Cheyenne's crimson hair cascades over her shoulders as she's suspended, her legs spread wide and bound to the cold, unforgiving wood. The Pope, a towering figure in his latex suit, wields a whip, its crack echoing through the stone chamber. He strikes her flesh, leaving welts that shimmer under the harsh lights. He pauses, running a gloved hand over her body, feeling her heat, her pain. He adds more weights to the chains at her feet, increasing the strain on her muscles, before resuming his cruel dance, whipping her into a state of raw, primal ecstasy.