Burning, tearing stretched and beaten with straps and belts a cunt is meant to be treated with pain.
Hold it open while I line up the riding crop for your clit, shaking legs and terror filled eyes, pleading uselessly, you know it’s going to happen again, the rush of air, the slap, the howl, doubling up all the muscles tight with the scream and then you hold it open again and it’s so much worse with each stroke.
It’s not love-hate, it’s just hate you say, crying.
Hate and pain and fear and screams.
Your cunt, red and swollen, bruised and torn. Is there anything more romantic?
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