The Training of Nikki Darling, Day Two

Humility hits hardest when you’re on your knees coiling rope, forearms burning, counting each loop like prayer beads. She figures forty-eight hours to finish it. Sir reminds her she’s only just begun. Next she’s dressed like a sealed-up gimp and bent to service a strapped-down vet in the electric chair. No hands. Just hips. She works her mouth up and down that cock like a ritual dance, ass swaying, lips tight. A single tail kisses her back every time she slows, forcing her to swallow deeper, keep the rhythm, stay grateful. Later she’s lashed to a low box, holes spread wide. The ribbed plug sinks into her ass in steady strokes until she’s shaking and begging. Denied. The plug stays buried, tied tight. The gimp kneels, tongue working her cunt while Sir quizzes her on Story of O. Nipple clamps stretch upward, cane taps mark time, and her tears start to fall. She’s learning the cost of every flinch. Reward comes doggy-style—hard, fast, no mercy. She thanks them with sharp, clipped barks until Sir tells her to take the load. Good dog. Swallow every drop.