Morning Throat Training

Dorothy watches you finish cleaning the last of the mixed puddle from the kitchen tile—long, slow laps of your tongue until the spot gleams again. Your face is flushed, chin still wet with piss, soil, and your own constant drips. The inverted cage ensures every humiliated clench only forces more clear beads through the flared catheter opening; they fall in soft, rhythmic patters while you work.

She tugs the pink leash once—short, sharp.

“Up.”

You rise onto your knees, hands automatically going behind your back, skirt hiked, ass still stinging faintly from yesterday. The rhinestone-studded collar catches the light every time you swallow.

She stands, robe slipping open further as she moves to the living room doorway. The leash stays clipped.

“Follow. Crawl. Keep that leaky little faucet pointed down so you don’t make more messes on my floors.”

You drop back to all fours and crawl after her—leash taut, beads shifting inside your urethra with every knee-forward motion, sending fresh drips trailing behind you like a sad little snail path across the hardwood.

The living room is bright, sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the same private backyard. A wide, low ottoman sits in the center of the room, upholstered in soft cream velvet. On the coffee table beside it: a sleek black timer, a bottle of thick, strawberry-flavored lube, and the same professional camera from yesterday—already set up on its tripod, lens aimed at the ottoman.

Dorothy stops.

Turns.

Snaps her fingers at the ottoman.

“Kneel up there. Chest down, ass up, face toward me. Legs spread wide. Show Mommy how well that new cage keeps you leaking while we train.”

You climb onto the velvet—soft against your knees and palms—then lower your chest until your cheek rests on the cushion, arms stretched forward, ass presented high. The short skirt flips up completely; the open-crotch panties frame the pink inverted cage and the glistening catheter perfectly. A thick bead of pre-cum wells up immediately and falls in a slow string onto the velvet below.

Dorothy circles once—appreciative hum in her throat—then stops in front of your face.

She unties the robe completely. It falls in a silk puddle at her feet. Naked now except for the pearls and the ankle chain, her thick cock hangs heavy between her thighs—already thickening at the sight of you presented like this.

She strokes herself once—lazy, arrogant—bringing it to full hardness in seconds. Eight inches, veined, flushed dark at the head, a fat pearl of pre-cum already beading at the slit.

She picks up the timer.

Sets it for twenty minutes.

The digital numbers glow red: 20:00.

She hits start.

The countdown begins.

“Throat training starts now,” she says softly. “Mommy’s going to use your mouth until the timer runs out. You do not pull away. You do not gag without permission. You breathe through your nose when I let you. Every time you manage to take me balls-deep for a full ten seconds without tapping out, I add thirty seconds to the end of the session. If you fail… I subtract a minute and we start the count over.”

She cups your chin, thumb pressing your lower lip down until your mouth falls open.

“Show me your tongue.”

You extend it—flat, trembling.

She lays the underside of her shaft along it—hot, heavy, tasting faintly of salt and morning skin.

“Hold it there. Feel how much bigger it is than that sad tucked clitty you’re wearing. Feel how it throbs. That’s what real power tastes like.”

She slides forward slowly.

The head breaches your lips.

Then deeper—halfway—stretching your jaw wide.

You gag softly around her; tears prick immediately.

She pauses.

“Swallow around me. Relax your throat. Good girl… just like that.”

Another inch.

Your nose brushes her pubic bone.

She holds—counting silently in her head.

One… two… three…

Your throat convulses.

Eyes water.

She pulls back just enough to let you gasp one **** breath through your nose, then pushes in again—deeper this time, balls brushing your chin.

“Ten seconds,” she murmurs. “Hold it.”

You try.

Throat fluttering around her thickness.

Tears spill.

The timer ticks: 19:42… 19:41…

At eight seconds your body betrays you—hard gag, hands flying up instinctively.

She pulls out instantly.

A thick rope of spit and pre-cum connects your swollen lips to her glistening tip.

She sighs—disappointed but not angry.

“Failed at eight. That’s minus one minute.”

She resets the timer to 19:00.

Hits start again.

“Again.”

This time she doesn’t go slow.

She feeds herself in one smooth motion—head popping past your soft palate, shaft sliding deep until your nose is buried in her smooth skin.

You ****—muffled, wet.

She holds.

Counts aloud now.

“One… two… three…”

Your throat works frantically around her—milking, spasming.

Tears stream freely.

The catheter shifts with every gag; a steady drip-drip-drip falls from the flared opening onto the ottoman.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

Your vision blurs.

“Ten.”

She pulls back—slow—letting you feel every inch drag along your tongue.

You gasp—ragged, ****.

“Good girl,” she praises. “That’s thirty extra seconds added. Timer now at nineteen-thirty.”

She strokes your tear-streaked cheek.

“Again.”

The next twenty minutes blur into a rhythm of deep, relentless thrusts—her hips rolling steady, your throat opening wider with each repetition. Every successful ten-second hold earns you more time; every failure costs you. By the end your jaw aches, lips swollen, chin dripping ropes of spit and her pre-cum, throat raw and fluttering even when she’s not inside.

The timer finally hits 00:00.

She pulls out completely—leaving your mouth gaping, tongue lolling, face a wreck.

She crouches in front of you.

Kisses your forehead—soft, possessive.

“You took twenty-three full minutes of Mommy’s cock today,” she whispers. “And you only failed four times. That’s progress, puppy.”

She reaches under you—fingers brushing the inverted cage.

The velvet is soaked beneath you—your constant leaks pooling in a small, clear lake.

“Look at this mess,” she murmurs. “Leaking the whole time I trained your throat. Such a greedy little faucet.”

She stands.

Unclips the leash for now.

“Stay right there. Ass up. Don’t move.”

She disappears into the kitchen.

Returns with a tall glass of ice water.

She sets it on the coffee table.

Then she straddles the ottoman behind you—knees bracketing your hips.

Her cock—still rock-hard—slides along your cleft, not pushing in, just resting heavy and hot.

“Drink,” she orders, holding the glass to your lips.

You sip—cool water soothing your ravaged throat.

When the glass is half-empty she pulls it away.

Pours the rest slowly over your back—ice cubes clinking, cold water running down your spine, between your cheeks, washing over the cage and mixing with your drips.

You shiver.

She leans down—breasts pressing into your back, pearls cold against your skin.

“Lunch in two hours,” she whispers. “Mommy’s having grilled salmon and salad. You’ll eat whatever I leave on the plate… and then you’ll crawl under the table and open wide for dessert.”

Her hand slips between your legs—fingers circling the catheter, tugging once so the beads shift deep.

Another thick drip falls.

“Until then… stay right here. Leak for Mommy. Think about how good dinner is going to taste straight from the source.”

She stands.

Walks to the camera.

Clicks it off.

Leaves you there—ass up, throat raw, cage dripping, collar jingling softly with every shaky breath.

The timer on the table still glows faintly: 00:00.

But the day is far from over.

Lunch approaches.

And after that… dinner service.

What happens when she calls you to the table, leaking puppy?

Do you beg for scraps?

Or do you crawl under and wait with your mouth already open?