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I again applied an extremely strong and hard rhythm, pushing my hand back and then sending it forward along with the turn of the body, giving the rod the fastest possible speed.
The pauses between beats were no more than two or three seconds.
Stella fought in the invisible trap of my conditions and the possibility of breaking them at any moment, holding back the fear of what followed and my own dignity.

The air whistled through her lungs and left them with hoarse moans, the table swaying from her desperate jerks.
From the side it seemed that her fingers were clinging tightly to its edge, and her life depended on whether she could tear them off.

After the twelfth stroke, I felt that she had no strength left to hold back.
Tears again dripped from her beautiful eyes, a thin trickle of saliva flowed from the corner of her mouth, and contrary to my orders, her legs again fell off the floor and bent at the knees.
Her lungs were cracking, she was sobbing softly, but this was the only manifestation of the pain she endured.

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She had to inevitably break down, but she had not broken the rod before.
On the thirteenth stroke (after all, don’t believe in mysticism), he broke down in the middle exactly.
Stella and this blow survived without screaming, but while I was changing the rod, she managed to pack up and again obediently awaited her fate, firmly putting her legs on the floor and erotically moving her hips to cool down the fire that was tormenting her buttocks and thighs.
Of course, she really wanted to touch her screaming skin from terrible pain, to stroke and cover her with her palms, but this was forbidden, and she would get out of the situation in this way.
Or maybe it was an attempt to make me hospitably open holes and briefly postpone the punishment.
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