The mighty Cleopatra

Cleopatra lounges naked on silk sheets. The new girl on her knees, tongue stiff, clumsy, licks up between royal thighs. Too stiff. Cleopatra curls fingers into red-gold hair. "Deeper, idiot." The girl pushes harder. Pitiful. Not enough. The queen gives the signal—two guards step in with leather straps. Smack across soft ass cheeks. Then again. Harder. The slave yelps, tears streak, but she dives back in with desperate lapping strokes, sucking swollen flesh, tasting heat and power. Still sloppy, Cleopatra yanks the girl’s head down until the nose rubs her clit. "Pathetic little thing." Another blow lands, hips jerk, pussy drips, punished more, thighs tightened around sobbing mouth. Mean instruction comes in hissed syllables: suck the folds, swirl slow, swallow the wetness, flick exactly that spot above the hood. Finger pulled out quick each time the rhythm falters, tears used to wet the thumb before it shoves up ass. Obedience improves, bottom raised, moans shake against royal folds. Cleopatra smirks, rubs the girl’s tits raw between cruel slaps, tells her if her tongue fails she stays bent and striped until dawn. Wet licking sounds echo, lace of screams through laughter, obedience bred the old-school way. By night’s end the new toy tongues like a devotee, crimson welts sketched on trembling skin, trained by stripes and juices alike.