Page 54 of Knife Volume 2

Her eyes widened the moment she saw the prison strap. He held the heavy length of black rubber near her face. “Kiss the implement of your punishment.”

She trembled as she strained up to press her lips to the thick, brutal rubber, her gaze on his the entire time, and his cock throbbed painfully in his jeans. She was acknowledging his right to go past hurting her for pleasure — to discipline her. Punish her with what promised to be terrible pain.

Pure dominance surged through his veins along with a heavy dose of adrenaline, and he let the moment stretch, savoring the heavy weight of the strap, the way his blood pulsed at the knowledge of what was coming. Seven strokes. No warmup. No mercy. Just raw, deliberate pain delivered to the most sensitive part of her body.

He stepped to the end of the island, drew his arm back, and brought the prison strap down hard across her spread pussy.

Her whole body jerked hard against the cuffs, and a raw, hysterical scream tore out of her while she writhed and twisted, but he merely counted down from fifteen in his head and lifted his hand when he got to two, so he could deliver the next on zero.

The second strike landed, then the third, each covering her clit and swollen lips with deep, bruising impact.

He watched with clinical attention while his dick pulsed in time to his heartbeat — the way her thighs shook, the way her scent spiked with pain and panic, exposure and powerlessness. The way she pulled uselessly against the restraints.

By the third stroke, she was sobbing openly. By the fifth, she was a trembling, broken mess.

It took nearly two minutes to deliver them all. When he finally set the strap down, he ran his palm lightly over her blazing, swollen pussy, soaking in the heat of her devastation.

She whimpered at even that gentle touch, and a dark wave of satisfaction rolled through him.

“Will you work harder to keep up next time?”

“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry!”

“Punishing you made my dick hard,” he told her while he released her arms and legs, sat her up, and then clicked her wrist cuffs together behind her back. “On your knees, my naughty little fucktoy.”

He helped her off the counter, and she went right to her knees, her legs wobbly.

He fucked her face with deep, satisfying strokes, savoring the way her throat tightened around him and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. He could scent her arousal battling with pain and surrender, and he reveled in her need, knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to orgasm again for a long, long while. He savored the power of using her throat so ruthlessly right after punishing her, reminding her that every part of her belonged to him.

He emptied himself down her gullet with a low groan, then pulled out and ordered her into the corner, her wrists still clipped together behind her back.

The sight of her trembling in the corner sent the blood pulsing right back to his dick — but breakfast wasn’t going to make itself, so he got started on it.

He watched her while he fried the bacon. She was still catching her breath, shoulders rising and falling, still trembling. Her scent was complicated — the shame of being punished, the intense pain she still felt, fading adrenaline, arousal still throbbing in waves.

Over time, he scented the beginnings of surrender. Not even close to where he wanted her, but he felt confident he’d get her there before the three days were up. It was a process, the body letting go of what it couldn’t change, the mind following. Tuesday’s mind was strong, and that would make her total surrender all the sweeter when he finally forced it.

And this wouldn’t be him earning it. You earn trust. You demand surrender and then make it impossible for your quarry to do anything else.

It’d taken him a while to separate the two relationships into two boxes. He wanted an equal partner in life, but he needed something completely different when it came to sex. He was glad he’d figured his shit out before he met Tuesday, so he’d get it right with her.

He scrambled the eggs and decided not to reprimand her for moving her weight between her feet. He could scent waves of pain coming off her. Her cunt would be hurting until she was allowed to change in another two days.

It took him about twenty-five minutes to fix their meal, and he figured that was plenty of time for her to work through being punished and used as a fleshlight.

Would she continue to obey? Only one way to find out.

“Come to the table,” he told her, and he motioned for her to kneel beside his chair once she was near.

He fed her while he fed himself, her arms still locked tightly behind her back. He could scent her frustration and delicious annoyance rolling off her in sharp, prickly waves. His little painslut hated being dependent.

“Oh, good little pet,” he told her when she chewed and swallowed, and her annoyance blossomed into irritation.

But she opened for him without hesitation and accepted every bite. Her obedience despite her silent opposition made it all the more sweet for him. She hated this — hated being fed like a pet, hated being completely dependent on him — and yet she still submitted. Still chose to belong to him. To follow orders even when they weren’t easy.

That was the sweetest part. Not blind, eager submission, but the reluctant, annoyed, seething kind that still knelt and opened for him anyway. The power of it sent a dark thrill straight through him.

He took his time, savoring both the meal and the quiet, intimate power of controlling even this. Every swallow, every reluctant little huff of breath, every flash of annoyed heat in her scent only fed his satisfaction and pleasure.