Chapter 24
Tuesday counted out loud, her voice hoarse. He hadn’t said to, but she didn’t want to take a chance on disobeying.
When she reached ten, she pulled the blindfold off and blinked in the dim light.
He’d pulled the door most of the way closed, which meant she wasn’t supposed to know what he was doing until she came out.
It didn’t take her long to brush her teeth and put her hair back into the ponytail despite the fact her arms were beyond exhausted and still felt as if they weighed twenty pounds each.
She walked back into the bedroom on unsteady legs, and her stomach dropped when she saw a large plastic sheet covering the bed, a large bucket hanging from the pulley, and clear tubing snaking to the bed with a double balloon inflatable nozzle on the end.
He pointed to the bed and ordered, “Knees and chest. Center yourself.”
Fear jolted through her — whatever he put inside her would stay there until he decided to let it out. The level of control that gave him made her thighs tremble and her stomach cartwheel.
A deep breath told her he’d added Ivory soap to the water. She’d had Doms give her plain enemas before, but never a full-on soapy one, but she knew enough to be terrified. Just as she’d never actually felt a double-balloon enema, but she knew exactly what it was.
But all of this went through her head while she walked to the bed, climbed onto it, and assumed the position — knees wide, chest down, ass raised.
He clipped her right wrist to her right ankle, then the left.
He removed the plug from her ass and lubed her way more thoroughly than necessary.
First with two fingers, then three, before he worked the inflatable nozzle inside her.
She whimpered as he pumped air into both balloons, until the nozzle was locked inside her, firmly in place.
She heard a click, and gasped when the first rush of cool water flooded into her.
The cramping hit fast and vicious with a sharp, chemical fire — the soap attacking her insides, forcing her bowels into violent, twisting knots that stole her breath.
Deep spasms seized her belly, rolling and contracting so hard she screamed into the mattress.
Her entire lower abdomen felt like it was being wrung out by an iron fist. Tears poured from her eyes as another brutal wave hit, making her sob and shake against the bonds.
She clenched her jaw and desperately fought the urge to beg for mercy.
She didn’t want a gag. Didn’t want chopsticks crushing her tongue.
So she whimpered, yelped, and screamed depending on the severity of the cramps.
The worst of them came in waves, violent contractions that only agitated the soap inside her like a damned washing machine.
She was so full, but the water kept coming, and the burn was relentless.
Every muscle in her gut screamed in protest as the soapy water worked its merciless way through her.
And still, he kept filling her.
When the bucket finally gurgled empty, he removed the tubing but left the inflated nozzle locked inside her.
Then he picked up the thin, whippy fiberglass cane, and her clit throbbed to life.
He caned the backs of her thighs in slow, methodical strokes while she shook and sobbed. His other hand pinched and twisted her nipples until they were fiery hot, then slid down to brutally torment her swollen clit with his strong fucking fingers.
“I can scent how turned on you are,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction.
“How even this much pain does it for you.” He struck harder with the cane, and she yelped, turning her face away from him.
“Or is it the power I hold over you that’s flipping your switch?
Controlling even your bowels, hurting you in such a personal, intimate way? ”
It was a question, which meant she had to answer. “I don’t know, Sir,” she gasped. “All of it, probably.”
He buried his fingers in her pussy, and her face burned with fresh shame even as her hips tried to push back against his fingers.
And then he fucking edged her, getting her so damned close to an orgasm, one hand working her clit while the other spread her sore pussy wide — but when she was about to orgasm even without permission, he stepped back and walloped the backs of her thighs with the Delrin instead of the fiberglass cane while saying, “You do not have permission to come, little painslut.”
Eventually, he released her wrists and ankles, helped her off the bed, walked her to the toilet, and made her stand over it with her legs spread wide while he deflated the nozzle. The moment it slid free, she dropped onto the seat and exploded, emptying everything in a long, humiliating rush.
He left the bathroom without a word. Later, when she thought she might be finished but wasn’t sure, he called out from the bedroom, “When you’re finished, get a quick shower, but keep your hair dry, and then get your ass back out here.”
- - - ? - - -
When she returned on shaky legs, he was waiting. He pointed to the side of the bed. “Bend over. Hands on the mattress, back arched, ass up.”
She bent forward, palms flat on the mattress, legs trembling. The position left her completely exposed. Again.
The second enema was plain water, but still cool. Not warm. And there was a huge butt-plug nozzle without the balloons.
The moment the water flooded into her already-sore belly and mixed with the soap residue still in there, the cramps returned with violent force.
Deep, rolling spasms twisted through her guts, each one sharper than the last. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached, fighting the overwhelming urge to beg for mercy, to plead with him to stop or slow down or please, Sir, let me go back to the bathroom.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her legs shook violently.
A broken scream tore from her throat as a particularly brutal cramp seized her, making her hips jerk forward.
She forced herself back into position, fingers digging into the mattress, toes curling against the floor.
Every instinct screamed at her to move, to clench, to run — but she stayed.
Breath after ragged breath, cramp after cramp, she held herself perfectly still for him. It felt important to prove she didn’t need ropes or cuffs to obey. That she could give him this level of control willingly, even when her body was screaming for her to run.
The water kept coming, filling her until she felt bloated and impossibly full. She was sobbing openly now, tears dripping onto the bed, but she endured.
When the bucket finally emptied, she was shaking so hard she could barely stand.
“Oh, good girl,” he said, two thick fingers sinking deep into her pussy, curling against her front wall.
“Thirty strikes of the loopy before you can move, and you’ll ask me for each one while squeezing around that plug so it stays in.
Ask me for the first. Please, Sir, can I have the first strike of the loopy? ”
Somehow, she managed to get it out, and the loopy johnny landed across her ass with a vicious cracking thud. The twin strands of network cable bit deep, wrapping slightly and crashing into her flesh with a brutal, bone-deep impact.
She didn’t want to ask again, but she wasn’t sure she could hold the enema in for thirty, so as soon as she caught her breath, she said, “Please, Sir, can I have the second strike?”
Another heavy crack. Then the third. She asked faster, voice growing hoarse, each plea tumbling out quicker than the last. The loopy hurt — God, it hurt — the evil network cabling wrapping and snapping with every strike, lighting up her already bruised ass and the backs of her thighs.
Tears streamed down her face as she counted them off, desperate to finish so she could run to the toilet.
By the time she reached twenty-eight, her voice was raw and shaking.
“Please, Sir, can I have the twenty-ninth strike?”
The loopy landed harder. She sobbed, legs trembling violently.
“Please, Sir, can I have the thirtieth strike?”
The final crack was the worst. She cried out sharply, the pain blooming bright and deep across her ass.
He stroked her back once, almost tenderly. “You may go.”
She didn’t walk — she ran.
Legs shaking, ass on fire, the heavy plug still locked inside her, she bolted for the bathroom the second he released her. She barely made it to the toilet before everything let go in a long, humiliating rush.
She heard him cleaning up in the bedroom, and then watched him clean his equipment in the tub. She kept flushing the toilet, humiliated, but he didn’t seem to mind her noises.
When he finished, he told her, “I’ll put this away and then go down and get everything ready for breakfast, and we’ll get started cooking it when you come down.”
It was a statement, not a question, so she nodded.
“Good girl. Permission to speak with respect once you come downstairs. Conversation, with the same rules as before. You can get a quick shower before you come down, but don’t dally.”
And he was gone.
When she made it downstairs, he had bacon already frying, steaks ready to go on the inside grill, and eggs broken and scrambled in a bowl.
“You do the eggs, I’ll handle the bacon and steaks.”
He turned the toaster oven on, and she could see the bread already inside.
She got her favorite spatula and stood at the stove, scrambling the eggs without overworking them, concentrating on getting fluffy curds while he cooked the bacon and kept an eye on the steaks.
The rhythm of cooking together felt almost normal, like every other morning they’d cooked together, and she let herself relax into it.
Minutes later, once the eggs were plated, he clipped her arms together behind her back, blindfolded her, and grasped her right bicep.
She let him walk her across the room. She stopped when his hand squeezed and held, and then… she couldn’t explain what came over her, but when he ordered, “Kneel,” as if there wasn’t a doubt in his mind she would obey, she took a step back and stayed standing.
Later, she would wonder if she was testing him, to see what he would do with perfect steaks waiting for them — would he let them go cold while he punished her?
If that was the case, she quickly got her answer, because he punched the backs of her knees so she went down hard, and then clipped her bound hands to something.
She felt a chain press across her ass before she felt him connect the other end of it to her right ankle, shifting her body to have to turn slightly — likely toward his chair.
“I’m not spoiling perfectly good steaks for your little act of defiance,” he said calmly, “but you will feel the consequences of that choice within the hour.”
Dread settled into her gut and made her clit throb, but then his fingers were at her mouth, and she opened to accept the bite of steak. She needed the calories, but she was too strung out to want to eat. She chewed mechanically, barely tasting the food.
Her legs still hurt, and kneeling made her thighs scream all over again while her psyche simmered in a toxic brew of fear and anticipation.
What would he do to punish her? She was terrified of the prison strap, and she kept seeing it in her mind, his hand around the handle, the cruel rubber flying into the air before it landed on her clit. What the hell had come over her?
She ate every bite he touched to her lips because refusing didn’t seem like a good idea.
She’d fucked up, but there was no going back now.
There was no escape from the dread and sick anticipation of true punishment she’d earned with deliberate disobedience — or the fact that every bite she took brought her closer to the time she would pay for it in some brutal fashion.
She couldn’t see what was left on the plates, but she knew in her gut the meal was coming to an end when he put the straw to her mouth for the umpteenth time. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
Sure enough, after she swallowed, he lifted her without warning, scooping her bound body into his arms. She pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in while he carried her out of the kitchen. For one brief, treacherous moment she let herself feel safe.
Then he laid her on her stomach across the sofa, positioning her so her ankles rested on the armrest, feet dangling into the air.
He lifted her hips and put two pillows under it, and the whole time, her body edged closer to a forbidden orgasm while the egg vibrated against her front wall, pressing directly over a bundle of nerves connected to her clit.
Sharp, treacherous spikes of pleasure shot through her and she whimpered, terrified she would come without permission right there on the sofa.
Then the first strike landed and pain exploded across the heel of her right foot in a thin, vicious line.
She screamed into the cushion, body jerking hard. Before she could get on top of the pain, another landed, then another. Sharp, stinging strokes from something whippy and cruel. Each one felt like lightning across the tender arch and then the ball of her foot.
Oh God.
Bastinado.
Punishing her feet. The feet she stood on when told to kneel.
Right foot. Left foot. The right again. The left again.
A pause, and the next strikes were heavier, deeper — a denser cane that thudded into the muscle and bone, making her sob and thrash against the cushions, and his other hand gripped her calf, holding the foot in place.
The pain was blinding. Every nerve ending in her feet lit with fire.
And still the egg buzzed mercilessly against her G-spot, mixing the agony with cruel, unwanted pulses of pleasure.
She was crying openly now, tears soaking the cushion, her whole body shaking as he worked both feet with methodical, devastating thoroughness.
Her feet burned like open wounds, but the blows kept coming while the egg hummed mercilessly against her G-spot.
She was right on the edge of everything at once, and she was trapped, overwhelmed, and completely at the whim of a sadist in full-on punishment mode.