Page 60 of All Saints Day
Though I had been apprehensive about returning to the bedroom after my stay at the Windmill, it had been as natural as breathing—as knowing the sun would rise and the stars would shine.
Of course, one of our fated mates had been notably absent.
Though I hadn’t felt him during the bonding with Dennis, now that I sat drinking coffee and munching toast with tart marmalade—I could feel that the healing bite wound on my ear was the mirror image of Frank’s bite from Michael.
I could tell from the bond that the location of his bite hadn’t been intentional, but even he had squirmed at how slim the likelihood of his choice being completely unrelated was.
None of us had opted to talk about it, considering the deeds left ahead of us for the day.
There had been a short list of supplies needed, and it had taken some doing to make some of the things that needed to happen, happen.
When I had provided Seb with the list, he had arched one of his dark eyebrows and said:
"First of all, are you planning for a torture session, or are you looking to spoil me for my birthday with all of this?" He winked, his joke landing with a hot pulsing between my legs. "Second, I think you're going to have to make one of those," he sighs, tapping the line item: 'milking chair' toward the top of the list.
"I'll be sure to remember when your birthday rolls around." I press up onto my toes and kiss his mouth, catching his lower lip in my teeth and giving it a gentle suck before I let him free. "As for the chair, do you think you could help?"
"So sorry, Loulu, the only 'woodworking' I've done involvesma biteor that of my packmates." He gives a devilish grin, passing the list back to me.
"There are some tools and some unused lumber for future projects out in the shed." Quentin looms over me, coming to rest the point of his chin between my head and the round of my right shoulder. "I've put together full-on stocks and pillories with more primitive materials—I can do it." He shrugs.
"Caz has you covered on most of the pharmaceuticals," Seb adds as he continues to scan down the list.
"Are we going to do all of this in the bunker?" Caz pipes in from the other room.
"Yeah—Q and I are going to take point, obviously. You're on dosing detail, Seb is on muscle level one directly backing Q and I up, and Dennis is on door detail—if Frank gets out of hand, he's gotta go through the man with the gun working the door," I confirm the plan as all of us straighten up, the tense energy of the path ahead dropping the emotional temperature in the room again.
It took a total of two days to make the necessary preparations, but when the evening of the interrogation arrived, we couldn't have been more locked-in or better composed.
In the event that triggering Frank into rut touchesQuentin and I off into a heat, we got extra foodstuffs and other sundries to keep us well stocked for days if need be.
Quentin, along with help from Caz—who was surprisingly crafty and design conscious—fashioned the requisite milking chair to aid in our task.
The bondage device consisted of a square wooden seating platform just like any normal chair, but instead of laddered or cane woven back and armrests, there was a single vertical board that ran from the seating platform upwards for several feet.
Just above the place where the seat back and the chair met, the wood was punched through with a modest circular hole; a bracer bar with a chin rest nestled atop the plank in line with the conspicuous hole.
The whole thing had been sanded and painted matte black. Heavy sisal rope looped through metal rings bolted at either end of the spreader bar.
As requested, the Saints prepared Frank for me before I descended the ladder and into the bunker to see the dirty work done.
"Oh, Louie, darling?" Quentin called up to me—already comfortably settled into his persona for the scene.
Blowing a deep breath out of my nose, I close my eyes and do my best to quiet my mind and allow my body to tap into the hymn of deep, carnal hunger that my sigma biology sings endlessly to my soul.
Bearing down on my nerves and my better judgement, I down a double shot of whiskey and make my way down the ladder into the bunker.
My breath was nearly stolen from my lungs at the sight of him. Frank, his chin—almost back to his full beard—poised in the center of his bound wrists secured at either end of the spreader bar; his turgid cock and knot a livid red bundled against his full balls by a heavy rubber cock ring, the whole twitching, throbbing mess already leaking precum through the hole of the wooden chair back.
Frank pants as if he is winded from running a marathon—his face hot and flushed, his mouth hanging slightly ajar—as he looks up at me through the libidinous haze of the suppressant melters.
"Alright, Frank," I begin, but a low laugh begins to escape him before I can finish.
"What makes you think Frank likes this kind of thing?" he chuckles low, those eyes burning into me with the covetous hunger of Rook.
"Because I don't want to talk to you, Rook," I purr venomously, gliding toward him on my spiked heels—his eyes greedily roam from the short hem of my black dress to the shining black patent leather of my Louboutins.
"Oooh, and why not, Dollface?" he moans—bucking against the milking chair so that the wood groans. "You can see what I've got for you right here." His nostrils flare as he grins maniacally at me. "I can smell how much you want it."
