse apart. Buttons scatter. The skirt tears at the seam. Underneath she is naked already—no underwear to hide behind. Her nipples get the first clamp, metal teeth digging in, the weight swinging as she twists. Her wrists are pulled high behind her, elbows crushed together, forcing her chest out like an offering. She tries to stand straight. I kick her legs wider, rope her ankles back to her wrists until her spine bows and her ass juts. Another clamp bites the soft skin of her inner thigh. A third finds her clit hood. She jerks, a sharp cry cuts off when the ball gag straps between her teeth. The first orgasm hits fast. Her thighs shake, drool spills down her chin, and her eyes roll white. I add more rope—chest harness, single thigh, pulling her knee higher so she balances on one leg. Sweat runs between her breasts. She cums again, louder, the sound strangled by the gag. Her face is flushed, mascara streaks, but the beauty stays. Every scream looks expensive. The clock rolls into the new year while she hangs there, jerking through the third climax, breath hissing through her nose, body shining under the lights. She wanted this. The marks on her skin say so.