He started with nice, lazy strokes, savoring the way her body tightened around him while she stirred. A soft sound escaped, and she pushed back against him, her scentblooming with fresh arousal layered over the deep, lingering soreness from her time in his ropes.
Which meant the gentle interlude was over. He needed to hurt her, and her scent told him the feeling was mutual.
He rose to his knees, and she whined in complaint when his dick came out of her, but he ignored her, lifted her torso, and knee walked with her to the foot of the bed, dragging her legs.
She fought to get her knees under her, but he already had her to the pillory, guiding her neck and wrists into the slots.
The heavy wooden top came down with a solid, satisfyingclick, and he locked the levers into place, trapping her.
Her ass and the backs of her thighs were a mess, and he wanted to even out the stripes, so he made his way to his kink chest and chose a nice, weighty paddle. Not the heaviest, because he wanted her to feel both stingandthud, and this would deliver both.
He started on her ass, laying down heavy, measured strokes that turned the already-marked skin a deep, angry red. After a while, he moved to the backs of her thighs, paddling until the flesh was hot and swollen, and he focused on her ass again, returning to the already-battered flesh. He put more muscle into it, feeling every impact travel up his arm. His cock throbbed, granite hard, but he focused on her reactions rather than his, for the moment.
She jerked and whimpered with every blow, and she tried to dance away, but the pillory wouldn’t let her. She hadno choice but to absorb every strike. To take what he gave her.
When her ass and thighs were a uniform deep red, he set the paddle aside and pulled the plug in her ass free.
Her hole gaped, pink and twitching, and he rubbed coconut oil into his right hand before jamming four fingers into her ruined hole.
She cried out, the sound raw and broken, exactly as it should be. He used as much strength and speed as he dared, fucking her with his hand, stretching her wide while his thumb found her clit and pressed.
“Come,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
Her body obeyed instantly. She came with a strangled scream, her ass clamping down around his fingers, her whole frame shaking in the pillory as the orgasm tore through her.
Only then did he pull his hand free, line up, and slam his cock into her pussy from behind.
He fucked her hard, deep, and relentless, and her screams wereallbliss now.
He ordered her to come again and again, feeling her walls contract and squeeze around him in waves every fucking time she shattered. Dozens of times, because she was damned well coming back for more.
When he finally couldn’t hold back any longer, he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, emptying himself deep inside her in relentless pulses that felt like they were dragging his very soul out with them.
He stayed buried for a long moment, breathing hard, then slowly pulled out.
He released her from the pillory and told her tochange, but she turned to him and shook her head. “I’m pretty sure that means the scene is over, so I’m going to refuse. My shoulders were the worst of it, and they mostly healed overnight. Nothing else did, but…” She shrugged. “I want to live with this. Nochange. At least not now.”
He stood very still for a long fucking moment because in years of scenes with willing partners, no one had ever said that to him. Not once. Most were grateful for the shift, the wolf's healing erasing what he'd done as if it’d never happened. The marks were temporary by nature, and he'd accepted that as the cost of playing with shifters.
Tuesday was choosing to keep them like some kind of… souvenir.
Every stripe he'd laid across her ass and thighs. The rope marks still visible on her skin. The soreness she'd carry in her shoulders and hips. She wanted all of it, wanted to feel his work on her body through the rest of her day and into the next morning, and the knowledge of that landed deep in his chest and squeezed his damned heart.
He lifted her into his arms without a word and carried her to the shower.
He sat her on the tile bench and worked the shampoo through her hair with careful fingers, and he kept thinking about it. The way she'd shaken her head. The shrug, like it was obvious.
I want to live with this.
She wasn't keeping the marks to please him, but because she wanted the physical memory of what they'd done together, wanted his work on her body to mean something past the scene itself.
He rinsed her hair, worked in the conditioner, and thought about what that meant while she leaned into him, quiet and pliant, letting him take care of her.
It meant she wasn't just here for the sex, but for…what? He didn’t know, and no way in hell was he going to ask her.
He stood her gently, soaped his hands, and began carefully working the lather over her skin — every stripe, every rope mark, every bruise. His hands mapped the damage, and her words echoed in his head.
I want to live with this.
