This the epic clip that b*ndage and Sage Pillar fans have waited for! Over 50 minutes of sexy b*ndage struggling!

The room is cold, quiet — lit only by a single overhead bulb that casts harsh shadows across the concrete floor. Sage Pillar sits bound to a wooden chair, her body trapped in a cruel spread: wrists lashed tightly to the arms, ankles tied apart to the front legs. She’s dressed in nothing but a flimsy bikini and sleek FM heels — a vision of beauty now reduced to helplessness. A thick cloth gag fills her mouth, and a bl*ck blindfold covers her eyes, sealing her in darkness.

Then — footsteps.

The blindfold is ripped away.

Her breath hitches. Pupils dilate. She knows the face staring down at her — and terror floods her veins like ice.

She thrashes, j*rking against the ropes, but they don’t budge. The captor doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Only watches — amused, detached — as she writhes in panic.

Then, without warning, layer after layer of heavy tape is pressed over the gag. Smooth. Precise. Final. Her muffled screams are reduced to soft, desperate whimpers — audible only in the room, silent to the world beyond.

Next — the bikini top.

With slow, deliberate hands, it’s peeled away, baring her full, flawless breasts to the air — to the camera — to her tormentor’s gaze.

And then... the first strike.

A br*tal, stinging slap lands across her left tit — redness blooms instantly. Another follows on the right. Then another. And another. A relentless, savage fl*gging rains down — hard strikes from a firm leather flogger that make her chest jiggle and her body convulse. Her screams are trapped, ch*ked, lost behind tape and terror. Tears streak her cheeks. Her toes curl in her FM heels, her spine arching uselessly against the chair.

But this isn’t just punishment.

It’s a test.

Every muffled cry. Every strained gasp. The captor is watching — ensuring the gag holds. That no sound escapes. That she is truly silenced.

And once satisfied... the real t*rment begins.

From a pocket, a small digital timer is produced. It’s carefully clipped to the rope binding her breasts together — nestled deep in the crease between her tender, welt-covered tits. The screen flickers to life.

30:00

Thirty minutes.

The captor leans in, studying her face — watching the dawning horror as she realizes: this isn’t just captivity. This is a countdown.

To what?

She doesn’t know. A bomb? A silent nerve g*s release? A signal sent to someone — or something — waiting in the dark?

It doesn’t matter.

The timer is set. A final, cold stare. Then the door closes. The lock clicks.

She’s alone.

Alone with the ticking clock. Alone with the camera. Alone in her fear.

She fights — pulls at her wrists, strains her ankles, twists until the ropes bite into her skin. But they don’t give. They were tied to hold. To win.

20:00.

Her breath comes in ragged sobs. Her chest heaves — the timer swaying slightly with each panicked heartbeat.

15:00.

She tries to rock the chair. Drag it. Tip it over. But the legs are anchored — or the floor too solid. Nothing works.

10:00.

Her eyes are wide, wild, darting around the room — searching for escape, for hope. There is none.

5:00.

She’s crying openly now, her body slick with sweat, her tits still throbbing from the beating. Her FM heels tap faintly as her toes spasm in desperation.

1:00.

She’s screaming. Screaming with everything she has. But only silence answers.

00:01.

A series of beeps. And then?

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