Sex slave: Cindee

Cindee peeled off her clothes in the humid stillness of the locker room, her pale skin catching the fluorescent light. She didn’t know Lee was watching from the shadows. A small, perfect branch of hazel lay in the taller woman’s palm. Its green skin had been peeled back, raw and pale and springy. When Cindee’s last scrap of underwear hit the tile, Lee moved. The branch cut the air with a low whistle before the first strike lit up across the girl’s ass. Cindee yelped and clutched at herself. The second blow chased the first before the pain even settled, then the third and fourth arrived in a steady, brutal rhythm. Each snap left a thin red line that raised instantly. By the sixth stroke her knees buckled and she sobbed openly. Still the hazel danced, licking at thighs, calves, the tender undersides of her arms when she tried to cover herself, relentless and exact.