The Training of Holly Stevens Day Two

She walks in with that fuck-you face, like she’s already won. Holly Stevens thinks Maestro’s another soft touch, ready to melt the second she flashes attitude. She’s wrong. He’s read her type before—pretty, black-haired, athletic, the kind who thinks bored is an act and not a condition. Today, he’s cutting through her act with a black leather crop and a cock that doesn’t negotiate. He tells her to bend. She smirks. The smirk dies the second the crop cracks across her ass. He works her open slow, then rough, pushing past every smart-ass retort until the only sound left is her breathing through clenched teeth. When he finally drives into her ass, it’s hard enough to shut her up for good. She takes it, gasping, pinned under his weight, the brat finally learning what real training feels like.