Chapter 21
Punishment should happen as close to the transgression as possible, so Knife ordered her to strip in the kitchen, and he took the harness off before lifting her to the island, and wiggled the plug under it just because he could.
He quickly connected her right wrist to right ankle, same on the left, pushed her backward so she was lying with her legs and arms in the air, and used his handy anchors at the base of the island to tie them off to spread her legs wide.
Her exhausted thighs trembled as he adjusted the rope to pull them level with her head and then out, out and out some more. Every muscle had been fatigued from her night, and while running had helped stretch her out and push blood into tissues that needed to heal, it’d also further drained her.
Movement caught his eye, and her pussy was doing its thing again, clenching and opening, shifting the plug in her ass. She knew this was going to be bad, but her scent broadcast how excited her body was about it.
Knife stood back for a moment and looked at her, taking in her scent while he admired her beauty and vulnerability. Her inner thighs were still deeply bruised from the Delrin, and she was a beautiful sight.
Then he got back to work.
It only took a few minutes to clamp her pussy lips open, tying them off to bands he fastened around her thighs. He debated on whether to leave the plug in or take it out, and decided her asshole needed to be exposed and bare, so he pulled it out.
And then he went upstairs for the prison strap and the suspension circle.
The hickory handle felt solid and familiar in his palm. The thick rubber blade was heavy, and he remembered measuring to figure out how much real estate he needed to make it a full pound of pure, merciless brutality. He’d settled on three inches wide, sixteen inches long, and a half inch thick.
He never brought it out for normal scenes. It was only used to punish a miscreant, or when he needed to make a serious point about how important obedience is during training.
This was the latter, and it was time.
“You earned seven,” he told her when he returned, voice low and calm. “One every fifteen seconds.”
Her eyes widened the moment she saw the prison strap. He held the heavy length of black rubber near her face. “Kiss the implement of your punishment.”
She trembled as she strained up to press her lips to the thick, brutal rubber, her gaze on his the entire time, and his cock throbbed painfully in his jeans. She was acknowledging his right to go past hurting her for pleasure — to discipline her. Punish her with what promised to be terrible pain.
Pure dominance surged through his veins along with a heavy dose of adrenaline, and he let the moment stretch, savoring the heavy weight of the strap, the way his blood pulsed at the knowledge of what was coming.
Seven strokes. No warmup. No mercy. Just raw, deliberate pain delivered to the most sensitive part of her body.
He stepped to the end of the island, drew his arm back, and brought the prison strap down hard across her spread pussy.
Her whole body jerked hard against the cuffs, and a raw, hysterical scream tore out of her while she writhed and twisted, but he merely counted down from fifteen in his head and lifted his hand when he got to two, so he could deliver the next on zero.
The second strike landed, then the third, each covering her clit and swollen lips with deep, bruising impact.
He watched with clinical attention while his dick pulsed in time to his heartbeat — the way her thighs shook, the way her scent spiked with pain and panic, exposure and powerlessness. The way she pulled uselessly against the restraints.
By the third stroke, she was sobbing openly. By the fifth, she was a trembling, broken mess.
It took nearly two minutes to deliver them all. When he finally set the strap down, he ran his palm lightly over her blazing, swollen pussy, soaking in the heat of her devastation.
She whimpered at even that gentle touch, and a dark wave of satisfaction rolled through him.
“Will you work harder to keep up next time?”
“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry!”
“Punishing you made my dick hard,” he told her while he released her arms and legs, sat her up, and then clicked her wrist cuffs together behind her back. “On your knees, my naughty little fucktoy.”
He helped her off the counter, and she went right to her knees, her legs wobbly.
He fucked her face with deep, satisfying strokes, savoring the way her throat tightened around him and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
He could scent her arousal battling with pain and surrender, and he reveled in her need, knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to orgasm again for a long, long while.
He savored the power of using her throat so ruthlessly right after punishing her, reminding her that every part of her belonged to him.
He emptied himself down her gullet with a low groan, then pulled out and ordered her into the corner, her wrists still clipped together behind her back.
The sight of her trembling in the corner sent the blood pulsing right back to his dick — but breakfast wasn’t going to make itself, so he got started on it.
He watched her while he fried the bacon. She was still catching her breath, shoulders rising and falling, still trembling. Her scent was complicated — the shame of being punished, the intense pain she still felt, fading adrenaline, arousal still throbbing in waves.
Over time, he scented the beginnings of surrender.
Not even close to where he wanted her, but he felt confident he’d get her there before the three days were up.
It was a process, the body letting go of what it couldn’t change, the mind following.
Tuesday’s mind was strong, and that would make her total surrender all the sweeter when he finally forced it.
And this wouldn’t be him earning it. You earn trust. You demand surrender and then make it impossible for your quarry to do anything else.
It’d taken him a while to separate the two relationships into two boxes. He wanted an equal partner in life, but he needed something completely different when it came to sex. He was glad he’d figured his shit out before he met Tuesday, so he’d get it right with her.
He scrambled the eggs and decided not to reprimand her for moving her weight between her feet. He could scent waves of pain coming off her. Her cunt would be hurting until she was allowed to change in another two days.
It took him about twenty-five minutes to fix their meal, and he figured that was plenty of time for her to work through being punished and used as a fleshlight.
Would she continue to obey? Only one way to find out.
“Come to the table,” he told her, and he motioned for her to kneel beside his chair once she was near.
He fed her while he fed himself, her arms still locked tightly behind her back. He could scent her frustration and delicious annoyance rolling off her in sharp, prickly waves. His little painslut hated being dependent.
“Oh, good little pet,” he told her when she chewed and swallowed, and her annoyance blossomed into irritation.
But she opened for him without hesitation and accepted every bite.
Her obedience despite her silent opposition made it all the more sweet for him.
She hated this — hated being fed like a pet, hated being completely dependent on him — and yet she still submitted.
Still chose to belong to him. To follow orders even when they weren’t easy.
That was the sweetest part. Not blind, eager submission, but the reluctant, annoyed, seething kind that still knelt and opened for him anyway. The power of it sent a dark thrill straight through him.
He took his time, savoring both the meal and the quiet, intimate power of controlling even this. Every swallow, every reluctant little huff of breath, every flash of annoyed heat in her scent only fed his satisfaction and pleasure.
But eventually breakfast was over, and it was time for the rest of their day.
He’d planned to bind her into the next pose as soon as they returned from their run, but the punishment had altered his plans.
He removed the wrist and ankle cuffs, quickly created a restrictive chest harness that ballooned her tits out, bound her hands into a strict reverse prayer, and connected her wrists to the chest harness.
When he’d installed the hanging pot contraption over the island to expand their storage, he’d anchored it specifically so he could use it for bondage scenarios.
He took his shoes off and jumped up on the island, secured a rope to the hook at the top, and then jumped down and tied the circle to the bottom of the rope.
“On the island, my naughty little property. On your stomach.”
He helped her up, and she spun around and went to her stomach as ordered, without even a tiny hesitation. Progress.
Her hair was still in the ponytail, and he wound the rope around it, braiding it in tightly so it would hold, and tied it off to the circle.
This pulled her head up and back, straining her arms more in the process, and she gasped and fought to figure out how to breathe in this new position.
Her bare breasts were already turning a little blue, trapped by the chest harness, and he made a mental note to run upstairs for some clamps.
More rope at her ankles, and then he lifted them and connected them to the circle as well.
Finally, a rope from the circle, around her throat, and then down to her wrists.
It wasn’t possible for her to choke herself dangerously, but she’d have to strain to keep her head up and back in order to keep it from being tight on her throat.
“No words unless asked a direct question,” he reminded her, and then he got to work on today’s project, making ginger beer.
It didn’t take long to make the ginger syrup, and he could already scent the strain settling into her body, the deepening ache in her shoulders and spine, the way her arousal kept spiking every time she tried to shift and couldn’t. It was a heady combination.
He set the syrup aside to steep, prepared the marinade, put the steaks in, and slid them into the fridge.
He cut the potatoes and onions, dumped them into the slow cooker, and added butter, some beef broth, fresh rosemary, and a touch of thyme. He shredded some sharp cheddar into it, stirred it, and breathed it in. He might not be a trained chef, but he thought he could hold his own.
He went upstairs for the nipple clamps and a small flogger, brought them down, and flogged the fuck out of her breasts a while, smiling at the way they jumped, at her heady gasps and yelps.
Her scent was all over the place, which was exactly right for this pose. Arousal, exhaustion, and so many different kinds of pain, they all bled into each other.
He tortured her nipples a while, twisting and pulling, went back to flogging them, and was a little disappointed when the timer went off to tell him the ginger syrup had steeped long enough.
He clamped her breasts and went back to work, straining the syrup, juicing the lemons. He didn’t want her to get bored, so he fed her a wedge of lemon and then kissed her adorable, puckered face — both cheeks, and then a peck on the lips.
Once he had the lemon juice and yeast added, it was time to siphon it into his four dozen flip-top glass bottles so it could properly ferment.
He finished an hour and a half later, and her breathing was more strained, with the scent of her pain beginning to override her arousal. Perfect.
He ran his palm down her arched spine, over the curve of her ass, and slid a finger into her slick pussy.
Just one. In and back out.
Because he could.
He considered how to handle the next two to three hours, and went upstairs for the earplugs, noise-canceling headphones, and blindfold.
Once he had her sealed into silent darkness, he set the timer on his phone for two and a half hours, and settled on the sofa to work his way through the map on the video game he’d been battling with for weeks.
He’d knocked walls out while creating storage and space, so he could easily see her in his peripheral vision, and when the game went to a cutscene and the characters talked, he wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked himself lazily, eyes flicking between the screen and the beautiful, helpless woman forced into a severe back-bending O on his kitchen island.
He could scent a different kind of pain about thirty minutes before his timer went off, so he paused his game at an opportune place and told her, “Permission to ask for what you need.”
“May I please use the bathroom, Sir?”