Page 73 of Knife Volume 2

And then he pulled the short chain on all three clamps, tightening them until fresh pain flared through her breasts and between her legs, and the room spun around her.

“Step forward, facing the corner. Hands at the back of your head. Elbows touching the walls. Don’t lean. Just touch.”

There was nothing to do but obey, so she laced her fingers behind her head and pressed her elbows forward until they brushed the corner walls. Her nipples throbbed, her clit ached with every heartbeat, and she knew her back would eventually cramp from being forced to stand in this position.

She heard Knife walking away, and then the game started again.

She stood there, displayed and suffering, while the sounds of gunfire and explosions filled the room. Every so often he’d pause the game, walk to her, and remove the clamps. The rush of blood back into her abused nipples and clit was almost worse than the bite — a deep, fiery throbbing that made her whimper and shake. He’d massage the blood back in with firm, cruel fingers, sometimes pinching and rolling her clit until she was right on the edge again, then reattach the clamps, pulling them tight once again.

And then he’d go back to his game.

Tuesday stood there for what felt like hours — aching, throbbing, fighting to keep her elbows against the walls while the clamps tormented her most sensitive places. The contrast between his casual focus on the screen and her helpless suffering made the humiliation burn even hotter.

She was his toy. His property. His to use and ignore and play with whenever he felt like it.

After perhaps the fifth or sixth time he’d removed and reapplied the clamps, when her nipples and clit were so swollen and sensitive that even the lightest touch made her whimper, he stepped back and pointed to a clear spot several feet from the wall. “Handstand. Hands a little less than two feet from the wall.”

Her stomach dropped, but she obeyed. She placed her hands on the floor, kicked up, and managed to get her legs up. He guided her until her feet were propped against the wall for balance, bent at the knees, her body inverted and completely exposed. Blood rushed to her head. Her arms trembled with the effort of holding herself up.

Gentle hands slid the blindfold over her eyes again, plunging her into darkness.

And he went back to playing his game.

Two more agonizing rounds of removing and reapplying the clamps followed while she struggled to hold the handstand. Every time the blood rushed back into her tortured nipples and clit it felt like fire pouring through her veins. She shook. She whimpered. Her arms burned. Her shoulders screamed. Her entire core cramped and strained. But she held the position because he hadn’t told her she could come down.

When he finally let her drop, her arms were beyond exhausted, and she hoped he didn’t want her to actually use them.

But he did. He removed her blindfold and showed her what he wanted: a deep squat, feet flat on the floor, thighs parallel to the ground, arms extended straight out in front of her.

He stepped out of the corner, she stood where he’d been, and obediently went into the squat, facing the corner once again.

The position was pure torture.

Her quads and glutes caught fire almost immediately. The deep burn spread through her thighs, her hips, her lower back. Every second she held it became harder. Her legs trembled violently. Sweat rolled down her temples. Her arms shook from the start, and quickly grew so heavy she wasn’t sure she could hold them up, but she did, no matter how badly it hurt.

The clamps on her nipples and clit continued to bite with every tiny movement, sending fresh sparks of pain through her overstimulated body, but that pain was nothing compared to her legs, arms, and shoulders while she fought to stay perfectly still, breathing through the growing agony, but her muscles were failing. Her thighs quivered uncontrollably. Her glutes felt like they were being torn apart. Tears flowed down her face.

She’d figured out, earlier, in the garage, that today was the test. This was just an extension of that, ramped up. Different positions, more pain, same question. Would she hold when it hurt, when no ropes forced her to, when the only thing keeping her in place was her own decision to be there?

Again, there were no decisions to make, only the fight to stay as he wanted her, but every minute, every second, was an internal, painful battle.

Just when she was about to fall to the floor, he said, “Come here.”

Chapter 30

Tuesday stood, walked to him, and waited while he saved his game. He scooted to his right, to the end of the sofa. “On your stomach. Head in my lap.”

She crawled onto the cushions and settled her head across his leg with her face turned toward his semi-hard cock. Without ceremony, he fisted her hair, guided his cock to her lips, and pushed her open mouth down over him.

“Head stays still. Tongue me slowly. Nothing fast. If I come out of your mouth before I order you off, you won’t like what happens.”

He went back to his game like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she froze, her face resting against his legs while his cock filled her mouth.

The humiliation of it sank in, settling deep in her belly like a heavy stone, because this was how the bikers made the sweetbutts pleasure them during downtime at the clubhouse.

Those women were always available. A warm, wet place for a brother to rest his cock while he played games or talked.

Tuesday wasn’t even a sex toy right now. She was… a comfort object. A living convenience he could keep in his lap while he focused on something else.