Chapter 20
She poured the contents of the Ziplock onto the commercial laminate faux-hardwood flooring, the dry grains skittering across the floor like seeds.
“Kneel up. Hands to the back of your head. Nipples touching the two walls.”
Fuck.
Her arms and knees were going to be hurting in thirty minutes.
And then she went to her knees and wasn’t worried about her arms anymore.
The pain was instant, sharp needles under her kneecaps, grinding into bone. Ten seconds in and she couldn’t find a way to shift her weight. Minutes later, she was clenching her jaw to keep from sobbing.
He sat at his desk, typing. Phone calls. She couldn’t see him, didn’t know if he was looking or not, but when he got off a phone call, he told her, “Bad cunt. Stop slouching. I’m adding three minutes.”
She arched her back, pulled back so only her nipples touched the wall, and the first tear fell.
She couldn’t see a clock. Had no idea how much time was left, but it felt like she’d kneeled in hell for days.
He came to her, to tell her time was up. Helped her stand, made sure she had her balance.
But that was it. There’s no aftercare for punishments.
“Clean it up,” he said. “Every motherfucking grain.”
And that was another ordeal. She pulled rice from her skin and put every little evil bastard into the bag, then cleared floor space and went back to her bruised, aching knees.
The grains scattered more when she tried to gather them.
She’d gone beyond sobbing, just salty tears sliding quietly down her cheeks while she hunted rice and returned it to the bag.
When she could find no more, she sealed the bag and placed it where he’d instructed, beside the glass cleaner in his cabinet. And then she just stared at it, knowing it’d be there next time. And the time after that.
She used the glass cleaner on his desk and saw the rice again when she put the bottle away.
Before walking out the door, she checked the mirror to fix her makeup. No teary eyes while walking through the building.
And went straight to his home office when she arrived. He wanted her in there to write her lines. At the conference table.
Fucktoys must pay attention to the needs of the men who own her.
One hundred and fifty lines took two hours and ten minutes. Yeah, she timed it.
Her right hand was still cramping when Silas came home and told her to bend over the kitchen table.
No words of greeting. No pretense of affection. He just pointed to the table he wanted her over and ordered, “Dress up, legs spread, bend and grab your elbows.”
She did. Face flushed, legs trembling.
He unzipped, sprayed olive oil into his hand, rubbed it lazily over his cock, and then yanked the plug from her sore asshole.
“Poor little needy cunt.” His voice was mockery, not sympathy.
And then the sadist forced his slick cock into her dry, tight hole — too fast, too deep, no prep, no mercy.
She gasped, eyes wide, fingernails biting into her elbows as her ass stretched around him like it didn’t remember how to take him.
Pain flared sharp and immediate, her body clenching hard around the intrusion. She couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped free because it burned.
Silas pulled her a few inches away from the table, one arm around her waist while his other hand reached between her legs. Slick fingers found her clit, already swollen from denial, and rubbed with cruel precision — not to bring her pleasure, but to make her need it.
“You don’t come,” he said, voice firm. “Not one fucking twitch.”
She whimpered with need, but she knew better than to beg for an orgasm after being told it wasn’t happening. She bit the inside of her cheek to ground herself. Focused on the pain instead of the maddening need, the pressure building in her cunt while her ass throbbed around every thrust.
When he came, he shoved deep and stayed there, pinning her with the weight of his cock as he emptied into her.
Then he pulled out and popped her ass with the wooden spoon — hard, fast, a dozen strikes that left her breathless and blinking back tears.
The plug went back in with no warning. No gentleness. Her muscles clenched around the invading shape, sore and aching.
She breathed through it. Grounded herself in the ritual of it.
And then dinner still needed to be made.
She turned back to the stove, ass still full and burning, the heat a steady reminder with every step.
She reached for the boiling potatoes, but Silas stepped in and took over, ordering her around with quiet authority, treating her like his personal kitchen pet, keeping her close, kissing her forehead, her nose.
“Peel and crush some garlic for me,” and then, “Grab the cream and butter, get started mashing the potatoes.”
She obeyed without thinking, letting herself melt into the rhythm of it. Stir this, taste that, mash a little more, fetch the garlic. His voice was gruff but steady, full of comfort hidden under command.
They moved together like they’d done it a hundred times, hips bumping, shoulders brushing, her cheek grazing his arm as she leaned down to get a lid.
And even with her holes aching and stretched, even with the toys inside pulsing with each movement, there was something sweet threaded through it all.
She was his. She was helping. She belonged here.
By the time they slid the meatloaf into the oven, her body was still hurting, but her chest felt soft and full.
She only had to obey. And in moments like this, obedience felt a lot like love.
When Boone came home, she was bent over the same table Silas had used her on earlier for him to remove the plug and egg.
Boone’s never really rough or gentle, it’s a daily chore for him — remove the fucktoy’s devices, take them up, put them on the charger, then take his shower.
The plug hurt coming out of her sore hole, and when he pried the egg out a moment later, her cunt gave a pitiful little clench like it missed the pressure.
And then she went back to mashing the potatoes.
Kenny walked in ten minutes later, pointed her upstairs without a word, and strapped her down for orgasm training.
She managed to last a full eleven minutes before the inevitable tremble hit and the wand ignited her clit.
Just once, thank fuck, but her body had been coiled so tight it still wrecked her.
Somehow, she held the rest at bay, clenching every muscle and fighting every urge, even when he worked her over with fingers slick and skilled enough to tease gods into weeping.
When he finally unbuckled her, he said, “Good girl. Not perfect yet, but improvement is good.”
And damned if that didn’t settle somewhere warm in her chest. Somewhere proud.
Then he popped her on the ass and told her to go finish helping with dinner.
The meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy hit the spot. And she kept an eagle eye on everyone’s drinks.
Like her knees depended on it.
That night was a scene night with Silas, and she knew he wasn’t going to be kind.
She loved him for it. Loved him for the mind-space he put her in — frantic, low, humiliated, hurting.
But tonight, all the philosophizing in the world about returning to the mud didn’t stop her feet from wanting to drag when she climbed the steps, took her dress off, and waited on the red medallion while he showered in her bathroom.
And she knew what the shower meant. It was her damned rule about his asshole being clean, after all. Her pussy clenched and heat pooled down low. She hated the disgust curling in her gut, the shame burning her skin, and the traitorous pulse of arousal, of anticipation, low and hot, demanding more.
But it was too late for that now. She wasn’t just crawling back to the mud — she was bathing in it, steeped in it. And the worst part? She wanted it.
Silas could peel back every layer of pretense and leave her face-down in the dirt, and somehow, she felt more herself there than she ever had standing tall.
The water stopped.
Steam curled into the bedroom like a warning, and then he stepped out — cock standing proud, expression unreadable as he walked to the bed and settled on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world.
He spread his legs. Bent them. “Between my legs and get your whore tongue on my cock.”
She walked to the tan medallion and waited, because he’d told her to get between his legs, but she needed permission to get on the bed.
He snapped out, “Permission granted,” and Willow climbed on, knelt between his thighs and bent forward.
Her tongue darted out and licked a stripe up his cock.
Another. She licked around his head. He hadn’t told her she could put it into her mouth, so she licked until he said, “Fuck. Maybe try my balls.”
She obeyed. Licked one, then the other. Tried to get creative. Different angles. Nothing made him react. She got more saliva on her tongue. Tried again. Went slower. Faster.
Nothing.
No praise. No sound. No reaction at all.
“Fucking pathetic,” he finally growled. “Lower. Cunts who suck at blow jobs can eat ass.”
She froze.
“You’re not deaf, are you? Lower, whore.”
Her stomach twisted. Her hands shook. But her body moved. He owned her, and that meant her wants no longer mattered. Her dignity no longer existed.
She moved down, hesitating. He hadn’t told her to touch him, and his asshole wasn’t where she could get to it.
He adjusted — spread his legs wider, tilted himself up, exposing himself like it was nothing.
“If I have to tell you again there will be a clamp on your clit while you do this, you worthless cunt.”
Her mouth went dry, but her body moved. Because it had to. Because he owned her. He could hurt her, sure, but this was about ownership. About orders. About obeying.
She dipped down, brought her mouth close enough to drag her tongue between his cheeks, breath hitching at the sharp scent of clean skin, musk, and the humiliating knowledge of what she was doing.