Page 72 of Knife Volume 2

Eventually, the food was gone, and her stomach sank when he quickly loaded the dishwasher and then strained the garlic water into a sprayer. What hell had he concocted that involved garlic?

But it wasn’t happening inside, because he lifted her down from the island and walked her out to the garage.

“On your knees,” he told her, pointing to a clear section of concrete. “Back into the same pose.”

It was harder to grab her ankle this time, but she managed it, and then would’ve laughed if it’d been possible to in this position, because he sprayed garlic on the floor all around her.

She’d told him she doesn’t do bugs, and he was making sure bugs didn’t give her a reason to come out of position.

And then he swung the reloader out on its arm, and got to work while she fought to hold her pose, her muscles strained and trembling from the start.

After a while, the rhythmic sounds became almost hypnotic — the metallic click of the press, the soft sound of gunpowder releasing and landing, the soft thud of the wad, the clanking of shot being poured, the final crimp of each shell, the sound of it going into a box. Then another empty shell came out of a plastic bag, was slotted into the reloader, and it started again. Over and over. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the garlic, the oil of the engines in the garage, his sweat, and hers.

She tried to let the rhythm carry her, but she couldn’t drift. Without the ropes to hold her in place, every minute became a battle. Her thigh burned. Her hip screamed. Her abs and lower back trembled with exhaustion as she fought to keep the arch. Sweat rolled down her skin. The concrete was hard and unforgiving under her knee and foot.

She squirmed, just a little, trying to ease the pressure, and then got the idea to move her hands to her foot and ease the severe bend her back was in, maybe hold her head up a little.

But as soon as she did it, she saw him turning in her peripheral vision. No words, just a look, and she slid one hand back to her ankle, then the other, breathing through the deepening ache. The shame of being caught adjusting made her face heat.

Tuesday realized this was the real test. The first two days had been gradually moving her from being forced to submit to having to choose to submit, and then having to outright obey. Today, he was forcing her to obey no matter how hard it was. Would she hold position even when it hurt, in the heat of the summer?

She was going to do her damnedest to.

Last night had been her reward for the first two days, she figured. Would there be a reward for passing his tests today? She sure as fuck hoped so.

Her muscles shook harder. Her bent leg felt like it was on fire. The stretch in her groin and hip was brutal. Her asshole spasmed around the plug filling her. The garlic smell grew stronger in the heat. Gunpowder and sweat and her own growing desperation filled her senses. She was sore, exhausted, and still so achingly needy… but she stayed exactly where he’d put her.

She held on and endured because he’d told her to.

Hours later, he put everything away, walked to her, stood looking at her a good thirty seconds, and then told her, “At ease, little painslut. We’re headed back upstairs now.”

Standing and walking weren’t exactly easy, but she managed to keep up. Stepping past the front door was heavenly though, her overheated, sweat-slick skin prickling at the sudden change in temperature.

Upstairs, he pointed her into the shower, and she started the water with shaking hands while he stepped out of his jeans. The moment he stepped in, he soaped his cock, pressed her front against the cold tile, kicked her legs wider, yanked the plug from her ass, and drove back into her sore, well-used hole in two savage thrusts.

She gasped at the stretch, the burn, the deep ache that flared instantly. There was no gentleness, no consideration — just raw, casual ownership. He fucked her hard and deep under the spray, slamming into her, hands locked on her hips like she was nothing more than a convenient hole for him to use. The hot water poured over them, but all she could feel was the relentless pounding in her abused ass, the way her body jolted helplessly with every thrust.

After everything he’d already put her through, being reduced to this — just a warm, wet place for him to empty his balls — sent a fresh wave of humiliating heat crashing through her. She had no control. No say. No ability to do anything except take it. And the worst part was how badly it turned her on. Her empty pussy clenched desperately, her clit throbbed in time with his thrusts, and the long day of denial roared back to life until the need to come was a whole ’nother kind of agony.

She was nothing but his in that moment, and he viciously, violently fucked her until he was satisfied. His low groans mixed with her broken whimpers until he finally buried himself deep with a low, satisfied growl and filled her ass again.

When he pulled out, he kissed the back of her neck, stepped back under the spray a few seconds, and told her, “Do whatever you have to do for your hair, blow-dry it, then come find me downstairs.”

He left her there, legs shaking, his jizz slowly leaking out of her empty hole. How long had it been since she hadn’t been plugged? She wasn’t sure.

Tuesday washed and conditioned her hair with slow, careful movements, then dried it and put it into a ponytail. This also gave her body time to air-dry, which meant she didn’t have to dry all her bruised, striped body parts. Her breasts were still dark and tender, her pussy and ass raw and throbbing.

When she walked downstairs, he was on the sofa playing video games. She stood quietly to the side, waiting, arms at her sides, and tried not to stare at the three clover clamps on the coffee table.

Her stomach tightened, and she focused on the game.

In about a minute, he killed whatever he was chasing, some kind of zombie dinosaur creature. He paused the game, put the controller down, picked up the clamps, stood, and pointed to a corner he’d be able to see in his peripheral vision while he played his game.

She walked to it without hesitation. He followed, stepped in close, and attached the first clamp to her right nipple. She gasped but managed not to whine. The second bit into her other nipple, and then she had to watch him head to her clit with the third.

Her swollen, deep red, bruised, supersensitive clit.

She was already breathing fast, fighting the noises trying to escape, and she yelped and squealed when it clamped down on her clit, squeezing and compressing it. She breathed faster, shallower.