Chapter 28
Tuesday was drifting in that perfect, boneless place when she was brusquely pulled out of it by his fingers pulling the plug from her asshole.
His cock already hard, pressed insistently against her sore, well-used asshole the second it was out.
He didn’t speak. He simply shifted his hips and drove inside her, balls deep in three vicious thrusts.
She gasped at the friction because her ass was still raw, but he held her close, one arm banded around her waist, and fucked her with deep, lazy strokes while they were still spooned on their sides.
Every thrust made the soreness flare, but the fullness felt so good she couldn’t stop the soft, needy whimpers that spilled from her throat.
He fucked her like that for a long time — slow and possessive, teeth nibbling and biting the back and side of her neck, fingers twisting, pinching, and pulling her nipples.
He’d occasionally reach down to play with her clit, and it was all she could do to keep from having an unsanctioned orgasm.
When he finally came, he buried himself deep and groaned against her neck, filling her ass with hot pulses.
He stayed inside her for a moment, then kissed her shoulder.
“You may use the bathroom, then brush your teeth and hair, and come to the kitchen. You’ll want your hair in a ponytail.”
He jammed the plug back into her ass, untied her, and left.
She didn’t dally in the bathroom, and he was organizing breakfast when she made it downstairs.
“On the island, on your knees,” he said, nodding toward it.
He didn’t help her up this time, but she jumped up to sit on the side, and then scooted to the center and went to her knees.
“Same position as yesterday morning. No ropes. Figure it out.”
Her stomach tightened, but she slid her right leg back, reached up and back, and then fought to grab her ankle.
She couldn’t quite make it, and had to twist to grab her ankle with just her right hand, and lift her leg enough with her arm muscles so she could reach it with her left.
It pulled her spine into the same brutal arch, but worse. She’d had several inches between her wrists and ankles the day before.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
His voice altered to more of a command than a conversation. “Stay.”
Then he started cooking.
The position was hell without the ropes to help hold her. Her thigh burned. Her hip screamed. Her abs and lower back trembled with the effort of maintaining the extreme arch.
Every time her muscles started to fail and she sagged, dread and shame flooded through her. She had to force herself back into position, gripping her ankle tighter, breathing through the shaking and the deepening ache.
“You don’t have permission to come,” he reminded her calmly while he chopped mushrooms. “Same rules apply until four o’clock this afternoon.”
That might’ve meant something if she knew what time it was. Based on the daylight, it was clearly well into morning. At least eight, maybe as late as ten, but she didn’t think so.
He didn’t ignore her while he cooked — he kept fucking edging her.
His fingers would slide between her legs, rubbing her swollen clit in slow, perfect circles, dipping into her pussy, occasionally tugging on the plug in her ass. He brought her right to the edge again and again, until she was shaking and whimpering, only to stop the moment she got too close.
He minced garlic and set it to boiling, and she had no idea what he was doing with it.
He seared every side of a roast before placing it in the slow cooker.
Peeled onions and potatoes, rough-cut them, and added them along with carrots and mushrooms. She scented the savory spices for a roast, and then he got started on breakfast. He made pancakes, scrambled mushrooms and onions into eggs, and — of course — he seared and grilled steaks.
And through it all, her leg muscles burned, her thighs and core trembled, and her arms hurt more than anything else while her devastating, denied need pulsed between her legs.
She was so close to breaking, so close to begging for mercy, but she held the position.
Because he’d told her to.
He plated the food and jumped up to sit on the island just in front of and beside her. “You may let go of your leg and straighten your spine. Right leg goes straight behind you with your knee bent, so the foot is in the air.”
When she complied, he said, “Excellent. Grab your elbows behind your back.”
She obeyed instantly, locking her hands behind her.
And then opened her mouth to accept the first bite of steak, offered with his fingers.
The garlic water was still in the small saucepan, the heat off. He’d never used it, and she desperately wanted to ask what it was for, but he hadn’t given her permission to speak.
Breakfast was heavenly, and the whole milk offered right after the pancake with maple syrup exactly hit the spot.
Eventually, the food was gone, and her stomach sank when he quickly loaded the dishwasher and then strained the garlic water into a sprayer. What hell had he concocted that involved garlic?
But it wasn’t happening inside, because he lifted her down from the island and walked her out to the garage.
“On your knees,” he told her, pointing to a clear section of concrete. “Back into the same pose.”
It was harder to grab her ankle this time, but she managed it, and then would’ve laughed if it’d been possible to in this position, because he sprayed garlic on the floor all around her.
She’d told him she doesn’t do bugs, and he was making sure bugs didn’t give her a reason to come out of position.
And then he swung the reloader out on its arm, and got to work while she fought to hold her pose, her muscles strained and trembling from the start.
After a while, the rhythmic sounds became almost hypnotic — the metallic click of the press, the soft sound of gunpowder releasing and landing, the soft thud of the wad, the clanking of shot being poured, the final crimp of each shell, the sound of it going into a box.
Then another empty shell came out of a plastic bag, was slotted into the reloader, and it started again.
Over and over. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the garlic, the oil of the engines in the garage, his sweat, and hers.
She tried to let the rhythm carry her, but she couldn’t drift.
Without the ropes to hold her in place, every minute became a battle.
Her thigh burned. Her hip screamed. Her abs and lower back trembled with exhaustion as she fought to keep the arch.
Sweat rolled down her skin. The concrete was hard and unforgiving under her knee and foot.
She squirmed, just a little, trying to ease the pressure, and then got the idea to move her hands to her foot and ease the severe bend her back was in, maybe hold her head up a little.
But as soon as she did it, she saw him turning in her peripheral vision. No words, just a look, and she slid one hand back to her ankle, then the other, breathing through the deepening ache. The shame of being caught adjusting made her face heat.
Tuesday realized this was the real test. The first two days had been gradually moving her from being forced to submit to having to choose to submit, and then having to outright obey.
Today, he was forcing her to obey no matter how hard it was.
Would she hold position even when it hurt, in the heat of the summer?
She was going to do her damnedest to.
Last night had been her reward for the first two days, she figured. Would there be a reward for passing his tests today? She sure as fuck hoped so.
Her muscles shook harder. Her bent leg felt like it was on fire.
The stretch in her groin and hip was brutal.
Her asshole spasmed around the plug filling her.
The garlic smell grew stronger in the heat.
Gunpowder and sweat and her own growing desperation filled her senses.
She was sore, exhausted, and still so achingly needy…
but she stayed exactly where he’d put her.
She held on and endured because he’d told her to.
Hours later, he put everything away, walked to her, stood looking at her a good thirty seconds, and then told her, “At ease, little painslut. We’re headed back upstairs now.”
Standing and walking weren’t exactly easy, but she managed to keep up. Stepping past the front door was heavenly though, her overheated, sweat-slick skin prickling at the sudden change in temperature.
Upstairs, he pointed her into the shower, and she started the water with shaking hands while he stepped out of his jeans.
The moment he stepped in, he soaped his cock, pressed her front against the cold tile, kicked her legs wider, yanked the plug from her ass, and drove back into her sore, well-used hole in two savage thrusts.
She gasped at the stretch, the burn, the deep ache that flared instantly.
There was no gentleness, no consideration — just raw, casual ownership.
He fucked her hard and deep under the spray, slamming into her, hands locked on her hips like she was nothing more than a convenient hole for him to use.
The hot water poured over them, but all she could feel was the relentless pounding in her abused ass, the way her body jolted helplessly with every thrust.
After everything he’d already put her through, being reduced to this — just a warm, wet place for him to empty his balls — sent a fresh wave of humiliating heat crashing through her.
She had no control. No say. No ability to do anything except take it.
And the worst part was how badly it turned her on.
Her empty pussy clenched desperately, her clit throbbed in time with his thrusts, and the long day of denial roared back to life until the need to come was a whole ’nother kind of agony.
She was nothing but his in that moment, and he viciously, violently fucked her until he was satisfied. His low groans mixed with her broken whimpers until he finally buried himself deep with a low, satisfied growl and filled her ass again.