The Training of an Anal Slut, Day One

She hangs from a ceiling chain, balancing in heels on a narrow beam. A thick black plug on a stick stays buried in her ass; her dress hangs open, tits bare. I hand her a bucket of clothespins and twine and order a fifty-pin zipper across her skin. The instant the last pin bites, I shove the Hydra—seven bundled Hitachi heads—against her cunt. The roar of the motors fills the room. I start asking questions while she shakes. Chains replace the rope. I drag her by one nipple to a six-foot haystack and tell her to find a hidden key. She digs too slow; I lose patience, yank her in tight circles, stretching her nipple until she yelps. The game turns boring, so I drop her into stress positions instead, forcing rules out of her trembling mouth. She cracks fast, tears streaking her face. I park her in the corner with a bucket over her head and order a tune while I move to the next setup. She ends up strapped to the wooden exam table, thighs spread, labia pinned open, wet clit exposed. I train a hose on that pink nub, the jet hissing and splashing. Her moans jump, sharp and sudden. Somewhere between the pain, the rules, and the water, she starts to understand what it means to become my anal slut.