You thought betrayal didn’t have consequences? Oh, sweet thing, you were so wrong. When I found out my stepsister Sandy was fucking with him — the same man who shattered me, the one with those cold blue eyes and that smirk I used to melt for — something inside me snapped. But instead of breaking down, I broke her. She came to me pretending to care, all soft words and fake concern. But the truth slipped out — the way he talks, the way he touches… she described him like she was proud. Like she’d won some twisted prize. So I gave her a reward of my own. Her wrists are bound now, wrists tied tight behind her back, legs cinched together with smooth silk rope that bites just enough to remind her who’s in control. She’s on her knees, head bowed, already trembling before I even touch her. I don’t slap her — not yet. I want her to feel every second of this, to savor the dread. First, the ball gag. I roll it between my fingers, watching her eyes dart to it like a trapped bird. I don’t ask. I don’t warn. I just push it past those perfect lips, watching them stretch, hearing the muffled whimper as I fasten it behind her head. But that’s not enough. Not nearly. Out comes the thick, veined rubber cock gag — lifelike, cruel, unforgiving. I shove it deep, deeper than she can take, until her jaw aches and tears well. And then? I inflate the air gag slowly, pump after pump, stretching her mouth wider, wider, until her face is a portrait of helpless torment. Every breath is a struggle. Every blink screams submission. She thinks that’s the end? No, baby. I run my fingers down her cheek, smear her running mascara, and then — smack — I slap her. Again. Again. Each strike echoes like a judgment. This isn’t just punishment. This is ownership.
