Page 56 of Knife Volume 2

He saw her take a breath to protest, and he gave a small shake of his head to remind her she didn’t have permission to speak.

She hesitated for two full heartbeats, clearly mortified at the idea of squatting in the yard. Knife was already reaching for the catheter kit in his mind — ready to tie her back down and slide the tube into the one hole he hadn’t been in yet if she refused.

Her entire body still trembled, so he kept his hand on her arm while he watched her struggle with it, and at the last possible second, she turned, made a fast detour into the bathroom for some tissue, and walked toward the back door on shaky legs, head down, cheeks flushed a deep, dark red.

A dark, satisfied thrum rolled through his chest because easy submission given without struggle wasn’t what he was after. He loved making her have to battle herself and her inner wolf. He wanted the surrender and obedience she had to force herself to give.

When she returned, he removed the nipple clamps, enjoying the sharp hiss she couldn’t quite swallow. He put her wrist and ankle cuffs back on, connected her wrists behind her back, pressed the heavy plug back into her ass, parked her in the corner again, and washed his hands before starting lunch.

He fried bologna and bacon, put them on cheese sandwiches, and then grilled the sandwiches in butter. He cut hers in pieces and fed them to her with his fingers while she kneeled beside him.

He wanted to talk to her, so he gave her permission to speak, but with parameters. “Normal conversation, but we aren’t going to talk about this week until it’s over and you are out of power exchange. Talk to me about work, your family, the club, whatever you want, but nothing that’s happened since we arrived home.”

She nodded. “Yes, Sir. That makes sense. Thank you.”

She asked about a few things from the weekend excursion, and their conversation went all over the place, as it should in a healthy relationship.

After lunch, he removed the heavy plug from her ass, released her wrist cuffs from each other, retrieved the anal hook from the freezer, and took her outside for the next pose. Today wasn’t about breaking her in one brutal session — it was about wearing her down slowly, hour after hour, until her body and mind had no choice but to surrender completely.

A marathon day of pain and obedience.

He led her to the small platform he’d built specifically for this. “Stand with your back to the pole, bend over, and spread your ass cheeks.”

She gasped sharply when he forced the ice-cold steel of the anal hook into her ass. The freezing metal made her muscles clamp down hard in instinctive protest, jerking and spasming while he drove it in.

He watched her tight ring fight the invasion, fluttering wildly as the muscles finally gave way and the large, frigid ball finally sank deep inside her. He could easily scent the shock of it, and knew the intense cold was spreading through her core, making everything inside her cramp and clench in painful, involuntary spasms.

Even so, when he ordered, “Bend your knees into a squat,” she obeyed instantly, lowering herself with a broken whimper.

He connected the chain from the hook to the top of the pipe, then used two short lengths of chain to lock her wrist cuffs to her ankle cuffs on each side.

And stepped back to watch her understand her latest predicament, trapped in a brutal, deep squat.

The sight hit him low and hard, her thighs already quivering, unable to either stand or lower herself any further, and every tiny movement pulled on the hook buried deep inside her.

He could scent it all: the sharp spike of fear and dread, the heavy undertone of humiliation, the growing burn in her thighs and calves, and beneath it all — thick, desperate arousal. Her body was already fighting the position, muscles trembling with the effort to hold herself up.

And she was only thirty seconds in.

Knife felt a slow, dark smile form as he watched her breathing quicken.

How long would she last before her legs gave out and she had no choice but to let her weight sink onto the hook?

He crossed his arms and drank her in — his strong, stubborn, beautiful girl, sweating and fighting the pose he’d put her in.

He went inside for the honey and returned with it. The moment he squatted in front of her, she realized what he was about to do and blurted, “Ketchup.”

Knife froze, jar and lid in one hand, small spatula in the other, genuinely surprised. She was tired, yes, but this wasn’t even close to the worst thing he’d done to her.

He was reaching to release the chains when she clarified, “Yellow, not red. No honey. No bugs. I don’t do bugs.”

Yellow meant the scene didn’t have to stop, but there was a problem. Clearly, the problem was bugs. He’d been looking forward to watching her struggle while ants crawled on her bruised clit and ate the thin layer of honey he’d planned to apply — thin enough she’d feel their little mandibles working on the nerve-dense flesh. But he would always respect a safeword.

He stood and stepped back. Put the lid back on the jar. “Okay. That wasn’t on your hard limits list, but okay. We’ll add it. Anything else I need to know before you go back to silence?”

“No, Sir.”

Knife leaned in to kiss her temple before taking the honey back inside. She had enough autonomy to stop something she truly didn’t think she could handle, and trusted him enough to keep going with everything else.