Attending the charity gala had been Sandra’s idea. A chance to wear the crimson and navy satin cocktail dresses they’d bought together, to let the silk whisper against their stockinged thighs. Whitney had complained about the pantyhose Sandra insisted upon, the way the sheer nylon compressed her calves, the seam riding up her cleft. Sandra only smiled, silver hair catching the chandelier light, and promised the evening would end memorably.
She had not lied.
The Brute waited in the parking garage. Broad-shouldered, silent, his bald skull gleaming under the sodium vapor lamps. He moved like something engineered, no words, no wasted motion. Sandra’s silver heels scraped concrete as he lifted her. Whitney’s red stilettos kicked once, twice, then went still.
They woke in his warehouse. Cinder block walls. The gantry crane overhead, its metal bar spanning the room like a surgical instrument. The mattress was clean, white, absurdly domestic against the industrial filth. Their dresses still clung to their curves, satin bunched and wrinkled from rough handling. Their pantyhose had been dragged down, the nylon pooling around their bound ankles, leaving their shaved cunts exposed to the cold air.

File Name: ben-sandra-whitney-balltie-orgasms_bdg.mp4
Format: MPEG-4
File Size: 463 MiB
Duration: 13 min 41 s
Resolution: 1920×1080 (16:9)