Chapter 13
My jaw aches, a dull, throbbing pain that’s settled deep into the joints.
The ball gag stretches my mouth wide, the thick rubber pressing my tongue down, making me swallow convulsively around it.
Drool I can’t control slides down my chin in a warm, sticky trail, pooling on my collarbone.
I try to swallow again, but my throat is too dry, and it just makes me cough weakly behind the gag, my chest hitching.
My hands are cuffed above my head, the metal links secured to the ornate headboard.
My ankles are chained to opposite bedposts, my legs folded and strapped in place with thick leather cuffs just above the knees, forcing them to stay splayed open.
I can’t close them. I can’t hide. I’m just..
. here. Laid out like a fucking exhibit.
The worst part, the part that makes my stomach twist and my skin crawl with a wrongness that goes deeper than pain, is the sounding rod.
It’s a thick, cold length of polished metal protruding from the tip of my cock, stretching my urethra in a way that feels invasive and cruel.
My cock is hard, has been for... I don’t know how long.
It’s swollen and an angry, dark red, the veins standing out starkly.
The rod keeps it that way, a constant, aching pressure that’s less about pleasure and more about an intrusion so intimate it makes my eyes burn.
Every tiny shift of my hips sends a sharp, electric jolt up the shaft, a reminder of the foreign object buried inside me.
Between my legs, the thick vibrating dildo buzzes with a low, relentless hum that I can feel in my teeth.
It’s buried deep, hitting that spot inside me with merciless consistency, pushing me up and up and up towards a climax that never comes.
My balls are drawn up tight and swollen, trapped in a silicone ring that bites into the sensitive skin at the base.
The need to come is a physical scream trapped behind my ribs, a frantic, clawing thing that makes my whole body tremble.
Nipple clamps hang from my chest, their sharp little teeth dug in deep.
Each heaving breath I take tugs at them, sending fresh, bright sparks of pain radiating outward.
On the soft skin of my inner thighs, there are five perfect, circular burns.
Cigarette burns. They sting with a clean, hot pain that flares up every time my muscles twitch, which is constantly.
The scent of burnt skin still hangs faintly in the air, a sickly sweet smell that turns my stomach.
My ass is on fire. It’s not just red, it’s a throbbing, smarting expanse of angry color, handprints layered over handprints until the entire surface of both cheeks is just one big, hot patch of agony.
Suha spanked me until his own palm must have ached, stopping only when my skin felt like it was about to split.
Now, every pulse of my heartbeat echoes there, a deep, punishing throb.
I’m exhausted. Covered in a fine sheen of sweat that makes the leather cuffs chafe.
My body feels heavy, wrung out, like every ounce of energy has been leached away and all that’s left is this raw, overstimulated nerve ending.
I think it’s been a day. Maybe more. The heavy curtains in Suha’s bedroom are drawn, shutting out the world.
I have no way to tell the time, only the unending cycle of the vibrator’s patterns and the sharp, specific pains from the clamps and the burns and the rod.
I’m so thirsty my tongue feels like sandpaper against the gag.
Hunger is a distant, hollow ache beneath the more immediate torment.
But mostly, I’m just achingly, desperately aroused in a way that’s tipping into madness.
It’s a need with no outlet, a scream with no sound.
There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t hurt, and yet, my body is still hard, still clenching around the toy, still begging for a release that’s being deliberately, cruelly withheld.
Suha was pissed. Really, properly pissed this time. It wasn’t just the usual cold fury over me escaping. It was something more possessive. He traced the fresh bruise on my jaw from the fight, his thumb pressing just a little too hard. His voice dangerously quiet when he said it.
“You let strangers put their hands on what’s mine. You let them mark you. You let them draw blood from my property.”
He’d shaken his head slowly, those dark eyes boring into me. “If you like pain so much that you’ll go looking for it from anyone who can give it to you, then I suppose I’ll just have to give you enough of it to last you a month. Maybe then you’ll remember whose marks you’re supposed to wear.”
The fight. That’s what did it. The idea of other people hitting me, hurting me, leaving their own temporary signatures on my skin... it triggered something in him. It wasn’t just about disobedience anymore. It was about ownership. A challenge to it. And Suha doesn’t tolerate challenges.
A soft click echoes in the quiet room, and the vibration between my legs suddenly intensifies, shifting to a faster, more erratic pattern.
A broken sob tears itself from my throat, muffled by the gag.
My back arches off the bed as much as the restraints allow, my hips jerking uselessly.
The rod in my cock feels like it’s burning.
The edge is right there, a hot precipice I’m being dangled over.
My vision swims, tears finally spilling over and tracking through the sweat and drool on my cheeks.
He’s been sitting in the leather armchair facing the foot of the bed for what feels like years.
Suha hasn’t looked at me in what might be an hour.
He’s just... there. A dark, immaculate silhouette against the dim light from a single lamp.
He’s scrolling through his phone with one hand, a cigarette smoldering between the fingers of the other.
He takes a slow drag, exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, and taps something out on the screen.
He made a call earlier, his voice a low, calm murmur while I writhed and sobbed silently in front of him.
The casualness of it is a different kind of insult.
My suffering isn’t even worth his full attention.
It’s background noise. A mild distraction.
I watch him through a haze of tears, my vision swimming.
Every part of me is screaming, but he just sits there, one leg crossed over the other, the picture of bored control.
The contrast is so violent it makes my head spin.
I am a mess of sweat, spit, and desperation, chained to his bed.
He is a king on his throne, surveying a particularly uninteresting corner of his domain.
He finishes whatever he’s reading and sets the phone on the small table beside him.
He brings the cigarette to his lips again, the tip glowing a bright orange in the gloom.
Finally, his dark eyes lift and land on me.
There’s no anger in them now. No fury. Just a cool, appraising look, like he’s checking the doneness of a piece of meat.
He stands up smoothly, unhurried. He walks towards the bed, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet. He stops beside me, looking down at where I’m splayed open and trembling. The smell of his cologne cuts through the scents of sweat and my own fear.
“Have you had enough time to consider your behavior?” he asks. His voice is conversational, light.
A frantic, garbled sound tries to push past the gag. Yes, yes, fuck, yes, I’ve considered it, I’ve considered nothing else, just make it stop. It comes out as a wet, desperate groan.
He doesn’t wait for a coherent answer. He wouldn’t be able to understand one anyway. He smiles, a small, faint curl of his lips that doesn’t touch his eyes. He brings his right hand down, the cigarette held between his fingers.
My eyes widen. I know what’s coming. I try to jerk my thigh away, but the leather cuff holds it firmly in place, exposing the soft, pale skin of my inner thigh. There’s a patch there, just above the knee, that’s still unmarked. He’s been careful, strategic with his burns.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t draw it out for drama. He simply presses the glowing orange tip directly into the center of that tender, untouched skin.
The pain is instant. It isn’t like the deep throb of a bruise or the sharp sting of the clamps.
This is a pure, concentrated point of agony that drills straight into the core of my nervous system.
My back arches violently off the bed, a silent, full-body scream tearing through me.
The restraints bite into my wrists and ankles, holding me in the arc of torment.
The sound I make is muffled, animal, ripped from a place deeper than my lungs.
My vision fractures into blinding white static, the room disappearing.
There is nothing in the universe except this specific, searing point of fire on my skin.
The smell hits me a second later—a sharp, acrid, nauseatingly sweet scent of my own flesh burning. My stomach convulses, bile rising hot and bitter in the back of my throat, but I can’t vomit around the gag. I just choke, my body spasming, tears flooding down my face in a hot stream.
He pulls the cigarette away after a count that feels eternal. The pain doesn’t leave. It settles in, a pulsating, angry brand. A new, permanent landmark on the map of my pain.
He leans over me, his face coming into my bleary, tear-filled view. He looks... pleased. Satisfied. He gently brushes my sweat-soaked hair back from my forehead, the gesture almost tender.
“Are you ready to behave now?” he asks, his voice still that same calm, polite tone.