Charlotte Sartre's body is a canvas of red welts and bite marks, her skin glistening with sweat and other fluids. She's a mess, a slave to her master's every whim, and she loves it. Her ass is raw from the rough fucking he's given her, her throat sore from his cock, but she begs for more. He obliges, pushing her face into the filthy mattress, her nose filled with the scent of old piss and sweat. She feels his cock at her asshole, pushing in, claiming her. She screams, but it's muffled, her voice lost in the stench and grime of the asylum. He fucks her hard, his balls slapping against her clit, her pussy contracting with each thrust. She comes, her body convulsing, as he pulls out and pisses on her back, marking her as his.