The Training of Gia DiMarco, Day Two

Gia DiMarco is overdue for a hard lesson in the basement. She’s spent the last few months swanning around the Upper Floor, soaking up the lounge lights and the attention that comes with them. Now the trainers are ready to pull the rug out from under her. First they bind her so her weight rests on thin iron bars, the kind that dig deep and never let up. One wrong shift and the pain spikes; one right answer and the whip kisses her anyway. She’s forced to hold the position, sweat mixing with welts, while they test how pretty she can stay under the lash. Next comes the gag—thick, unforgiving—shoved deep before they strap her down on the face-fuck table. Her throat becomes the only hole that matters. They use it until spit strings from her chin and her eyes water black with ruined mascara. Finally they lock her into a cold metal frame built for one purpose: total exposure. Ass up, face down, every inch on display. The cane lands sharp across her cheeks, then a thick cock follows, driving in deep while the frame rattles with every thrust. She takes it all—spanking, fucking, objectification—until the only thing left is the raw, red proof of how far she’s fallen in one afternoon.