Chapter 30
Knife held his exhausted girl and considered the timing. He had an hour and a half before he needed to leave, but it was time to end the power exchange.
He was opening his mouth to do that when he changed his mind. Another thirty minutes of aftercare, and he could end it as originally agreed upon — an hour before he left.
He held her another five minutes, kissed her temple, and then stood and walked her to the shower, washing her hair while the warm spray hit her body.
She leaned into him, boneless and completely trusting, and he massaged her scalp before working the suds through the strands with slow, careful strokes.
He rinsed her gently, soaped her body, and let the water soothe every mark he’d branded into her flesh.
She sighed softly when he massaged her shoulders, and the sound settled something deep in his chest.
He conditioned her hair so it could have a few minutes while he washed his own body, and then he carefully rinsed it.
She was exhausted, so he sat her in front of the mirror and blow-dried her hair, working it with his fingers until it was nearly dry, and then let her work the huge round brush through it while he moved the dryer with her motions.
Slowly giving her autonomy before he handed the whole thing back to her at once.
When they made it downstairs, he pulled some fat from the roast to make gravy while she sat at the table and watched, wearing one of his shirts without wrist or ankle cuffs. Covered for the first time in days, since his shirt came nearly to her knees.
“Power exchange is over,” he told her. “Come fix your plate. Totally your choice what to put on it.”
She breathed out in relief. “It was a lot. Part of me will miss it, but yeah. It’s time.”
They ate silently a few moments, and he considered how best to start the weekend debrief. What could he ask that she was most likely to answer fully?
“I know you had some internal fights over the bathroom stuff. Having to ask permission, having to go outside. Can you tell me what you were thinking the first time, and how that changed over the weekend?”
She took a slow breath, clearly gathering her thoughts.
“Your control over when I could… it brought your power over me into focus in ways I didn’t expect,” she admitted.
“Having to pee outside in front of you… it really forced me to accept that my body wasn’t really mine anymore.
You took total command of things I’ve never given anyone, and it was humiliating, a little degrading, but it needed to be, because there was no way to deny how deep your ownership could go, making the body my soul resides in more yours than mine.
It redefined ownership in a way I’m not sure anything else could’ve. ”
She paused, and her voice dropped lower.
“But then came the enemas, and they drove the ownership thing home even harder. The balloon nozzle holding it in while you filled me so full, knowing all that burning, caustic liquid tearing up my insides wouldn’t come out until you released it…
it was beyond intense, and the pain was…
” She put her fork down. Took a long drink of her lemonade.
“It hurt more than I thought possible, burning and twisting inside me, and without a way to expel until you decided I could… it drove home all over again that you owned me inside and out.”
He’d wanted to take the weekend in order, but he let her jump ahead because the power exchange was over, and he was interested in whatever she had to say about how she experienced the weekend.
He’d watched her cry while she cramped, and he’d known what she endured, could scent her pain and humiliation, but he hadn’t been inside her head.
It was important to hear her perspective about it.
He felt like she’d given that to him, so he went to the next topic. “And the no-words rule? Was that a gift or a curse?”
“Both, Sir.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“Both, but more curse than gift. Eventually, over time, it forced me deeper into surrender, but to start, not being able to tell you how I felt, not being able to ask for anything… just having to live with whatever was happening, no choice but to suffer through it…” She blew out a breath. “It was damned hard.”
She popped a piece of potato in her mouth, chewed and swallowed, and gave him a tired smile. “I’m really glad you blindfolded me the first night. It helped me survive the night more than I can explain.”
He filed that away with the knowledge of how much it must’ve helped, for her to take the time to thank him. She’d told him from the beginning she appreciated sensory dep, so he’d included it when he thought it worked for the scene, and denied it when he wanted her to suffer even more.
“Would you have tried harder on the morning run if you’d known what the penalty would be?” he asked.
She blew out a long breath. “Probably. I thought I was giving it everything I had… but yeah. Knowing what was coming might’ve made me dig deeper for that last bit of speed and strength, so maybe I’d have only had half as many strikes.
” She took another drink. “The thing is, the worst of it — the prison strap, the damned rawhide flogger, the squat pose, the fucking violet wand — it showed me how much I can take when it’s for you.
How far I’m willing to go. I learned I can endure a lot more than I thought possible…
” She’d looked down at her plate while she talked, but she looked up and met his gaze, her voice strong. “As long as it’s you hurting me.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he reached across and held her hand, gave it a squeeze. “No one else gets to hurt you. Just me.”
His phone gave a short ding, and he told her, “That’s my ten-minute warning, but I find I don’t want to leave you here alone yet. Would you like to ride with me? Watch us corral the cattle?”
Her eyes lit up. “I’d like that, Sir — I mean…” She rolled her eyes again. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He smiled at the slip, and lifted their combined hands, kissed the back of hers, and settled it back on the table. “We need to finish up our meal. How long will it take you to get dressed and ready to go?”
“Five minutes, tops. Some contour and eyeliner, a little mascara, hair in a ponytail. Boots might take the longest, lacing them.”
“Okay, we’re good if we’re out of here in fifteen, but ten would be better.”
When she came out of the house, he had the bike pulled out of the garage instead of the truck. He’d thought maybe she was too tired and too sore for it, but she’d mentioned boots, and that meant she wanted to ride the bike.
Either Gonzo or Bubbles would drive the large cattle truck down, so it didn’t matter what he drove up there.
She put her helmet on, climbed on, and wrapped her arms around him without a thought. It was second nature now, exactly as it should be for an ol’lady.
And she’d accepted his vest, so she was officially exactly that now.
He waited until they hit Highway 60 before asking her, “Do you want to do more debriefing now, or would you rather do it face-to-face?”
“Back in the beginning, before our first scene, I told you I’m more masochist than submissive, but I’m not sure that’s a true statement anymore.
It’s possible I’ll need the dominance, being forced to submit in scenes to remind me who we are, Owner and owned, from here on out.
You changed who I am as a submissive over these days and nights, in ways it’s going to take a while for me to fully work through. ”
Her words hit him hard, proof that all the planning, the careful work to find her edges and go just past them, had worked.
He appreciated her candor and honesty, and he let that settle while the road unspooled beneath them, feeling her arms around him, her body shifting with the bike, with him.
He considered why she’d led with that right off the bat, admitting the three days had shifted her view of her submission in fundamental ways.
Why had she offered it without prompting?
Was it truth, or strategy? Was it her way of controlling the conversation?
Hoping it would keep him from asking about specific details?
He couldn’t be sure, but based on everything he knew about her, it felt right, so he told her, “I have absolutely no problems with that moving forward, but we’re still going to talk about how you felt during specific parts of our long-fucking scene.”
There was a long pause before she finally said, “I’ll answer any questions you have, of course, but I wouldn’t really know where to start.”
“Let’s start with the honey. It’s the only time you’ve ever safeworded, and I’m glad you did. It’s actually a relief, knowing you’ll stop me for something you truly can’t handle, but it makes me wonder if you came close to using it any other times, either over these three days, or earlier?”
“You challenge me a lot, but no, never enough the safeword was an option. It isn’t for mere pain, for the bigger stuff. Things I genuinely can’t handle without actually breaking. Like bugs crawling on my clit, which is where I assumed the honey was going.”
She was right about that, but he didn’t want to get them off topic, so he jumped to his next question. “Why did you refuse to kneel?”
A sigh. “I wish I knew the answer to that. Was it to test you, to see if you’d abandon the hot steaks? I don’t know. That wasn’t my thoughts when I stepped back, but I can’t say it wasn’t part of it.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you don’t fuck with hot steaks, but I don’t think holding off until after dinner lessened the lesson.”
Another chuckle. “Didn’t mean to make it rhyme, but it works.
You mentioned the rawhide flogger, and I’d like to hear your thoughts on being made to cut the rawhide next time, and then watch me turn it into a flogger.
It’s basically a one-time-use tool, since the act of beating the hell out of you with it works the leather and softens it.
I can wet it and let it air dry, maybe get one more use out of it, but tough, thick rawhide is cheap when you manage a slaughterhouse. ”
“That’s… diabolical.”
He smiled and figured that was enough of an answer.
He’d love to make her cut the falls, leaving an inch at the top.
Then he could string her up, legs spread, head dangling, and make her watch him take the final ten minutes to roll it and bolt it into the handle.
Same handle every time. Different falls.
“How often do you want to do extended scenes?”
“Oh. Ummm.”
Twenty seconds of silence, but he waited her out.
“I don’t want to do it often. Once or twice a year. Three times, tops.”
“How about a weekly twenty-four-hour scene, perhaps thirty-six hours occasionally? Go back to our roots, either Monday morning until Tuesday morning, or Monday morning until Tuesday night, depending on your schedule.”
“Yes.” This time, she sounded certain, and she answered without hesitating. “That sounds perfect. One night, not two. Sometimes one day, sometimes two days.”