Chapter 12: Ryan's alone time with his favorite brat takes a darker turn when he straps her into a straightjacket and teases her with a merciless crotch rope, denying her any touch but the rough nylon biting into her pussy.
The workshop held a different kind of silence than the barn. It was a waiting silence, filled with the ghost hum of dormant machines and the thick, sweet smell of cut pine and linseed oil. Erin stood in the pool of light from a single pendant lamp over the central workbench, her skin still carrying the memory of hay and horse blankets.
Ryan moved around her, a shadow sorting through a heavy canvas duffel. He pulled out the harness first—not the complicated rope, but a structured thing of padded black leather. A straightjacket. The sight of it made her breath hitch.
“Shane’s good with rope,” Ryan said, his voice calm as he checked the buckles. “But leather is definite. No wiggle room. No interpretation. It says one thing: you’re still.”
He guided her arms into the sleeves, crossing them tightly over her chest. The interior was soft, but the structure was rigid. He began securing the straps down her back, each click of the buckle echoing in the quiet space. He pulled them tight, methodically, until her arms were locked in place, her hands trapped uselessly by her ribs. The confinement was absolute. It hugged her torso, a constant, firm pressure that immediately made her feel both held and helpless.
“Remember the pressure from the barn?” he asked, stepping around to face her. His eyes were dark, thoughtful. “That was about gravity. This,” he said, producing a familiar coil of braided nylon, “is about precision.”
He pushed her backwards until her thighs hit the edge of the heavy workbench. “Up,” he commanded.
She obeyed, using the strength in her legs to hike herself up onto the stained wood surface. She lay back, the cool surface a shock against her shoulders. He guided her to slide down so her ass was just at the edge, her knees bent and feet flat on the bench. He parted her legs, arranging her with the care of a craftsman setting up a piece of stock.
He looped the rope. She knew this part. The intimate, biting embrace as he fed it between her legs, up over her labia, drawing a gasp as it settled into the already-sensitive flesh. But he didn’t tie it off to a lofty pulley. He fed the ends through sturdy metal rings he’d bolted to the legs of the workbench itself.
“Gonna make you come just from the rope tonight, brat,” he said, his tone almost conversational. He began to pull.
It was slower than Shane’s methodical hoist. This was a micrometer adjustment. Ryan watched her face as he took up the slack, inch by torturous inch. The pressure built—not the sudden, full-weight suspension, but a deepening, concentrated crush against her clit and the swollen lips beneath. It was a slow-motion version of the barn, and somehow more intimate. His full attention was on the effect, on her face, on the way her breath began to saw in and out of her constricted chest.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her hips trying to shift, to find relief, but the position and the straightjacket made movement futile.
“Uh-uh,” he murmured. “You hold still. You take it.”
He adjusted the tension one more notch. The burn was exquisite, a bright line of pure sensation that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. It wasn’t enough to send her over the edge, but it held her teetering on a cruel, dizzying plateau. A needy sound crawled up her throat.
“Please, Ryan.”
He didn’t even look angry. He looked interested. He reached to the side of the bench and picked up a wooden ruler, eighteen inches of smooth, finished maple. He tapped it against his palm.
“You begged without permission,” he said. “You know what that gets you now.”
He brought the ruler down in a swift, sharp arc. It connected with her exposed, straining clit with a crisp, sickening smack.
White-hot pain exploded, singeing through the deep throb of the rope. She screamed, her body bowing against the straightjacket’s confines. The pain was blinding, specific, and humiliating.
Before the sting could even begin to fade, the underlying pressure of the rope reasserted itself, transforming the sharp agony into a deeper, more pervasive ache. Her cunt clenched, weeping onto the nylon.
“You want my cock?” he asked, leaning close, his breath warm on her cheek. “You gotta earn it. And you earn it by coming from this rope. Nothing else. Just this. You understand?”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She nodded, a frantic jerk of her head.
He straightened up. “Good.”
He waited. He watched. The pressure was a living thing. It built a torturous, coiling tension in her core, a need with no possible release except the one he’d forbidden. She could feel every ridge of the braided nylon, every millimeter of grip. Her hips made tiny, involuntary circles, seeking friction, seeking anything.
“It’s… it’s not enough,” she pleaded, the words dripping with desperation.
Smack.
The ruler landed again, on the same hyper-sensitive nub. This time the pain bled into pleasure almost instantly, a dangerous, slippery fusion that made her cry out. Her body was betraying her, responding to the punishment, the heat of the slap mingling with the heat of the rope.
“Wrong,” Ryan said calmly. “It is enough. It’s everything I’m giving you. So your job is to take it. All of it.”
He set the ruler down. He placed his hands on her splayed thighs, his thumbs digging into the quivering muscles. “Let go, Erin. Fall into it. It’s just you and the rope. Nothing else exists.”
His voice was a low, hypnotic drone. She tried to focus on it, to anchor herself to his command as the sensation between her legs became a terrifying, all-consuming universe. The straightjacket squeezed her. The rope bit and pressed. The aftershock of the ruler’s sting danced on her nerves. It was too much. It was a chaotic storm of input with no outlet.
She began to babble, fragments of thought spilling out. “I can’t… it’s too… please, I need… Ryan, please…”
He said nothing. He just watched. His eyes were like dark pools, absorbing her unraveling.
Her climax, when it finally ripped through her, was not a wave but a detonation. It had nothing to do with friction or fantasy. It was a raw, physiological seizure triggered by sheer, unsustainable levels of sensation. Her back arched off the bench, a strangled, guttural scream tearing from her throat as her cunt spasmed violently around the empty air, clutching at the unyielding pressure of the rope. Pleasure and pain became indistinguishable, a white-noise static that consumed her whole.
It went on and on, wracking her confined body, reducing her to a shuddering, mindless thing.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. She lay spent, tears streaming into her hairline, her body slick with sweat. The rope still bit, a now-constant, brutal reminder.
Ryan moved. He didn’t unlace the rope. Instead, he unbuckled his belt, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet. He pushed his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock, already thick and fully hard. He stroked himself once, twice, his gaze never leaving her wrecked face.
“You earned it,” he said, his voice rough.
He didn’t remove the rope. He used it. He guided himself into her, the relentless nylon pressed alongside his shaft, creating an excruciating, delicious fullness that made her sob. Her body was ultrasensitive, every nerve shrieking, and his penetration was a rough, claiming ownership of the space the rope had tortured.
He fucked her with slow, deep, punishing strokes, each one driving the rope harder against her clit. “This my cunt?” he grunted, holding her hips still, using her helplessness.
“Yours!” she cried, each thrust jolting another fractured gasp from her.
“And you take what I give it?”
“Yes! Yes!”
He leaned over her, the straightjacket preventing her from touching him, making her a perfect, immobilized vessel. His pace increased, turning brutal, the workbench creaking beneath them. The smell of sex and sweat mixed with the sawdust. He cursed, filthy and low, as he felt her tighten around him again, another climax torn from her by the combined assault.
He came with a harsh groan, pumping his release deep inside her, his hips stuttering against her. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, both of them breathing in ragged unison.
Finally, he pulled out. He took a shop rag from a hook and cleaned himself perfunctorily before tending to her. With gentle, efficient motions, he loosened the crotch rope. The release was a sweet, agonizing flood. Then he unbuckled the straightjacket, freeing her arms, which fell limp to her sides.
He didn’t speak. He gathered her up, her body boneless and pliant, and carried her to a worn leather couch in the corner. He sat with her in his lap, wrapped in an old quilt smelling of oil and tobacco, and just held her as the machines in the shadows seemed to settle back into their waiting silence.
Her fingers, tingling with returning blood, finally curled weakly into his shirt. A single, clear thought echoed in the quiet hollow of her mind.
Shane had promised clamps.
And now she knew, with a certainty that was both terror and thirst, that Ryan would know exactly how to use them.