Ophelia thinks she’s here for a casual voice lesson. Sir Vlad has other plans for her soft, flat tummy. She keeps missing the note, so the Maestro drags her by her long dark hair into the marble hallway, strips her down to lacy panties, and ropes her wrists overhead. From the first sharp clap of his palm against her bare midriff, every off-key squeak becomes a punch-line he answers with knuckles, claws, and cruel squeezes. Her ivory skin blushes rose, then crimson, as he works methodically: Open-palm strikes that steal her breath. Slow, grinding knuckles circling her navel until she whimpers/ Nails raking lower abs, leaving raised pink trails/ A steel speculum stretching her delicate belly-button until it gapes, shining and tender/ A suction cup plunger that inverts the tiny hole into a swollen, throbbing donut of flesh/ Ophelia’s shrieks echo off the walls; each gasp only invites the next hit. By the end her stomach is glossy, puffed, and hypersensitive—a canvas of his irritation and her surrender. Filmed in crystal-clear close-ups so you catch every quiver, every red fingerprint, every tear that rolls down her cheek when Vlad flicks the engorged navel and orders her to “sing from the belly now.” If you crave ruthless belly discipline, stretched navels, and a girl pushed past every limit, press play and make her scream on your command.
