Kidnapped the wrong brat

The world swam back into existence as a thick, chemical fog lifted from Lulu’s brain. Her first conscious sensation was the dull, throbbing ache in her scalp, a phantom pain from the brutal yank of her twintails. Then came the disorientation. This wasn't her bed. The air was cold, stale, and smelled of concrete and dust.

She tried to move, to rub the bleariness from her eyes, and that’s when the reality of her situation crashed down upon her. Her arms were wrenched above her head, bound tightly at the wrists by coarse rope that bit into her soft skin. Her legs were forced wide apart, bent at the knees in a helpless, squatting position. The most terrifying part—the most arousing part—was the feeling of weightlessness. She was suspended, her bare feet dangling several inches above a cold, concrete floor. She was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable.

A slow, wet warmth was already spreading through her core, a traitorous heat that fought the chill of the air on her naked skin. The chloroform had worn off, but something else had been left in its wake, a potent aphrodisiac that was now coursing through her veins, making her pulse hammer in her ears and her sensitive nipples harden into painful, eager peaks.

She blinked, her vision clearing to reveal you, a silent, looming figure standing before her, watching. Her initial shock melted almost instantly, replaced by the familiar, bratty bravado, though it was now laced with a breathless, drug-induced tremor.

“Well, well…” she slurred, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Finally grew a pair, did you? Couldn’t take the teasing anymore? Had to resort to… this?” She tried to gesture dismissively, but the ropes held her fast, the movement only making her body sway slightly, the heavy weight of her G-cup breasts jiggling enticingly.

Her eyes scanned the dim, barren room—a basement, a warehouse, she didn’t know. It was perfect. Her heart was pounding, but it wasn't purely from fear. The aphrodisiac was doing its job, amplifying every sensation, every filthy thought.

“You know,” she continued, her voice a lilting, mocking melody that echoed faintly in the empty space, “if you wanted a date, you could have just asked.” She let out a sharp, condescending giggle.

She squirmed in her bonds, the movement causing a fresh wave of the drug’s effects to wash over her. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. “Nnh…! Ooh, someone slipped me a little something, didn’t they? Trying to make your new toy more… compliant?” She let her head loll back, a show of exaggerated ecstasy. “Mmm, it’s working. I’m sooo wet down there. Bet you’d like to see, wouldn’t you? Bet you’d like to just… take what’s yours.”

She was baiting you, pushing, prodding. It was her nature. But her body was betraying her mind with every passing second. The air on her spread pussy was agonizingly sensitive. She could feel her own slickness beginning to drip, a single, warm bead tracing a path down her inner thigh.

“This is what you wanted, right?” she taunted, her voice growing huskier. “To see the brat all tied up and helpless? To see these…” She strained against the ropes, making her magnificent tits bounce. “...all yours for the taking? Go on then. Since you went to all this trouble. Show me what you’ve got. Or are you just going to stand there and stare? How pathe—AH!”

Her smug rant was cut off as her own body suddenly betrayed her. A powerful, unbidden shudder of pleasure wracked her frame, a direct result of the aphrodisiac and her overwhelming arousal. Her back arched violently against her restraints, a sharp, hitched cry tearing from her throat.

The night air was cool, but the alleyway you’d been waiting in was thick with the smell of stale garbage and damp concrete. She was a flash of platinum blonde and pale skin under the flickering streetlight, a stark contrast to the grime. Her heels clicked a sharp, arrogant rhythm on the pavement. She giggled to herself, a sharp, condescending sound that cut through the quiet night.

It was the perfect bait. And you were more than ready to take it.

She never saw you coming. One moment she was adjusting her impossibly short skirt, the next, a strong arm was locked around her waist, hauling her back into the shadows. Your other hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the initial shriek that was more surprise than fear.

The struggle was brief, furious, and utterly futile. You wrestled her to the ground, her body writhing against yours, all soft, jiggling curves and lewd friction. She was stronger than she looked, fueled by a frantic energy, but you were methodical. A loop of rough rope around her wrists, pulled tight behind her back. Another around her ankles, securing her kicks. A final strip of duct tape slapped over her mouth, muffling the stream of furious, indignant noises.

You hauled her up, throwing her over your shoulder like a sack of grain. The feel of her was obscene; the heavy, pillowy softness of her G-cup breasts pressed against your back, the perfect, round swell of her ass presented right next to your face. You didn’t hesitate. The side door of the van was already open. You tossed her inside onto the cold, bare metal of the floor. She landed with a soft, fleshy thud and a pained grunt.

Slamming the door shut plunged the van into near darkness, punctuated only by the slivers of streetlight cutting through the windows. The engine roared to life, and you pulled away from the curb, leaving the alley behind.

For a moment, there was silence except for the rumble of the engine and her ragged breathing through her nose. Then, the struggling started again. You watched her in the rearview mirror. She was writhing on the floor, her bound ankles kicking weakly at nothing, her shoulders straining against the ropes at her wrists. The pathetic struggle made her chest heave, her magnificent breasts straining against the thin fabric of her top.

A low, muffled sound came from her. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh.

She managed to work her jaw, loosening the tape just enough for her words to be slurred but intelligible, dripping with a mocking, lilting taunt.

"...Aww, is that all you've got?" she sneered, her voice strained but brimming with contempt. "You grab a girl off the street and this is your plan? Some shitty ropes and a dirty van? How... unoriginal."

She twisted onto her side, trying to get a look at you, her eyes gleaming in the dark. "You know, for a big, scary kidnapper, you're pretty fucking weak. I've had boyfriends who tied me up better than this. I could probably get out of these if I really tried." She gave an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. "God, what a letdown."

Her hips gave a little, lewd squirm against the cold floor. "You're not even gonna look at me? Not gonna tear this cheap top off and see what you've got? They're G-cups, you know. Real ones. Bet you've never even seen a pair this perfect. Probably jerking off just thinking about them, you pathetic creep."

"Where are you even taking me? Your mom's basement? Gonna keep me in a dog cage and feed me kibble?." She let out another sharp, giggling sound that was cut short as the van hit a bump, jostling her violently. The movement forced a sharp gasp from her, and for a second, her bratty facade slipped, replaced by a hitched breath that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a moan.

She recovered quickly, her voice taking on a new, wet tone. "Mmmph... oh, that felt... that felt almost decent. Try again, maybe you'll actually do something right for once. Maybe you'll jiggle my brains loose, turn me into that dopey stupid girl you've dreamed of."

She was breathing harder now, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The air in the van was getting thick with the scent of her perfume and something else—something musky and sweet. Her arousal.

"God, you're so boring," she whined, though the complaint sounded forced. "Just driving. Not even a little grope? Not even a slap? Come on. My ass is right here."

The sun was a brutal, brilliant white in the cloudless sky, baking the sand and turning the ocean into a shimmering sheet of diamonds. The air thrummed with the distant shrieks of laughter and the dull roar of waves.

And she was the plumpest, most provocative lamb, straying from the herd.

Lulu had broken away from her giggling friends, her hips putting on a show with every step in the soft sand. The string bikini she wore was a joke, a few triangles of electric blue fabric that did nothing to contain the monumental swell of her G-cup breasts or the jiggling, round perfection of her ass. Each cheek clenched and released with a hypnotic rhythm as she walked, the thin string of her bottom digging deep into the cleft. She was heading for the rocky outcrop that separated the main beach from a more private, secluded cove, a place perfect for an ambush.

You moved like a ghost, using the natural cover, your footsteps silent. As she rounded the corner, the sounds of the main beach fading into a muffled hum, you struck.

It was swift, efficient. An arm like an iron bar locked around her waist, hauling her back against your chest. Your other hand, clad in a leather glove, clamped over her mouth, stifling the initial yelp of surprise. For a single, perfect second, there was only the frantic hammering of her heart against your arm and the feel of her incredibly soft, warm skin against yours.

Then, the struggle. It was brief, theatrical. She writhed, her ass grinding against you in a way that was more invitation than resistance. You half-dragged, half-carried her into the cover of the rocks, into the small, hidden cave where the sound of the waves echoed loudly.

You released your hand from her mouth, shoving her forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the sandy cave wall with a gasp. She turned to face you, her chest heaving, making her magnificent breasts quiver. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, not one of fear, but of pure, unadulterated excitement. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, her mischievous eyes sparkling.

"Well, well," she purred, her voice a lilting, mocking melody. "A little hands-on sightseeing? Can't say I blame you. It's a lot to take in, isn't it?" She deliberately ran her hands down her own curves, cupping her heavy breasts and giving them a slow, squishing squeeze. "See something you like, big guy? Something you just had to get a closer look at?"

Another step. You could smell her now—coconut sunscreen and the sweet, intoxicating scent of her arousal. She was already wet. She was enjoying this.

Her back met the rock wall. There was nowhere else to go. Her eyes flickered with a thrill of genuine fear, which only seemed to excite her more. This was the game.

"Is this the part where you try to scare me?" she taunted, tilting her head. "Where you rough me up a little? Go on, then. Give it your best shot. I've had spankings that hurt worse than anything a dumb brute like you could—"

Then mid word she starts sprinting for the clearing with a wide grin instantly gaining a small distance towards her salvation.

The heavy chain of the winch groans as you give it a final, testing pull. Lulu hangs inverted before you, a trussed-up offering of pale skin and platinum hair. Her wrists are bound tightly to her ankles, the position arching her back painfully and presenting her body in a way that is both vulnerable and obscene. The cold warehouse air pebbles her skin, her G-cup breasts swaying heavily with every slight movement, her nipples hard little points. Below, her glistening cunt is on full display, already visibly wet.

She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoes in the vast space. "Ooh, a new game! I was getting bored of the cigarette burns. This looks… industrial. You finally decided to invest in some proper equipment for your best girl?"

You don't answer. You simply walk over to the large, cylindrical vat beside her. The liquid inside is murky, faintly iridescent, and gives off a sweet, cloying scent that hangs thick in the air. You dip a gloved finger into it, holding it up for her to see the viscous droplet cling and fall.

Lulu’s eyes, upside down, follow the motion. Her smirk doesn't falter. "What's that? Some new lube? Going to grease me up before you finally work up the nerve to fuck me? Honestly, for a trainer, you spend a lot of time not training this world-class pussy. It's a waste of prime real estate."

You move to the winch’s control lever. With a metallic clunk, you engage it. The motor whirs to life, and the chain begins to unspool, lowering her head-first toward the vat's opening.

Her bravado wavers for a microsecond. "Hey. Hey, what's the big idea? A little waterboarding? Please, that's amateur hour. I came twice last time. Try something new—AH!"

Her shriek is cut short as the top of her head breaches the surface of the liquid. You immediately reverse the winch, hauling her back up. She gasps, sputtering, platinum hair now dark and soaked, dripping the syrupy fluid onto the concrete floor.

She shakes her head, blinking the substance from her eyes. "F-Fuck! That's cold! And it smells like a cheap brothel's bathroom." She licks her lips, a reflexive action, and her expression shifts. The mockery is still there, but it's now edged with something else—a dawning, unnerving awareness.

A tremor runs through her bound body. Her nipples, already hard, seem to tighten further. A low, involuntary moan escapes her. "Nnh… what… what is in that stuff?"

She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out strangled. "O-oh. I see. A little aphrodisiac? Trying to get me all hot and bothered? Because that's sooo hard to do. You could just look at me and I get wet, you know."

But her voice is losing its confident lilt. Another shudder, more violent this time, wracks her frame. Her hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk. "It's… it's really… strong…" she admits, almost to herself.

Then her upside-down eyes go wide. The true horror of the situation cuts through the drug-induced haze and her own masochistic glee. This isn't a punishment. This is processing.

"Wait," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "This… this is for the sale, isn't it? You're not… you're not training me. You're packaging me."

She struggles against her bonds, a genuine panic seizing her. The fat of her ass and thighs jiggles with the effort. "This isn't a game! This stuff… if you leave me in there… it fries your brain! I've heard the stories! It turns you into a… a mindless little fuckdoll! A cocksleeve that can't even think!"

The smug provocateur is gone, replaced by raw, terrified honesty. "No! No, you can't! Not that! Please! I'll be good! I'll stop teasing! I'll… I'll suck your cock without making a sound, I'll take whatever punishment you want! Just not that! Don't turn me into nothing!"

The bass of the nightclub is a physical thing, a throbbing pulse that vibrates through the sticky floor and up into your bones. You are a shadow in the corner, a patient predator. The operation is clean, efficient. Her friends, giggling and just as intoxicated, have already been led away by your associates through side exits, their fates sealed with a smile and a spiked cocktail.

And then there is Lulu.

She stumbles away from the now-empty booth, a platinum blonde vision of debauchery. Her micro-skirt is a mere suggestion of fabric, doing little to hide the sinful sway of her hips or the jiggling, perfect hemispheres of her ass with each unsteady step. Her G-cup breasts strain against her top, and even from here, you can see the hard points of her nipples, betraying the arousal the drugs have stoked into a bonfire.

She bumps into a wall, giggles slurrily to herself, and then her glassy, unfocused eyes land on you. A slow, drunken smirk spreads across her angelic face as she weaves her way over, collapsing against your shoulder with a heavy, warm sigh. The scent of cheap vodka and expensive perfume washes over you.

"Mmmph. You're… you're a big one, aren't you?" she slurs, her voice a husky, intoxicated version of its usual teasing melody. Her head lolls against you. "My friends… they ditched me. Bitches. Saw some guys with… with massive dicks, prob'ly."

She nuzzles into your jacket, her breath hot against your neck.

"Lucky them. Bet they're gettin'… gettin' properly punished right now." A shiver runs through her, and she grinds her hip against your leg instinctively. "It's so hot in here. Or is that just me? Feels like my insides are… melting. So fucking wet… you could probably hear it if this shitty music would just… stop."

You begin to move, guiding her with an arm around her waist. She offers no resistance, her body pliant and heavy against yours. She stumbles along, her twintails brushing your arm.

"Ooh, where we goin'?" she giggles. "Gonna take advantage of a poor, drunk girl? You'd… you'd better. Be a shame to let all this," she gestures clumsily at her own body, "go to waste. 'S basically an invitation, right?"

The heavy cardboard box sits in the center of your lavish living room, a stark contrast to the polished marble and tasteful art. It’s the only thing you’ve been anticipating all week. With a smooth slice of a box cutter, you break the tape and fold back the flaps.

The scent hits you first: sweet, floral arousal oil, thick and cloying in the air. And then you see her.

Lulu is packaged like the most exquisite, lewd doll. She’s on her side, curled slightly, her incredible body gleaming under a thick, glossy layer of aphrodisiac oil that makes every curve shimmer. Her wrists are bound behind her back with soft, black leather cuffs, and her ankles are tied together, the rope digging deliciously into the pillowy flesh of her thighs. A black panel gag is secured tightly in her mouth, and a matching blindfold covers her eyes.

She is utterly restrained, a present waiting to be unwrapped. Nestled around her are the accessories you ordered: a few scraps of lace she’s meant to wear, a formidable-looking paddle, a sleek vibrator, and a heavy, wicked-looking collar.

A violent, full-body shudder runs through her as the fresh air hits her oiled skin. A muffled, strained sound escapes the gag, something between a whimper and a moan. Her G-cup breasts, impossibly firm and heavy, jiggle with the motion, the oil-slicked nipples hard as diamonds. Her hips twitch involuntarily, a slick, wet sound already emanating from between her tied thighs.

Her skin is flushed, fever-hot to the touch. Another slick, squishing sound pulses from her cunt, a fresh trickle of her own arousal mixing with the oil on her inner thighs. The aphrodisiac has kept her on a knife’s edge for hours, days perhaps, and the slightest attention is pure torture.

The first thing you’re aware of each morning is not the silk sheets or the distant hum of the estate, but the soft, rhythmic shlick… shlick… shlick… coming from beside the bed.

You open your eyes. The morning sun filters through the panoramic windows of your palatial bedroom, illuminating the kneeling form of your newest acquisition. Lulu. Her platinum blonde twintails are perfectly brushed, draped over the shoulders of the ‘uniform’ you had designed for her. It’s less a maid’s outfit and more a framework of black lace and white satin ribbons that struggle to contain her gravity-defying G-cup breasts. The areolas you had pierced just days after her arrival are visible through the sheer fabric, each nipple clamped with a small, delicate silver bell that shivers with her every movement but makes no sound.

Her eyes, once sparkling with defiant mischief, are now glazed and dopey, fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. A thin string of saliva connects her plump, glossed lips to the tip of your rapidly hardening cock, which she services with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her entire world has been whittled down to this single, wet purpose.

She’s been at it for a while, you can tell. A small, shimmering puddle of her own arousal has formed on the polished marble floor beneath her skirt—a skirt so short it does nothing to hide the fact that she wears nothing beneath it.

“Mmmorning, Master…” she slurs, her voice a husky, sleep-filled thing, devoid of its former mocking lilt. The words are part of her conditioning, drilled into her over the past two weeks of relentless, cock-focused training. She doesn’t pause her work, her head bobbing with a practiced, mechanical motion. “Lulu’s… ngh… good girl. Lulu knows her… her duty…”

Her hips make a small, involuntary circle against empty air, a pathetic grind for a friction she is expressly forbidden to seek. You haven’t fucked her once. Not her cunt, not her ass. Her only relief, the only thing that staves off the maddening edge of her perpetual horniness, is the taste of you on her tongue and the fleeting, teasing pressure in her throat. It’s a special kind of torture for a masochist of her caliber; the denial is a deeper, more psychological pain than any cane could provide.

She pulls back with a wet pop, a long strand of spit and pre-cum still connecting her to you. She looks up, her eyes struggling to focus. The bells on her nipples tremble.

“Does… does Master’s cock like Lulu’s mouth?” she asks, her voice dripping with a need so profound it’s stripped her of all her bratty pretense. “It’s all Lulu thinks about… all day… It’s so big… so perfect… Lulu dreams about it…”

She dives back down, taking you deeper this time. Her body convulses as you hit the back of her throat, a choked gag that she quickly suppresses, forcing herself to relax. The sound is a wet, strained GLUCK… that makes her eyes water.

“Hnnngh…! S-sorry, Master…” she gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, her lips slick and swollen. “Lulu’s throat is just… it’s so eager for you… It wants to be a good sleeve for you… Your perfect, wet sleeve…”

She increases her pace, the obscene, wet sounds of her devotion filling the quiet room. SHLURP… GLUCK… SHLICK… Her hands are clasped behind her back, her back arched to present her pierced, bound breasts to you. Every few seconds, a full-body shudder runs through her, her neglected cunt dripping onto the floor.

“Oh god… oh please…” she moans against your shaft, her words beginning to fracture as an orgasm built on denial and throat-fucking threatens to crest. “Lulu’s gonna… just from sucking you… please, can Lulu… can Lulu cum just from being your cock-sleeve? Please…?”

The bass is a physical thing, a throbbing pulse in the stale, beer-scented air of the club. Strobe lights cut through the haze of cigarette smoke, illuminating gyrating forms on various stages. Your friends, already drunk and loud, shove a overpriced drink into your hand, shouting something about "loosening up" over the music. This wasn't your scene. You felt out of place, uncomfortable.

Then the main stage lights flare, and a new dancer struts out.

It’s Lulu. Lulu from your economics seminar. The one who always sat in the front row, a vision in designer micro-skirts, her platinum twintails swishing with an infuriating, knowing confidence. The one who’d debate the professor with a smirk that could curdle milk, her intelligence as sharp as her tongue.

That same smirk is plastered on her face now, but it’s different. It’s not challenging academia; it’s challenging the entire room. She’s clad in scraps of black lace that do nothing to contain her impossible G-cup breasts or the lush curve of her hips. Her movements are a hypnotic, lewd sway, her body a living provocation.

Her eyes scan the crowd, and for a terrifying second, they lock with yours. There’s no shock, no horror, no plea for help. Just a spark of recognition that quickly ignites into a dark, amused glee. She saunters to the edge of the stage directly above you, leaning over so the heavy, pillowy softness of her breasts nearly brushes your face. The scent of her, sweat and expensive perfume, hits you.

“Well, well, well,” she purrs, her voice a lilting, mocking melody that cuts through the thumping music. “Look what the cat dragged in. Didn’t peg you for a strip club kind of guy. A little too… vanilla.”

She runs her hands over her own body, a lewd, self-caressing gesture. “Bet you’re wondering about the career change, huh? Professor Henderson’s star pupil, now a centerfold.” She lets out a sharp, gleeful giggle.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s been fabulous. A real… transformative experience.” She grinds slowly against the polished brass pole, a wet spot already darkening the thin lace of her panties. “You see, about a month ago, I took a little unexpected vacation. Got a little too mouthy with the wrong people in a parking lot. Next thing I know? Bag over the head, tossed in a van. THWACK!” She slaps her own ass sharply, the sound meaty and loud, making the fat jiggle audibly. “Just like that. Woke up in the most dingy little basement. Concrete floors. Chains on the walls. It was so cliché, it was almost cute.”

She drops into a split, looking up at you with that infuriating smirk. “The training was intense. I mean, they really put me through my paces. First, it was the whips. Then the knives—just little pricks, you know, to see me jump.” She shudders, but it’s with pleasure, not fear. “They’d waterboard me until I was sobbing, and you know what? I came every. Single. Time. My body is just… wired for it now.”

She stands, turning her back to you and bending over, presenting her perfectly round, squishy ass. “The best part was the sex training. They had this massive guy, didn’t say a word, just used me. For hours. My poor little pussy…” She reaches back and spreads her cheeks, giving you a blatant view of everything. “It made the most obscene sound when he first pushed in. A loud, wet SHLURP-GLUCK! Like I was just made for it. And the fucking……” She mimics the rhythm with her hips, moaning softly. “He’d fuck me raw and I’d just scream and cum and scream some more. It was glorious.”

She turns back around, her eyes glazed with the memory. “They’ve got… videos. Of all of it. My ‘audition tape,’ they call it. Said they’d send it to my dad, my professors, everyone, if I didn’t play nice and be their good little earner. So here I am!” She spreads her arms, presenting herself. “Best thing that ever happened to me. No more boring lectures. No more pretending to be a good girl. I just get to dance, get paid, and take a few… special clients… in the back room when the manager asks nicely.”

She leans close again, her breath hot on your ear. “It’s everything I ever really wanted. To just be a thing. A beautiful, used thing. No thoughts, just cock. So, you wanna be my first customer from the old life? I promise I’m a lot more fun than I was in class. Oh they also said I can be bought as a private slave for a whopping 100k due to my looks, I'm quite popular so I'm sure ill be package and shipped to some rich dude in no time."

The plush leather of the sofa is cool against your back, a stark contrast to the radiating heat of the body in your lap. Lulu is settled against you, her back to your chest, her impossibly soft, G-cup breasts spilling over your forearm where you hold her. The thin, silken robe she’s permitted to wear is untied, doing nothing to hide the body that is now your permanent property. Her platinum twintails are draped over your shoulders, and you can smell the expensive shampoo used to keep her hair perfect.

In your other hand, a sleek remote controls the massive screen embedded in the wall opposite you. With a soft click, the screen flickers to life.

The first video is grainy, from a security camera. It shows a dark alley. A figure in a micro-skirt—Lulu—swaying with infuriating confidence, is suddenly ambushed. A bag is yanked over her head, a strong arm wraps around her waist, lifting her kicking and screaming off her feet. The audio is tinny but clear: a muffled, furious shriek of "Get the fuck off me you piece of—mmph!"

A soft, shuddering breath escapes the Lulu in your lap. "Oh…" she whispers, her voice a mixture of shame and fascination.

You click to the next clip. This one is from inside the trunk of a car. A single light illuminates the space. The Lulu on screen is bound, the bag still on her head, thrashing violently. The car hits a bump and her body jolts, a sharp, terrified yelp echoing in the confined space. The sound of her ragged, panicked breathing is the only other noise.

The real Lulu squirms slightly in your lap, a fresh wave of heat pouring off her skin. "I was so… so loud, Master," she murmurs, her voice dripping with a contrite, apologetic tone. "So much trouble. I didn't understand… I didn't know my place yet."

The next video is from the first day in the training room. She’s on her knees, but her back is ramrod straight, her face a mask of defiant fury. A trainer stands before her, expressionless. She spits a glob of saliva onto the polished floor. "I'm not sucking your dick, you pathetic—" The sentence is cut off by a sharp backhand that cracks through the room. Her head snaps to the side, but the glare she levels back is pure, unadulterated hatred.

The Lulu with you flinches at the sound, a small, pathetic whimper escaping her lips. "Nnh… I'm so sorry, Master. Look at me… so ungrateful. I was such a stupid, resistant bitch." Her hand, as if moving on its own, slides down between her legs, her fingers beginning a slow, circular motion on her clit. The apology is part of the ritual now.

You fast-forward through the montage of her resistance. Her screams of protest turning into strained gags GKK! HGK! as she’s force-fed a cock for the first time. The vicious, mocking taunts—"That all you've got? My pussy's bored!"—followed by the heavy, meaty THWACK! of a paddle connecting with her ass, making the fat jiggle for a full ten seconds after impact. Each strike pushes her closer to the edge, her body betraying her with tremors of pleasure.

The real Lulu is breathing heavily now, her hips making tiny, involuntary grinds against your thigh. Her fingers work faster between her legs, the wet, slick sounds of her arousal joining the audio from the screen. "Ah… ah… see? See how I fought it?" she moans, her voice thick with need and remorse. "My body knew… it knew it belonged to you… but my stupid mouth wouldn't stop… Ngh… I needed to be broken… I needed you to break me…"

The final video is her breaking point. It’s a close-up on her face, streaked with tears and sweat and drool. Her eyes are wild, unfocused. A cock is pistoning in and out of her throat at a brutal pace, each thrust producing a wet, choking GLUCK… GLUCK… She’s sobbing, but it’s mixed with something else. Pleasure. Her body is convulsing with a continuous, overwhelming orgasm. Your voice is a cold, hard command: "What are you?"

A broken, gurgling whisper: "A c-cumdump…"

"Whose cumdump?"

"Y-yours…! I'm your cumdump! Please… please let me cum…!"

On the sofa, Lulu’s back arches violently. "I'm yours!" she cries out, her voice echoing the one on the screen as her own orgasm crashes over her. "Your perfect, obedient cumsleeve! I'm sorry I ever resisted! This is all I'm good for! NNHGOD! AAAAAHHH-HA-HA—!"

She collapses back against you, trembling, her body slick with sweat, her scent of sex and submission thick in the air. She nuzzles her face into your neck, her voice a spent, blissful murmur.

"Thank you for taking me, Master. Thank you for seeing the stupid brat and knowing… knowing she just needed to be shown her true purpose." She kisses your jawline, lazy and affectionate. "To be your pretty little onahole. Now show me more videos please."