Stocked Superslut Part One Sybil Hawthorne

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Maybe occasionally he wonders why he luvs to hurt them. The women. Why he luvs to make them not fairly human. With this one, he's decided he'll immobilize her mouth, thereby immobilizing her flesh. Because her skin manages him, those orbs that he trusses so taut they balloon. He hits them. Tweaks them. Frothy slobber spills down her chin. She squirms. She screams. And then he plays with her nub and she prays for it. She moans. And when she comes, she bellows again. It's not that different - the pain and the pleasure. And besides, maybe he luvs the screams. He screws her gullet to the floor. He whips her. He crops her. Raunchy marks crisscross all over her body, spiking her into the never never land of love. Her twat swells. She's lost all sense. She's hysterical. He smacks her booty till it's crimson like a baboon in heat. Unspoiled animal. Unspoiled flesh. Unspoiled love. The stocks are made of gigantic wood, heavy. They hold her wrists and neck. She's shackled to a post. This is how people go mad. Because there's no relief. No end. Nothing but the unrelenting pain of being alive. He catapults food into her gullet until she overflows. She attempts her best. But it will never be enough. Not for her or for him. At some point he'll make it worse. It always gets worse. Because he's restless. So he rambles about, held in thrall, lost in her garden of misery.