Chapter 10: The Crotch Rope
The smell of the garage was a familiar poison: gasoline, aged motor oil, the phantom scent of burnt rubber. It soaked into the exposed beams, the concrete floor, the carcasses of disassembled Harleys. Morning light, weak and grey from the lingering overcast, cut in dusty shafts through grimy windows high on the walls.
Sadie sat on a rusted work stool, wrapped in one of Rhett’s flannel shirts. It swallowed her, the cuffs falling past her fingertips. Beneath it, she was naked. The wax tear on her inner thigh was a faint, shiny patch. The deeper aches were a symphony.
Jace leaned against a tool chest, sipping black coffee from a chipped mug. Rhett was across the space, his back to them, sorting through a tray of wrenches. The silence was heavy, but not hostile. It was the quiet of men waiting, of a decision already made.
“Garage is private,” Rhett said, not turning around. His voice echoed slightly in the cavernous space. “No one for miles.”
Jace set his mug down. “Feeling charitable today, Lawson? Giving her a geography lesson?”
Rhett turned. His eyes went straight to Sadie, pinning her. “Stand up.”
Her hands curled in the oversized flannel. A flicker of her old defiance sparked. “Or what?”
He didn’t smile. “Or we make you. Up.”
She stood, the concrete cold through the soles of her feet. The flannel shirt hung open. Rhett walked toward her, his movements economical. He didn’t stop until he was a breath away. He smelled like metal and soap.
“Arms up.”
When she hesitated, Jace moved behind her, his hands closing gently on her wrists, lifting them overhead. Rhett took the flannel by the collar and peeled it off her shoulders. The air raised goosebumps on her skin. Jace kept her arms raised as Rhett reached up to a heavy iron hook screwed into a ceiling beam. From it hung a length of coarse, tan jute rope.
He looped it around her wrists, binding them together with swift, practiced knots. The rope was rough, unforgiving. He gave it a testing pull. Her shoulders protested. He tied it off, leaving her standing on her toes, her arms stretched upward toward the hook.
“Comfortable?” Jace murmured in her ear, his breath warm.
“Go to hell.”
Rhett had another length of the same jute. He knelt in front of her. She looked down at the top of his dark head, at the intricate ink crawling up his neck. He passed the rope between her legs, from front to back. The coarse fibers scratched her inner thighs. He drew it up, pulling it tight against the seam of her cunt, the pressure direct and intrusive on her clit. She gasped.
He fed the rope around her hip, then brought it back between her legs from the opposite direction, creating a cruel, binding harness. He pulled. The rope dug into her labia, pressed hard against her anus. It was a sharp, claiming pressure. He stood, running the ends of the rope up her torso, and tied them off to the bindings on her wrists. The entire configuration pulled in opposing directions: the overhead lift stretched her, while the crotch rope anchored her down, biting into her most sensitive flesh.
Every slight shift sent a jagged signal through her nerves.
Rhett stepped back, assessing his work. Jace circled her, a predator admiring a trap. He adjusted one of the knots at her hip, giving the crotch rope a sharp, fractional tug.
Sadie cried out, her body jerking. The movement made the rope saw against her.
“There,” Jace said, his voice satisfied. “Good tension.”
Rhett crossed his arms, leaning back against the workbench. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. “You’re going to hang there,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier softness, “until you come.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re joking.”
“No touching,” Rhett continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “No help. Just this rope. And your own weight.”
Jace dragged a stool over and sat, his gaze a physical heat on her skin. “Think of it as a lesson in patience, sweetheart.”
It was a different kind of torture. The candle had been a threat, a game of edges. This was pure, unrelenting biology. The rope was an irritant, a constant, grating presence. At first, it was just discomfort. The bite on her wrists. The strain in her shoulders. The coarse dryness chafing her wetness.
She tried to be still. To float. To disengage.
But her body betrayed her. The subtle, involuntary tremors in her thighs. The need to adjust her stance. Each tiny movement shifted the rope, grinding it against her clit. A spark would flare—not pleasure, not yet, but a promise of it, buried under the abrasion.
Minutes bled together, marked only by the drip of a faucet into a metal sink. The smell of oil became heady. Her own scent, musky and slick, mingled with it. She was getting wetter. The dampness didn’t soften the rope; it made it tacky, glued it to her skin, so every micromovement tugged at her flesh.
“She’s thinking about it,” Jace observed, his voice low.
Rhett just watched, his eyes black and absorbing.
The need built not as a wave, but as a slow, creeping fire. It was agony. It was a taunt. The pressure was right there, on the brink of being enough, but it was static, demanding more. Her hips gave a minute, frustrated roll.
The rope pulled.
A sharp, bright slice of sensation cut through her. She moaned, the sound torn from her.
“There she goes,” Jace said. He unbuttoned his jeans, freed his cock. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes locked on where the rope disappeared between her legs.
Encouraged, desperate, Sadie did it again. A deliberate rock of her hips, seeking that specific, rough friction. The jute scraped over her swollen clit. It hurt. It was perfect. She did it again, harder. A rhythm formed, desperate and graceless. She was fucking the air, fucking the bite of the rope, her suspended body swaying, the hook above groaning faintly.
“That’s it,” Jace grunted, his fist moving faster. “Fuck it, Sadie. Make yourself come on that goddamn rope.”
She was panting, sweat sheening her chest, her muscles quivering with strain and building orgasm. The coil in her belly wound tight, impossibly tight. She could feel the edge, a razor-sharp line. She ground down, whimpering, chasing it.
But she couldn’t cross it. The sensation was too diffuse, too intertwined with pain. She hovered there, agonizingly close, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. A desperate sob broke from her throat.
“Please.” It was a raw scrap of sound. “Please, I can’t… it’s not enough.”
Rhett pushed off the bench. He walked toward her, his boots loud in the quiet. He stopped right in front of her, his face impassive. He looked at her dangling body, at her ravaged, pleading expression, at the rope dark with her moisture.
He said nothing.
His hand shot out. He fisted the length of rope between her legs and yanked it upward with brutal, decisive force.
The world exploded.
The rough fibers ground into her clit with crushing pressure. The harness jerked her entire body. The pain and pleasure fused into a single, cataclysmic detonation. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that felt like being split apart. She screamed, a raw, echoing sound that bounced off the garage walls. Her body convulsed, seizing against the ropes, bucking uncontrollably as wave after wave of brutal pleasure-pain wracked her. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, could only feel the relentless, shocking throbbing between her legs and the crushing depth of her own climax.
It seemed to last forever. When it finally began to ebb, she was a shuddering ruin, hanging limply, every muscle spent. Sobs wracked her. The rope was a wet, chafing agony.
They didn’t lower her. They let her hang there, gasping, coming down.
Jace stood, his cock still hard. He walked up to her, her face level with his chest. He grasped her hair, tilting her head back. He was smiling, but his eyes were dark with something like awe. “Look at you. Fucking magnificent.”
Rhett moved behind her. She felt his hands on the knots at her hips, then the pressure released as he cut the crotch rope with a knife she hadn’t seen him draw. It fell away, the sudden absence its own shock. He reached up and severed the rope at her wrists. She collapsed, but Jace caught her, gathering her boneless form against him.
Her legs wouldn’t hold her. She trembled violently, her skin on fire, her cunt throbbing and exquisitely sore.
Rhett stood before her, sheathing his knife. He reached out, his calloused thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. His touch was almost gentle.
“Lesson learned,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
She wasn’t sure what the lesson was. Only that she had never felt so utterly conquered, or so perilously, terrifyingly complete. She buried her face in Jace’s neck, breathing in his scent, and let the last of the tremors shake her apart.