Stocked Tart

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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 determined he'll immobilize her mouth, thereby immobilizing her flesh. Because her skin manages him, those breasts that he binds so taut they balloon. He hammers them. Tweaks them. Frothy spit bursts down her chin. She squirms. She screams. And then he plays with her sheer pleasure button and she begs for it. She moans. And when she comes, she groans again. It's not that different - the agony and the pleasure. And besides, maybe he luvs the screams. He drills her gullet to the floor. He whips her. He flogs her. Raunchy marks crisscross all over her body, spiking her into the never never land of love. Her vag swells. She's lost all sense. She's hysterical. He smacks her ass till it's crimson like a baboon in heat. Unspoiled animal. Unspoiled flesh. Unspoiled love. The stocks are made of giant 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 agony of being alive. He sticks food into her gullet until she overflows. She tries 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 roams about, restricted in thrall, lost in her garden of misery.