On Matters of Deportment

Bella Rossi watches the new girl try to walk like she belongs in her skin. Kristine Kahill stands straight, chest out, the weight of her bare breasts heavy and proud. Every step must be measured, hips held level, face kept blank yet hungry. Bella circles her, crop tapping the back of her thighs whenever the line slips. Each strike leaves a pink stripe that burns and reminds. They practice turns, pauses, the slow lowering of eyes without ever letting the chin drop. If Kahill falters, Bella pulls the leash attached to the steel collar and forces her down to hands and knees. The floor is cold. She crawls in tight circles until her knees shake. Bella pulls her up again, cuffs her wrists high behind her back so the next pass is done on tiptoe, tits thrust forward, breath short. Anal training starts next; Bella works a slick plug into Kahill’s ass while the girl must stay perfectly still, neither whimper nor flinch allowed. Sweat beads on her upper lip. The plug seats deep. Now every step carries that extra fullness, the constant reminder that grace is earned, not given. When the lesson ends, Bella makes her kneel and beg to know whether she will walk or crawl at the coming party. Kahill’s answer is just one word—whichever Mistress decides.