Training a Slut Girl to Fuck Better, Day One

I sit across from Dahlia. Her long legs rise from the floor and vanish beneath a short white skirt. Sheer black panties two sizes too small bite into firm cheeks and can’t contain her thick pussy lips. A tight waist flares into lush, natural tits, the nipples already stiff against the thin fabric. Her pouty mouth and lowered eyes tell me everything. She’s nervous, wet, and trying to hide it. Her voice is soft when she answers questions about her desires, but it cracks when I mention the last time she failed me. She carries the sticks next. Arms loaded with heavy post-cut-offs, she walks ahead of me down the long hallway, her gait still graceful. By the time we reach the set her brow is damp and her shoulders shake. Dozens more sticks wait on the floor. She starts to arrange them, but my whip lands before she can finish. She stumbles, loses order, earns another stripe. Another failure. I push a thick rubber cock between her lips and tell her to drool. Spit runs down her chin. When I order her to squat over the floor-mounted dildo she lowers until her cunt just kisses the tip, thighs trembling. The position breaks her in seconds. I give her the corner and her two newest failures to think about. She wants back in. I tell her to beg for the cattle prod she hates. She hesitates, then the words come. On her back, legs spread, I work the steel Eleven into her tight cunt until she’s stretched wide and gasping. Homework waits when the cameras stop: five failures that led to success, and the full story of the Stonewall Riots.