Reminding Ash

Ash thinks the rules don’t touch her. She leans on tramp and pixie, dumps her work on them, then slips under the fireplace to finger herself while they sweat. The Pope walks in, catches the stench of her heat, and drags her out by the hair. Blonde strands twist in his fist, black lashes stick to wet cheeks, and she’s on her knees before the fire cracks another log. He strips her fast, throws the robe into the flame, makes the other two watch. The flogger snaps across her ass, one lash for every chore she skipped, until her skin is raw and stinging. She’s told to beg to have it used, and she does, voice cracking, legs shaking. He spreads her open, works lube into her tight hole, then pushes in without mercy while the two house slaves stare. Each thrust drives the point home: she’s nothing but a hole for his use, nothing more. He doesn’t let her come until she’s asked permission out loud, until the words scrape her throat raw. By the end, Ash is panting, marked, reminded exactly where she belongs.