The Training of Dylan, Day Two

He pulled her down the basement stairs on all fours, fist tight in her black hair, and she hissed like an animal that knows it is about to be broken. Day two. Day one had bruised her pride; today he meant to bruise whatever was left of it. She crawled with her chin high, arrogant even on her knees, like her cunt alone should earn her a free pass. He shoved her face into the dirt at the bottom of the steps and told her to ask for permission to breathe. She spat out grit and called him Sir. Good girl. He stripped her without hurry, then sat on the low bench and hauled her over his knee. The first bare-hand slap cracked sharp in the low room. She bucked, teeth bared, eyes flashing with that quick, searing rage. Each smack landed harder. She cursed. She kicked. He kept swinging until the fight turned into something raw and ugly and her insults dissolved into sobs. Tears streamed, but she was still fighting. He flipped her onto the concrete, face down, ass up, and shoved two fingers straight into her hole without warning. She screamed, more anger than pain, until the third finger opened her wider and the heat started to twist into something else. He added lube, worked the fourth finger in, then tucked his thumb and pushed. Her whole body jolted as his fist slid past the ring and locked inside. She went silent—rage cresting, then dropping into nothing. Non-responsive, exactly like she’d warned. He didn’t stop. He pumped slowly, deliberately, until a low, guttural sound finally broke out of her throat. The dam cracked. She began to shake, then to squirt in hard, helpless pulses around his wrist. He kept his fist moving through every spasm, petting her flank with his free hand when she whimpered, praising her only when she stayed open. When he finally pulled free she stayed down, face pressed to the filthy floor, trembling. He wiped his hand across her mouth so she could taste what she’d done, then gave her permission to crawl back upstairs—still on all fours, still calling him Sir.