Chapter 19 #2
Time with Kenny, then Boone. The detested egg and plug went in before Boone dismissed her. Insult to injury since neither man had let her orgasm. Odds were, Silas wouldn’t, either.
The orgasm denial highlighted what she was in the morning. Just use. Just service. And now she was full again — stretched and plugged and buzzing faintly in both holes while she started breakfast.
Kenny and Boone soon joined to help, then breakfast, then goodbye kisses.
Silas woke soon after she finished cleaning the kitchen. She made her way up to his bedroom, where he was still lounging under the sheets, looking at his phone. Even relaxed, his presence was like a livewire.
He lifted a brow at her, and she looked at the floor.
She hated having to ask him to hurt her.
“The hanger on my nipples, Sir, and then the wooden spoon.”
“Ask.”
His wording on the list was: hanger clips attached to nipples to pull them out and away from the fucktoy’s body, then breasts struck with the wooden spoon — thirty seconds per breast at a time for three minutes, alternating sides.
She ran that through her head and said, “Please clamp a hanger onto my nipples and beat my breasts with a wooden spoon, Sir.”
“Well, if you insist. Run down and get the spoon like a good little painwhore.”
Downstairs she went, donning a dress first, her bare feet nearly silent on the stairs. She retrieved the long-handled wooden spoon from the kitchen, took the dress back off, returned to him, and — knowing he’d make her if she didn’t — opened his closet, found a hanger.
His had the strong metal clamps. Fuck.
Handing them over was a whole ’nother level of humiliation.
He walked her to his bathroom doorway, hooked her wrist cuffs to the chin-up bar he’d installed, and stuck his phone to the wall within reach. Still silent, he clamped the horrid metal onto her, each savagely biting onto her nipples, and she swayed forward in her bonds, her eyes watering.
His eyes were focused on his task as he pulled until the hanger stretched her tits out, the weight of it a live wire of strain and pressure. Her breath caught, but she didn’t make a sound.
He pulled farther, as far out as he dared without the clamps ripping off, and he looked to the side and touched his phone before he lifted the spoon and brought it down.
The first strike stole her balance. A heavy, shocking smack against already taut flesh that sent a lightning bolt through her chest. The next came before she could catch her breath, sharp and thudding. Again. Then again.
Top. Right. Left. Bottom. Overlapping pain. No pattern, no mercy.
She tried to breathe through it, to ride it out, but the hanger pulled with every impact, jolting her nipples in time with the strikes.
Her feet flexed uselessly on the tile. Her knees buckled more than once.
He didn’t pause. Thirty seconds on one breast, then the other. Back and forth. Over and over.
The pain blurred together. Her body shook with it, from sheer sensory overload.
Somewhere between the second and third minute, her gasps turned into sobs.
She couldn’t help it. Each breath stuttered.
Her shoulders strained in the cuffs. Her nipples throbbed like they’d been crushed flat and lit on fire.
By the time his phone signaled the end of the three minutes, she was crying hard — wrenching sobs that came from deep in her chest. Her tits were welted and bruised, her body trembling and slick with sweat. She couldn’t stop crying, and he didn’t try to stop her.
Instead, he had her put the hanger away before he motioned to the bed, ordered her on her back, spread her wide, and fucked her ass. Missionary. Watching every reaction. Watching her tits bounce and the red marks bloom darker. Watching her fall apart.
No permission granted for an orgasm. Not even a whisper of it.
“Dismissed, cumdump.”
She lay there after, limbs trembling, plug reinserted, egg back in place. Slowly, she stood and made her way to the hallway, donned the dress, and made her way back downstairs.
Wednesday’s chores involved tending to her damned garden, the nettles and peppers, which didn’t take long, but this was also her longest workout day. Boone had her doing weights three times a week, but Wednesday was a constant circuit of both cardio and weights.
And her smart watch gave him all kinds of graphs and charts, so he’d know heart rate, steps, and a fuckton of other information for every damned minute of her workout. No cheating. No coasting. Just sweat and pain and muttered curses.
Because the one time he hadn’t been satisfied, he’d made her hold a bar over her head and run in place with her knees brought up high in front of her while he’d belted the fuck out of her, then flogged her a while before returning to the damned belt.
And yet, the routine of it was still comforting. Tending the punishment garden, the workout, the circuit. Patterns and sequences. Part of the schedule of her life.
Her workout over, a quick shower, and it was time to take Kenny his lunch. For this, she walked into his office building like a woman heading to her own execution.
She’d never actually had to kneel on rice, but she’d read about it in countless BDSM romance books.
She had a feeling reality was going to be so much worse than the literary version.
They ate together today, roast beef sandwiches and fries he’d had her pick up from Silas’s restaurant on the way.
Casual talk. He told her about site issues on the new foundation, asked about her workout.
Used her ass after, bent over the desk. She was so sore she nearly wept, but she stood still and let him pound her.
Asked for an orgasm when it rode her high, whined when he denied her.
Warned she might not be able to hold it back, at which point he went in and held.
Emptied himself in her while telling her how much he enjoyed her being a needy little cunt.
And then, while he put himself away, he gave the dreaded order.
“Spread the rice like the bad girl you are — neglecting the men who see to your needs.”