Cliff Jensen Dominates Vander Pulaski’s Hole

Master Cliff Jensen’s shaved scalp gleams under dungeon lights, leather creaking like a second skin as he circles Vander Pulaski. The rookie’s strapped spread-eagle, cock and balls yanked taut by a rope anchored to a cinderblock. Cliff’s gloved fist crushes Vander’s package first—squeeze, twist, hold—until the slave’s choked whimpers bounce off concrete walls.

“Beg louder,” Cliff barks, cracking a flogger across Vander’s firetruck-red back. Each lash earns a gasped ”Thank you, Sir!”—proof the pain’s hitting right. When Vander’s mouth gets claimed, it’s no gentle fuck. Cliff’s dick rams past tonsils, the slave’s lips stretched white around thick veins.

Three more rounds of the whip. Four. Vander’s ass stays untouched, twitching emptily until Cliff finally caves. No lube. Just spit and a brutal shove of hips. Leather gloves pin Vander’s wrists as the master drills him raw, every withdrawal showing off that wrecked hole.

Cliff finishes by painting Vander’s face in thick ropes, boots already stomping toward the exit. “Don’t move,” he grunts. Vander’s left trembling—dick purple from the rope, ass leaking, praying the next session’s worse.