Yes she will! Because she loves serving her White Master!

The riding crop sliced through the air again, its sharp SLAP against her bound black breasts pulling a stifled cry from her lips. Her body trembled, the tight ropes biting into her swollen udders, amplifying the sting that radiated through her chest. Her Master’s eyes gleamed with a predatory intensity, drinking in her every flinch, every shudder, as if her pain was a fine wine he savored with each sip.

“Count, fuckcow,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her core, igniting a twisted cocktail of dread and desire. “Let me hear you acknowledge your place.”

“One… Master!” she gasped, her voice quivering as she fought to keep her composure. The burn of the crop lingered, a hot pulse that seemed to sink deeper into her flesh, blending with the throbbing ache of her tightly bound breasts. Her nipples, swollen and hypersensitive, screamed with every heartbeat, yet the warmth pooling between her thighs betrayed her body’s response. She hated how much she craved this—his control, his cruelty, his ownership. Yet she loved it, needed it, her very soul tethered to his will.

SLAP

The crop struck again, this time catching the underside of her left breast, making the heavy flesh bounce lewdly in its rope harness. “Two, Master!” she cried, her voice breaking as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The pain was sharp, unrelenting, but it was the humiliation that cut deeper—knowing he saw her as his livestock, his black fuckcow, her body built for his pleasure. Her cheeks burned with shame, yet her core clenched with a ****, shameful need, her plugged ass tightening around the thick intrusion as if to anchor her to her submission.

He circled her slowly, the crop trailing lightly over her trembling skin, teasing the welts forming on her dark udders. “Look at you,” he murmured, his tone mocking yet laced with dark approval. “So eager to please, so **** to be my good little ****. Your fat black tits were made for this, weren’t they? Built to take my crop, to serve me.”

SLAP

“Three, Master!” The cry tore from her throat, her body jerking as the crop landed squarely across her right nipple. The pain was electric, shooting through her like a live wire, and she bit her lip hard to stifle a moan. Her breasts throbbed, the ropes seeming to tighten with every strike, squeezing her flesh until it felt like her udders might burst. Yet beneath the agony, that perverse thrill surged stronger, her arousal a traitor that coated her inner thighs despite the torment.

Her Master paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied her, the crop tapping lightly against his palm. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, whore?” he said, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Your filthy black body can’t help itself. You’re built for my use, for my ****. Say it.”

“I’m… I’m built for your use, Master,” she whimpered, her voice thick with both shame and surrender. “For your… ****.” The words burned her throat, but they also set something free inside her, a deep, primal acceptance of her place at his feet. She was his, utterly and completely, her black body a canvas for his desires.

SLAP

“Four, Master!” The crop struck again, and this time she couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped her. Her breasts were a furnace of pain, each strike layering fresh agony atop the last, the ropes amplifying every sensation until her entire world narrowed to the sting of leather on skin. Her knees buckled slightly, but she **** herself to stay upright, to present her udders as he demanded, knowing that any failure would only prolong her torment.

He chuckled darkly, stepping closer to grip her chin, forcing her tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. “You’re doing well, fuckcow,” he said, his thumb brushing roughly over her trembling lips. “But we’re only a quarter of the way there. Can my little ebony **** take all twenty? Or will you break like the weak bitch you are?”

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down her spine, a mix of fear and defiance sparking in her chest. She wanted to please him, to prove her devotion, but the pain was overwhelming, her bound breasts screaming with every breath. Yet the thought of failing him, of disappointing her White Master, was unbearable. She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “I… I can take it, Master. For you.”

His smirk widened, a glint of sadistic pride in his eyes. “We’ll see,” he said, raising the crop again.

SLAP

“Five, Master!” Her voice cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks as the crop bit into her tender flesh. The pain was blinding now, each strike pushing her closer to the edge of what she could endure. Her body trembled violently, her plugged ass clenching involuntarily, the ropes around her breasts feeling like a vice. Yet even as the agony consumed her, that twisted spark of arousal refused to die, her body betraying her with every shuddering breath.

SLAP

“Six, Master!” She was sobbing openly now, her chest heaving as she fought to keep counting, to keep submitting. Her udders felt like they were on fire, the welts rising angrily against her dark skin, but she clung to her purpose—serving him, pleasing him, being his perfect fuckcow.

The strikes continued, each one a test of her resolve. By the tenth, her voice was hoarse, her body shaking uncontrollably. By the fifteenth, she was gasping for air, her sobs mingling with moans as pain and pleasure blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation. Her Master’s voice, his mocking praise, anchored her through the haze, reminding her why she endured this—for him, for his pleasure, for the privilege of being his.

SLAP

“Nineteen, Master!” The word was a broken whimper, her body slumping forward as the crop landed one final time on her swollen, welted breasts. She was trembling, her face streaked with tears, her breath ragged. The pain was excruciating, but she had held on, had counted every strike, had offered her body to him without breaking.

He paused, the crop lowering as he stepped back to admire his work. Her breasts, bound and battered, bore the marks of his dominance, angry red welts crisscrossing her dark skin. He reached out, his fingers grazing the tender flesh, and she flinched, a soft moan escaping her lips. “One more, fuckcow,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Can you take it? Can you prove you’re worthy of being my ****?”

She nodded weakly, her eyes meeting his with a ****, pleading intensity. “Yes, Master,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please… let me prove it.”

SLAP

“Twenty, Master!” The final strike landed with a **** that made her scream, her body collapsing forward as the pain overwhelmed her. But she didn’t break, didn’t beg for mercy, didn’t pull away. She stayed there, trembling, sobbing, her bound breasts throbbing, her plugged ass aching, her entire body a testament to her submission.

He knelt before her, cupping her tear-streaked face in his hands, his expression softening just enough to show a flicker of approval. “Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away her tears. “You took it all. You’re my perfect ebony cocksleeve, my fuckcow. You’ve pleased me.”

Her heart swelled at his words, the pain fading into the background as his praise washed over her. She had endured, had proven her devotion, had given herself fully to her White Master. The shame, the pain, the degradation—it was all worth it for this moment, for the knowledge that she had served him well.

He unhooked the leash from her collar, his fingers lingering on the word “Fuckcow” etched into the leather. “Now,” he said, his voice taking on a new edge of anticipation, “let’s get you ready for the rest of our walk.”

She shivered, knowing the night was far from over, but the thought only deepened her submission, her love for him, her need to be his. She was his black fuckcow, his personal cocksleeve, and she would follow him anywhere.