When he carried her to bed, Boone was already there. Kenny settled her in the middle, climbed in, and told her this was why she was here, to be fucked and used, all while Boone worked his huge dick into her ass, pushing and shoving.
She sobbed, still sore, still raw, but her empty cunt clenched while her ass was forced to accept Boone’s girth.
Kenny’s hands went back to her nipples, twisting and pulling. Her entire body arched, overwhelmed — and then he was inside her again, two fingers pressing up against the front wall. That wicked tone in his voice:
“Come for me, little whore.”
She did, but as soon as she stopped to catch her breath, the fingers were inside her, moving, and he said, “Again.”
She did. Screaming, shaking. He didn’t stop.
“Again.”
And she begged.
“Please, Sir. Please!”
But he just pressed deeper and whispered, “Good girls come when they’re told,” and kept her there, between Boone’s cock, different clamps on her nipples, and Kenny’s fingers, the fire and the stretch and the unbearablerightnessof it all.
She didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to decide. She only had to obey.
She came until she passed out.
* * * *
The day before had been nice. A soft reentry, time to catch her breath, only having to service her men without everything else.
But now it was Wednesday, and her break was over.
Time with Kenny, then Boone. The detested egg and plug went in before Boone dismissed her. Insult to injury since neither man had let her orgasm. Odds were, Silas wouldn’t, either.
The orgasm denial highlighted what she was in the morning. Just use. Just service. And now she was full again — stretched and plugged and buzzing faintly in both holes while she started breakfast.
Kenny and Boone soon joined to help, then breakfast, then goodbye kisses.
Silas woke soon after she finished cleaning the kitchen. She made her way up to his bedroom, where he was still lounging under the sheets, looking at his phone. Even relaxed, his presence was like a livewire.
He lifted a brow at her, and she looked at the floor.
Shehatedhaving to ask him to hurt her.
“The hanger on my nipples, Sir, and then the wooden spoon.”
“Ask.”
His wording on the list was: hanger clips attached to nipples to pull them out and away from the fucktoy’s body, then breasts struck with the wooden spoon — thirty seconds per breast at a time for three minutes, alternating sides.
She ran that through her head and said, “Please clamp a hanger onto my nipples and beat my breasts with a wooden spoon, Sir.”
“Well, if you insist. Run down and get the spoon like a good little painwhore.”
Downstairs she went, donning a dress first, her bare feet nearly silent on the stairs. She retrieved the long-handled wooden spoon from the kitchen, took the dress back off, returned to him, and — knowing he’d make her if she didn’t — opened his closet, found a hanger.
His had the strong metal clamps.Fuck.
Handing them over was a whole ’nother level of humiliation.
He walked her to his bathroom doorway, hooked her wrist cuffs to the chin-up bar he’d installed, and stuck his phone to the wall within reach. Still silent, he clamped the horrid metal onto her, each savagely biting onto her nipples, and she swayed forward in her bonds, her eyes watering.
