Page 57 of Knife Volume 2

It was reassuring, knowing she’d stop him for something she truly didn’t want.

Without the ants, he needed something else to occupy her, so he put fresh batteries in the vibrating egg.

When he came back outside, he told her, “You can piss whenever you need to. No permission required.”

He stood on the deck and watched her from above — every inch of her exposed and helpless in the bright afternoon light, her legs trembling, her breath not quite ragged yet, but close.

He made his way down the steps and walked around her twice before he squatted beside her and forced the egg up into her.

But he didn’t turn it on yet.

She was already hurting after ten minutes, but she stayed silent other than her strained breathing and the occasional quiet whimper.

He scrolled through TikTok, watched one of the podcasters he follows, and turned the egg on and off at intervals over the next hour, sitting in a comfortable Adirondack chair while she fought the predicament he’d trapped her in.

He offered her some water with electrolytes every half-hour, but there was no speech. No touching.

At an hour and a half, he slipped the blindfold over her eyes, put earplugs in, settled the noise-canceling headphones over her ears, and dabbed a generous amount of cinnamon oil just under her nose and across her upper lip.

And then stood and watched his beautiful, stubborn, perfect girl.

Bound, displayed, and suffering beautifully for him in broad daylight while he enjoyed the quiet afternoon.

- - - ❖ - - -

Tuesday’s world narrowed to fire and darkness.

There was only the relentless screaming burn in every leg muscle, and the thick steel hook buried deep in her ass. Her body had warmed it, eventually, but it still remembered cramping around the cold of it.

The cinnamon smoldered on her upper lip and completely infused her nose.

But it was easier after he plunged her into a world of quiet darkness without even scent to anchor her into the world, so she could go inside herself.

She wasn’t a person struggling to survive anymore, she became the pain and the exhaustion.

Eventually, she didn’t know how many endless hours in, fatigue won and her legs collapsed under her.

A broken sob tore from her throat when her weight fully dropped onto the thick, curved steel spreading her asshole. The cruel metal drove impossibly deeper, forcing her rectal muscles to take her entire body weight. Muscles never meant to bear such a burden stretched and spasmed violently around the unrelenting steel, screaming in protest as they struggled to hold her.

The vicious ball lodged so high inside her, she felt it in her spine and all the way up. The agony was a deep, white-hot fire that radiated through her pelvis and up her back.

Even now, with her weight no longer on them, her thighs burned and her legs shook uncontrollably — no longer capable of supporting her. There was nothing left to do but hang in the predicament Knife had created, impaled, trembling, with every shallow breath pulling fresh agony through her.

Her body had become a horde of throbbing torments, and tears flooded the blindfold before eventually running down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, and then trailing down her boobs.

And still — God help her — the egg inside her pussy kept reminding her how empty she was, how desperately her body ached to be filled and used and violently taken.

She felt as if need ran through her veins to soak every cell in her body with it. Her bruised, fevered, swollen clit throbbed in the warm air, completely neglected. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, fluttering with helpless little spasms that only made the now-warm hook feel bigger, crueler. The ache between her legs was a living thing now, roaring through her blood, demanding release she knew would not come anytime soon.

She wanted to beg. She wanted to scream for his cock, for his fingers, for anything. But words weren’t allowed. Only the endless, burning pull of the hook and the maddening vibration deep inside her.

Hours. It felt like hours.

And then a new, urgent pressure joined the torment.

She held it as long as she could — clenching, fighting, trying to preserve some last scrap of dignity, but her body was too exhausted, too overwhelmed. Eventually the need became unbearable, and with a broken, humiliated sob, she gave in and let the hot stream of piss flow down her spread thighs and splash onto the platform beneath her. The shame burned through her, and she was pathetically grateful she couldn’t smell the reason for her mortification over the spicy cinnamon coating her upper lip.

She was still trembling when she heard his footsteps. Cool water poured over her feet and the platform, rinsing everything away. Then his hands were on her again, releasing the chain from the pole and carefully lowering her, easing her to her knees, and she sagged forward in gratitude and fresh, desperate pulses of empty, unfulfilled need.