Chapter 7
Willow read the last few words of her final, one hundredth line in her head as she wrote them.
…I only need to do as I’m motherfucking told.
Her red and inflamed fingers cramped so bad she could barely pry them off the pen. The ache ran all the way up her forearms, the swelling and sting in her fingertips somehow worse than the vicious burn in her chest, cunt, and ass.
Every squeeze of the pen had ground nettle oil deeper into the tiny cracks where skin had started to split.
The bra had become a torture device hours ago, and it clung to her, pressing the poison in harder.
Each breath dragged a dozen stinging nettle hairs across already angry skin.
Her clit felt like it had been dipped in battery acid, and the inside of her panties might as well’ve been soaked in hot sauce.
Even her crack burned with every little muscle twitch, pulsing in sync with her heartbeat, each throb fanning the fire higher.
She couldn’t sit still anymore because everything fucking hurt.
The bike shorts held everything in place, compressing the pain until it screamed.
She stood too fast and staggered, her calves screaming from the run.
Boone had kept pace with her the whole five miles, silent and unrelenting, and he’d brought the strap.
He’d used it less than a dozen times, but hard enough to light her already punished ass on fire when she slowed.
He’d meant business when he said faster, and her ass had blazed before she ever sat in the unforgiving wooden chair he’d pulled up to the table.
When he’d walked her into Kenny’s office, Silas had been setting a meal up for her — thick chowder and grilled cheese sandwiches, enough to replenish her energy stores and pad her stomach for the next round.
It’d hit the spot. Exactly what she’d needed, and not just the food itself, but the kindness. The care.
But then had come the reminder to start her lines when she finished eating, and she’d written nonstop for three fucking hours, and every second of it hurt.
At first, she’d cried from pain. Then from frustration. But somewhere around line fifty, the shame took over. She wasn’t angry anymore. Not at them. Not at Boone. Just at herself.
What the fuck had she been thinking?
The shame cut deepest of all. She could’ve gotten herself seriously hurt with that barbell. She had mouthed off. And no, they weren’t exactly gentle when correcting her, but damn, what the hell had she expected?
And if she was honest, she’d have never spoken that way to Kenny or Silas, so why the fuck had she done so with Boone? She’d disrespected him, and she couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t like she didn’t think he’d follow through with punishment.
By line seventy, she was thinking about Kenny. About how disappointed he’d be. About how bad it was going to be when he wanted her to explain her actions.
By line ninety, she’d started trembling. She was no longer angry, but humiliated. Shamed by her words.
Now, with one hundred lines stacked neatly and legibly in front of her, she gathered the pages, but not the seven she’d scrapped for errors, and walked to Kenny’s desk.
He was busy comparing building plans on one monitor with line items on another. Five monitors glowed with architectural schematics and software she had no desire to understand.
The fire in her body made it almost impossible to stand still while she waited. Her clit throbbed. Her ass ached. The inside of her bra felt like it’d been laced with crushed glass. Her fingers were puffed up like sausages, her wrists screaming.
She shifted her weight once, then froze again.
He still didn’t look.
She didn’t dare speak while she waited, papers in hand.
Minutes passed.
Her swollen clit burned with the fires of Hell. Her nipples flared with pain every time her breath deepened. She could feel the edges of the leaves moving inside her bra with every tiny motion of her ribs.
Finally, Kenny saved his work and turned toward her.
He accepted the pages and took ten to twenty seconds to look at every page.
“Let me see the pages you scrapped.”
Her stomach clenched. “Yes, Sir.”
She turned carefully, walking like she might trip the pain alarms in her body if she moved too fast, and retrieved the discarded sheets from her desk. She was only allowed two mistakes per page before she had to scrap the page and start over.
She offered them to him with the same raw, throbbing hands she’d been gripping the pen with for hours.
He flipped through the pages. Set them aside. Looked at the main stack again, and met her gaze.
“Strip in your bathroom. Put all four punishment garments in a plastic bag. You may wash and dry them later before you return them to the drawer. From now on, all four are designated punishment pieces when you’re a disrespectful, disobedient, disgraceful fuckhole.”
Her stomach clenched so hard she almost gagged. The words landed like a slap she’d earned, heat rushing up her neck while her spine went cold.
Her vision blurred. Shame flushed through her like fever, prickling every inch of skin the nettles hadn’t already claimed. It pulsed under her breasts, over her clit, along her thighs — not just from pain now, but mortification.
She’d snapped at Boone, mouthing off like some entitled brat instead of the owned, trained submissive she was supposed to be. That title, fuckhole, wasn’t about sex right now. It was about failure. Like she was nothing but a hole, unworthy of speech, barely worth correction.
Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled. The word disgraceful echoed louder than the rest, slicing past her pride like glass.
She deserved this punishment. Deserved the bra that still burned against her nipples. Deserved the panties steeped in stinging shame.
Because that’s what she’d been. Disrespectful. Disgraceful.
Her chest tightened. “Yes, Sir.”
“No shower. No washing up. Return in a dress. Disrobe when you enter.”
She turned to leave, and he asked, “Did you get enough to eat, earlier?”
“I did, but I’m hungry again, Sir.”
“Look at me.”
She turned and faced him.
He eyed her, gaze flicking over her face.
“We don’t want you in the kitchen while you’re being punished. That’s none of anyone’s business.”
A pause. Then, “Silas will bring food up to you. Dismissed.”
She nodded, throat dry, and left.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, Willow shut the office door behind her, the click unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
Her body was one raw nerve, heat and pain pulsing everywhere at once — under the bra, between her thighs, buried in her ass crack, and inside her still-aching clit. Her fingers felt like fat sausages wrapped around glass shards, and her thighs trembled with the effort to keep standing.
She reached for the hem of her dress, hands slow and stiff, and pulled it off. Folded it neatly. Placed it on the side table.
The cool air hit her sweat-damp skin, turning every nettle-stung inch into ice-tipped agony.
Kenny wouldn’t appreciate her deviating from procedure, so she stepped into inspection pose, fingers locked behind her head, tortured tits sticking out and up, feet a little wider than her shoulders.
The food had helped, but she was still exhausted, her body still on fire despite removing the nettles.
She waited for the Alpha wolf working at his desk to acknowledge her presence.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Her arms were already screaming. The workout, the run, the lines. She was past muscle fatigue. This was structural pain, aching all the way to the bone.
But she didn’t dare shift. Kenny was reviewing digital plans across two monitors, face a mask of perfect calm. Like she didn’t exist.
The fourth minute crawled by.
She wanted to cry just from standing there.
Finally, Kenny saved his work, the monitors went dark. He leaned back in his chair and met her gaze.
Five seconds. Ten. Longer.
At last, he ordered, “Come.”
Heat pooled low in her gut — not arousal or anticipation, but raw dread. She crossed the room and stopped two feet from his desk, clenching her jaw to keep the tears in.
He rose, circling her like a shark.
“Hands,” he said.
She turned and crossed her shaking wrists behind her back.
But he didn’t connect the cuffs the way she expected. Instead, he wrenched her arms into reverse prayer, tearing a gasp from her.
He circled her wrists with a wide zip-tie, ratcheting it closed without pause. Sealing her wrists together.
Five seconds in, her shoulders were already screaming. Ten minutes would mean sobbing. Fifteen would mean begging for relief. They’d never made her hold reverse prayer longer than fifteen minutes, but she wasn’t even sure she had five minutes in her tonight.
He pointed to his work desk, the one with the bare surface so he could spread out when he wanted to work with ink and paper. For laying out plans.
“Tits on the desk.”
Her knees buckled slightly as she bent forward to settle her chest on the cool wood. Her bound arms dug into her ribs and spine. Her breasts compressed against the unforgiving surface, every embedded nettle barb grinding against raw, hypersensitive flesh.
Kenny nudged her bare feet apart with the toe of his boot, then crouched to secure a wide metal spreader bar between her ankles. The angle pulled her thighs open so wide her hips immediately protested. Her knees wobbled, thighs straining.
Bent over, fully exposed, face turned sideways, arms tight, clit stinging, thighs twitching.
He circled the desk once. Slowly.
Let her feel the floor under her feet, the desk under her chest, the ache in her arms. The shame in her gut.
Her heartbeat was so loud it echoed in her ears.
Kenny stopped behind her a second before he moved to her side and wrapped a hand around her ponytail, lifting her head high enough to meet his gaze.
“You’ll talk, or there will be pain. I’m fine either way.”
Her stomach dropped.
He let her head fall. Her cheek hit the desk with a soft thud, and she swallowed.