Chapter 13 #2
Kenny checked in on the back porch, which was empty, but he noted a tent forty yards behind it. The scent told him who it belonged to, and he telepathed Silas to let him know who was camped out, and suggested maybe he could take him some food and see if the old man needed an ear.
It was also possible he was just here to absorb the pack magic infused into the land, so he didn’t feel so alone.
His beta would know better than him what to do.
Wolves mate for life, and when they lose their mate, they don’t always survive. The ones who do, struggle more than most humans, figuring out how to go on.
The bond that connects mated wolves makes them more of a unit, more of a single being than mere marriage could ever offer.
Kenny had long ago decided he wasn’t interested in mating with a wolf, but another shifter hit all the right notes for him.
He’d never considered sharing the other shifter with two other wolves, but the relationship had formed that way, and he didn’t see a way to tear it apart.
Nor a reason to, when it came down to it. He was a busy man, running the pack and business, and Willow seemed to thrive on being used by three men.
The hard truth? Kenny wasn’t interested in trying to give her the kind of attention she was getting by serving three dominant wolves.
It wasn’t what he’d have chosen for himself, and yet, now that he was here, it worked.
She was going to want to finesse things after the weeklong experiment, but he figured that would work itself out. They couldn’t keep this level up forever.
Or could they? Once a routine becomes the norm, it’s easier to deal with.
He made his way to the second floor with an extra spring in his step. He was looking forward to giving her first orgasm control lesson — and seeing how far she’d bend before she broke. This was about more than denial. It was about rewiring instinct. Teaching obedience at the cellular level.
She was standing outside the playroom, naked except for her heels, in inspection pose, staring at the wall beside the door.
He noted her placement with satisfaction. Fucktoys don’t stand in doorways. They wait out of the way, ready to serve.
He opened the door and popped her right ass cheek. “Permission to enter. I want you on the bondage table, face up.”
As she moved, he cataloged her gait, the tension in her shoulders, the subtle wince in her stride from the plug.
Perfect.
He’d keep her there as long as possible. Keep her stretched, needy, uncertain. And then deliver reward or punishment as needed.
That’s how you broke a new submissive in properly. Not with mere cruelty, but with structure. Predictable rules, unpredictable reward.
Tonight would be a good lesson in what it means to be owned by someone who enjoys the training process.
She climbed up while he gathered the rope, the carabiners, and the blindfold.
The silk rope was heavy in his hands. He’d opted for sensory for this, rather than the itchy, scratchy feel of the hemp rope.
“This’ll be easier to set up once I can source the kind of gynecological table I’m looking for,” he told her. “Not one of the new half-deals, but a full-sized one.”
He bent her leg and wrapped the rope around her thigh and shin, around and around until it was a six-inch cuff holding her leg bent. He tied it off to the side of the table, closely approximating a gyno exam rig with stirrups, though likely not as comfortable.
The other leg came next, and her scents filled the room. Her vulnerability. Accessibility. Inability to protect anything between her legs.
He put wrist cuffs on, bound them to the sides of the table. Her arms would eventually fall asleep if he bound them over her head, and he wanted the next hour to be all about her pussy, with her mind on nothing else.
A wide strap under her boobs to keep her from sitting up, and she was all set except for the blindfold. He met her gaze, touched the empty spot on her neck.
He’d told her there’d be no collar this week unless needed for a scene. If she decided to stay with them, there’d be a collar and cuffs.
And he’d already ordered a stainless-steel eternity slave collar with four matching cuffs. They’d be here Monday, in time for him to have on hand if she decided to stay with them when the experiment ended.
He slid the blindfold over her head, locking her in darkness. It had inner cutouts for her eyes to keep from pressing onto them, but it covered from the top of her forehead to three inches below her eyes, with a space for her nose, but a covering over it.
Soft and comfy, but it didn’t let in even a sliver of light.
He crossed to the cabinet and pulled out the violet wand — not one of the antiques with their unreliable hum, but a modern one. More settings, more power, and longer run times without the overheating issues of the old ones.
But he wouldn’t turn it on yet.
He caressed her pussy, knowing it was sore from all the activity, plus Boone’s giant hand on the way home. He added lube, went in with three fingers, and worked her with the intention of ramping her up. Not too fast. He’d let the soreness bloom into arousal. Let her fight herself.
“No orgasms tonight. No permission. Don’t bother begging, and in fact, no words allowed while you’re on the table unless I ask a direct question.
” He pressed in a little harder. “Good little fucktoys only orgasm when their owner wants them to. They take pleasure in being all needy and frustrated when their owners want them to be greedy little cockwhores.”
He liked the sound of that. Greedy little cockwhore.
He breathed in, took a good measure of her scent. She’d responded to it with a measure of arousal and a level of degradation that worked for her. Crass produced just the right notes sometimes, and his little hawk squirmed more when they used her as an owner uses a thing.
Greedy little cockwhore.
Perhaps he’d take a page from Silas’s crass playbook and turn her into exactly that.
He found her G-spot, and her scent deepened.
He massaged that oh-so-sensitive bundle of nerves while forcing her open with his fingers.
Her breath came in trembling bursts. Her toes flexed and pointed.
Her hands were in fists at her sides. She shifted and moved as much as her bonds allowed, wanting more. Needing more.
He gave her more with one hand while he lifted the wand with the other, his finger on the button to turn it on, the settings already where he wanted them, and he touched it to her clit within a second and a half of her orgasm starting.
This wasn’t a fun tingle but a sharp electric shock, snapping through her like lightning. The orgasm crumpled, pleasure burning away to raw pain, and her scream ripped through the room.
He held it to her clit for a slow count of three before he pulled it back and switched it off.
And then he rubbed his hand through her folds again, began the task of working her up yet again while he casually told her, “It’s called aversive conditioning by the people trying to pretty it up, but I prefer the original term for it: deterrence training.”
Make the cost outweigh the reward. Then do it again. Conditioning happens in repetition.
* * * *
The words sank into her like a stone in water, rippling out through every nerve.
Aversive conditioning. Deterrence training.
That’s how you train dogs. A can with pennies in it to make them stop barking. Or, if you’re cruel, a shock collar.
Looked like fucktoys get the shock treatment right out of the gate.
She didn’t want to come again. Not with whatever he’d shocked the fuck out of her clit with close at hand.
It’d sounded a little like a violet wand, but it’d hurt a thousand times worse.
His fingers were already back on her, in her — sliding through slick folds, pressing where she was still stretched and tender from Boone’s hand earlier.
The soreness was a constant hum under the sharper pulses of pleasure as he circled her clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate, then stroked hard up inside her, rubbing across the spot he’d already proved could undo her in seconds.
She tried to think of anything else. The rope around her legs, biting into her shins a little. The blindfold’s edge below her cheekbones. She squeezed her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms.
But then his fingers hooked just right and her thoughts scattered, replaced by a wave of heat rolling up from deep inside.
“No…” She whispered it without meaning to, a shaky exhale, but his pace never faltered, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm. In and out, scraping over the magic spot inside her.
Massaging all around. She tried hard to stay relaxed, not to go right to the edge, but eventually, her body took over and her muscles clenched around him.
She arched her back, trying to point her pussy down, away from him, but she knew it was no use — every nerve between her legs screamed at her to let go, to give in.
And she knew she couldn’t hold back. Her thighs trembled, her toes curled, and she was already falling…
The spasms started inside her, the orgasm taking hold whether she wanted it to or not—
Pain. Fire.
The shock ripped through her like lightning, sharp and merciless. Pleasure shattered into agony, and she screamed, high and raw. Her hips jerked, trying to escape, but the ropes only bit deeper.
It felt like he held it to her tortured clit longer this time, but she couldn’t be certain.
And then the contact broke, leaving her panting, clit throbbing in the echo of it.
She sagged onto the table, every muscle quivering, heart hammering against the strap across her ribs — knowing he could start all over again whenever he pleased.
This was training, not punishment, and the sooner she learned to hold onto her orgasms, the sooner it would stop.
She wondered if he’d set a number of times to shock her, or a time limit?
If it was the latter, every second she could hold out might mean one time less he shocked the fuck out of her clit.
She resolved to do just that.
* * * *
Boone listened from her bedroom. The screams made the man palm his cock, but the wolf wanted to rescue her.
He knew the training schedule, though. Intense deterrence training on Kenny’s nights, while Silas and Boone made sure she had at least a half-dozen orgasms on the nights she was supposed to be able to have them, and none on her restriction nights.
They’d take her to where they believed she should be able to hold back, and then apply whatever punishment she couldn’t handle if she slipped and orgasmed.
At least two nights a week, maybe three, she’d be required to have a half-dozen or more orgasms — given permission and then a nice little good girl afterward.
The rest of the week, she’d be denied release. Her two sessions with Kenny would be the hell he was currently putting her through. Working her up to an orgasm and then punishing her for it. A crash course in orgasm control.
And the screams meant it was working.
Boone preferred the long game, whispers instead of thunder. Touches that never let her come. Days of fullness, plugs and eggs and unsatisfied ache until she begged for release.
He watched his favorite podcaster while he listened to Kenny bring her to orgasm and then punish her five times, holding the wand to her clit one second longer each time, which doesn’t sound like much, but the difference in the three-second screams and the eight-second ones were monumental.
She’d be raw when he got her, wrecked and sore — and still, she’d open for him when he demanded it, tears in her eyes while she fought to take him.
He set his phone to the side when they finished, his cock granite hard from her last series of screams.