Showing Her The Ropes

Carrie stands pinned to the door, eyes round as dinner plates. Victoria is moving across the country. Gone. Like that. And who else ever put cuffs on Carrie just right and left her trembling in seconds flat? Nobody. But Victoria’s already on it, recruiting Rachel, her quick-study coworker, for a crash course before the suitcase shuts. They double-team her in under a minute—upper arms taped high to the frame, knees forced wide, the cool wood holding her upright so every twitch shows. The floggers crack in sync, one landing after the other, peppered by Victoria’s offhanded color commentary: “She hates when you miss the shoulders, loves when the tips barely catch the nipples.” Carrie jolts, wet cunt clenching at the air; Rachel takes the cue and brings the next strike low and bite-sharp until the skin bloomed pink across Carrie’s breasts and stomach. Then it’s edging: three rubber-tipped vibes cycling on her clit, never resting long enough. Orgasm creeps, Rachel yanks the power back, Carrie whimpers but her arms can’t drop an inch. By the third denied peak, her words break into please-please babble, eyes glassy. The real test arrives last—Rachel slicking a strap while Victoria coaches. She slides inside Carrie’s ass in one lazy thrust, and Victoria nods, murmuring pointers about depth and angle. Each pump rocks Carrie’s ribcage against the door; when she lets the first raw moan spill out, both dommes grin like teachers who just proved a theory.