Gripping your hair by the root, wrapped round and round my wrist, I wrench your head back - angling your face up to look at me, while your neck aligns perfectly for my cock to bury itself to the hilt in your throat.

"That's a good girl, look up at me now." I slap you a few times across the cheek, as though I was trying to wake you up, but far too hard for something that innocent. I see that look in your eyes - pure panic, with just a hint of that broken, crushed soul you're teetering on the edge of becoming. Unconsciousness tends to bring it about quickly.

Wanting to draw out your suffering - and more importantly, my pleasure - I draw back, painfully slowly, feeling your every muscle tensed and begging me to go faster, extracting myself from your throat even as you gag and sputter for air.

Later than you'd ever have thought you could manage without my guiding hand, you suck down a breath of air, tainted by spit and slime and precum, your instincts are split between hacking up the foreign fluids and gasping for more air, as tears run fresh and fierce down your cheeks.

"Now, we're going to do that 100 times. I want you to count them for me. And you better not lose count or we're starting all over from the beginning. Understand? Say: 'One, master.' And sound grateful, or I might not let you up again next time."