Chanta-Rose and Rachel

Rachel moves like a slut who knows the clock is running out. Every swing of her hips pushes the line further, red hair sticking to sweat-slick skin as she drops into a crouch that opens her up for anyone watching. Chanta-Rose stands behind her, arms folded, waiting until the little Finnish girl gets too bold. Then she steps in. Rope first. Rachel’s wrists are yanked behind her back, elbows pulled tight until her shoulders strain. She keeps smiling, that same fuck-me grin, until Chanta-Rose shoves a thick plug between her cheeks and works it in without warning. Rachel gasps, knees buckling, but the rope holds. Next come the strikes. A crop snaps across her ass, then lower, catching the backs of her thighs. The sound cracks sharp in the room and Rachel jerks, red welts blooming instantly. Chanta-Rose doesn’t pause. She bends the girl over a padded bench, spreads her legs wider than comfort allows, and canes the upturned ass until the flesh jumps and Rachel’s breath turns ragged. When the cane clatters to the floor, Chanta-Rose’s gloved fingers replace it, prying Rachel open again and driving the plug deeper with each thrust. Rachel moans through clenched teeth, hips bucking despite the restraints. Chanta-Rose leans close, voice low, telling her she’s nowhere near done. Another stripe lands before Rachel can answer.