Madam M is doing some practice with her catapult today. She has selected her valet as the target. He has been restrained for precision—a yoke securing his neck and hands, then spread wide over a pillowy b*r. His only task is to receive.

Madam loads her slingshot deliberately. The new ammunition is small, dense, chosen for velocity. Each pull of the band is measured—drawn slowly to build tension, both mechanical and psychological. The release is sharp. The impact, unmistakable. Flesh jumps. Breath catches. She adjusts her stance and fires again. Despite her amused laugh, this isn’t chaos. It’s calibration.

Madam M’s focus never wavers, and it only takes a single sh*t to find the target. He groans and moves when the impact strikes, but the bonds restrict any movement.

Humiliating and hard while in b*ndage, Madam makes him collect the projectiles for her own amusement. She also studies the pattern of crimson bruises like a map. Accuracy is its own reward.

Shots have h*t his testicles and buttocks, but Madam decides to switch his position. Spreading his legs and placing him on his back makes him even more vulnerable and exposed than his previous bent position. By the end, the skin is reddened, trembling, beautifully used.

Madam M doesn’t need to ask—his opinion irrelevant—and his silence says enough: he served his purpose. He will be released to collect the now scattered projectiles. He knows his Madam: nothing is over until her sadistic desires are satisfied.