The Training of Claire Robbins, Day Three

I shove her down into a filthy basement hole stacked with old gear. It reeks of piss. Her job is to scrub it out, and while she works I keep pulling out whatever lash or cane still has an edge so she stays distracted. Every time she looks up I grin and toss another toy at her feet. She ends up strung between steel rails, back bent hard by a turnbuckle that drags an iron hook deeper into her ass. The strain pushes her small tits forward. I slap them with a crop, keep the strokes quick and sharp. A vibrator buzzes low against her cunt, enough to make her shake but not enough to finish. Posture has its price. The gimp waits on the other end of a short chain. Her collar bites every time she lunges for his cock, and every second she misses earns another stripe across her shoulders. She finally gets him down her throat, gagging, eyes wet, working hard for the next inch. Later her head is locked through a hole in a low bench so only her ass shows. I watch while some stranger’s cock saws in and out of that stretched hole, and I talk to her about the day’s work, about tomorrow, about how she’d better not slip. She can’t answer, but the message is clear.