Rick Savage writhes in his restraints, a symphony of leather and rope binding him to the St. Andrew's cross. His brunette tormentress, a vision in latex, circles him like a predator, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She picks up a riding crop, the leather tip flicking against her palm. "You wanted to play, Rick," she purrs, running the crop along his thighs, making him tense. She flicks his chest, his abs, leaving red welts that blossom under her touch. She leans in, her breath hot on his ear, "You're mine to play with, Rick. To spank, to tease, to make you beg for more." She steps back, a wicked grin on her face, and continues her cruel, exquisite game.