Day 1- Seven Slave Intake

They stagger in at dawn. Shackles bite their ankles, chain links rattling as they circle the drill court in the raw morning light. Sweat already streaks their backs, tits swaying heavy with every forced step. A whistle cracks. Down they go. Basement air hits like cold metal. They’re lined up, wrists cinched, legs spread, asses presented. Plugs go in dry, then deeper. When the stretch burns, they take it—no whimper, no plea. Clamps bite nipples, weights swing, and canes stripe bare flesh. Muscles shake, but nobody folds until the third round. Two break. Two drop. The rest stay kneeling, holes throbbing, marked and ready for tomorrow.