Chapter 3
Tuesday wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and followed Knife back inside, the cold night air filling her lungs. Her heels clicked on the hardwood as they moved through the house and up the stairs.
Every step made her hyper-aware of her body under the sweater dress — nipples already tight, her clit throbbing from their negotiations and the way he’d looked at her.
The way he’d fed her the very first s’more, his fingers grazing her lips.
The way he’d grabbed her hand and licked her fingers when she’d fed them to him.
She kept the conversation light, a thin shield against the anticipation twisting low in her belly.
Talking kept her from thinking too hard about exactly what she’d just agreed to.
She was looking forward to feeling his ropes, his hands, his dick, but even more, whatever pain he wanted to dole out.
She had no doubt it would be different. First scenes are always stressful, and the unknown in this case was dancing in her stomach like a live wire.
“What’s your real name?”
He glanced sideways, that half-smile tugging at his mouth again. “You first. What’s up with Tuesday?”
“My grandmother is June, and I have an Aunt May, and a cousin named April. My brother is August. My mom is January, though everyone calls her Jan. They ran out of months that can be names and started on days of the week.”
He grinned beside her. “My name is kind of the ultimate Appalachian backwoods name. I was named after both grandparents, so I’m Harlan Corbett Walton, with the last name giving the definition of the whole country-hick thing, right?”
“Harlan. I like it. Fits you, actually. I figure you probably did something with a knife you can’t share, and that’s how you got the club name?”
“Naw. We cook a whole pig for our major shindigs, and I was just helping out in the butcher shop at the time, before I was voted in, but Gonzo had seen what I can do, so he told me to break it down and get it ready to serve.” He shrugged.
“I understand the performance of it, and I guess it was impressive enough for them to turn it into a riding name.”
That was a relief, knowing he hadn’t creatively murdered someone with a knife to be voted in.
They stepped into the bedroom, her gaze lifted to the cathedral ceiling, and her breath caught at the complicated pulley system attached to the gorgeous, exposed beam.
Of course he went for old-school pulleys rather than a winch.
He’d promised sensory dep and painful bondage she could easily get out of, and he was right about how not respecting a safeword would screw up the MC’s deal with Kenny, her alpha.
But trust only went so far, which meant she hadn’t reversed her stipulation about bondage she could get out of.
She took her dress off before he told her to. She hated being given orders, and much preferred doing what was expected without having to be told. Her wolf rebelled at obeying, and that was a problem for someone who wants to submit sexually.
Though there was absolutely something about Knife that made her wolf willing to submit to him, so it was easier for the human woman to pull her dress off, step out of her shoes, and then take her bra and panties off.
Knife was gathering rope from a heavy wooden chest, so she looked around, and then stared at the massive bed.
A pillory was made into the footboard, and graceful motorcycle handlebars curved up from the headboard.
It should’ve looked hokey and corny, but it all fit together.
The bedding in hunter greens, the navy sofa and chairs, and hardware set into the floor under the pulley system made her swallow hard.
The kink hardware was all oil-rubbed bronze, and she realized the hinges and locks on the pillory were as well, along with a floor lamp in the corner, and the fan that looked antique but she was betting had a new motor in it.
The only metal in the room not oil-rubbed bronze was the motorcycle handlebars, making them stand out even more.
“Where on earth did you find the bed?” she asked.
“The bed is one-of-a-kind because I made it.” He turned from the chest with several coils of black rope in his hands and froze. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Stand under the pulley and we’ll get started.”
Heat bloomed across her face and chest, and she immediately walked to the open space without having to fight her wolf to do it.
Knife’s gaze raked over her slowly, and his expression told her he liked what he saw. “Arms up.”
She lifted them without hesitation, and he folded a long length of rope in half then wrapped the center of it around her.
“I’m doing a pretty fast setup today, since I don’t know your body yet. Using jute rope, kinder to the skin than hemp.”
The jute was coarser than she expected — scratchy against her skin, but mostly she focused on how his hands felt, securing the rope while skillfully forming loops and knots. He slid the rope to tighten it, and she felt the roughness again, the fibers dragging across her ribs.
“I’m partial to silk.”
“Knots slip.” He didn’t look up, focused on the pattern. “Not ideal for suspension.”
He built a harness around her chest and breasts with economical movements. The rope moved around her like a living thing at times, then tightened when he secured a knot, and she felt every scratch and pull of the rope as if it were magnified.
“What’s the story with the handlebars? Off your first bike, maybe?”
“You can’t get those from the factory.” He grinned. “Special build, wide and graceful so I can ride a bitch on the bed before I let her on the back of my bike.”
Was that a test? Or was it some kind of biker language? She wasn’t sure, but on the off chance it was a test, she asked, “Any chance I’ll be able to ride you?”
He gave her a half-smile. “Not usually my thing, but we might negotiate it.”
He bent in front of her left leg, coils winding around and around her calf. It didn’t take long, and he stood.
“Need you on the floor. Left leg out to the side and straight. Right leg bent so your foot is directly in front of your ass.”
Her wolf dropped into position before Tuesday even consciously decided to move.
The bitch simply obeyed — no argument, no bristling, no pushback, as she’d done with every other man who’d tried to top her, no matter whether they were human, wolf, bear, or even a fucking lion.
The realization sent a shiver through Tuesday’s spine as she looked up at this wolf who’d somehow gained her wolf’s respect and submission.
He attached the harness on her left calf to the one circling her ribs, and pulled.
The left leg lifted, straightened sideways, and the stretch hit right out of the gate — a penetrating, pulling ache that lit up deep inside her hip and radiated into her lower back.
Not unbearable, but he was only getting started.
And she was still sitting on the floor.
He shifted focus and wound rope around her bent right leg in relentless layers, turning it into an unyielding column of rope.
Each pass cinched tighter. The jute pressed into her skin, locking the joint into the folded position.
Every so often, he’d run a loop up and over her knee, then he’d go around and around both shin and thigh again.
Back up over her knee, then back around and around.
The more rope he added, the more trapped she felt.
Her heart rate sped a little, and all the blood no longer going to her foot traveled to her clit.
She wanted to try to straighten her leg, to fight against the restriction, but she sat quietly and let him work.
By the time he finished, her right leg was a thick, rope-wrapped pillar — bent hard at the knee, foot pressed close to her ass, completely immobile.
Meanwhile, her left leg’s angle forced her hip flexor off kilter enough, the joint already ached with a deep, structural burn that promised to get much worse.
There was no doubt he planned to hang her from her right knee, the way he’d threaded the top ropes, and she had no idea what that would do to her right hip. Was that the idea? Hurt both hips?
Through it all, her wolf stayed quiet.
Tuesday swallowed, pulse kicking harder. Her inner beast had never settled like this for anyone.
She figured out she could bend her left knee and relieve her left hip, but then he stretched to the side, returned with a wooden dowel, settled it beside her leg, and tied it off. Top and bottom.
The leg was now forced to stay straight. No words. No orders. He saw a problem and fixed it.
And clearly, he’d anticipated she might bend it, since he’d had the dowel handy.
Finally, he stood and reached over his head to grab the large hoop at the bottom of the rope, and he brought it down nearly to her knee. He tied a complicated knot around all the ropes above her knee, and then made a fancy tie to connect it to the hoop.
“There’ll be a long line coming down from this tie-off. Once I have you in position, I’ll make sure it’s in your hand. If you pull it, it’ll release and you’ll land on the mat below.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he stepped to the wall and worked the ropes. The pulleys creaked softly, and her body rose into the air, shifting her weight from her butt to her right leg, and her hip screamed.
The strain rocketed through her groin. White-hot fire shot up the front of her thigh and into her lower back like a hot iron bar being driven through muscles and tendons.
Every inch higher intensified the burn, compressing nerves and stretching ligaments past comfort.
The weight of her body a brutal, unrelenting pull, and she gasped, the sound raw.
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
The left leg stayed straight out to the side, pulling her groin open.
She’d thought her left hip hurt before, but it was nothing compared to her right one, now bearing her weight.
This was deeper, more architectural — the pain of a hinge being asked to bear a load it was never designed for.
Her thigh muscle trembled, blood pounding against the bindings.
The ache radiated outward in hot, throbbing waves with every tiny shift of her body.
Her wolf stayed eerily quiet inside her, pleased because the other wolf was proving himself capable of handling her, and her inner beast approved.
Tuesday’s breath came faster. She tested the limits of the pose, trying to ease the worst of the strain, but every small movement only drove the fire hotter.
This wasn’t the quick sting of impact play.
This was a relentless destruction of a structural joint — the kind of pain that settles in and owns you. Makes nothing else matter.
He lifted her left wrist to the bottom of her rib cage and wound a rope around and around her wrist.
“Your dominant hand is free. Pull your left arm down and it’ll release you and drop you, then you can untie your left wrist, at which point you can undo the rest. Not like I’m going to have a heart attack and die on you, but I promised you’d be able to free yourself, and you can.
Satisfied I’ve followed through on that? ”
He was absolutely devious, and she respected him for it, but damn, this would’ve been easier if she hadn’t stipulated bondage she could get out of. Her left arm would grow tired eventually, having to hold it up.
She nodded, and he said, “Just to be clear, do you want dropping yourself to work as a safeword? Or do you want only the actual safeword to stop the action?”
Her arm was going to be exhausted and there was a good chance she’d drop herself because of that, so she gave a small headshake. “Just the safeword means stop.”
She had the control she’d wanted, but there was a cost. One arm she had to hold up, the other just hanging free. Dangling.
Meanwhile, her right hip was hurting exponentially worse with every second. Every breath. She hadn’t fully understood what stress bondage meant, but she was learning it now, bone deep.
He slid a soft leather blindfold over her eyes, and her world went black.
Losing her sight made her focus more on breathing in the rich scent of the leather, and relief washed through her.
No more visual input to fight against. No more watching him from upside down, or looking down at the floor.
Just sensation. She could settle into the pain instead of bracing against it.
Everything still hurt like hell, and she couldn’t relax her left arm without dropping herself to the mat, but the rest of her body stopped fighting so hard. The ropes took her weight, and she let them.
She shivered when earplugs slid into her canals, soft foam sealing away any hope of hearing his footsteps. Of guessing what he was doing.
Two holes filled. More to come.
Her clit throbbed harder in the open air, suddenly obscenely aware of itself.
The silence was absolute — thick and velvety, pressing in from all sides until her heartbeat became the loudest thing in existence.
No creak of pulleys, no rustle of clothing, no low murmur of his voice.
Nothing but the rush of blood in her ears and the steady, heavy thud of her pulse.
Vulnerability hit her like a drug. She was floating in nothing, completely at his mercy. Helpless in a way she’d never been before. Her wolf should have been snarling, clawing, demanding she fight or flee.
Instead, the bitch stayed perfectly still. Watching. Pleased.
He isn’t a mate, she told her inner animal. We’re just playing with him.
Her wolf didn’t seem to care what she said, and that might be a problem.
She tried to figure out what to do with her arms — one dangling, the other lifted at an odd angle — but it was hopeless. Nothing about this was comfortable, and she supposed that was the point.
She tested the limits again, tiny shifts that only made the burn in her right hip flare brighter, but she held her left hand up with purpose. She didn’t know where he was going with this, and it seemed important to let it play out. She didn’t want to end it.
The darkness and silence wrapped around her like another set of ropes, tighter and silkier than the jute, and more intimate.
She was suspended in pure sensation now — pain, exposure, utter vulnerability, and the unarguable fact that it was working for her.
She wasn’t so horny she couldn’t think, but arousal was simmering, waiting for whatever happened next.