Page 21 of Knife Volume 2

He stayed buried deep for a long moment, letting the aftershocks ripple through him, but he needed more.

He needed to hurt her cunt. He’d overstretched and bruised it with his fist, but it wasn’t enough.

The thought hit him with sudden, savage clarity. He’d spent hours tormenting her asshole, her clit, her nipples — but other than the fisting, her cunt had been mostly neglected. That soft, delicate, nerve-rich flesh, swollen and puffy from being fisted earlier, needed more attention.

He crammed three fingers in, realized he needed more lube, soaked his hand in it, and then pressed three in again, and added his pinky. He worked them deeper, stretching her open, feeling her walls flutter and fight around him. She was slick, swollen, and so incredibly sensitive, and he reminded himself she’d endured the hemp knot, too.

She was so swollen, could he work his fist in again? Would her cunt stretch around his entire fist when it was this bruised and inflamed?

He tucked his thumb and pushed harder. Her desperate cries rose behind the gag as her pussy stretched obscenely around his knuckles. He watched it happen — the delicate, swollen, dark red flesh yielding, straining, gripping the widest part of his hand. Every nerve ending in her cunt had to be screaming. Her scent flooded the room: sharp pain layered thickly with raw, desperate arousal. The contradiction made his cock throb painfully.

She screamed louder as he pressed deeper, her body jerking violently in the ropes, the heavy weight on her ankle swinging and yanking on her hip. He could feel her pulse around his hand, frantic and overwhelmed.

But the bones simply weren’t moving like he needed them to. He decided to give it one more try, so he added some lube and pressed in again. He worked her for long minutes, stretching her, opening her, making her feel every millimeter of the invasion while she sobbed and thrashed, and her scent told him how badly she both hated and needed it.

Realizing this absolutely wasn’t happening again today, he pulled his hand free, added fresh lube, and switched to her asshole. He worked his fingers in — three, four, thumb tucked tight. He pressed harder, until he knew the strain on that upper leg’s knee and hip might hurt as much as her asshole, obscenely stretched around his hand.

Her screams were more frantic now, raw and desperate, and her body shook violently in the ropes.

And then, finally, her hole gave way. This one wasn’t protected by bones, so he only had to force the tissues wide. Her asshole stretched impossibly around his hand, then shrank down to grip his wrist like a burning, clenching bracelet. He groaned at the heat, the tightness, the way her body tried to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. He pulled out a few inches, watching her stretched ring strain around the widest part of his fist, then pushed back in nearly to his elbow. He worked her slow and deep, feeling every flutter and desperate spasm around his wrist.

He patted her clit twice, and she took that as the permission he meant it to be, and she came unglued.

The orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her asshole clamped down hard around his wrist, rhythmic, violent pulses that tried to crush his hand even as her empty pussy fluttered and leaked, opening and closing in helpless pulses. Her whole body seized in the ropes, jerking and swinging, the heavy weight on her ankle adding to it. Raw, fractured screams tore out of her chest while violent spasms rocked through her, the pleasure so intense it eclipsed everything else in her scent.

But he didn’t let her come down from it.

He snapped a clamp back on her clit, hung a weight from it, and kept his fist buried deep and in motion, friction and movement, fucking her asshole, hurting her to keep the orgasm going, keeping her riding the crest of that high until the sharp, metallic edge of pain fought hard against the thick, syrupy waves of pleasure.

Her body had finally surrendered everything to the overload, and he held her in the space for over ten minutes.

Every time her orgasm started to crest and fade, he twisted his fist, or pressed in deeper, or pulled his fist out to the knuckles to stretch her hole to the maximum — and dragged her right back up into another peak. Her screams turned hoarse and constant, her body shaking uncontrollably in the ropes, sweat slicking her skin. The weighted clamps on her nipples and clit swung wildly with every convulsion, adding fresh sparks of pain that only seemed to feed the pleasure higher.

He kept her riding it, refusing to let her crash, feeding her orgasm after orgasm until she was nothing but a sobbing, trembling, dripping mess hanging from his ropes. Her asshole milked his wrist in frantic, exhausted pulses, her body giving him everything she had left.

Only when her screams turned into broken, whimpering sobs did he finally ease his fist out, slow and careful, watching her ruined hole gape and flutter around nothing.

She was his. Completely his.

But he wasn’t finished with her yet. She needed a break, but the day wasn’t over for her.

He went downstairs to wash his hands and get one of the huge hands of ginger he’d been planning to make ginger beer with. He looked them over and grabbed the biggest.

While she hung in his ropes, suspended in pain, he took his time whittling the ginger into a good-sized plug.

She was still blind and deaf, and she had no idea what was going on around her. She could probably scent the ginger, may have known it was in the room, but she had no idea it was headed toward her asshole, when he was finally ready to insert it.

Before it was all the way in, a long, keening wail filled the room. Her scent was full of shock and surprise along with the pain.

He removed the clothespins from her breasts, and the tenor of her screams shifted register entirely with the savage return of blood to crushed and bruised tissue. His cock filled and pulsed, wanting back inside her, but this wasn’t only about his needs. No, today was a quest to find every edge she had and then press past it. It was about taking her farther than she thought she could survive, until she was so thoroughly claimed there was no part of her he hadn’t touched and marked and fucking owned.

He considered her nipples and decided they needed suction bulbs for now. He’d let them season properly, let the suction set them on fire all over again before he tortured them again.

But her clit should be ready for him, so he removed the clamp and went at the fiery-hot little nub with his fingers, twisting and squeezing until she was sobbing, and then switched to the electric toothbrush, lifting the hood away so the bristles could directly abrade the already raw nerve endings.

She tried to hold still, but it wasn’t possible, and she went into motion, hopelessly trying to escape it. Her scent told the true story — frantic arousal fighting the torturous pain, her screams a mix of agony along with a pleasure she couldn’t bear.

She wasn’t going to orgasm from this though, so when the pain began overtaking the pleasure for real, he clamped it again and returned to her nipples.