She was dreading the damned capsaicin on fuckingeverythingthe most, so she asked for it. Only Silas would understand how hard having to actually form the words rather than just point to it on a list would be.
“Sir, please coat my clit, vagina, asshole, lips, and tongue in Capsaicin oil for ninety seconds before you’ll let me wash it off.”
“Gladly, little painwhore.”
He put a plastic sheet on his bed, towels over it, ordered her onto her back on the bed, connected her wrist cuffs directly over her head to his headboard. Her ankles were next, and connected to the outside edges of his fucking king-sized headboard. He removed the egg and plug Boone had installed, and left to go get the milk.
She was stuck on her fucking back, spread like a damned offering ready to be slaughtered, staring at the motherfucking ceiling. And the worst part of the whole damned thing? She’dpickedthis, and there was no going back now.
Silas came back with a gallon of milk, a glass, a large metal bowl, a measuring cup with some kind of oil, and a small brush. No eye contact. No gloating. Just quiet efficiency.
He set the bowl on the bedside table and unscrewed the cap on the oil like he was prepping ingredients for a recipe. No gloves. Just his bare fingers.
“This will hurt, my adorable little whore. We’re the only ones here right now. Feel free to scream.” His voice was calm, almost gentle.
She nodded, heart already hammering.
He started with her mouth. Fingers smearing the pepper oil on her tongue, then searing her inner lips with it. She choked on a sound, tried to keep her mouth open wide, jaw trembling. He traced the fire over her lower lip. Upper lip. Her cheeks were already wet, tears sliding sideways into her ears, and a series of ragged sobs tore out of her.
And he hadn’t even touched her cunt.
Next, her asshole. The first touch made her spine arch. He didn’t shove it inside, but he massaged it all around, slow and thorough. He ran his finger up in a fiery line to her inner labia, the folds, the crease beneath her clit, and finally her clit itself — and when he pinched her hood to lift it, holding it taut while he smeared the oil on, she screamed.
A little more all around her labia, the inside of her outer labia, and he sat up.
“Time starts now,” he said, and he stood, moved to the seating area below his bed to sit and watch.
Ninety seconds.
Ninety seconds of white-hothellfire. Her pussy spasmed like it couldn’t decide between clenching or escaping her body entirely. Her asshole felt like someone had shoved a branding iron up it. Her tongue throbbed, her lips blazed. Her clit felt like it was about to melt off.
She screamed, whimpered, cried. Begged in her head. Tried to breathe, to count, to dissociate — but it waseverywhere. There was no place to hide from the burn.
When the alarm on his phone beeped, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t evenseethrough the tears.
He filled the glass with milk and then slowly poured the cold liquid over her cunt and asshole, back and forth in slow streams while she shook like a fucking leaf. He used the brush to wipe it all around, re-dipping to get more, concentrating on her clit. Her folds.
When the fire wasn’t gone, but had dimmed, he released her bonds, sat her up, refilled the glass, and handed it to her. She drank, and drank. It helped her tongue and upper lip, but she had to stick her finger in the milk and rub it on her lower lip. She looked at him for help, and he used the brush on it.
“Shower,” he told her, offering her the measuring cup with oil. “Use the olive oil on everything, then soap and water. If something’s still burning way more than the rest, more olive oil, more soap and water. You have five minutes, and that includes drying time.”
He touched his phone, and she saw it counting down from five, so she raced to the bathroom.
The oil helped. The soap and water helped. She worked fast, got out and dried, and was back with twenty seconds to spare. The pain wasn’t gone, but drastically dimmed.
He motioned to the bed, his voice low and dark when he ordered, “Bend over.”
She blinked at him. “My—”
“Now.”
She bent. Mornings were about being hurt and then servicing him. That’s why she didn’t have the damned stuff inside her asshole — he’d only put it where she’d be able to easily clean it.
He’d dealt with the plastic and towels while she’d showered, at least, so her face was on his sheets.
But her asshole still screamed, nerve endings flaring like roman candles. Getting rid of the oil hadn’t reversed the damage done by the damned capsaicin.
And then he was behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks, his dick pressing—
