Page 33 of Knife Volume 2

She leaned into the curves with Knife, and thought the men had their own kind of graceful ballet, moving together through mountain curves in a long line, swaying back and forth through the twists and turns, the road unspooling up the Ocoee River gorge with the river running beside them and the trees arching overhead.

She held onto Knife and just let herself be part of it, but every lean and shift of the bike made the heavy plug grind deeper, the vibrations traveling straight to her clit and asshole, keeping her right on the edge of desperation.

They rode over curvy backroads to Reliance, threaded a softer gorge near the Hiawassee River a while, and finally stopped at a mom-and-pop diner on 411 that reminded her of the place on Monteagle he’d taken her to.

She ordered the country-fried steak and the shepherd’s pie, because she was hungry and couldn’t decide between the two. Both were exceptional, and she was pleased most of the other shapeshifters also ordered two or more entrees.

They were back at the compound by five, and she followed his truck back to his place, the plug shifting every time she changed gears and accelerated rapidly.

The moment they were inside, he told her, “Strip and bend over the table.”

She thought he was finally going to fuck her and let her come, but he merely swapped the plug out for a five-pound monstrosity, but she refused to whine or in any way let him know how badly it hurt going in.

It shifted inside her when he ordered her to stand, and she had to squeeze hard to keep it in.

“Find something to keep yourself occupied while I get started assembling your closet organizers. Don’t care what you do, but you aren’t allowed to touch yourself except to wipe, and there will be consequences if you lose the plug.”

The next few hours were a strange mix of normalcy and constant, low-level torment, the heavy plug shifting inside her every time she shifted, sending fresh sparks of need through her already aching core.

She edited to show the best camera angle for each scene, moving back and forth for interest, inserted b-roll, and added a few seconds of Meg Ryan having a fake orgasm in a restaurant. It wasn’t until she was adding a few seconds of Mickey Rourke feeding a blindfolded Kim Basinger that she realized maybe the orgasm denial was leaking into her video. She had to watch five minutes of the scene from Nine and a Half Weeks to figure out which seconds to include — her thighs pressing together under the table while she didn’t dare touch herself.

She decided both clips worked, so she left them, but chose to cut to an Italian mobster teaching how to make perfect tomato sauce the next time she needed an outside injection to make a point. Once she had all the clips decided on, she rotated and zoomed in on them, then distorted the audio to fool the stupid bots. The channel was bringing in enough money for her to pay someone to do this part, but she found she didn’t want to give up that much control over the end product.

Throughout the day, every time she moved, the steel weight inside her was a constant reminder of exactly who owned her body. By the time he finished working upstairs, she was aching and desperate for relief, which was only made worse when she had to squeeze hard to hold the plug in as she made her way up the steps.

But he didn’t fuck her. No, he sat on the sofa with his legs spread and ordered her to her knees. “Slow. Be my little cock-sucking fucktoy for a little while, so I can wind down.”

He didn’t move his hips, just sat still, one hand tangled in her hair, guiding her slowly. She could feel him relaxing, hear his breath evening out. Eventually, his pulse sped along with his breathing, and then he held her head between his hands and fucked up into her mouth, using her like some kind of living, breathing fleshlight he could get himself off on — which he did, emptying himself with a satisfied growl.

He held her in bed while she lay frustrated and needy, but she fell asleep fast, since she’d only had a few hours’ sleep the night before.

The next morning, there was no sex. Just a quick breakfast. When they finished eating, he told her, “I’m hoping to get your closet finished today. While I handle the dishes, take your plug out, use a glycerin suppository, and then bring me the large glass balls sitting in the top organizer section of the kink chest.”

Twenty-five minutes later, he was in the bedroom when she came out of the bathroom, holding what looked like anal beads on steroids. The first was the size of a large marble, but the next two were golf-ball-sized, and the biggest was the size of a small orange. An actual orange, not a clementine.

“Let’s do knees and chest on the bed for this,” he said while he pumped lube into his hand.

Chapter 14

Tuesday couldn’t stay quiet while he pressed the biggest ball in. After clenching and squeezing to hold the plug in for so long, the stretch hurt infinitely more than it should’ve, and she screamed into the mattress at the burning, vicious stretch.

The next two hurt despite the fact they were smaller, and he pulled them out and put them back in over and over, until her hole was quivering and pulsing with heat. Achingly sore. When he finally shoved them back in and left them, then popped the smallest in, she was shaking and clenching desperately around the heavy, shifting fullness.

He stuck his finger in after. Wiggled it around. “Full?”

“Fuck yes, Sir.”

“Good. I want you filled and needy. No touching yourself, and if you lose any beads, you’ll deeply regret it, so hold onto them. Don’t care how you keep yourself occupied, but no playing with yourself, and no orgasms.” He motioned toward the door. “Go, so I can get some work done.”

Calling them beads was a laugh. They were so far past beads, it wasn’t funny, but she decided not to argue the point.

She actually managed to get tons of editing done despite being horny as fuck all damned day. She fixed leftover roast beef sandwiches for lunch, and whipped up some alfredo sauce from scratch along with some pasta noodles, added chicken, topped it with actual parmesan, not the powdery shit, and added garlicky green beans on the side. And buttery garlic toast.

She took sandwiches and drinks up to him for lunch, but called him downstairs for dinner.

She tried to shoo him back upstairs after, but he told her he was just about finished, and he helped her clean the kitchen and then invited her upstairs to see what he’d managed to do since lunch.

He was right, only two more sections to secure in, and she was standing in the middle of her new closet, looking forward to loading it full, when her phone rang and she saw Willow’s face. She answered it and walked into the bedroom, so Knife could finish.