The Training of Sarah Jane Ceylon, Day Three

Sarah Jane Ceylon sweats inside the head box, wrists bound behind her, knees spread on cold concrete. A hard cock slams through the glory hole and rams her throat while her ass stays raised in the present-ass position she can’t hold longer than a minute. The rattan cane cuts across her thighs every time her stance slips. The trainer corrects her again for calling him Sir instead of Master, three fresh welts burning on her ass. When the caning stops he shoves a thick rubber cock under her and orders her to ride. She bounces and recites dirty stories he told her to memorize, voice cracking each time her clit grinds the base. He listens until he’s bored, then shoots across her face, thick ropes dripping down her cheeks and lips. She’s locked back in her quarters, face still glazed, and told to polish half a dozen pairs of leather boots before sunrise. Her tongue works over the first toe while her cunt still pulses from the rubber dick. The second boot waits, and the night is long.