The Training of Savannah West Day One

Day One hits like a slap. Savannah walks in—black hair falling across her shoulders, body still humming from the gym. He stands there, already hard, and she drops straight to her knees. No warm-up, no small talk. He pushes past her lips and she takes the whole length, gagging once, then settling into the rhythm. Her eyes water, mascara streaking, but she keeps going. When he pulls out, spit trails from her mouth to the head of his cock. He turns her around, bends her over the bench, and works lube between her cheeks. One finger first, then two, stretching her slow and steady. She breathes through it, pushing back. He lines up and drives in. The stretch makes her gasp. He doesn’t ease off—deeper, harder, holding her hips so she can’t flinch away. Every thrust knocks the breath out of her. Sweat rolls down her spine. He keeps her pinned, working her open, until her thighs shake. She stays locked on that edge, caught between pain and something hotter. He doesn’t let up until she’s dripping down her own legs, black hair stuck to her face, still gripping the bench like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.