Chapter 24 #2
He closed the door behind him. Stood another five seconds before saying, “Speak, little whore. What have you done?”
Her voice came out soft. “The egg and plug both went on high at the same time, Sir.”
He spread his feet. Crossed his arms.
And stared.
Her stomach flipped.
“I had an orgasm, Sir.” The words left her in a rush, and then she scrambled to justify. “I’m so needy, Sir! And with both holes on high! I couldn’t help it! It just happened!”
He didn’t speak. Just studied her. And then turned and walked toward the stairs.
She scrambled to her feet and followed, pulse racing.
Upstairs, he waited while she removed her dress, silent as always.
She followed him into her bedroom, stopped on the red medallion when he went into the playroom, her throat dry.
“Permission to enter, worthless cunt.”
Her feet moved before her mind caught up, body conditioned to obey.
And then she saw where he was going.
Her breath caught when he walked to the cage and unlatched the door.
Kenny had spent a few hours a day, several days in a row, experimenting. He’d decreed that while she did, indeed, hate it, there were no phobias, no panic, no flashbacks, no trauma triggers.
And he wasn’t wrong about any of it. Especially the part about how much she hated it.
The confinement. The way it made her feel like less than a person. Contained. Stored.
Silas knew that, and he was using it.
He didn’t speak, just reached into a drawer of the bondage cabinet and held something out.
Her throat tightened when she saw the ponytail holder.
She accepted it, her fingers trembling as she gathered her hair into a ponytail on top of her head so she’d look like a fucking unicorn. High and tight, but when she finished, he pulled it tighter, looping the holder over one more time.
His eyes didn’t leave her face. “In, bitch.”
Her stomach clenched. She dropped to all fours and crawled into the cage.
The air felt different inside. Stiller. Her breathing seemed louder. Which was ridiculous, but she still felt it.
Silas bent over the cage, pulled her ponytail through an anchor loop, and secured it with practiced ease, forcing her to look up. Immobilizing her head.
She’d have to stare at the face of anyone standing four feet in front of her.
Next, he secured her wrist cuffs to the side bars near the front. Ankles followed, spread wide and secured to the rear corners.
Then came the strap, which pressed across her lower back, snug against her spine. The tension forced her hips higher, cunt and ass exposed and vulnerable, no way to shift to relieve muscles, and no way to lower her head.
She whimpered when he tested the restraints and gave one last tug on the strap — just enough to remind her who’d tightened it before he fiddled with his phone, and the egg came on at the highest setting.
Deep, throbbing, so the vibrations traveled all the way to her clit.
She gasped, and then yelped when the plug came to life. Slow and low, then climbed to high in a single pulse.
Her whole body jerked against the bindings.
“Sir!”
He crossed his arms and stared at her, and she understood the problem. If she didn’t have an orgasm, that would be bad.
If she did, it would probably also be bad.
But she wasn’t close enough to have one. Not with her legs spread, with no contact on her clit.
He probably stood there two minutes before he walked away. “Keep track of how many times you come, if you can pull it off. I have my doubts.”
She heard his boots walking down the steps.
She was alone.
And vibrating.
The plug pulsed deep in her core, thick and merciless. The egg buzzed like a live wire inside her, not even a rhythm, just unrelenting stimulation that felt like it touched her clit at the root. Her pussy clenched reflexively. Her ass spasmed around the plug. Her spine ached with the forced arch.
She couldn’t move her arms or legs. Couldn’t adjust. Couldn’t grind. Couldn’t do anything but take it.
And it didn’t stop.
Minutes stretched. She lost count of how many times her body tried to crest but couldn’t make it those final millimeters — her own mind turning against her, flooded with heat and helplessness.
She was a twelve on the horny scale that ended at ten, and her face burned with shame.
When she next heard boots, she recognized Kenny’s walk. Firm and sure. No hesitation.
And she could swear the air pressure in the room changed when he entered. Eleven more steps, and Kenny stood in front of her — arms folded, gaze flat and unreadable, disappointment radiating from him in waves.
She couldn’t turn her face. The ponytail held her steady. The only choice was to meet his gaze…
…or close her eyes.
She forced her eyelids to stay open.
His face was stone. No anger, just cold authority, but that wasn’t better.
“Sir—” she began, but stopped herself. She didn’t even know what she’d planned to say.
His head tilted.
“Something to report, bad little fucktoy? Did the whore forget who owns her holes?”
The words hit like the cage door closing and the lock engaging. Her nipples tightened, and she hated herself for it.
She swallowed. “Sir…”
“Let’s begin again,” he said, voice low, even. “Tell me what happened. Every detail.”
Kenny didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched her with the patience of a predator who knew the prey was already caught.
"We'll start with the truth," Kenny said softly. "And then we'll discuss what happens to lying little cunts who disrespect the men who own them."
Her breath caught. Tears burned behind her eyes.
This was it. The reckoning. And there was nowhere left to hide.