The Training of Number Seven, Day Three

She’s lazy. She drags her ass and waits for orders like they’ll arrive gift-wrapped. So every missed chore, every undone assignment, every sleepy little blank stare earns her a fresh stripe across her hide. But she’s also a walking fever—tight, wet, and eager for cock and cunt at the same time. We decide one cock isn’t enough to break her. We throw a second trainer into the mix and make her service both appetites in a single, brutal day. At seven the door opens. She’s hauled out naked and marched straight to the gym. No warm-up. Squats with a dick shoved up her ass, push-ups while another fucks her throat until spit runs in ropes onto the mat. Every time her knees buckle, a crop kisses the backs of her thighs, and she keeps moving. The only breaks come when she’s bent over, cheeks spread, holes offered like they’re the next station on the circuit. Both trainers use her until she’s slick with sweat and dripping with come—her own and theirs. That’s when Annie Cruz walks in. Seven drops to her knees the second she’s told. Face buried between Annie’s thighs, tongue working like she finally understands the price of hesitation. Annie doesn’t go easy. She fists blonde hair, grinds down, forces every sloppy lick deeper until Seven’s nose is shiny and her jaw aches. Every time she slows, Annie slaps her, leaves red handprints on pale skin, then shoves her back in. By the time Annie’s finished, Seven’s shaking on the concrete, legs slick, eyes glassy, the floor streaked with everything that leaked out of her. Used up and punished, she’s dragged back to her quarters still twitching. Door slams. Lights out. Tomorrow she’ll try again—only hungrier, only more afraid of falling short.