Listen carefully, pets.

If you ever hope to kneel at my feet and call yourself mine, you will complete my Ass-to-Mouth Re-education Marathon. There is no negotiation. There is no safe-word that stops the lesson once we begin. Your mouth is being repurposed tonight—reprogrammed over hours until the only thought left in your empty head is cleaning me, tasting me, choking on whatever I decide belongs between your stretched lips.

I want you to visualize it now, because soon it won’t be fantasy. It will be your reality.

First, the preparation.

I strap the widest jaw-straining open-mouth gag I own across your face—the one with the thick silicone ring that forces your mouth into a permanent, aching O. Your jaw will scream within minutes, but that’s the point. You don’t get to close your mouth. You don’t get to hide. Every drooling breath reminds you that your face is furniture.

Next come the heavy stainless-steel nipple clamps, teeth biting deep into your sensitive buds. I attach short, unforgiving chains from each clamp to the thick spreader bar I’ve locked behind your knees while you’re on your back, wrists cuffed wide to the corners of the bondage bench. Arch your back even slightly, tilt your head forward even a centimeter—and the chains yank viciously on your nipples. Try to turn away when the smell hits you too strongly? Same result. Sharp, searing pain shoots through your chest, reminding you: your comfort is irrelevant. Your only job is to stay exactly where I place you.

The marathon begins.

Cycle after cycle. Hour after hour.

I start by lowering myself onto your upturned face—full weight, no mercy. My ass cheeks seal over your nose and mouth like a warm, suffocating mask. Three to five minutes at a time. No air. Just the musky heat of my body, the faint salt of my skin, the deeper, earthier scent waiting just inside. Your tongue is already extended through the gag, frantically lapping at my tight ring because you know what happens if I don’t feel proper worship. I grind slowly, deliberately, smearing myself across your lips, your nose, your chin. Your lungs burn. Your vision spots. And still I sit.

When the timer ends I rise—just enough.

Before you can gasp a full breath, I reach back, take the large, slick toy I’ve chosen for this round (a thick, ridged dildo one cycle, a heavy cone plug the next, a beaded shaft after that), and push it steadily into my ass. Deep. All the way until my cheeks kiss the base. I let it sit there a moment, clenching around it, letting my body mark it, warm it, claim it.

Then I yank it free in one smooth, obscene motion.

The toy glistens—coated, warm, carrying the intimate scent and taste that is mine alone. I don’t wipe it. I don’t rinse it. I simply angle it downward and feed it straight past the gag ring, deep into your waiting throat.

Ass-to-mouth. No hesitation. No pause.

You gag instantly. Of course you do. The stretch, the depth, the forbidden flavor flooding your senses—it’s overwhelming. And I love that sound.

While you choke and sputter around the toy, I lean close, voice low and cruel:

“This is what your mouth is for now, isn’t it? Not speaking. Not begging. Not breathing unless I allow it. Your mouth exists to clean toys that have been deeper inside your Mistress than your worthless cock will ever be permitted to go. Lick. Suck. Taste how much better I am than you. Every inch you take reminds you of your place.”

I fuck your throat with it—slow, deliberate strokes—until every trace is polished clean. Only then do I pull it free, dripping with your saliva, and set it aside for the next round.

We repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Every tenth cycle, I grant you the briefest mercy.

I unbuckle the gag just long enough for your aching jaw to close—and for you to speak the required words.

You will look up at me, eyes watering, lips swollen, voice hoarse and trembling, and recite exactly:

“Please let me taste your dirty hole again, Mistress.”

Say it prettily. Say it desperately. Say it like the privilege it is.

If I’m satisfied, the gag goes back in. Tighter this time. And we continue.

Hours pass. Your nipples are raw fire from every involuntary twitch. Your jaw feels dislocated. Your throat is raw from the relentless ass-to-mouth invasions. Your lungs remember only the suffocating weight of my body and the desperate seconds when I allow you air.

Finally—when I decide you’ve been adequately broken—we reach the climax.

I remove the last toy, slick and warm from my depths, and feed it down your throat one final time. You clean it obediently, eyes glazed, mind empty.

Then I settle back down—full weight again—but this time my goal is different.

I grind my clit against your nose while your tongue stays buried inside me, frantic, worshipping. I ride your face hard, chasing my orgasm, using your features like a toy built solely for my pleasure.

When I come—shuddering, clenching around your tongue, flooding your senses—I don’t lift off.

Instead I slide back slightly, planting my ass directly over your throat, compressing your airway.

Now you recite.

Ten times.

“My tongue exists to wipe Mistress’s asshole clean.”

Each repetition is quieter, more strained, more broken as the oxygen thins. I count them aloud, mocking any hesitation, any gasp.

“One… louder, pig. Two… slower this time, savor the truth. Three…”

By the tenth recitation your voice is barely a whisper, body trembling, mind shattered in the most perfect way.

Only then do I rise.

I remove the gag. I unchain your tortured nipples. I let you collapse.

And I whisper the final truth you will carry forever:

“This was only the beginning, pet. Next time it lasts longer. Deeper. Dirtier. Because you exist to serve. And your service begins—and ends—with your tongue in my ass.”

Now crawl to the comments and tell me:

How many cycles do you think you could survive before you break completely and beg for more?

Be honest.

Mistress Lara is waiting.

Comments are open. Impress me.

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