The Training of Nikki Darling, Day Three

There’s too much rope left, and Nikki’s hands move like they’re already spent. I show her the proper lay and wind, fast and tight. The work shrinks from two days to one. She doesn’t like it when orders tighten, so she skips the slither at the shooting range. The crop lands hard and fair until she slithers right. Next she’s buckled into a yoke hung with buckets of stone. Every squat rips fire through her thighs, but balance drills keep her upright. I bet she can’t knock out fifteen squats in twenty seconds. She does. That buys her the chance to barter a rule. Before she speaks, she drops to her knees and takes the gimp’s cock down her throat, forced to name the principles that govern this basement while the crop snaps her nipples raw. When three answers sound right, she’s allowed to ride. Dozens of clothespins march down her torso. She sinks onto the shaft, working her ass slow, guessing aloud about endorphins from her reading. The zipper rips free and the rush hits; she rides harder, chanting the principles louder every time she comes. Later she’s locked in the stock, book open to leathersex pages. I drive into her from behind and the words tangle in her mouth until tears blur the ink. When the stock opens she dances for the gimp’s cock, sucks until he throbs, then offers her ass. Hot ropes stripe her thighs while she lists what the basement has already taught her.