Chapter 8
Knife took a deep breath and looked her over carefully.
Her scent and breathing confirmed everything hurt worse now. Being bound back into the same stress position is fucking hell. The time away from it had given her some strength, had allowed those joints to relax — and the endorphins had faded.
He stepped back and felt the blood pulsing back into his cock while he watched her fight the ropes all over again, but it was time to get back to business. He’d brought a bucket up earlier, and he held it under her crotch and gave what she could only hear as a direct order.
“Piss.”
Nothing happened, and he counted to ten in his head before telling her, “I can put a catheter in your peehole to empty your bladder, if you’d prefer that method.”
Her scent flooded with horrified humiliation, but she finally let go, the sound of her urine hitting the bucket loud in the quiet room.
Most wolves don’t care about basic bodily functions because their animals piss in the woods without even considering being embarrassed.
But for Tuesday, being helpless and ordered to piss in human form away from a toilet — she had to be forced to do it, either by her own pain from holding it, or by a threat.
And he loved the extra layer of power it gave him over her. Such an aphrodisiac.
He dumped the bucket into the toilet, rinsed it in the shower, and then returned to blindfold her and press earplugs into her canals. Finally, just to make sure every sound was blocked, he settled sound-blocking earmuffs over her head.
For good measure, he inserted a small, vinyl coated spider gag. He had larger ones that overextended the jaw, but the smaller one would keep her from forming words. He’d reserve the super-painful gags for another time.
He reattached the weighted clamps to her nipples and set the chains in motion before he went downstairs to put what was still in the slow cooker into the fridge and clean the kitchen.
He took his time cleaning, his tablet on the kitchen stand so he could keep an eye on her from a distance. She needed a little time for her food to settle, and also to surrender to the ropes all over again.
When he finally walked back upstairs, he sat in a comfortable chair and just watched her breathe.
Eventually, he stood and organized the things he’d use in this second part of the day, and then lifted a fiberglass cane and stepped to her side.
The first strike landed across her ass with a sharp thwack.
She hadn’t known it was coming, and her scent went off-the-charts with surprise, shock, and pain. The arousal was gone for a handful of seconds before it rebounded tenfold, and he grinned.
The scent made him want to stick his dick inside her and rut like an animal, but that would come later.
He brought the cane down again. Harder. Seconds later, a deep red line bloomed, and he ran his fingers over the welt.
Five more strikes to her ass, and he focused on her legs.
He worked on the leg lifted into the air, first. The front made an easier target than the back, and each strike made her body jerk against the ropes, and the weight on her foot swung nonstop, pulling her joints in every direction.
The gag didn’t muffle her sounds, it only kept her from forming words, and her screams filled the room.
When that leg was striped from torso to just above her knee, he took aim at her dangling, weighted leg.
He was careful not to split the skin but came damned close where her leg met her ass.
This cane left perfect, raised welts that would linger until she changed — and his plan was to hold that off until the following day.
He liked the idea of marking the front of one thigh and the back of the other, and he took his time placing the strokes as close together as possible before he came back at it with diagonal strikes.
She was sobbing uncontrollably when he deemed this leg finished, and he gave her a moment of relief while he went to his closet.
He let his wolf surface on the way there. Let his inner beast help decide on the belt, on the tool he wanted to use to punish her. The wolf chose his thickest, heaviest belt.
When he returned to her, he gave her a dozen hard strikes to the front of her upper leg while gradually handing more and more control to his wolf. The wolf took over his arm and shoulder completely, and then belted the front of one thigh before moving to the back of the other.
She jerked and whimpered with every impact, the sounds raw and helpless.
Each strike made her swing in the ropes, the heavy weight on her ankle pulling harder, the motion yanking on the weighted clamps and sending fresh fire through her already tortured nipples, and all the joints in and around the dangling leg.
All the jerking would also be rubbing every knot in the crotch rope back and forth over the already brutalized, raw flesh.
Her scent was a storm — sharp pain, deep exhaustion, and feral arousal that ebbed and flowed, but was ever-present.
Through it all, Knife aimed the belt but let his wolf decide on how hard and how long to strike. Knife would stop him if he went too long, but it wasn’t necessary, because his wolf stopped long before Knife expected him to.
His inner animal both satisfied and conflicted. She’d needed to be punished, but the act they were punishing her for had brought her to them, and it seemed that the beast didn’t have the heart to punish her as severely as he’d wanted before the fact.
He pushed his wolf back down while he hung the belt back in the closet, and his wolf went without arguing.
When Knife returned, he picked up the cruel plastic flogger and went to work on her inner thighs, one at a time. These weren’t high-nerve-density zones like her clit or nipples, but the flesh here was soft, tender, and exquisitely sensitive.
He loved hurting her, loved maximizing every strike purely because he was a sadist and she was a masochist — because this was who they were together.
The flogger painted bright red stripes across the delicate skin, and her gasps and cries, the way her body twitched and trembled — the entire experience fed some deep, primal need inside him.
He flogged her thighs until they radiated heat, past being striped, just a single, solid patch of deep red.
And then moved up, placing metal clothespins with crazy-strong springs in tight spirals around her breasts, watching the soft flesh swell and darken under the relentless pressure.
Then he removed the crotch rope, added the clit clamp once again, yanked the butt plug out, and thrust into her asshole while it was still spasming and trying to close.
He fucked her hard and fast, driving into her with everything he had.
Every brutal thrust set the entire scene in motion: the clothespins and clamps tugged and bounced viciously on her breasts and swollen nipples, while the weights on her clit and ankle swung and jerked, yanking fresh agony through her with every slam of his hips.
Her screams reverberated off the walls, punctuated by broken, desperate sounds tearing out of her throat. Her body jerked helplessly in the ropes, swinging with each impact, and yet her scent was still thick with arousal and raw need woven through all the pain.
That combination — her suffering and her hunger for it — only made him hurt her worse.
He fucked her like he was trying to brand himself into her soul, hips pistoning hard, hands gripping her waist for leverage. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with her screams until the room was filled with nothing but the sound of him claiming her.
He took her clit clamp off when he was nearly ready to come, and she went tight around him, and then her entire body jerked in the ropes when she came unglued, spasming and squeezing around his cock while she sobbed and fought for breath.
His orgasm quickly followed hers. He buried himself to the hilt and emptied himself deep inside her with a loud roar that felt like it dragged his soul out with it.
He stayed buried deep for a long moment, letting the aftershocks ripple through him, but he needed more.
He needed to hurt her cunt. He’d overstretched and bruised it with his fist, but it wasn’t enough.
The thought hit him with sudden, savage clarity. He’d spent hours tormenting her asshole, her clit, her nipples — but other than the fisting, her cunt had been mostly neglected. That soft, delicate, nerve-rich flesh, swollen and puffy from being fisted earlier, needed more attention.
He crammed three fingers in, realized he needed more lube, soaked his hand in it, and then pressed three in again, and added his pinky.
He worked them deeper, stretching her open, feeling her walls flutter and fight around him.
She was slick, swollen, and so incredibly sensitive, and he reminded himself she’d endured the hemp knot, too.
She was so swollen, could he work his fist in again? Would her cunt stretch around his entire fist when it was this bruised and inflamed?
He tucked his thumb and pushed harder. Her desperate cries rose behind the gag as her pussy stretched obscenely around his knuckles.
He watched it happen — the delicate, swollen, dark red flesh yielding, straining, gripping the widest part of his hand.
Every nerve ending in her cunt had to be screaming.
Her scent flooded the room: sharp pain layered thickly with raw, desperate arousal.
The contradiction made his cock throb painfully.
She screamed louder as he pressed deeper, her body jerking violently in the ropes, the heavy weight on her ankle swinging and yanking on her hip. He could feel her pulse around his hand, frantic and overwhelmed.
But the bones simply weren’t moving like he needed them to.
He decided to give it one more try, so he added some lube and pressed in again.
He worked her for long minutes, stretching her, opening her, making her feel every millimeter of the invasion while she sobbed and thrashed, and her scent told him how badly she both hated and needed it.