Chapter 25
Knife could scent her terror and arousal when he carried her to the sofa, and he knew the instant the vibrating egg pressed against her front wall.
Knew how close she was to losing control and coming without permission.
She was already in enough trouble though, so he quickly applied the fiberglass cane with purpose.
The first punishing stroke landed across her right heel with a sharp crack.
She jerked hard, a muffled scream vibrating into the cushion.
The second hit the heel of the left foot, and he worked slowly, methodically — heel to arch to the balls of her feet, each line about a half-inch above the one that came before.
A strike to her right foot, and then the identical spot on the left.
The thin cane left bright red lines he knew would sting like fire with every shift of her weight until her wolf could manage to heal the damage.
Back to the right. Then the left.
Her scent was exquisite — sharp pain, frantic humiliation, and beneath it all a thick, desperate arousal that never quite left her.
He set the fiberglass aside and picked up the Delrin.
This one was heavier and denser. It would bruise so much deeper.
He held onto her right calf and started on her right foot again, the solid thud of the rod sinking into the already tender flesh.
Her screams grew louder and more frantic, her body thrashing against the cushions, but he didn’t relent and once again moved from her heel to the balls of her feet, though the arches gave him the most pleasure, watching the way the muscles contracted and spasmed after each strike.
Every strike fed the sadist in him like oxygen because this wasn’t playful pain, it was punishment.
Teaching her about obedience with pain she couldn’t manage, undeniably underscoring their power exchange as not just sadist and masochist, or even Dom and sub.
It was a statement of just how much he fucking owned her — not just her ass, cunt, and mouth, but even the bottoms of her damned feet.
He made it to the balls of her feet and added another two strikes to her arches, just to watch the muscles spasm and react.
His cock pulsed harder when he lifted the prison strap.
But she needed to know what was coming before it landed, so he draped it over her shoulder and then dragged the heavy rubber slowly down her back.
Tuesday’s fear response flooded the room, thick and heady, and he breathed it in like the sweetest essence.
He aimed for her arches. Right foot. Left foot. Right again. Left. Her entire body convulsed with each brutal blow, and her screams were hoarse and beautifully broken now.
Then he stepped to her ass and brought the strap down on it full strength. He hadn’t used even half of his strength on her arches, but her ass could handle a whole lot more than the delicate bones in her feet.
The first vicious lash landed with a loud, satisfying crash, leaving a deep burgundy stripe across both cheeks.
He gave her six more — hard, brutal strokes that painted her ass and the backs of her thighs in vivid, overlapping marks.
Each impact made his granite-hard cock throb painfully against his jeans.
Punishment was different from a scene, and the difference mattered a great deal.
In a scene, he was always calculating — reading her scent, her sounds, the fine tremors in her body, making sure the pain balanced with her pleasure in the same way he was careful when adding jalapenos to a dish, so he didn’t drown out the other flavors.
But punishment was cleaner. She’d earned this and he was delivering it. There was no question about whether it was too much because too much was the fucking point.
Punishment gave him license to hurt her worse, to give her more pain than he’d ever apply in a normal scene, and the sadist in him was fucking glorious with it — drunk on her raw screams, her frantic writhing, the rich scent of her suffering and submission.
He loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone, and he loved hurting her like this even more. Loved taking her past what she could take, pushing her until she could only make animal sounds, no longer even close to human.
His love didn’t fight with the sadism. His sadism was woven into the love, inseparable from it.
Hurting her at this level was an act of intimacy so complete it had no equivalent in the rest of their lives.
Loving her and brutalizing her weren’t two different things — they were the same thing, expressed in language they both understood.
When he finally set the strap down, he ran his palm possessively over the blazing, bruised flesh of her ass and thighs, feeling the heat radiating off her skin.
“Who am I?”
“Sir,” she managed through broken sobs, her throat raw. “My Sir.”
“Kneel.”
She didn’t take any time at all to roll off the sofa onto her knees, and he smiled with satisfaction.
He lifted her into his arms, carried her into the kitchen, and settled her on her knees on the island, still crying and shaking, and he stepped back.
Punishment doesn’t always get soft and cuddly aftercare.
He unclipped her wrist cuffs and unbuckled them.
“Hands to the back of your head.”
She obeyed immediately, and he started with the chest harness, wrapping the ropes tightly around her ribcage.
Her breathing immediately became shallow, restricted little gasps that made his cock twitch.
He worked the ropes above and below her breasts, cinching them until her flesh swelled and bulged between the strands, her breasts slowly turning pink, displaying them beautifully, and he watched them begin to darken before he moved to the next step.
“Kneel up.”
No way could she stand yet, but her knees were fine.
He quickly fashioned the harness to hold the crotch rope, and took his time getting the cruel hemp knots exactly right — one pressing hard against her clit, one nestled between her pussy lips, and the last seated firmly against her asshole.
He pulled it tight, so every tiny movement would grind those knots deeper.
He worked with a quiet, focused pleasure, knowing this pose would grow more and more agonizing the longer she stayed in it.
He removed her blindfold and all four cuffs. “Sit your ass down on your feet.”
She immediately obeyed, and he smiled.
It took a little finagling to bind her left leg bent closed, but he managed it easily enough, and then created the bicep tie-off on her right arm before creating a complicated rope ankle cuff on her right leg, and two wrist cuffs.
And now, to make things interesting.
He slid her right leg back, lifted her foot, and tied the ankle cuff off to her right bicep. It only took a few minutes to connect her wrists with a rope running under the existing one, and her body was suddenly forced into a gorgeous, graceful arch.
Her spine bowed beautifully, and her trapped breasts thrust forward, already deep red. Her breath came in shallow pants because that was all she could manage.
The ropes locked her into a pose of painful, helpless elegance, and he stood and admired his work.
She was stunning. A living piece of erotic art.
The ropes bit deep, her breasts already beginning to turn purple, her breathing shallow and labored.
The three knots in the crotch rope would torment her constantly.
The extreme stretch in her hip and thigh would burn hotter with every passing minute, and her triceps would pull and strain without relief.
And the longer she stayed like this, the more exquisite the agony would become.
His inner sadist purred with satisfaction. He’d turned her into a beautiful work of torture, and she had no idea the ways his ropes would slowly and relentlessly devastate her in the coming hours. Would reduce his strong, beautiful chef to nothing but agony without thought.
- - - ? - - -
Tuesday was so tired after two nights of bondage, but her body was an exhausted livewire, every nerve raw and over-sensitized.
She balanced high in the center of the kitchen while Knife chopped onions that made her eyes water.
She fought for air, fought the constraining ropes around her ribcage, and tried to make the most of every shallow breath despite the damned onion fumes making her nose run.
She couldn’t see her breasts without hurting herself, but she assumed they were a deep purple because they felt like two swollen stove burners, radiating heat.
Her mind didn’t know which pain to focus on, because while the scratchy ropes around her ribcage scraped across raw flesh with every strained, desperate breath, they scoured her entire fucking groin.
The three brutal knots in the crotch rope pressed and ground mercilessly against her clit, pussy entrance, and the tight, sensitive ring of her asshole with every tiny twitch and shiver.
The constant, intimate friction slammed every denied orgasm of the long day back into her like a freight train, reigniting a violent need. Her clit throbbed viciously against the unyielding knot, and her empty pussy clenched and fluttered around the rough knot buried just inside her entrance.
And deep, deep in her core, she felt the bruising from the steel dildo shoved way too far inside her all night. A throbbing ache she couldn’t ignore, exacerbated by the way she was bent backward.
Everything combined and mixed, and Tuesday’s desperate need roared through her so violently her thighs shook and her hips gave a single pump that made the ropes scrape and tug, and she froze.
She was right there — teetering on the razor’s edge of an orgasm she knew she wasn’t allowed to have.
She bit down hard on her lip, fighting with everything she had not to rock her hips, not to beg, not to force him to trap her tongue or have to punish her again, because she never wanted to see or feel the damned prison strap again.
Frustration and overwhelming need flowed through her veins while her chest muscles screamed at the stretch with every hard-won breath, leading to a growing ache in her shoulders while the long muscles along the backs of her arms felt like they were being slowly torn away from the bone.
Her front leg was full of pins and needles while the back leg burned with a deep, fiery ache that grew worse by the minute and crept through her hip into her abs.
She no longer knew if her eyes were watering from the onions or the agony, but she breathed out in relief when she heard and scented the onions hitting hot oil. She blinked hard, fighting for air, desperate to pull in anything deeper than the tiny, shallow sips the damned ropes allowed.
The rich smell of caramelizing onions drifted over her. Later, she scented beef stock, thyme, and wine. It didn’t take her long to figure it out.
French onion soup.
He worked with it constantly until it was time for it to simmer, and then he walked back and forth and around the kitchen a long time before he began sharpening knives. One after another, then another, until she was convinced he’d gathered every damned knife in the kitchen before he started.
Eventually, the rhythmic sounds of steel on whetstone filled the kitchen like a heartbeat. Deliberate and steady. Soothing.
When he paused, she could visualize him testing the edge with his thumb.
And all the while, every muscle in her body strained and pulsed with every passing second. Her clit and tits were a conflagration, pulsing heat and agony in time to her racing heart while she fought for air in shallow, ragged breaths.
Knife’s ropes became an extension of him, delivering an intimate, humiliating pain. Making her fight for breath while the hemp scoured and ground over her most tender places.
And he worked as if he were oblivious to her pain, though she knew he wasn’t. He’d set her to simmer in agony while he completed other tasks.
He’d stop to stir the soup every so often, and he eventually poured it into what she assumed was the slow cooker, since that’s what she’d do, to give it the unsupervised hours and hours of time it needed for the flavors to meld.
The irony of it lodged in her brain — he was marinating her in torment and agony the same way a good French onion soup needed heat and patience, time to simmer before it could fully become what it was supposed to be.
He washed his hands and then left to return with… she breathed in the leather and was certain he’d brought several whips, possibly some floggers. She absolutely scented his kangaroo whip, and her favorite tawse.
She smelled the leather conditioner and was both relieved and disappointed — he wasn’t using them on her now. He was tending to the tools he’d use to hurt her later.
The contrast of his calm, everyday domesticity while she suffered and ached for him deepened the humiliation and sharpened the dark, helpless arousal twisting through her until both were unbearable.
She had no idea how many hours she was on the island before he methodically released her and carried her upstairs folded over his shoulder.
He dumped her on the bed, walked to the foot, and opened the pillory. “Crawl to me, little painslut.”