Page 58 of Knife Volume 2

But his hands fisted her hair and aimed her face up. Then came his cock, touching her lips, and she opened her mouth for it, gagging around the heavy length as he pushed into her throat. He went deep and fast, and the motion made the anal hook shift and swing with every thrust while the egg buzzed mercilessly inside her.

The long day had turned her into nothing but raw desperation, and she hung on the edge of an orgasm she couldn’t have while he used her throat like she was made for nothing else.

Every edge, every hour of aching denial, every moment of his power completely eclipsing hers, of his ropes molding her body into painful art — everything collapsed into this single, trembling, tear-soaked moment while the egg continued its maddening buzz deep in her pussy, the hook picked up the same vibrations while it shifted with every thrust, and the orgasm she couldn’t have roared through her veins.

She nearly cried all over again when he pressed deep into her throat, growled, and emptied himself deep inside her.

But only for a second. He wanted her to taste him, so he pulled out enough to come on her tongue, and she had no choice but to swallow him down.

The second she did, cruel fingers pressed into her swollen clit — rubbing and teasing with exactly the right pressure, and she yelped, then moaned. Pleasure slammed into her so hard, her vision whited out behind the blindfold. She was right there, shaking violently, whimpering… but then he was gone.

His hands touched her head. Removed the headphones. Then the earplugs.

Sound rushed back in. Birds, wind in the trees, the distant hum of the world — but she was still blindfolded, still trembling on the razor’s edge of an orgasm she wasn’t allowed to have.

He gently stroked her cheek, and his voice sounded completely normal when he said, “It’s time to put dinner together, little painslut. Lean forward.”

She obeyed, and then yelped when he pulled the hook from her asshole. He released the chains holding her wrists near her ankles, and then lifted her and carried her inside like an infant, and she curled into his chest despite the heat of the day.

The air conditioning was heavenly when he stepped into the house, and she listened to the tenor of his steps as they moved through the house. He settled her into a chair at the kitchen table, and once again clipped her wrists together behind her back. The position pushed her aching breasts forward, and the wooden chair made her sore, abused asshole scream in pain.

“You have permission to speak again,” he told her, wiping the last of the cinnamon from her lip with a cool cloth. “But nothing about the day.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

She heard him move to the stove, heard him turn it on. Or perhaps it was the inset grill. The sound didn’t tell her.

“Have you decided on your next couple of videos?” he asked.

She swallowed, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “Yes, Sir. It’s August, which means I’m planning for the holidays. For the Thanksgiving episode I’ll post in early November, I want to do roasted goose with carrots, onions, and turnips — staying close to what we know of the first Thanksgiving. I’m debating adding plums or apples to balance the richness. The following week, I’ll do a squash side dish to keep the theme, Sir. I have two ideas for my next bougie dish, and I’ll likely end up doing both. For sure, I want to do a venison tartare with pickled golden beets, quail eggs, and juniper berry aioli…”

She sighed and admitted her reasons for the other dish. “Controversy drives the algorithm, unfortunately, so I’ll likely also prepare seared foie gras with spiced quince paste, pomegranate reduction, and brioche.”

She scented and heard the rich sizzle of steaks over heat, and her stomach growled.

He chuckled. “What the fuck is quince?”

She smiled. “It’s a fruit. Looks like a bumpy pear, tastes like a cross between an apple and a pear with floral notes. It’s perfect with foie gras.”

Three seconds later, his hand was gripping her upper arm, his voice a growl, “Stand up.”

She ran through what she’d done and said, and her stomach sank to her feet when she realized she hadn’t said Sir.

Chapter 24

Tuesday rose on shaky legs, and he walked her across the kitchen until her hips touched the counter, and he turned the water on. She heard the sound of the water change, as if he had his hands in the stream. She smelled soap.

Finally, he put a hand to the back of her head, holding it in place, and ordered, “Open your cocksucking mouth.”

The moment she obeyed, a thick, bitter bar of soap pressed across her tongue. She gagged instantly at the vile taste. He pressed it against her teeth, scraping it on them.

Then came his sudsy fingers, rubbing the burning soap under her tongue, between her teeth and cheeks, pressing into every crevice and cranny of her mouth. The soap foamed and burned, coating her entire tongue and the roof of her mouth until she was coughing and drooling helplessly.

He worked the soap in thoroughly, his voice calm and instructional while his fingers invaded her mouth and pressed the chemical burn everywhere, his other hand still gripping the back of her head. “You were tied up during our early scenes, so you didn’t have much of a chance to get in trouble, but I want your submission, and I demand your obedience, which means giving you the free will to have to choose to obey.”

He ran his fingers a short way down the back of her throat, and she gagged around them, the burn spreading past his fingers.

“These three days are about getting you into the habit of obedience and the practice of using Sir anytime we’re in power exchange — anytime sex is in the mix, and that damned well means you say it when you’re naked and bound at the kitchen table.”