When Kenny’s climax hit, his low growl vibrating against her spine, he held her down on him, buried to the root as his release filled her. Boone followed almost instantly, grinding deep, his pace stuttering before he buried himself and filled her with a groan that was almost a snarl. Silas withdrew just enough to flood her mouth with thick spurts, fingers tangled in her hair to make sure she swallowed every drop.
She sagged between them, used and filled in every hole, the steel at her neck, wrists, and ankles a constant, perfect reminder.
They didn’t let her drift too far. Someone produced a towel, and they wrapped her in it as Boone lifted her, cradled her in his arms, and sat back on the sofa with her once Kenny stood.
Silas disappeared, and Kenny sat on the sofa at her feet, idly running his fingers under the steel cuffs at her ankles. An unsaidMinehanging in the air.
Kenny stood and brought a small side table over as Boone sat up with her — and Silas walked into the room with a steaming tray. Grilled cheese and tomato soup that smelledheavenly.
The men didn’t let her feed herself. Boone fed her the sandwich, Kenny the soup, and Silas held the tea below her mouth and put the straw between her lips to drink.
The simple food, the ritual of it, settled something deeper. When she ate the last of the sandwich, swallowed the last of the soup, she rested her head on Boone’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut.
Later, she vaguely remembered being carried to bed. Gently wiped down. The last thing she registered before sleep took her under for the last time was the quiet, unshakable truth that this was no longer temporary.
This was home.
Chapter 17
A week before Thanksgiving, Willow woke to her alarm, turned it off, and went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she was entering Kenny’s room, his bathroom, adjusting his shower as he’d want it. He shuffled in, used the toilet, and then he was in the shower, she was on her knees, and he was down her throat. He usually doesn’t take more than four or five minutes in the morning before she’s swallowing him down, but he took longer this morning.
Perhaps because she’d be leaving the following day for a nine-day assignment. All the men seemed to be using her longer. Andmore.
It hadn’t even been a week since Kenny won the damned poker game she’d had to waitress naked — bringing them drinks, sucking cock under the table while she was the damned prize they were playing to win. And Kenny had cashed in his winnings hard. Three nights in a row where she was his alone at night, for scenes, for special training sessions, all alone with him in bed, and even in the middle of the night when he got hard and used her again. You’d think he’d be sated from that, but apparently not.
She finished bathing him as usual, left when dismissed, wrapped and secured a towel around her wet hair, andmade her way outside Boone’s room. His door opened almost immediately, and he motioned her in.
He wanted her on her back. Fucking missionary. He almost always had her either leaned over the side of the bed, or knees-and-chest on top of it.
“No orgasm for the fucktoy this morning.”
Fuck.
And he took forever. Wanted her to open her eyes, see who was fucking her.
With that dick, there was no doubt who was in her pussy.
But she kept her eyes open and practically melted at the way he looked at her — loving and caring, but also possessive. She wasowned.
And things are owned. Fucktoys are owned.
Damn, she nearly made herself get too close to an orgasm with that thought.
A good twenty minutes later, he emptied himself into her while rutting hard at the end, growling through his release. And then casually stood and made his way to the shower with an offhand, “Dismissed, cumbucket.”
She brushed her teeth again, put her towel-dried hair in a messy bun on top of her head, and made her way downstairs to start the bacon and coffee.
The rhythm of the morning blurred — Kenny joining her to help cook, Boone arriving to set the table and fix drinks, and the three sitting down to eat together.
She kept an eye on drinks while the conversation flowed, mostly about a work problem they needed to strategize.
It was still homey. Comfortable. Sharing food, hearing their plans. She’d agreed to belong to them, and this was a contented, satisfying part of that.
When Silas woke, she had to pick from a list of things he’d do to hurt her. The list was getting sparse, and only the worst stuffwas left. She picked the most horrible thing on the list to get it over with, so she wouldn’t have to deal with it when she returned home. She’d had no idea how bad his list could be when she’d agreed to this — or the psychological mindfuck of having to pick when it’s this bad.
The three things left on the list were 1) Clit hood held up and away, clit beat with the back of a metal spoon for two minutes, 2) Jennings gag, anal speculum, regular speculum — all inserted and opened as wide as physically possible. Hold for two minutes after everything is in, and 3) Undiluted capsaicin oil on clit, vagina, asshole, lips, and tongue for 90 seconds, time starts when everything has been applied — then rinsed with cold milk.
How the fuck did she decide which was worse?
