She reached for the hem of her dress, hands slow and stiff, and pulled it off. Folded it neatly. Placed it on the side table.
The cool air hit her sweat-damp skin, turning every nettle-stung inch into ice-tipped agony. Kenny wouldn’t appreciate her deviating from procedure, so she stepped into inspection pose, fingers locked behind her head, tortured tits sticking out and up, feet a little wider than her shoulders. The food had helped, but she was still exhausted, her body still on fire despite removing the nettles.
She waited for the Alpha wolf working at his desk to acknowledge her presence.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Her arms were already screaming. The workout, the run, the lines. She was past muscle fatigue. This was structural pain, aching all the way to the bone.
But she didn’t dare shift. Kenny was reviewing digital plans across two monitors, face a mask of perfect calm. Like she didn’t exist.
The fourth minute crawled by.
She wanted to cry just from standing there.
Finally, Kenny saved his work, the monitors went dark. He leaned back in his chair and met her gaze.
Five seconds. Ten. Longer.
At last, he ordered, “Come.”
Heat pooled low in her gut — not arousal or anticipation, but raw dread. She crossed the room and stopped two feet from his desk, clenching her jaw to keep the tears in.
He rose, circling her like a shark.
“Hands,” he said.
She turned and crossed her shaking wrists behind her back.
But he didn’t connect the cuffs the way she expected. Instead, he wrenched her arms into reverse prayer, tearing a gasp from her.
He circled her wrists with a wide zip-tie, ratcheting it closed without pause. Sealing her wrists together.
Five seconds in, her shoulders were already screaming. Ten minutes would mean sobbing. Fifteen would mean begging for relief. They’d never made her hold reverse prayer longer than fifteen minutes, but she wasn’t even sure she had five minutes in her tonight.
He pointed to his work desk, the one with the bare surface so he could spread out when he wanted to work with ink and paper. For laying out plans.
“Tits on the desk.”
Her knees buckled slightly as she bent forward to settle her chest on the cool wood. Her bound arms dug into her ribs and spine. Her breasts compressed against the unforgiving surface, every embedded nettle barb grinding against raw, hypersensitive flesh.
Kenny nudged her bare feet apart with the toe of his boot, then crouched to secure a wide metal spreader bar betweenher ankles. The angle pulled her thighs open so wide her hips immediately protested. Her knees wobbled, thighs straining.
Bent over, fully exposed, face turned sideways, arms tight, clit stinging, thighs twitching.
He circled the desk once. Slowly.
Let her feel the floor under her feet, the desk under her chest, the ache in her arms. The shame in her gut.
Her heartbeat was so loud it echoed in her ears.
Kenny stopped behind her a second before he moved to her side and wrapped a hand around her ponytail, lifting her head high enough to meet his gaze.
“You’ll talk, or there will be pain. I’m fine either way.”
