She hung there, twitching in the restraints, mouth open in a silent scream, tears tracking down her cheeks. Her body couldn’t decide what to do. Pulse pounding. Muscles clenched and trembling.
And they weren’t even done yet, because this had nothing to do with the fifty-three marks on the damned chalkboard.
Kenny stepped in front of her with a wiffle ball gag, and she choked on a sob but opened her mouth to accept it as Silas’s words about deserving to have all her holes plugged echoed in her head.
Thankfully, this one didn’t burn like fuck, but she figured they wanted her mind on her crotch, not her face.
Kenny moved behind her, Boone to her left, and Silas stepped in front of her, coiling a short single-tail in one hand, his smile all sharp teeth and cruel promise.
The world narrowed, then it broke.Exploded.
Chapter 22
A cane sliced through the air.Hiss, crack.The pain bloomed across her ass in a perfect line. At the same time, a thick leather strap landed high on her back, a crushing wave that stole her breath. And then the whip snapped across her tits, fire trailing behind it like lightning made flesh.
She jerked against her bonds. Screamed around the gag.
But there was no escape. No reprieve. Only the next strike, and this time, all three hit at the same time.
Then again.
And again.
Three men. Three weapons. One rhythm of pain.
She was nothing but nerves, heat, and helpless flesh hanging from her wrists, flayed open for their lesson.
Ass. Tits. Back. All at once. One stroke with three weapons. The pain hit in a stinging, biting triangle of agony.
Another.
And another.
She screamed without sound. Mouth open, body flailing, suspended in place as fire bloomed again and again across her skin.
Boone’s cane left straight welts across her sit spots. Each one layered over the last, crisscrossed with intent.
Silas painted chaos on her chest — top, bottom, side, nipple. The tail flicked with all the cruelty in his eyes, snapping at tender places, leaving her breasts mottled and raw.
Kenny was steady. Relentless. His thick, heavy strap traveled over her upper back, delivering pain with enough force to drive the air from her lungs.
She could feel herself unraveling. Each stroke stitching pain into purpose. Each stripe a reminder of who she belonged to, what they expected from her.
And then it was over. The room silent except for her gasps and sobs.
Tears poured from her eyes, her body hung limp from the cuffs. Arms burning. Shoulders pulled past endurance, aching with every breath.
Her cunt spasmed around the burning cassia plug, raw and swollen, desperate for friction it couldn’t have. A furnace of need and pain pulsing with every heartbeat.
Her ass felt carved from ice and needles, the fir oil digging into nerves like a cold whip, the frozen burn deepening with every clench.
And her clit was a lit fuse wrapped in gauze, every heartbeat a countdown, every second a fresh layer of torment, every flutter of movement fanning the clove into agony.
“Three times seventeen is only fifty-one,” said Boone.
“The last two are mine,” Kenny said, voice quiet.
They repositioned her slightly — hips lifted, thighs pinned wide so her cunt and clit were fully exposed.
