Katja and Chanta-Rose

Katja needed the job. She would drop to her knees, crawl, open up. Chanta-Rose took full measure. The brunette gave the blonde orders that turned the treatment room into a private cell. 2002. Katja stayed in uniform while Chanta tied her wrists to the steel rail at the foot of the exam table. Rope bit the pale skin. Legs spread wide, Katja felt the air hit wet skin before Chanta’s gloved fingers pushed deeper. The first finger slipped past the tight ring. Katja gasped, thighs trembling. Chanta worked in a second, twisted, watched the muscles fight and then yield. When the black plug replaced her fingers Katja’s breath came in short bursts. The blonde’s head rolled back against the thin mattress. Chanta locked the leather collar around her throat and clipped the short leash to the table. Every tug reminded Katja who paid the rent. The brunette leaned in close, whispered one more command, and Katja obeyed without hesitation.