Chapter 17
A week before Thanksgiving, Willow woke to her alarm, turned it off, and went to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she was entering Kenny’s room, his bathroom, adjusting his shower as he’d want it.
He shuffled in, used the toilet, and then he was in the shower, she was on her knees, and he was down her throat.
He usually doesn’t take more than four or five minutes in the morning before she’s swallowing him down, but he took longer this morning.
Perhaps because she’d be leaving the following day for a nine-day assignment. All the men seemed to be using her longer. And more.
It hadn’t even been a week since Kenny won the damned poker game she’d had to waitress naked — bringing them drinks, sucking cock under the table while she was the damned prize they were playing to win.
And Kenny had cashed in his winnings hard.
Three nights in a row where she was his alone at night, for scenes, for special training sessions, all alone with him in bed, and even in the middle of the night when he got hard and used her again.
You’d think he’d be sated from that, but apparently not.
She finished bathing him as usual, left when dismissed, wrapped and secured a towel around her wet hair, and made her way outside Boone’s room. His door opened almost immediately, and he motioned her in.
He wanted her on her back. Fucking missionary. He almost always had her either leaned over the side of the bed, or knees-and-chest on top of it.
“No orgasm for the fucktoy this morning.”
Fuck.
And he took forever. Wanted her to open her eyes, see who was fucking her.
With that dick, there was no doubt who was in her pussy.
But she kept her eyes open and practically melted at the way he looked at her — loving and caring, but also possessive. She was owned.
And things are owned. Fucktoys are owned.
Damn, she nearly made herself get too close to an orgasm with that thought.
A good twenty minutes later, he emptied himself into her while rutting hard at the end, growling through his release. And then casually stood and made his way to the shower with an offhand, “Dismissed, cumbucket.”
She brushed her teeth again, put her towel-dried hair in a messy bun on top of her head, and made her way downstairs to start the bacon and coffee.
The rhythm of the morning blurred — Kenny joining her to help cook, Boone arriving to set the table and fix drinks, and the three sitting down to eat together.
She kept an eye on drinks while the conversation flowed, mostly about a work problem they needed to strategize.
It was still homey. Comfortable. Sharing food, hearing their plans. She’d agreed to belong to them, and this was a contented, satisfying part of that.
When Silas woke, she had to pick from a list of things he’d do to hurt her.
The list was getting sparse, and only the worst stuff was left.
She picked the most horrible thing on the list to get it over with, so she wouldn’t have to deal with it when she returned home.
She’d had no idea how bad his list could be when she’d agreed to this — or the psychological mindfuck of having to pick when it’s this bad.
The three things left on the list were 1) Clit hood held up and away, clit beat with the back of a metal spoon for two minutes, 2) Jennings gag, anal speculum, regular speculum — all inserted and opened as wide as physically possible.
Hold for two minutes after everything is in, and 3) Undiluted capsaicin oil on clit, vagina, asshole, lips, and tongue for 90 seconds, time starts when everything has been applied — then rinsed with cold milk.
How the fuck did she decide which was worse?
She was dreading the damned capsaicin on fucking everything the most, so she asked for it. Only Silas would understand how hard having to actually form the words rather than just point to it on a list would be.
“Sir, please coat my clit, vagina, asshole, lips, and tongue in Capsaicin oil for ninety seconds before you’ll let me wash it off.”
“Gladly, little painwhore.”
He put a plastic sheet on his bed, towels over it, ordered her onto her back on the bed, connected her wrist cuffs directly over her head to his headboard.
Her ankles were next, and connected to the outside edges of his fucking king-sized headboard.
He removed the egg and plug Boone had installed, and left to go get the milk.
She was stuck on her fucking back, spread like a damned offering ready to be slaughtered, staring at the motherfucking ceiling. And the worst part of the whole damned thing? She’d picked this, and there was no going back now.
Silas came back with a gallon of milk, a glass, a large metal bowl, a measuring cup with some kind of oil, and a small brush. No eye contact. No gloating. Just quiet efficiency.
He set the bowl on the bedside table and unscrewed the cap on the oil like he was prepping ingredients for a recipe. No gloves. Just his bare fingers.
“This will hurt, my adorable little whore. We’re the only ones here right now. Feel free to scream.” His voice was calm, almost gentle.
She nodded, heart already hammering.
He started with her mouth. Fingers smearing the pepper oil on her tongue, then searing her inner lips with it.
She choked on a sound, tried to keep her mouth open wide, jaw trembling.
He traced the fire over her lower lip. Upper lip.
Her cheeks were already wet, tears sliding sideways into her ears, and a series of ragged sobs tore out of her.
And he hadn’t even touched her cunt.
Next, her asshole. The first touch made her spine arch.
He didn’t shove it inside, but he massaged it all around, slow and thorough.
He ran his finger up in a fiery line to her inner labia, the folds, the crease beneath her clit, and finally her clit itself — and when he pinched her hood to lift it, holding it taut while he smeared the oil on, she screamed.
A little more all around her labia, the inside of her outer labia, and he sat up.
“Time starts now,” he said, and he stood, moved to the seating area below his bed to sit and watch.
Ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds of white-hot hellfire. Her pussy spasmed like it couldn’t decide between clenching or escaping her body entirely. Her asshole felt like someone had shoved a branding iron up it. Her tongue throbbed, her lips blazed. Her clit felt like it was about to melt off.
She screamed, whimpered, cried. Begged in her head. Tried to breathe, to count, to dissociate — but it was everywhere. There was no place to hide from the burn.
When the alarm on his phone beeped, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t even see through the tears.
He filled the glass with milk and then slowly poured the cold liquid over her cunt and asshole, back and forth in slow streams while she shook like a fucking leaf. He used the brush to wipe it all around, re-dipping to get more, concentrating on her clit. Her folds.
When the fire wasn’t gone, but had dimmed, he released her bonds, sat her up, refilled the glass, and handed it to her.
She drank, and drank. It helped her tongue and upper lip, but she had to stick her finger in the milk and rub it on her lower lip.
She looked at him for help, and he used the brush on it.
“Shower,” he told her, offering her the measuring cup with oil. “Use the olive oil on everything, then soap and water. If something’s still burning way more than the rest, more olive oil, more soap and water. You have five minutes, and that includes drying time.”
He touched his phone, and she saw it counting down from five, so she raced to the bathroom.
The oil helped. The soap and water helped. She worked fast, got out and dried, and was back with twenty seconds to spare. The pain wasn’t gone, but drastically dimmed.
He motioned to the bed, his voice low and dark when he ordered, “Bend over.”
She blinked at him. “My—”
“Now.”
She bent. Mornings were about being hurt and then servicing him. That’s why she didn’t have the damned stuff inside her asshole — he’d only put it where she’d be able to easily clean it.
He’d dealt with the plastic and towels while she’d showered, at least, so her face was on his sheets.
But her asshole still screamed, nerve endings flaring like roman candles. Getting rid of the oil hadn’t reversed the damage done by the damned capsaicin.
And then he was behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks, his dick pressing—
“Sir! Lube!”
“Hush, cumwhore.”
He shoved in. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just one long, slow thrust until he was balls deep in a hole that already burned like hell.
He’d lubed his dick, but she was so fucking raw it didn’t help.
Her screams bounced off the walls.
Silas grabbed her hips and held. Didn’t move. Just kept her impaled while she cried, breath hiccupping, face pressed to the sheet.
“That’s it. Everything about you is mine,” he said, hips shifting, grinding. “Your hole. Your pain. Your fuckin’ surrender.”
Every thrust was a promise. Every second inside her was ownership.
Thankfully, he only lasted maybe seven or eight minutes, the last three or four a feral, bestial rutting that ended with a low grunt of release behind her when he finally spilled his heat into her.
She didn’t move when he pulled out. Forehead to the mattress, mouth open and panting. Sobbing.
He lifted her in his arms, cradled her to him, and walked to his seating area to sit and hold her. “I have you, little hawk. I know it was bad. Fast and over with as promised, but beautifully savage, elegantly devastating. Breathe for me, my greedy little painwhore.”
She couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.
But her cunt fluttered in response to his kindness.
And wasn’t that a kick in the pants? She’d been so annoyed with kindness from vanilla men, but kindness from a fucking sadist lit her up like a Christmas tree.
Also, he was right. She breathed through the adrenaline, the endorphins. The burn wasn’t gone, but it was background noise. She was okay.