Page 59 of Knife Volume 2

He kept his sudsy fingers moving in her mouth, the burning soap making her eyes water and soak the blindfold all over again.

Finally, he let go of her and walked away. “Permission to lean forward and rinse your mouth out.”

Blindfolded with her arms bound behind her, she had to search for the stream with her mouth, using only the sound to find it.

She gulped mouthful after mouthful, swishing desperately to get the horrid, burning taste out. She spat again and again, but the soap clung stubbornly, leaving her mouth raw and stinging.

Her ears told her he was plating the steaks and likely the potatoes from the slow cooker, but her nose wasn’t helpful with the soap smell dominating everything.

And still, she desperately rinsed her mouth.

“Enough,” he said, his hand back on her upper arm.

He walked her to the table, ordered her to kneel, and he sat in the chair and fed her bites of steak with his fingers, and the gooey potatoes with a spoon.

At first, she could barely taste the food, but slowly, the flavors began to break through, and the potatoes were exquisite. The thyme and rosemary, the butter and onions, the sharp cheese. He’d found the perfect balance. His steaks were always good and perfectly seared, but whatever he’d marinated them in gave extra umami and she savored every bite, even while her body continued its slow, aching agitation, worrying about what would happen after the meal.

Her clit throbbed constantly, swollen and hypersensitive. Her pussy clenched and fluttered, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him. And the muscles of her asshole still hurt, long after he’d taken the damned hook out.

There was no escape from the constant reminder of how thoroughly he owned her, and the nearness of the time he would remind her of it once again in some brutal fashion.

Halfway through the meal, the vibrating egg inside her suddenly buzzed to life.

She jolted, and a soft, helpless sound escaped. She’d actually forgotten it was there, buried deep and quiet for so long, but she damned well remembered it now. The low, relentless buzz pressed against her walls, teasing nerves until her entire lower torso screamed for release once again… and he kept feeding her as if nothing had changed. His fingers slow and methodical while she sat bound, blindfolded, and vibrating, her body a live wire of hunger, dread, anticipation, and unbearable need.

Hours later, after he’d fucked her in every hole, and in more positions than she could possibly count, edging her over and over without allowing an orgasm even though he came once in every hole as well as all over her back — he walked her outside, into the dark, and ordered her to pee.

She should’ve been used to his casual expectation she would squat in his yard like an animal, but it still burned. Her face heated with deep, mortifying shame when he stepped back to watch. The cool night air brushed her spread thighs. The heavy plug in her ass shifted as she lowered herself, and a helpless little sound escaped before she could stop it.

Look at what I’ve become for him.

The thought sent a fresh wave of humiliation rolling through her, but underneath it, a dark, traitorous pulse of arousal. She hated how much it turned her on — the undeniable proof that he owned even this.

She was his. Completely. Down to the most private, embarrassing things.

The pee went down one of her legs partway through, and she tried to shift to make it go straight again, but it didn’t.

When the flow ended, he unclipped her wrists and handed her a wad of baby wipes. She cleaned herself with shaking hands, the baby wipes cool against her overheated flesh.

She followed him upstairs, the plug shifting with every step, her body still buzzing and aching from everything he’d done to her.

She froze at the top of the steps, and her stomach dropped to her feet. A pole was mounted to a floor bracket on the far wall, with an enormous stainless-steel dildo fixed to the top.

He walked to it and waited silently for her to come to him.

Following him in from the yard was the longest twenty-yard walk she’d ever made, but he didn’t waste time when she got there — he lifted her and slowly lowered her onto it the second she made it to him.

The thick head breached her, spreading her wide, forcing her pussy to open around its brutal girth. She gasped, then moaned as he kept lowering her until the massive shaft was buried deep. The stretch was obscene. Her inner walls pulsed and clenched, futilely trying to adjust.

He raised her arms into a wide X above her head and clipped her wrist cuffs to ropes hanging from the ceiling. Then he spread her legs and chained her ankles to heavy hooks embedded in the floor. She was completely trapped — impaled, spread, displayed.

He adjusted something on the pole and the dildo rose higher.

Higher.

She rose onto her tiptoes, and it went higher, until the flared base pressed hard against her entrance, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

She couldn’t raise high enough on her toes to keep the steel head from jamming itself into her cervix, an aching, bruising pressure that made her whimper. He locked something on the pole, stepped back, looked her over from head to toe and back… and then disappeared into the bathroom.