Sex slave: Rita Cross

Rita Cross struck me as a nasty little pig the moment I saw her, the kind of sub who could take pain and make it feel like she craved more. I’m the dom who gives her both until her moans shift from protest to helpless need. She shivered through a partial suspension, weight balanced on the balls of her feet for what felt endless, every hour stretching her calves, burning the arch, thighs trembling. When I sensed the edge near collapse I cut the ropes and let her crumple at my feet. Exhausted, her skin glazed, she barely managed to stay open when I fisted her cunt—full hand, knuckles slipping past the tight ring until her walls clenched and shook. I took more, worked deeper, dragged raw cries from her slack mouth. Her juices coated my wrist while her knees slid wider on the floor, trying to give everything.