7!!
Tall and dark-haired, 711 comes to Insex looking for “the best.” She’s on the hunt for pain, which she finds in abundance. Her ordeal unwinds like a novel. You’re drawn in, caught in the tangle. And 711 – she learns that there’s pain, and then there’s Insex. Her ankles are bound to her thighs. She’s wearing spike heels and tied in place that way, resting upon those painful shoes with her arms bent back over a pole and bound down. It has to be excruciating, the position. cyd reminds her of the night before, the beginning, and what he did to her. 711 took one hell of a beating. Bound flat on her stomach, she was spanked like a dirty little whore. But she suffered so lovely. Her full lips. Her dark mascara eyes. Then the flogging. First leather, then rubber. Whipped hard, whipped raw. He threatened her with the cattle prod and it was clear, her terror. No thank you, she said. But her dread was unmistakable. Instead, he made her count. Twenty wicked strokes. Teeth clenched. Fists clenched. No tears. Not yet. A cane. Rapping her sweet spot. The soles of her feet. Then the metal slasher ripped away at her soft white flesh, working slowly down one leg, then up the next. She roared with pain. She begged. He couldn’t care less. A spreader bar held her ankles apart. Her legs were elevated behind. cyd pulled her cunt open for inspection. An ass hook slipped into her hole, then tied to her beautiful dark hair. Her face showed concern, astonishment. As though she didn’t know, didn’t do her research into Insex quite enough. He fucked her cunt. She shivered. Nothing about it was pleasant. And then he smothered her with his hands. Her eyes glazed. Her face – so white. Beyond pale. 711 was gone. So now we return to 711 the next day, her weight resting on those spiked heels, her arms bound backwards, over a pole. The position is grueling, impossible. We watch her struggle. We watch her fail. She’s given water, made to reach for it. The straps of her dress are cut. Her neck and chest are gorgeous, strained. Clips pinch her breasts, her nostrils, her inner thighs. It’s target practice. The crack of a singletail brings that look back into her eyes, the “gone” look. Her whips her. She writhes. She screams. She disappears. 711 is way gone. Cyd removes the clips by hand. She can barely respond. A single drip of mascara runs from her eye. Her pussy is huge, breathtaking. Ungodly.