Attending the charity gala had been Sandra’s idea. A chance to wear the crimson and navy satin cocktail dresses they’d bought together, to let the silk whisper against their stockinged thighs. Whitney had complained about the pantyhose Sandra insisted upon, the way the sheer nylon compressed her calves, the seam riding up her cleft. Sandra only smiled, silver hair catching the chandelier light, and promised the evening would end memorably.
She had not lied.
The Brute waited in the parking garage. Broad-shouldered, silent, his bald skull gleaming under the sodium vapor lamps. He moved like something engineered, no words, no wasted motion. Sandra’s silver heels scraped concrete as he lifted her. Whitney’s red stilettos kicked once, twice, then went still.
They woke in his warehouse. Cinder block walls. The gantry crane overhead, its metal bar spanning the room like a surgical instrument. The mattress was clean, white, absurdly domestic against the industrial filth. Their dresses still clung to their curves, satin bunched and wrinkled from rough handling. Their pantyhose had been dragged down, the nylon pooling around their bound ankles, leaving their shaved cunts exposed to the cold air.
Balltied. That was the word Sandra’s mind supplied, watching Whitney beside her, both of them on their backs, legs hoisted vertical by tan ropes that bit into their thighs and tethered them to the crane above. Their arms wrenched behind them, wrists lashed to the platform’s edges. Gray tape sealed their mouths, stretching tight across Whitney’s tattooed shoulder blades, across Sandra’s tanned jaw.
The Brute stood between their suspended legs. His black shirt strained across shoulders that looked capable of tearing the satin from their bodies. He held two black wand vibrators, their cords trailing to some unseen power source. He did not speak. He had not spoken once.
Whitney’s crimson dress had ridden up her hips, exposing the pale flesh her pantyhose no longer covered. Her medium breasts heaved against the satin, nipples stiff and visible, areola darkening the fabric. Sandra felt her own navy dress doing the same, her larger breasts spilling slightly at the neckline, her darker areola pressing insistently against the blue silk. Her silver heels dangled above her, ridiculous and obscene, the platform soles catching the light.
File name: ssilv_3700-914-Ben-Sandra-Whitney-balltie-orgasms.mp4
File size: 473 MiB
Duration: 13 min 41 s
Format: MPEG-4
Resolution: 1920×1080
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