On balance she is having a good day.
The pain and pleasure divide. Or divine marriage. The struggle and the gasps belie the symphony of sexual stimulus from all her interfaces. The slavegirl cunt is happy thanks to the unforgiving and deliciously tight cunt rope. The nipples are worshipping the caress of the whip and her breasts are delighted to offer them up for more. Maybe jealous of the attention. But all her hucow interfaces, they are all feeding into her inevitable orgasm if her master decides to allow her. Maybe he will just carry on until she does. Allowed or not. And then punish her into another one.
Was she a masochist?
It matters not. Her body and mind are being conditioned. Conditioned to understand that the whip is her greatest lover and the hand that swings it, is the hand of her lord, and the hand the rules her world.
After being whipped into an orgasm like she has never had before, one, two, ten or twenty times, whatever it takes, she will be forever equating the whipping of her breasts while a tight cunt rope rubs her senseless, with a primeval draw towards sexual servitude and submission.
Ready, willing and able to leave behind the world outside and exchange it for the world inside. Inside the bedroom with the four poster and the door with key always on the outside, or even the torture chamber down below.
Her last act of freedom, packing up all her clothes for the charity shop. All except her high heeled shoes and her beloved cunt rope.
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
areudirty
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
