Free Her First Submission (Kathryn's Training) by Aya Fukunishi Page A

poor quality of the strippers. He didn't recognize her at first, and muttered some insult about how the club was full of nothing but dried out old cunts who belonged in nursing homes.
    "Sorry about that," Kathryn had replied, instantly scolding herself for apologizing for anything to do with the shitty, depressing club, as if it were her fault that the women on stage were dredged from the bottom of the barrel. "The pay here sucks. All of the pretty girls work down the street at the Elysium."
    That was when Stephen had finally recognized her. Kathryn cringed as she saw realization dawn on that narrow little rat face, as a leering smile broke out and a dry, rasping laugh descended into a coughing fit. She forced a polite smile as he looked her slowly up and down without embarrassment, pausing on her full, firm tits and tight, perky ass.
    "Well well, it looks like little Kat has grown up nicely," he said, grazing her side with a nicotine stained finger. "I'd love to see you up on that stage, girl. I bet you have the perverts throwing money at you."
    Kathryn shivered beneath his touch, drawing away from those grasping claws. "No, I don't perform. I just serve drinks. I'd love the cash, but I wouldn't dare go up on stage."
    The rest of the night had been the most unusual of her young life. Stephen had asked her straight out how much she banked for a night's work, laughed as she gave him a ballpark figure, then offered to quadruple her wage if she'd come to work at his club. She was wary of him, but when her shift ended and she finally escaped the dark, depressing club she found him waiting in the parking lot, smoking a cigar as he leaned against a black Maserati. Kathryn tried to politely extract herself from his company, but he insisted on taking her to his club. "A real gentleman's establishment," he'd said. "A much better class of people than you'll find in this shithole." Kathryn was reluctant, but she couldn't deny she was intrigued by his offer. The money he offered was extraordinary.
    Kathryn remained silent on the ride to the club, tensing herself each time the car slowed at an intersection, ready to bolt at any moment. The only thing that kept her from pushing open the door and rolling from the car was the promise of cash. She needed it, and Stephen had it. She was tired of shopping for stale, discounted bread and dented tins of soup. She was tired of avoiding her landlord, sneaking quietly past his door each night to avoid another confrontation, another apology, another empty promise of imminent payment. She was, more than anything, simply tired, and she'd long ago learned that pride wasn't accepted as hard currency.
    "I should warn you," said Stephen as he pulled the car into a small, dark parking lot, "there's a good reason I pay such high wages for my servers. This club is unlike any you've ever seen. You might be a little shocked, but just remember that everyone gives their complete consent for what happens here. My girls are very well paid, and they enjoy themselves."
    Kathryn nodded, but didn't understand. What kind of strip club is this? She thought she knew every venue in the city, but she'd never even visited this neighborhood. It was in a dark, dangerous part of town, an area that had once been a bustling hub of industry until the recession arrived and scooped the heart from the city. Abandoned store fronts and boarded doors were all that remained, and Kathryn couldn't understand how any club could have remained open without the custom of the local workers.
    Her questions were answered the moment the anonymous door swung open and Stephen led her through the half light of the lobby and down a flight of stairs into the dark, strobe-lit main bar. The girls here weren't stripping. They were... Kathryn didn't even know what they were doing. In the center of the room above a small, raised stage area a young woman hung by her wrists, suspended by a thick rope connected to a steel girder at the ceiling. The rope was