SCUM

Mistress Preston commands the room. She runs slave boys ragged, feet planted over their backs while they memorize passages from SCUM. The book’s edges are sharp; so is she. Her heels press deep, grinding down until every whimper turns into worship. She tells them to open up. They do. She gives orders, one line at a time, and they follow with their mouths. They taste pussy until their tongues forget anything else. Their maleness shrinks with every lick, every thrust of her heel. They learn to beg for more and mean it. The floor is cold; her straps are tight. No slack, no mercy. Just discipline, sweat, and the wet sounds of men learning what their bodies are really for.