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This video has English subtitles.

At the end you will see a post-session interview.

Tonya, a brash beginner masquerading as a seasoned sub, is about to learn the crushing weight of her lies in this unrelenting, dominating B*SM spectacle. Fiddler, a merciless DOM with a penchant for precision s*dism, subjects her to a harrowing gauntlet of strict immobilization, merciless bastinado, and psychological intensity—all meticulously designed to shatter her self-proclaimed "LIMIT." From the moment she arrogantly declares her experience, every shred of control is ripped away, replaced by a relentless onslaught of skin-searing discipline and humiliating submission.

Tonya arrives brimming with false confidence, her grimy, sweat-stained socks (visibly crusted from days of wear) hinting at the filth beneath her façade. Fiddler, unimpressed by her novice "toys," dismantles her act swiftly. A br*tal checklist seals her fate: every item— “Bastinado,” “B*ndage,” “Breathplay” —is marked “extremely hard.” Her signature on the waiver isn’t just consent—it’s a surrender.

Fiddler’s expertise in total restraint shines as he layers silver duct tape across her torso, arms, and legs. Her upper body is crushingly compressed, ribs straining beneath the vise-like wraps, while her limbs fuse into rigid immobility. Even her muffled protests are gagged into silence by a punishing panel gag, leaving only eyes to show her excitement. Stripped bare save her filthy socks, she’s standing naked.

The first 50 searing lashes of the single-t*il whip across her sock-clad soles set the tone: methodical, unforgiving. Each strike crackles with precision, the fabric dulling nothing, Fiddler’s rhythm never falters. Tonya’s ch*ked whimpers earn no reprieve, only escalation. “Discipline Rounds” demand robotic gratitude post-whipping: “Thank you, Sir—may I please have another?” Failures trigger penalty strikes, stacking agony until her voice breaks.

Fiddler’s creativity in humiliation peaks as her rancid socks are crammed into her mouth, sealed airtight beneath layers of tape. Her own underwear stretches over her face, making her to inhale the musk of her sweat-drenched submission. The hogtie transcends mere restraint: her head yanked backward, feet lashed forward, soles upturned like sacrificial offerings. The vibrating plug adds chaotic sensation—a cruel contrast to the whip’s bite.

Air becomes a fleeting privilege as Fiddler alternates between total breath deprivation and torrential bastinado. Thirty full-power strokes rain down while her lungs scream, each gasp earned only after excruciating endurance. Her body arcs against the hogtie, every muscle locked in futile resistance.

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