Page 52 of Knife Volume 2

She folded up against her body and found a little relief, but she knew that wasn’t going to work for long.

When she heard him get into bed, a broken whimper slipped out before she could stop it. Then another. Her whole body was on fire — clit, pussy, asshole, thighs, everything — and the need roaring through her was almost worse than the pain. She was empty, aching, and desperate. Every nerve screamed for a release she wasn’t allowed to have. Her hips twitched uselessly, and her breath came in short, needy little gasps.

She wanted to beg so bad it hurt her throat to hold the words back.

“I’m aware you didn’t come,” he said from the bed, voice low and amused. “Submissives don’t always get what they want. If you’re good tonight and hang there like a good girl without making noise so your Sir can get some sleep, I’ll probably allow an orgasm in the morning before breakfast, or maybe after. If you wake me with whining, you won’t get one.”

She hung there in the abyss of total darkness, the only sounds her own breathing, the creak of the ropes as she shifted, and various wildlife noises outside the large window.

Sound was all she had, because the cinnamon on her lips drowned out all smells.

Hours later, her supporting leg trembled with fatigue while the dangling one ached worse every minute. There was no good position for it. She tried bending the knee, straightening it, letting it hang. Nothing helped. Every attempt just loaded her hip and lower back with fresh, deep pain.

At the other end of her body, she had to deal with her head. Holding it upright strained her neck and shoulders until the muscles burned. Dropping it back stretched everything from her throat down through her abs in a long, aching line that turned breathing into difficult, tiring work. She kept switching, trying to find relief, but there wasn’t any. Just different kinds of torment.

The cinnamon oil still burned everywhere he’d put it. A constant, scorching heat that refused to fade.

More hours passed.

The cuffs bit deeper with every tiny movement. Her wrists and shoulders throbbed. Her right hip was no longer sitting in the joint right, and her pelvis was catastrophically being pulled in two directions at once. The heavy weight on her ankle never stopped dragging, twisting her hip into that cruel angle. Her clit and nipples pulsed and burned with a throbbing, eternal ache that kept her body humming with unsatiated arousal.

Because despite her predicament, she was so fucking horny.

Her empty pussy clenched desperately around nothing. The burn from the cinnamon oil only made it worse, and every throb of her clit sent another wave of need through her. She wanted to beg, to rub herself against anything. She needed to come so badly it was a roar in her head, but she didn’t dare make a sound because she might die if he didn’t let her find release in the morning.

So she hung there, suffering in silence, every muscle screaming, every nerve ending on fire, her mind floating in that exhausted, aching, needy place where pain and want blurred together until she couldn’t tell which was which.

She took solace in the knowledge he wanted her to hurt for him.

He’d once told her the pain overnight seasoned her for him the next morning, like marinating steaks. After a night of bondage, he could easily hurt her just by fucking her, without the need for anything else.

But there was more to it, tonight. She’d asked him to put his vest on her, and now he was validating his ownership. Proving to both of them just how much of herself she was giving him.

So while every part of her body hurt and exhaustion pulled at her, the memory of the rich, dark scent of his sadism wrapped around the stark torment of her situation like a heavy bondage collar locking around her throat — comforting and terrifying.

- - - ❖ - - -

Knife set a light to blink at four in the morning. With the blindfold, she wouldn’t know he’d set an alarm.

He woke quickly, looked her over, and held a bucket for her to pee in, telling her, “If you don’t piss in the bucket, I’ll put a weight on the dangling leg for the rest of the motherfucking night.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, but it did the job.

He cleaned her up after, gave her some water with electrolytes, and put the left leg up and let the right one down. She’d find it a relief for about five minutes, and then it would be worse than before. He touched his tongue to her cunt, but the cinnamon was still too strong to fuck her, so he fastened clover clamps on her nipples and then clipped weights to them, dangling on long, thin chains that hung lower than her ass, so they’d swing every time she moved.

And he went back to bed.

He woke again a little after seven, put her right leg back up, and fucked her cunt while the huge plug was still in her ass. The weights on the nipple clamps swung wildly, and he could scent her need even over what was left of the cinnamon.

His girl was beyond exhausted, but she still needed to come nearly as much as she needed to breathe.

But he didn’t give her permission while he fucked her. He knew she was close, and he warned her once not to. She held onto it, but he knew it’d been close.

Which meant she needed a reward, and for a masochist, a painful orgasm is the ultimate.

So he pulled the butt plug nearly all the way out, holding it right at its widest point until her rim stayed stretched obscenely around it. He squeezed her swollen, angry red clit between thumb and forefinger, pulling it away from her body until the tension made her whole pelvis tremble.

“Come, my beautiful little painslut,” he growled. “Come apart for me.”