Cleo Dubois and Slave Dove

Cleo Dubois shows up in leather and takes one hard look at Slave Dove. Rope bites into Dove’s wrists before she can think twice. Cleo rolls her onto her belly, pulls her ankles back, and knots them to her wrists until her body arches like a bow. Every tug makes Dove gasp around the fat red ball gag jammed between her teeth. The blonde shakes, drool already sliding down her chin, and Cleo smiles without warmth. She picks up the cane. The first stroke lands across Dove’s thighs and leaves a stripe that blooms red on pale skin. More strokes follow—sharp, measured—turning the blonde’s ass and legs into a map of welts. Dove strains, muscles locked, unable to dodge or plead. Cleo pauses only to run gloved fingers over the raised lines, pressing until Dove whimpers. Sweat shines on both women. The air is thick with heat and the soft thud of rattan meeting flesh. Cleo never hurries; she draws each blow out, letting the sting sink in. Slave Dove’s muffled sounds grow louder, rawer, until the studio seems to vibrate with them. Cleo leans close, breath steady, eyes bright, and raises the cane again.