Dusty and Torque

Torque calls himself a bit of a bastard. Right now he proves it. Dusty’s mouth is stretched around a thick ball gag, spit already sliding down her chin. He’s got her locked inside a steel cage, wrists cuffed behind her back, knees spread and tied to the bars. Blonde hair sticks to her damp forehead as she breathes hard through her nose. He steps in close, slow, enjoying the view. Dusty’s eyes flick up—half fear, half heat. He taps the cage bar with a riding crop, then slides it between her legs, pressing the leather up against her. She tries to close her thighs, but the ropes hold her open. Torque smirks. He’s only getting started. He leans down, voice low. "Thought you could keep up? Let’s see how long that mouth stays pretty when it’s stuffed." Dusty’s breath catches. He straightens, runs the crop along her inner thigh, then strikes—sharp, sudden. She jolts against the cage, metal rattling. Torque watches every twitch, every muffled sound. His sadistic streak is in full swing, and Dusty’s got nowhere left to hide.