Chapter 3: A work of Art
The cold weight of the hook felt like a final verdict in Pyke’s hand. Ashlee’s breathing was a ragged, open-mouthed panting behind him as he fumbled with his phone, setting it to record on the coffee table, its lens capturing her tethered form. “For the record,” she whispered, the words trembling, “so it sticks. My choice. All of it.”
He nodded, a mechanical motion, and moved behind her. Her hands were bound to her ponytail with the same rough rope, forcing her spine into a shallow, vulnerable curve. The untouched skin of her backside was pale and smooth in the dull light. “I’ll clench,” she warned, voice tight. “It’s my first time… being hit. Don’t let it ruin it.”
“It won’t,” he said, and the strange confidence in his own voice surprised him.
He knelt, the polished steel gleaming dully. He presented the blunt, bulbous tip to her tightly furled rosebud, a puckered knot of muscle that spasmed at the first touch of the cold metal. “No lube,” she had said, and he obeyed, applying only the insistent, steady pressure of the hook itself. Her whole body went rigid, a stifled cry escaping her clenched teeth as the metal began to breach her. The resistance was profound, a living, pulsing vise of muscle fighting the invasion. He pushed, a slow, relentless advance, feeling every millimeter of give as her virgin sphincter stretched around the invading steel. A low, guttural moan was torn from her throat as the bulbous head finally, with a sickeningly wet pop, slipped past the inner ring and lodged inside her.
He didn’t stop. He began to turn the threaded mechanism at the hook’s base. With each quarter-turn, the internal arms inside her began to expand, forcing her channel open from within. An inch. Her knotted hands twisted in their bonds. Two inches. A high, thin whine seeped from her lips. Three. Four. The expanding metal met fierce, clenching resistance, her body’s instinct screaming against the violation, but the mechanism was unforgiving. Five inches. Six. Her cries became continuous, ragged sobs, her forehead pressed against her bound wrists. Seven. Eight. The sound was wet, muscular, obscene. Nine. Ten.
The expansion locked into place with a soft, final click.
What remained between her cheeks was no longer a hole, but a dark, distended opening, a stunned and glistening oval stretched to a impossible diameter. Her entire body shuddered around it. Pyke, his own hands shaking now, took a shorter length of cord. He looped it through the steel ring at the base of the hook, now seated deep inside her gaping channel, and tied the other end to her taut ponytail. He pulled it tight, then hoisted the main tether until her weight shifted forward, suspended by the twin anchors of her hair and the hook buried in her ruined rosebud.