Chapter 17
The first two hours were all about endurance, his arms lifting him, his legs doing their best to push him up, but there just wasn’t enough leverage with his legs. The angles were wrong, and his legs gave out long before his arms.
The next two hours, he alternated hurting his arms and his genitals, rocking back and forth so he hurt the root of his cock, his balls, or his asshole when he had to rest his arms.
Zander and Emmy spent time playing with him, then returned to bed so they could fuck, then back to him for more flogging. They used the strap some, too. So far, they hadn’t used the horsewhips, or the many canes they’d ordered him to line up by intensity, from the least painful to the most.
Whether they were playing with him or not, there was no relief, his hands, arms, and shoulders screamed, not to mention his ankles and thighs, his folded knees.
Giving relief to them meant putting his full weight on the pony, his genitals crushed against the sharp edge in a flare of white-hot agony, and he’d gently roll his weight to try to escape the pain, but it was just deciding which body part to hurt next. Relief never came.
Eventually, he’d hold himself up again, arms burning, shoulders screaming, sweat pouring down his back, dripping from his chin.
And he watched through sweat-stung eyes as Zander took Emmy from behind yet again, hands gripping her hips, her moans filling the room while Spence hung, denied and aching, the sight of their pleasure driving his own need deeper.
They came back to him between rounds to edge him, hurt him, to love him in their own, unique way.
Neither were stingy with kisses, dominating him, reminding him he is loved and adored. And conquered, in this moment — exactly as he needed to be.
God, it’d been so hard, going over a month without a full-on scene, his skin itching for the whip. Zander had known, and he was making it up to him. Zander and Emmy.
At the end of the fourth hour, his legs were completely useless, and his arms could no longer lift his full weight.
His exhausted muscles couldn’t push him forward enough to settle his weight on the root of his cock, so his balls and ass alternated pressing and grinding against the unforgiving wood, pain radiating in sick waves up his spine.
His shoulders and arms were fiery needles, his hands and fingers a mass of cramping agony.
He sobbed, quiet and broken, the helplessness absolute.
Zander stepped behind him again and pushed him forward, onto the root of his cock — and then pressed two lubed fingers into his swollen, raw, bruised ass.
Emmy, in front of him, leaned to take his cock into her mouth, and his sobs wracked his chest, so much pleasure and pain, his body couldn’t differentiate the two.
His instinct tried to reach for Zander’s power, but it wasn’t there. No surge to help him breathe. To endure.
The void hit like a physical blow. He was trapped with no way out, no help for his fatigued muscles. Just flesh and pain and need .
But he accepted it. He’d asked for this, to be made a vessel for their pleasure with no power.
To be made helpless while being used and hurt.
He settled farther, and completely relaxed his arms, letting his full weight push him onto the cruel horse, his surrender so complete, it was a release all by itself.
Not a sexual one, but passionate, nonetheless.
He was theirs. Truly. No safety net. No escape.
Tears streamed freely now, and Emmy rose and kissed him again, her hand on his cock again, moving up and down, and Zander added a third finger in his ass, his hand still on Spence’s back, pushing him forward, crushing the base of Spence’s cock.
He cried out when the fourth finger entered, stretching raw skin after hours of the pony’s unrelenting ridge grinding into the tender flesh.
The tissues felt as if they were swollen to twice their normal size, bruised deep purple, every nerve ending scraped raw and screaming from the constant pressure.
Zander’s cool, merciless fingers forced their way in, spreading him open inch by agonizing inch.
The stretch was fire and violation, unbearable, though he was forced to bear it.
The swollen ring of muscle burned as it yielded, protesting every millimeter with sharp, electric flares that shot straight up his spine and made his clamped nipples throb in vicious counterpoint.
He felt split, exposed, turned inside out.
Every ridge of Zander’s knuckles dragged against inflamed inner walls, pressing against the prostate that had been denied for so long it felt bruised from the inside.
The pressure built in waves with a deep ache and searing stretch until four fingers filled him completely, stretching him to the point of trembling, breath-shallow panic.
He couldn’t think past the sensation. Couldn’t breathe past it.
His body shook, thighs quivering against the cuffs, toes curling uselessly as the pony’s edge dug harder into crushed flesh.
The dual torment fused — fingers spreading him wide while the wooden ridge crushed the base of his cock, trapping blood in swollen tissues until everything throbbed to his frantic heartbeat.
Emmy’s hand on his shaft was almost gentle by comparison, stroking slick and steady, but the contrast only made the agony sharper: pleasure teasing at the edges of a pain so profound it felt sacred.
Then Zander withdrew, each finger dragging friction along the stretched walls as it left.
The sudden emptiness was worse than the fullness.
His hole clenched on nothing, spasming around the void, raw and gaping, every abused nerve firing in protest. Before he could draw a full breath, Zander’s hand on his back eased, shifted to his chest, and maneuvered him fully upright again.
The pony claimed him anew.
The ridge once again crushed the swollen, stretched tissues with brutal precision, pressing directly against the tender ring still fluttering from the invasion. Fresh fire exploded through him hotter and deeper. Sharper.
The bruised flesh, already abused for hours, now felt every grain of the wood like broken glass.
His hole, loosened and hypersensitive, kissed the unyielding edge with every heartbeat, sending shocks of raw sensation radiating outward: up his spine, into his balls, along the length of his cock until even Emmy’s stroking hand felt like too much.
He gave an open-mouthed, ragged sob, his tears mixing with sweat as his body fought to process the return of the crush against tissues that had only just begun to remember how to close.
Yet beneath the torment, or perhaps because of it, a strange peace bloomed.
He was open. Wrecked. Held. The pain was no longer something happening to him; it was the shape of his surrender, carved deeper with every breath, every tick of the clock, every slow stroke of Emmy’s hand.
He leaned into it, trembling, and let the fire consume what little resistance remained.
The last four hours were a haze of suffering and need, and they didn’t stop to have sex again, but focused entirely on Spence.
Floggers, straps, canes, and the loopy — Emmy and Zander traded implements, striking his back, thighs, ass, calves, and eventually, his feet.
Bastinado had always struck terror into him — and he screamed from the very first strike.
Thin canes on his soles to start, and then heavier ones that bruised deep, pain shooting up his legs in white-hot spikes.
They edged him endlessly, Emmy’s warm mouth and Zander’s cool fingers.
The two of them brought him to the brink over and over, never letting him fall.
He wasn’t actually sure he could’ve managed an actual orgasm, but they got him close enough he felt his crushed balls stirring countless times.
He floated somewhere beyond endurance, body screaming, mind quiet. The only thing in his world was the horse, their hands and implements, their voices, and their love threading through every lash, every edge, every trembling breath.
And the clock’s hands, moving slower and slower with every passing hour.
When the hour-hand finally clicked over to the end the eighth hour, Zander lifted him while Emmy disconnected his wrists and ankles.
Zander’s strong arms carried him to the bed and gently laid him on cool sheets, on his side, knees pulled up and bent. Hands smoothed over whip marks, traced welts, and soothed bruises with cool gel. Lips pressed soft kisses to his temple, his cheeks, his mouth.
“You were perfect,” Emmy whispered, voice thick with emotion. “So strong. So beautiful.”
Zander’s cool fingers carded through his hair. “We love you, boy. More than you know.”
Spence floated between them, exhausted, raw, and utterly spent — yet so deeply loved he could feel it in every aching muscle, every bruise, every injured millimeter of flesh.
He drifted into sleep with their arms around him, the triangle holding him steady, the pain still present, but perfect.
Emmy watched Zander settle Spence on the bed, their wolf deep in deep subspace. His back was a canvas of welts and bruises, his ankles raw from pushing against the cuffs to try to lift himself.
His entire body trembled with exhaustion, but he was smiling with a soft, blissed-out expression that meant they’d given him exactly what he needed.
They loved and caressed him until he fell into a deep sleep, and then Zander spoke low and deep, his hand resting on Spence’s shoulder. “One more thing, then you can rest.”
Emmy felt the shift in the air, one she easily recognized as a vampire working with a shifter’s second nature, and seconds later, the wolf lay where the human had been curled.
The wolf’s eyes met Zander’s gaze, submission still obvious, and she heard Zander inside her head. Security is walking down the steps with five pounds of just-slaughtered chicken meat. Can you go to the door and get it, please? We’ll feed him in the bathroom.