Chapter 29
Tuesday stood, walked to him, and waited while he saved his game. He scooted to his right, to the end of the sofa. “On your stomach. Head in my lap.”
She crawled onto the cushions and settled her head across his leg with her face turned toward his semi-hard cock. Without ceremony, he fisted her hair, guided his cock to her lips, and pushed her open mouth down over him.
“Head stays still. Tongue me slowly. Nothing fast. If I come out of your mouth before I order you off, you won’t like what happens.”
He went back to his game like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she froze, her face resting against his legs while his cock filled her mouth.
The humiliation of it sank in, settling deep in her belly like a heavy stone, because this was how the bikers made the sweetbutts pleasure them during downtime at the clubhouse.
Those women were always available. A warm, wet place for a brother to rest his cock while he played games or talked.
Tuesday wasn’t even a sex toy right now. She was… a comfort object. A living convenience he could keep in his lap while he focused on something else.
She kept her tongue moving in slow, worshipful strokes and never let up on enough gentle suction to make sure she didn’t lose him. Never did she want him to use the prison strap on her again.
And the worst part, the part that made her cheeks burn and her clamped clit throb with fresh, desperate need — was how much the whole damned thing turned her on.
Tuesday needed to come so badly, her entire nervous system was wound tight enough to snap from the constant, aching pressure she wasn’t allowed to relieve.
Despite how sore and raw she was from everything he’d done to her, she needed him to flip her over and use her properly.
She was willing to beg because she wanted release more than her next breath, but she didn’t have permission to speak.
Her instructions were to keep his cock in her mouth.
So she stayed motionless except for her tongue, moving in slow, devoted strokes, breathing through her nose while he casually played his game, one hand occasionally resting on her shoulder like she was nothing more than a favorite pillow.
The contrast was devastating. After two days of being broken apart by his ropes and his sadism, in pain even when he wasn’t using her, she was reduced to this quiet, obedient service. Not even actively pleasuring him. Just a warm, available mouth.
The humiliation twisted into something darker and sweeter, feeding the now desperate need frantically roaring through her blood.
She wanted to rock her hips, to beg him to fuck her again.
But she didn’t. She stayed still, tongue moving in slow tracks, tears of frustration and overwhelming surrender stinging her eyes.
Because this was yet another way to be his.
Time lost meaning. She listened to the gameplay in the background while focusing on his cock, which occasionally grew a little harder, but mostly stayed semi-hard.
Eventually, he saved his game and ordered her upstairs and onto the bed. “Spread your legs wide, little painslut. Loop your knees over your arms so you can make sure they stay fucking wide open for me.”
She obeyed, with every inch of her still tender, swollen, and aching from the extended, multi-day scene — and yelped when he pulled her to the edge of the mattress, her pussy and ass nearly hanging off the side.
Her eyes tracked him while he plugged the violet wand in and stepped to her. The low hum filled the room, and she braced for the pain.
He touched the glass tip to her clit, and she jolted hard.
“That was one second.” His gaze met hers, serious. “You’ll ask me for each, adding a second each time.” He tilted his head a little. “The wording is Please hold the wand to my clit for two seconds.”
Her voice shook. “Please hold the wand to my clit for two seconds, Sir.”
“Of course, little painslut.”
The electricity crackled against her swollen flesh and she screamed, hips jerking, but she forced herself to stay open. The pain was sharp, white-hot. Too much, but at his look, she immediately said, “Please hold the wand to my clit for three seconds, Sir.”
By the time they reached eleven seconds, she was sobbing, thighs trembling violently, every muscle locked in the effort to keep her legs spread wide while he fucking electrocuted her clit.
She thought she might actually die. The pain was so intense, so overwhelming, her mind started to fracture, and she imagined her heart might give out, which was ridiculous even for a human, and she was a shifter.
But the possibility seemed real in the moment.
Still, she asked for it again. “Please hold the wand to my clit for twelve seconds, Sir.”
She only made it to three before her body betrayed her. She rolled to her side with a broken cry and slammed her legs shut, curling into a protective ball.
His hand immediately grabbed her cuffed ankle, pulled it to the top of the bed, and clipped it to ropes already tied to the headboard, so her leg was up in the air and stretched out to the side.
He fastened her right wrist cuff to it as well, and then did the same with her left ankle and wrist, attaching them to the footboard.
Fear spiked through every cell in her body when he retrieved the prison strap from the chest and stepped to the side of the bed again.
The first strike landed on her left leg, on the inner thigh in the most sensitive spot. The heavy rubber bit deep, leaving a wide, burning welt that made her scream until her voice cracked. Two more on her left, then he struck her right leg in the same spot — three devastating times.
She thrashed and sobbed, tears pouring down her face, but she couldn’t close her legs. Couldn’t escape even one strike.
And then he took aim at her clit, and the pain was blinding.
Another three strikes, and she still hadn’t managed to pull a breath in by the time he’d freed her arms and legs — and though she desperately wanted to roll back into a ball, Tuesday forced her body back into the position she knew he wanted.
“Your legs stay spread for this exercise,” he told her, his voice deep and authoritative, but calm.
“They do not, for any reason, pull together. The phrase you are looking for, the next words to come out of your cocksucking mouth, should be to ask me to use the wand on your clit for twelve seconds, and my patience is not endless in this moment.”
She was a shaking, sobbing mess, with snot bubbles coming out of her nose, but she focused on him, determined to obey. However, she wasn’t sure she trusted her voice.
Failure wasn’t an option, though. This was the real test, and she’d never been a quitter.
Her voice was hoarse and broken, but she forced the words out. “Please hold the wand to my clit for twelve seconds, Sir.”
He pressed the violet wand back to her raw, abused clit, and she screamed through every single second, but she held her legs open. She took it, and she asked for thirteen. Then fourteen.
She had no idea how high he intended to go. She hoped for fifteen. Then hoped eighteen might be the end. Then twenty.
But he let her ask for twenty-one, and immediately applied the sparking, brutal devastation to her nerve-dense, inflamed, bruised, burning clit once again. She was shaking so hard she thought she might pass out, or worse, but she never closed her legs. She never begged him to stop.
And after she lasted through twenty-one seconds, he finally unplugged the damned torture-wand, lifted her and turned her in bed, crawled between her spread thighs, and gently, oh-so-gently, took her abused clit into his mouth, sucking gently. Licking tenderly.
Her broken sobs turned to broken moans as his tongue traced soft paths around her clit, softly pulling it into his mouth, coaxing her higher and higher with perfect care.
And when she was close, he lifted long enough to say, “Come when you want, as many times as you want, my beautiful little painslut.”
The first orgasm rolled through her slowly, like an endless wave, pulling long, broken sounds from her throat as she came apart under his mouth.
He didn’t stop.
He kept licking her through it, then slid two thick fingers into her pussy, curling them against her front wall while his mouth worked her clit.
The second orgasm hit harder, deeper. She cried out, hips trying to lift, but he held her down and kept going, drawing it out until she was shaking and gasping.
For the next three hours, he systematically rewrote her nervous system.
He stretched her slowly, working one finger after another into her sore, swollen pussy until he was fucking her with four thick fingers, pressing deep, opening her wider than she thought she could take.
He edged her mercilessly for long, torturous minutes, bringing her right to the brink only to pull back and make her beg wordlessly with broken whimpers.
Then he’d let her come — hard, shattering orgasms that left her sobbing and convulsing around his hand.
He fucked her pussy with four fingers, threatening his knuckles at times, while the massive plug stayed lodged in her ass, the dual fullness making every thrust feel overwhelming.
He removed the plug and rose over her, pressing into her ass and then making his cock go fatter. And fatter still.
He fucked her slow — all the way in, all the way out. And all the while, his fingers played with her super-sensitive, overheated clit, forcing orgasm after orgasm from her exhausted body.
He made her come with his mouth, with his fingers, with his cock buried deep in both holes, until she lost count completely.
Every climax felt bigger than the last. She was floating, shaking, sobbing, flying — completely lost in the overwhelming blend of pleasure and the sweet, aching aftershocks of pain. He was everywhere. Inside her. Around her. Owning every trembling inch of her body and soul.
And during the final, soul-soaring climax, she felt it again, the electricity of his aura brushing hers, pressing into hers.
No, that wasn’t right. It joined with hers, so they were one fucking soul.
A single being. There were no words for the experience.
Knife’s wolf and him, Tuesday’s wolf and her.
All four present in the same vibrational channel because this went beyond space and time.
For an infinite, shattering moment, there was no separation between where one ended and the next began.
She felt his heartbeat inside her own chest. Felt him feel her feeling it. And throughout all of it, her body was stuck down on the bed writhing in the throes of the most intense orgasm possible while their souls merged and danced in pure frequency.
And then she crashed back into her body for the final minutes of the orgasm, and thoughts were no longer possible.
When he finally pulled her into his arms and held her close, she was a boneless, shaking, tear-streaked mess — wrecked in the most exquisite way possible, and utterly, completely owned.
She pressed her cheek against his chest, listened to his actual heartbeat, and understood that whatever had just happened was not something she was going to be able to unfeel. It’d left a mark way more permanent than the ones his ropes had embedded into her flesh.
He’d somehow branded himself onto her soul, or perhaps they’d branded each other’s souls. Somehow.
She rolled in his arms and pressed backward into his torso, his chest, and felt his heart beating in time with hers while his arms held her close, and it dawned on her that the man who’d carefully thought out a series of painful trials and tasks and then spent three days taking her apart, conditioning her to be completely, totally his…
he’d spent the last three hours putting her back together, and she’d never felt more loved.