Madam M stands waiting in the stables, crop in hand. A sharp tap against her boot summons the boy from his work. He crawls in and kneels before her, sweat and filth clinging to him. She flicks his cap away with contempt—his face displeases her. The order is curt: put on your hood. Expression erased, he is reduced to function.

Her crop snaps once. He is ordered to the wall—first position. Spread wide, arms braced, he is moved and motivated by sharp flicks of leather correcting every hesitation.

Then the t*rment begins. Her boots crash into his groin, hammering him back against the wall, each strike landing with sadistic precision.

She drives him from one position to the next, her crop snapping commands faster than he can steady himself. Against the wall, across the floor, bent over the stall rail—each stance exposes him differently, each shift punished before it is even held. The bl*ws come hard, fast, and merciless: boots slamming, knees rising, crop cutting across his thighs as his b*lls take the brunt of her s*dism. There is no rhythm to follow, no reprieve to anticipate—only the relentless attack, designed to break him through motion and p*in alike.

Madam M never wavers. Sack sm*shing is her stable sport, his agony her reward. From labour to hooded humiliation, he exists only to endure what she commands.