Chapter 17 #4
Her hands throbbed with a separate, steady agony. Not the consuming kind that dominated her cunt, but the sharp, disciplinary kind that never let her forget the rules — or who made them.
Thirty minutes in, her emotions were as raw and vulnerable as her stretched pussy, both burning until tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
She’d look to his hand to figure out which knuckle was pressing into the bone, pulverizing the tender tissues between, tell him, and he’d adjust.
The steel nails bit deeper as she tightened every muscle, including the ones pinned flat to those merciless boards — the penalty for disrespectful fists still burning through every fingertip.
And then she looked back to his face. Let him see her while he owned her. Hurt her.
“Deep breath, that’s it, keep breathing in, more… more… more… and hold it.”
Her lungs were so full she thought they might burst in her chest, but she held the air until he told her to blow it out.
She did, and he ordered her to look at him while he pressed so hard into her, opening her more in ten seconds than he had in the past five minutes.
The pain was enormous, an unrelenting fire that roared from her core to her throat. Too much. Too deep. Too far gone to stop.
Her tears broke free.
“Squeeze,” he ordered. “Ass around the plug, pussy around my hand. Hard, little fucktoy.”
She clenched, her muscles locking around him like a vice.
“Come for me, fuckhole. Squeeze your cunt around me and let it go.”
She hadn’t known she was close, just pain and pressure, but his command broke through and dragged her over the edge. Her pussy spasmed and convulsed around his unyielding hand, the stretch so vicious it felt like being split apart. She screamed through it, wrung out and wrecked.
Her arms and legs hopelessly fought the restraints while his hand pushed harder, his fingers bent and crooked, and her muscles clutched around him.
Even her hands convulsed against the bindings, and the pressure forced sharpened nails deeper into raw tissue, and her breath caught on the new spike of pain.
“More, little fleshlight.” He pulled out a few inches and then drove back in, making her come again, harder this time. The orgasms bled into each other, brutal and endless, until she was nothing but shaking limbs and pulsing, wrecked flesh, her body clutching at the shape of his hand.
He kept her on the apex, ordering her to orgasm until she was a limp rag, every nerve raw.
He finally removed his hand, cleaned her, slid the damned Perifit into her, and talked her through the ten-minute session, encouraging her to squeeze harder, to hold it longer.
Her fingers involuntarily flexed, the nerve endings in her palms and fingers ragged and oversensitized. Punished into obedience.
The Perifit was insult stacked on injury, stretched past reason, broken open by pain, then forced to squeeze and clench those same ruined muscles until they trembled.
“Good girl,” he said when time was up, and the praise still managed to warm her even through the soreness.
Boone unstrapped the nailboards and carefully peeled her raw palms and fingers off the sharpened points. She hissed through her teeth as the steel tore free, nerves screaming with renewed intensity as air touched the inflamed and chastened flesh beneath.
Finally, he unclipped her wrists and ankles, the cuffs falling heavy against her skin, and then lifted her out of the sling like she weighed nothing.
Her thighs still trembled from the strain, and she sagged into his chest as he carried her through the doorway into her bedroom, straight into the bathroom.
He set her down on the toilet, his palm steady between her shoulder blades while she leaned forward to pee. Even that made her whimper — every muscle between her legs was swollen and tender, still echoing the shape of his hand.
When she was done, he wiped her carefully with a cool, damp cloth, the touch efficient but not unkind, then scooped her back up.
In her room, Silas was already in bed, propped against the headboard, bare chest gleaming in the low light. His eyes swept her from head to toe before Boone stood her on the medallion and gave her permission to get into bed.
“Kenny’s dealing with a wayward wolf,” Silas said, his tone casual but his gaze sharp while she crawled towards him. “He’ll be along shortly.”
“Who?” Boone asked.
“Crystal. Letting that whole clique in was a mistake.”
Crystal was part of Misty’s crew, and Willow was inclined to agree with Silas.
“Probably,” Kenny’s voice came from the doorway, and Willow stopped crawling and turned to look at him, shifting her weight off her sore hands, a constant throb where the nails had been, each press into the mattress making the nerves flare.
He stepped in, pulling his shirt off as he walked. “But if I can turn them into respectable wolves, I should at least try. We don’t want them landing in a bad pack and being allowed to do bad things.”
“Our little fleshlight has had in the neighborhood of eight orgasms,” Boone said. “Maybe six. Hard to tell where a few of them ended and the next began.”
“It’s a start,” Kenny said. He took his shoes off, dropped his jeans, and climbed into bed, pulling her into the heat of his embrace, his mouth finding hers while Silas slid in behind her.
The bed dipped as Silas shifted, his palm sliding down her butt, lower, until his fingers found the plug, tossed it to the floor beside the bed.
She gasped into Kenny’s mouth, her body betraying her, arching even as her thighs tried to close. Her hands clenched at the bedding before memory and pain forced them flat, the ghost of steel tips still burning in her skin.
And then he was spreading her legs again. She whimpered, low and rough as his cock pressed into her battered cunt, stretching her raw, sore muscles open all over again.
Behind her, Silas didn’t wait. He lined up and drove into her asshole with deliberate force, no concern for how sore their fucktoy was, only that she was there, with holes available to be filled and used.
Her body seized between them, her cunt burning with each inch Kenny claimed, her ass locking tight around Silas’s cock, the pain white-hot and punishing.
“Fuck,” Kenny muttered, his voice thick. “Hot little cunt. Gonna get my rocks off one last time before we lose the fucktoy for a week.”
She let out a sob that wasn’t all pain, but some protective shell inside her cracking at his words.
They would miss her. They wouldn’t say it with flowers or soft goodbyes. They said it with use. With heat and pressure and hands holding her down like she belonged there.
The sex wasn’t brutal, nothing like Boone’s damned hand, no single-minded stretch and burn — but it was relentless in its own way. Silas’s arm locked around her chest, holding her tight to him, while Kenny drove deep into her cunt, thrust for thrust with the cock in her ass.
And both holes were so fucking sore, she wept through it from the start. Her back pressed into Silas’s chest with every movement, his breath hot at her neck, his cock filling her like he’d never get another chance, pounding her with zero mercy.
Silas’s hand came to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her lungs work harder for air. “Fight for it,” he murmured, “and remember who fucking owns you.”
“Permission!” she barely got it out, fighting for breath, but it was enough, and Kenny said, “Granted.”
The orgasm slammed through her like a breaking wave, drowning her in heat and ache and unbearable relief. Her sounds fractured, breath shattering against the grip at her throat.
They didn’t stop. They kept her pinned, using her until her body was nothing but clenching heat and overstretched muscle, until every nerve remembered the shape of them.
Even her hands shook, aching from the lesson Boone had driven into them, punishment lingering long after the boards were gone.
By the time they finished, she was wrecked. Body clenching without rhythm, every muscle trembling. She sagged between them, unable to move, her pulse fluttering high and erratic in her throat.
And somehow, the marathon gauntlet of torture-fucks left her feeling wanted. Claimed. Cherished, in their own savage way.
Warmth pooled under the ache as she let her eyes drift closed. Her body would hurt in the morning, but her heart was full.
They wanted her.
Even when they hurt her.
Especially when they hurt her.
All that pain, all that use. Instead of feeling broken, she felt wanted. Tethered. Loved, in the language of wolves and sadists.
And that thought carried her into sleep.
* * * *
Friday morning, Kenny interrupted her ritual, pulling her to him when the alarm went off, the weight of his hand rolling her onto her side.
Silas, who never wakes early, passed something to Kenny, which she later figured out was a tube of lubricant, because seconds later, Kenny’s dick was pressing into her ass, and fuck, her whole body flinched.
The ache bloomed fast and hot, nerves sparking from overuse, the plug’s absence having done little to soothe the soreness.
Her ass clenched on instinct, trying to deny him, but he was already inside.
Silas must’ve been annoyed by her yelping and small screams, because he bent her torso down, aiming her face for his dick.
She opened when he scooted up a little, accepted him into her mouth.
He tasted of soap, salt, and skin, but his aim was the back of her mouth and down her throat, so she was soon fighting for breath.
It was all wrong, too soon, too deep, too much, not the Friday morning she expected, and yet, it was right.
She was theirs. This was use.
Neither man took terribly long to come, one in her ass, the other in her mouth.
“Go get my shower ready, little hawk.” Kenny kissed the top of her head, popped her on the ass, and she climbed out of bed, her asshole burning, sharp little pains shooting through it with every step. “Permission to pee first, Sir?”
“Granted.”
And fuck, she knew it was going to hurt to pee, but she had to go.
She looked at her hands while she sat on the toilet.
The tiny holes had nearly healed overnight — the magic of being a shifter.
The skin should be completely new by the time her shift started that night.
Her asshole wasn’t likely to be the same, but that was fine.
She’d enjoy being sore until the pain faded, and then she’d miss it.
The rest of the morning followed ritual. Boone didn’t go easy just because she was sore. He rutted into her pussy like he wasn’t going to see her for over a week, like she was a thing to fill one last time before she left.
Her cunt ached, raw from the stretch and friction, and the sting of it followed her into breakfast.
She kept their glasses full, her body hurting in every direction, but her place was clear, and pain had never made her feel so anchored. Cared for. Home.
Silas had fallen back to sleep after he’d fucked her mouth, so when his alarm woke him hours later, he needed to use her all over again, but before he took her, she had to ask him to hurt her, and she chose the one where the spoon hit her exposed clit.
She was once again restrained to his headboard by her wrists and ankles.
He pulled her clit hood up and away with strong fingers, and brought the back of a cold metal spoon down on the exposed nub, hard strikes that made her yelp, jolt, and clench with each impact.
The yelps turned to shrieks, which eventually turned to screams. Her world narrowed to a single, throbbing pulse of agony he kept striking like a fucking drum.
Two minutes later, when his damned phone finally chimed, she was trembling. Sobbing. Her world narrowed to the raw nerves he’d tortured while bound open, no way to protect herself.
And when he finished, he released her from the headboard, flipped her over, ordered her to knees and chest, shot lube into her ass, and then thrust himself into her with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, a brutal claiming that left no doubt her pain fueled his sadism and her screams fed his lust.
And yet, she still begged for an orgasm, which he thankfully allowed, and it ripped through her, made her bruised clit hurt a thousand times worse.
Afterward, she was left shaking, face pressed into his sheets, lungs heaving as if she’d run miles. He didn’t offer comfort, only a flat, “Dismissed, painwhore.”
The morning before had been an anomaly because the hurt she’d chosen had been so extreme.
However, the whole point of the morning ritual is to be used and dismissed.
No compassion. No kind words. In the morning, she’s a vessel for them to slake their needs.
Not a person. She pulled herself together as best she could, the sting between her legs still searing, and walked out of his room.
Goodbye kisses lasted longer for everyone, each one carrying weight she hadn’t expected. Kenny’s was possessive, claiming. Boone’s was steady, reassuring. Silas bit at her lower lip like he was marking her one last time.
And before Silas left, he’d unlocked her closet with a soft click that felt monumental — until she walked him downstairs, and he removed her collar and cuffs at the front door.
Her heart hurt when the weight and feel of them were gone, an actual, physical pain.
Silas kissed her forehead and assured her, “They’ll go back on when you return, little fuckhole. ”
And then he’d stolen her breath with a kiss, one hand around her throat, the other holding her head. All tongue and lips, spreading her mouth wide, possessing her. A quick nip to her lip, and he was gone.
She stood in the doorway to her closet after he left, staring at clothes that had once defined her.
Fashionable pantsuits, designer jeans, clubwear.
They felt like artifacts from someone else’s life.
The woman who’d worn these had been searching for something, hungry for a submission she couldn’t name.
The woman staring at them now had worn steel at her throat up until three minutes earlier, and knew exactly who she belonged to even with it off.
Willow found herself alone in the house without the plug and egg.
Nine days stretched ahead of her — nine days of making her own choices, controlling her own body, sleeping in a bed without strong arms holding her down.
The freedom should have felt liberating, but the silence pressed against her.
No constant hum of vibration, no weight reminding her who owned her with every breath.