Personal House Slave Of Mistress Cherry Torn

He wakes on cold concrete. Her voice hits first. Hard. Cherry stands over him barefoot, hips already swaying like she owns the air he breathes. His cage is tight before his eyes open. Every morning starts the same—her pleasure first, his denied. She walks him through the house on all fours, his leash clipped to the ring at the base of his cage. Every tug makes the metal bite. She stops, spreads, and snaps her fingers. He knows. Dildo gag strapped tight between his teeth, he buries his face where she wants it while she grinds down, taking what she needs. No mercy on the angle. No pause for breath. Later she bends him over her workout bench. Ankles cuffed wide, wrists locked behind his back. The steel of the cage swings heavy between his legs as she lines up the thick strap-on. One thrust and she’s in deep, athletic hips slapping against him with zero warm-up. Every stroke knocks the breath out of his chest. She leans in close, tits brushing his spine, and laughs low when his caged cock twitches uselessly. She edges him for hours. A gloved hand on his balls, a slick finger tracing the slit of the cage, never enough pressure to finish. When she finally pulls out, his hole stays open, pulsing around nothing. She makes him thank her for every inch. He does. On his knees. Voice hoarse. Still locked. Still aching. Still hers.