The Training of Berlin, Day Four

Berlin’s on camera debut comes down like a hammer. The guy rams into her without mercy and she takes every inch, jaw locked around a ball gag, drool swinging. Her tongue still fumbles between the handler’s thighs but she tries harder now, every lick less clumsy than the day before. Back straight, knees spread, she holds the pose they drilled into her. Underneath it all a spark of old shyness flickers, yet she spreads wider, moans louder. They clip steel clamps to her nipples and cunt, yank her forward by the leash, parade her down the hallway like prize meat. Every step yanks fire through her chest and between her legs. Cane stripes land next, hot lines across her ass and thighs. She stays upright, shaking. They drop her onto the wooden pony, cunt split on the sharp edge, arms bound behind her. Minutes stretch. Sweat runs. She endures. Blindfold on, ropes cinch her wrists and ankles. A stranger’s cock pushes past her lips, then slams into her cunt. He slaps her, grabs her hair, pounds until the table shakes. Hot ropes stripe her face and tits. She never sees his face. They leave her panting, sticky, blind. They quiz her on every order she followed, every new ache she learned to crave. Then they send her out the door, raw, marked, carrying the weight of four brutal days and the certainty she’ll be back for more.