Special Event Training

She wants the table ready before they arrive, and she’s learning how to serve it. Back straight, knees spread on the wood floor. A rope harness pins her tits forward and keeps her wrists tucked behind her. Ankles crossed, thighs open—she can’t hide anything, and the trainer likes it that way. The plug in her ass is thick, heavier every time she shifts. It stays put because the harness loops down between her cheeks and locks it inside. No quick escape, no relief. When she leans to set the silver, the base tugs at her rim and she bites the inside of her lip to stay quiet. He watches her pour water into crystal. One drop hits the tablecloth and he slaps the crop across the top of her thigh. Heat blooms under the welt; she apologizes with her eyes, then bends deeper so he can see her stretch around the plug. The harness creaks. The plug holds. She doesn’t complain. The trainer tells her to stay low, to keep her chest over the plates when she serves, so every guest will have a view straight down her open body. She practices until her shoulders burn, until the rope bites fresh lines across her tits, until the base of the plug feels like it belongs there. The lesson ends with her on all fours, cheek to the table, mouth open around nothing, waiting for the next command.