Page 65 of Knife Volume 2

The constant, intimate friction slammed every denied orgasm of the long day back into her like a freight train, reigniting a violent need. Her clit throbbed viciously against the unyielding knot, and her empty pussy clenched and fluttered around the rough knot buried just inside her entrance.

And deep, deep in her core, she felt the bruising from the steel dildo shoved way too far inside her all night. A throbbing ache she couldn’t ignore, exacerbated by the way she was bent backward.

Everything combined and mixed, and Tuesday’s desperate need roared through her so violently her thighs shook and her hips gave a single pump that made the ropes scrape and tug, and she froze.

She was right there — teetering on the razor’s edge of an orgasm she knew she wasn’t allowed to have.

She bit down hard on her lip, fighting with everything she had not to rock her hips, not to beg, not to force him to trap her tongue or have to punish her again, because she never wanted to see or feel the damned prison strap again.

Frustration and overwhelming need flowed through her veins while her chest muscles screamed at the stretch with every hard-won breath, leading to a growing ache in her shoulders while the long muscles along the backs of her arms felt like they were being slowly torn away from the bone. Her front leg was full of pins and needles while the back leg burned with a deep, fiery ache that grew worse by the minute and crept through her hip into her abs.

She no longer knew if her eyes were watering from the onions or the agony, but she breathed out in relief when she heard and scented the onions hitting hot oil. She blinked hard, fighting for air, desperate to pull in anything deeper than the tiny, shallow sips the damned ropes allowed.

The rich smell of caramelizing onions drifted over her. Later, she scented beef stock, thyme, and wine. It didn’t take her long to figure it out.

French onion soup.

He worked with it constantly until it was time for it to simmer, and then he walked back and forth and around the kitchen a long time before he began sharpening knives. One after another, then another, until she was convinced he’d gathered every damned knife in the kitchen before he started.

Eventually, the rhythmic sounds of steel on whetstone filled the kitchen like a heartbeat. Deliberate and steady. Soothing.

When he paused, she could visualize him testing the edge with his thumb.

And all the while, every muscle in her body strained and pulsed with every passing second. Her clit and tits were a conflagration, pulsing heat and agony in time to her racing heart while she fought for air in shallow, ragged breaths.

Knife’s ropes became an extension of him, delivering an intimate, humiliating pain. Making her fight for breath while the hemp scoured and ground over her most tender places.

And he worked as if he were oblivious to her pain, though she knew he wasn’t. He’d set her to simmer in agony while he completed other tasks.

He’d stop to stir the soup every so often, and he eventually poured it into what she assumed was the slow cooker, since that’s what she’d do, to give it the unsupervised hours and hours of time it needed for the flavors to meld.

The irony of it lodged in her brain — he was marinating her in torment and agony the same way a good French onion soup needed heat and patience, time to simmer before it could fully become what it was supposed to be.

He washed his hands and then left to return with… she breathed in the leather and was certain he’d brought several whips, possibly some floggers. She absolutely scented his kangaroo whip, and her favorite tawse.

She smelled the leather conditioner and was both relieved and disappointed — he wasn’t using them on her now. He was tending to the tools he’d use to hurt her later.

The contrast of his calm, everyday domesticity while she suffered and ached for him deepened the humiliation and sharpened the dark, helpless arousal twisting through her until both were unbearable.

She had no idea how many hours she was on the island before he methodically released her and carried her upstairs folded over his shoulder.

He dumped her on the bed, walked to the foot, and opened the pillory. “Crawl to me, little painslut.”

Chapter 27

Tuesday rolled to her stomach, went to hands and knees, crawled to him, and obediently put her wrists and neck in the holes. The sound of the latches clicking closed made her stomach flip and her pussy clench hard. A deep, instinctive rush of helpless surrender flooded her with both fear and dark, aching arousal.

But at least she could breathe now.

He pulled the egg from her pussy and then undressed behind her, the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet room. The mattress dipped as he crawled onto the bed and settled behind her, knees pushing her thighs farther apart, and then he drove himself into her pussy in a single, merciless thrust.

She was still bruised and swollen inside from the night on the steel pole, and she cried out sharply. He fucked her hard, hips slamming against her ass, each stroke battering her tender cervix. The pain shot through her with a gnawing, cramping agony that blended with the pleasure of the friction and the satisfaction of finally being filled.

But he drove so deep, and she was trapped in the pillory, unable to move forward, unable to pull away, forced to take every brutal inch.

When her screams grew louder, he only went faster. Harder. His cock hammered her cervix ruthlessly, turning the pain into a dark and intoxicating soup of sensations. She sobbed, helpless, her body locked in place while he used her exactly as he pleased.

Then he pulled out without warning and shoved into her sore, well-fucked ass. She was so swollen and raw, it took him four shoves to get all the way in, and the burn was vicious.