A gift

SKRITCH-SKRITCH-SPLORT.

Calla's fingers were a blur between her thighs, clawing and digging, her breath coming in short, wet sobs. Her pussy gushed weakly every few seconds—clear, slick squirts of raw relief mixed with the sting of shame. Her nails scraped against swollen folds and cursed leaf pulp, flicking out red, twitching fragments like confetti from hell.

Then—

THUMP.

Allen pressed his foot down onto her crotch.

Calla squealed, a gurgled moan bursting from her throat as her fingers were pinned between her cunt and the hard sole of his heel.

Her whole body jerked.

"That's enough," Allen said smoothly, grinding his foot down, the leather squelching wetly against the soaked, scratched mess of her folds. "I didn't say you could enjoy this, pet."

Calla sobbed. "N-No, Master, please—I-I thought—!"

"Did I say," Allen drawled, "that you could stop suffering?"

She froze. Trembled. "B-But you let me scratch…"