The Training of Number Seven, Day One

Adrianna Nicole. Aries. Ill-mannered little slut. She’s got years of BDSM under her belt and a filthy mind to match, but discipline? Zero. She swears like a sailor and drifts the second attention slips. The boss wants the cure started now. First order: strip, knees wide on the cold floor, fingers buried in her cunt while the interview grinds on. Every curse earns a stinging slap and a fresh rule—no more dirty words unless they’re begged for. Down to the Armory basement next. Naked, collared, sweating through pointless chores while the whip cracks and the hose blasts whenever she slows. Filth cakes her skin; orders make no sense on purpose. She stays filthy until the work is judged passable. Then the table. Ice-cold steel under her back, legs spread and inspected like livestock. Every hole checked, every reaction noted. Rope follows—tight, cutting—before the vibe and fingers drag screaming orgasms out of her shaking body. A hard cock stretches her throat next, testing how deep she can take it without gagging. Bent over the desk right after, cunt used just as roughly while the welts on her ass darken. She swallows the load without spilling a drop. Dressed again, marched to the slave quarters. Journal entry due before lights-out, homework waiting. Day one ends with a sore throat, a sore cunt, and the taste of come still thick on her tongue.