Built like a big old Chevy pickup, Jackson Reid’s got a bad-ass gaze and a profile like a nicked axe. Reid’s desperate for brutality and tenderness, and his Master’s ready to give him plenty of each at the end of a whip. With his arms chained high over his head and his legs spread wide, Reid’s a fine sight to see. His Master starts him off slowly, kneading his arms, his shoulders and ass. He takes his time, moving that whip so lightly you can hear it whisper when it passes over Reid’s shoulder blades. He turns up the heat without changing the pace, and soon enough we get to hear Reid holler and groan and scream in a voice that sounds like a dog caught under a wheel.