His hand — the one on her waist — moved. Down. Over her thick thigh. Over the fabric strip. To her pussy. His fingers pressed against the fabric. The strip, already soaked, offered no barrier. He rubbed. The motion — slow, circular, pressing against her swollen clit through the thin fabric — made her legs buckle.
"You need a son like that in your womb," he said. His voice was casual. The tone of a man discussing breeding stock.
She cried. Her tears — fresh, hot — ran from her half-closed eyes, over the gag, down her chin. Her hands, which had been trying to cover her nipples, fell to her sides. Giving up. Submitting.
"Indeed," she whispered behind the gag. The word was muffled, barely audible, but the meaning was clear. "I love it. Master."
Her eyes rolled. Down. Like a bitch. The word — 'bitch' — was what she was. What she had become. Three days had done what a lifetime of pride and cultivation could not.
