The Training of Sara Faye and Claire Dames, Day Three

Day three already feels like war. Sara's hungry for it, hungry to be the good girl, but she's running on fumes. They stood the two of them right at the edge of that drop-off, forced them to sync while tails plugged their asses and the ground waited to break them if they slipped. Sara got the rhythm down first, hips locked, tongue working Claire's cunt like she was trying to prove something. She earned her come. Claire didn't. Not yet. Claire's the bad girl. Laughs when she should shut up. Doesn't like the work, but she likes the orgasms enough to chase them. They ran her ragged on filthy trails with a crotch rope sawing between her lips and a bit jammed between her teeth, posture breaking every time she thought no one was watching. She paid for it. Every lazy step, every missed beat, Sara had to slap her for it. Hard. Or Sara caught the crop instead. They made them sixty-nine until Claire stopped faking the rhythm. Sara sucked like she wanted to win. Claire sucked like she wanted to come. Only one of them got it. The crop landed on both of them anyway. Cane too. Claire's ass took the worst of it, red and raw, and she still had to clean the plug that had been in her sister's hole with her mouth. She gagged. They laughed. Posture's the lesson for Claire. Rhythm's the lesson for Sara. Good girls come. Lazy girls walk home with stripes and empty cunts.