Cherrytorn bears the brunt of harsh implements and two predicaments that build intensity over time. In the first, an accumulation of devices creates a physical quagmire for cherrytorn. The second tableau looks like an H. R. Giger print – a body arranged to be reminiscent of the female form, embedded in technology.

She’s moaning from the very first minute, wearing uncomfortable wooden stocks, a metal head cage with metal bit, and flat steel ankle stocks. She sits on a stool, her camo mini-skirt hiked to her thighs. Up through a hole in the stool seat, a set of rigid stainless steel anal balls works its way past her pretty polka-dot panties and up her ass. Even orgasm can be torture, much less caning and whipping. Every change in position brings more pain. Enter PD with Mr. Pogo in one hand and a cattle prod in the other. He proceeds to do one of the things he does best – terrorize.

Cherrytorn’s body is folded and crimped into a tight splayed position. She hangs in a simple metal frame that pivots at the waist. Black leather straps, mitts, and strangulation collar immobilize her. After a warm-up with a cane, PD’s large fist slips into her cunt well up to the knuckles. She mews and moans as a vibrator works her overly-sensitized clit. A speculum spreads her cunt. He tightens cherrytorn’s collar, pivots her parallel to the floor, and fucks her with a dildo. Then turned upside down, cherrytorn’s mouthfucked until her face goes as pink as her hair.