urophilia

The guard made sure the shower was ice cold.

Miel remained stoic, although Emma sensed her irritation, especially when she took out the horsehair glove and rubbed it over Emma's body as if she were getting ****.

Emma moaned, this roughness stimulating her sexually; the guard smiled, satisfied with their sado-masochistic interaction.

Emma forgot about Watson, her Hollywood alter-ego; she lived like never before in these situations where she was nothing more than a thing in their hands.

The horsehair glove scraped her skin, leaving scarlet streaks that blended with the icy water running down her body.

She gritted her teeth, but a shiver of pleasure ran through her loins when the guard, still silent, roughly grabbed the back of her neck, tilting her, and positioned her under the yellow, smelly, but warm jet coming from her sex.

-Swallow, he ordered.

While Honey inwardly raged at having to start all over again when Emma could no longer handle the flow.

Emma obeyed, her throat burning, as the thick, salty stream **** its way through her lips. She gasped, the guard's fingers digging deeper into the back of her neck to prevent her from backing away. Honey, beside her, clenched her fists, her nails digging red crescents into her palms.

The guard sneered when Emma tried to cough, pulling her hair back to better control the angle of her head.

The stream stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving Emma gasping, her lips glistening, and her throat still convulsing from the intrusion. The guard released his grip, and she collapsed to her knees on the cold tiles, spitting with hoarse gasps.

The guard admired his work on Emma when he signaled to Miel to finish washing her charge.

Miel grabbed the horsehair glove with restrained excitement, her fingers trembling with suppressed rage. She traced a first burning furrow on Emma's shoulder, even more violent than the guard's, as if to erase the trace of her intervention. The already red skin turned purple from the friction.

Emma arched her back, a strangled moan escaping her, not from pain, but from a dull excitement that made her thighs tremble. She positioned herself with her back on the floor, spreading her thighs, as if to say,

• You're forgetting there, looking provocatively at Miel and lecherously at the guard.

Miel held her breath, her eyes black with fury, before letting out a hoarse laugh. She gripped Emma's thigh, her nails digging into the wet flesh like claws.

• Do you think this is a game? she whispered, her voice low and trembling with suppressed rage.

The guard watched, arms crossed, a grim smile on his lips.

Miel unleashed herself against Emma's sex, oblivious to the cold of the water running over them.

Miel plunged the horsehair glove between Emma's thighs with calculated brutality, rubbing raw against the swollen and sensitive labia. The bite of the rough fabric drew a cry from Emma that broke into hoarse gasps, her hips jerking in spite of herself.

Miel's fingers dug deeper, the horsehair glove scraping the flesh, while Emma arched her back, her nails scraping the tiles. The sensory overload reached such a level that she lost all reason, allowing herself to be dominated by her primal urges.

Emma's thighs trembled violently as Honey pushed the box deeper, each friction sending flashes of pleasure and pain up her spine.

The guard's shadow moved closer, his boot hooking Emma's crotch, lifting her up and pushing her back, crushing her clitoris in the process in an almost football-like motion.

A guttural cry escaped Emma's throat as the guard's calloused grip yanked her head back by her hair.

• Enough of your little game, you female dog! Finish preparing her, treat her, and then I'll remind you to obey orders to the letter, addressing Honey.