Ten days. Ten days of relentless torment and twisted ecstasy. Ten days where her screams became hymns and her tears became offerings. Her body was a canvas of bruises and bite marks, her skin mapped with welts from whips and canes. The cage was her sanctuary now, its cold bars a familiar embrace against her fevered flesh. She'd learned to crave the sting of the crop, the burn of the restraints, the overwhelming fullness when they stuffed her beyond reason. The milking machine had become a ritual, its rhythmic pull drawing not just milk but whimpers of desperate pleasure from her swollen breasts.