Chapter 27
Tuesday watched his arm fly up and down, and the first impact of the stiff, crude strands crashed onto her spread pussy with a vicious crack, scraping over her tender lips and swollen clit.
It didn’t kiss — it scoured. The rough, unyielding rawhide dragged and bit like evil sandpaper raked across raw nerves. She screamed, her whole body jerking violently in the ropes.
He didn’t pause.
Strike after strike fell in a merciless rhythm, the heavy falls lashing her exposed sex from her tight, clenching asshole to the top of her mound, flaying everything in between.
Each impact scraped and stung, leaving her most sensitive flesh burning and raw.
The wide spread of her legs left her completely open, no protection at all as the cruel rawhide whipped the tender ring of her asshole, her pussy lips, the entrance to her cunt, and her clit over and over.
She screamed until her throat went hoarse, thrashing helplessly in the suspension with her arms locked behind her back.
Every strike felt like fire being raked across her most private places.
The unrelenting pain didn’t just sting but abraded, leaving her swollen, throbbing, and impossibly sensitive.
And still he kept going, flogging her spread, vulnerable pussy with calm, devastating precision and the strength of a powerful shifter.
He didn’t stop until her entire groin was a throbbing, inflamed mess.
And then, he tossed the flogger aside, raised the beam higher, fisted her hair, and drove his cock straight into her throat.
He fucked her face brutally, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt again and again.
She gagged and choked around his thick length, tears streaming over her forehead and into her hair as she fought for air.
Her throat convulsed helplessly around him, her lungs burning, but he kept going — deep, relentless, using her mouth like it existed only for his pleasure.
When he finally came, he held himself deep, groaning low as he emptied himself straight down her throat in heavy, pulsing jets. She had no choice but to swallow every drop, choking and gasping around him until he finally pulled out.
He stepped back, barely breathing hard, and looked at her for a long moment — hanging upside down, sobbing, drooling. Wrecked.
Then he turned and walked downstairs without a word, leaving her alone.
Her shoulders screamed from having to hold her arms up.
There was no way to relax them, and especially after the earlier pose, her muscles burned with exhaustion and strain.
The dozens and dozens of cane marks on her thighs and ass throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
Her pussy was raw and inflamed, every pulse of blood making the scraped, whipped flesh ache worse.
Her abs were sore and trembling from the endless crunches.
And still, the need for release roared through her like a living thing.
Her clit throbbed viciously. Her empty pussy clenched and fluttered around nothing.
She was so desperate to come, she thought she might actually lose her mind.
She hung there, sobbing quietly, every part of her body on fire, her mind a swirling storm of exhaustion, pain, and unbearable, denied hunger.
Before too long, she heard his footsteps on the stairs again. His walk was different when he crossed the room, and his hands were gentle when they removed the nipple clamps and then cradled her carefully in one strong arm while he released her legs with the other, supporting her weight with care.
It was as if he’d done a Jekyll and Hyde thing while downstairs. Gone was the strict taskmaster, and she curled into his warmth while her nipples screamed with the return of blood to the ravaged nerve endings.
“Shhhh. I have you. You’re good.” Even his voice was different, and it occurred to her she loved all of him, the sadist and the loving caretaker, but she was really happy to have the latter back right now.
He was careful not to bump her head on the walls or doorframes as he carried her through the house and out onto the back deck. A gentle fan brushed the evening air over her heated skin as he settled her into one of the sturdy outdoor chairs, her arms still locked behind her back.
He pushed her chair up to the table, and the rich, savory scent of French onion soup rose and wafted around her — perfectly caramelized onions, rich beef broth, and a thick layer of bubbling, perfectly browned cheese on top.
He lifted mesh domes from the top of the bowls, then sat across from her and picked up a spoon.
He fed her the first bite with careful patience, making sure she got some of the gooey cheese and a piece of the toasted bread. The rich, comforting flavors exploded across her tongue, and for a moment, the sheer normalcy of it after everything her body had endured felt surreal.
“Permission to speak,” he told her, “with the usual rules in place.”
She swallowed and whispered, “Thank you, Sir.”
He wiped a small drip of broth from her chin with his thumb, his touch tender. Gentle. He licked his thumb, then he took a bite for himself before offering her another, his dark eyes watching her with quiet satisfaction as she accepted it.
Every time a little broth or cheese escaped onto her chin or lips, he wiped it away with the same loving care. There was no rush. No mockery. Just the steady, intimate ritual of him feeding her while she sat bound and naked, wearing only the marks he’d left all over her body.
The contrast was dizzying.
Minutes earlier, she’d been hanging upside down, screaming while he whipped her pussy raw. Now she was sitting on his deck at dusk, being fed homemade French onion soup like a cherished lover. The gentleness after the brutality made something deep in her chest ache in the best possible way.
She took another bite when he offered it, and softly said, “It’s delicious, Sir. I can taste the Gruyère, but… did you include Comté?”
He smiled and brushed another stray drop from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
“I did. Couldn’t decide which, so I used both. I’m glad you like it.”
- - - ? - - -
Knife considered what came next while he spooned up the last of the cheese and onion pieces from the bottom of his bowl.
His original intention had been to give her something of a fantasy scene tonight if she’d behaved up to that point, and he decided to follow through with that plan.
Overall, she’d done really well despite needing to be punished three times.
Three punishments. She’d earned all three, endured all three, and resurfaced a little more obedient each time.
She hadn’t safeworded because it hurt. No, the only time she’d ever safeworded for him had been about a mental limit, something she hadn’t thought to list as a hard limit from the start but should’ve.
It wasn’t about breaking the power exchange over mere pain, and he completely respected the distinction.
She agreed to power exchange, and she honored it.
He looked her over and breathed in her scent. Even sitting outside being fed, he could scent what all the denied orgasms had done to her, ramping her up until she simmered in it even while he fed her French onion soup on his deck at dusk.
The combination of her body still pulsing with need while she tasted Comté through everything he’d put her through made him want to pull her into his lap to finish feeding her, but he wasn’t of a mind to hurt her in the moment, and doing so would absolutely remind her of every bruise and strained muscle — which were abundant and plentiful because he’d let the sadist further off the leash these two days than he usually did.
Just today, she’d endured enemas, bastinado, a stress pose, the rawhide on her pussy, the upside-down crunches, and the antenna.
He knew men who used sadism as cover for something uglier — he’d known many over the years, had recognized the difference early, and made sure he was never that.
His sadism was specific. It required a willing masochist who happened to be a shapeshifter, and even better if they weren’t a huge fan of the submissive portion of the program, and had to fight to properly obey and show respect.
Without all the conversations he’d had with Tuesday about her specific masochism, how her wolf was more willing to submit than she was, and how the whole thing worked for her, none of what he’d done today would’ve been possible.
Nor would it have meant anything. From the first time she’d driven through his gate and handed him her safeword like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, he’d known she was special.
And after the hell he’d put her through over the past two days, she absolutely needed the kind of scene she would call yummy.
A treat before they headed into tomorrow.
Because if these first two days had been the boot camp, tomorrow was the test. Not just to find out how much she could take, but to show both of them what she could give him when she had the option not to.
A test of whether the submission had settled deep enough to hold on its own.
He was looking forward to putting her through it, but he was also genuinely curious what she’d discover about herself.
He fed her the last few bites with care, enjoying a few minutes of peace with her, wiping the small drips from her chin, watching her face while she ate.
As tempting as it was to make her pee outside, it didn’t feel right, so he stood, reached behind her, and disconnected her wrist cuffs. “You can use the upstairs restroom if you need to, and then stand under the pulleys to wait for me. Doesn’t matter which direction you face.”
He watched her stand, not actually sure she’d be able to put weight on her feet yet. He was prepared to jump up and carry her upstairs, but she managed it, though it was clear the bottoms of her feet were still tender.
He gathered the dishes, wiped the table down, carried everything inside, loaded the dishwasher, wiped the counters down, and then made his way upstairs to join her.