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The ropes bite deep into my wrists and ankles, rough hemp scraping raw against my skin as I’m hogtied on the cold concrete floor. My back arches, forcing my heavy, swollen tits to jut out obscenely, nipples hard and aching from the chill air and the constant, low thrum of arousal pooling in my fat cunt.
A thick rubber ball gag stretches my jaws wide, tasting of latex and my own saliva, which drips steadily down my chin to stain the bare skin of my throat. I can’t speak, can’t beg—only moan around the gag, a broken, needy sound that seems to please him.
He stands over me, silhouette framed by the dim bulb swinging overhead in his garage, the scent of motor oil and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes rake over my body—my fat ass lifted high in the air, the cheeks spread wide by the position, my cunt lips slick and parted, dripping onto the floor beneath me. “Look at you,” he rumbles, voice low and dangerous. “Such a pretty slut, all trussed up and waiting.” His hand lashes out, not hesitating. SMACK. The flat of his palm connects hard with my left asscheek, the impact sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure straight to my clit. I jerk against the ropes, a muffled whimper escaping the gag as heat blooms where he struck.
SMACK. Again, harder this time, on the other side. My ass jiggles violently, the fat rippling, and I can feel my cunt clench involuntarily, desperate for more. Each slap leaves a fiery sting, then a deep, throbbing ache that makes me push back instinctively, seeking the next blow.
His other hand finds my throat suddenly, fingers squeezing tight—not cutting off air completely, but enough to make my vision swim, the edges going dark. I gasp through my nose, nostrils flaring, chest heaving as I fight to draw breath past the constriction. My tits swing wildly with each shallow pant, the nipples dragging against the rough concrete with every spasm. “Breathe for me, slut,” he orders, voice dropping to a whisper that curls around my ear like a promise. “Or I’ll make you pass out with my cock buried in your throat.”
The threat sends a fresh gush of slick down my thighs, mixing with the sweat already slicking my inner thighs. I focus on the burn in my lungs, the way the pressure sharpens every other sensation—the rope biting my wrists, the gag stretching my mouth, the lingering fire on my ass.
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