Page 35 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)

Louise

I wake in the morning, pleasantly sore from the athletics of the night before.

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 involves ma bite or 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 touches Quentin 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."

I kick one foot out onto the spreader bar, hooking my heel for stability, and placing my pussy—barely covered by my thin black lace panties—directly in front of Rook's face, just out of his reach.

"How are those suppressant melters treating you, Rooky-boy?" I baby talk, looking down at him with pursed lips as he strains against his bindings to get closer to my cunt—his tongue darting out over his lips involuntarily as he struggles.

"Bring that sweet little pussy over here and I'll show you," he growls, rocking against the chair again, forcing Q to lift up his foot to brace the milking chair from behind.

"Ah, ah, ah—I told you I wanted to talk to Frank, not you," I scold. Watching out of my peripheral vision, Quentin prepares to tap his toe on the little pink plastic button at the end of the conspicuous cord leading from beneath Rook's ass, planted to the wooden seat.

"Well, if you give me what I want, I can give you what you want—a little you scratch my back, I scratch yours," Rook attempts to bargain.

"No," Quentin answers coldly, stomping down on the pink button once.

"Ungh," an involuntary moan bubbles up from Rook, his whole chest slamming against the back of the wooden chair with a loud smack as he jolts forward—a faintly audible buzz now coming from the ovular vibrator lodged against Rook's prostate, deep in his ass.

"You're going to start feeling the effects of going into rut touch-starved, Rooky sweetie," I taunt in my pitchy baby voice—the corded muscles of his neck standing out as his face continues to push toward my sodden panties.

"Just give me a little taste of it—," he snarls as I kick back off of the spreader bar.

He lets out a tiny whimper as Quentin reaches down and gives Rook's balls a good swat.

I reach up beneath the hem of my skirt and pull down my panties, carefully kicking one leg then another out of the flimsy, black lace.

"Ooh, harder," Rook goads Q, but before he can give Quentin any more lip—I ball up the panties and shove them into Rook's mouth.

"I'm not going to ask you again," I growl, Quentin circling around back, lifting his foot into the air before stomping on the pink button a second time.

"Mmmmph!" Rook rocks backward so hard that he nearly topples the chair over before I grip the empty spaces of the spreader bar—between his chin and either wrist—slamming all four legs of the milking chair back down on the floor.

"I want to talk to Frank!"

I see his cock begin a series of thrumming twitches and give Q the signal to cut the vibe.

Quentin jams the button down, holding it until the dull muffled vibration falls silent and Rook lets out a devastated cry around the wadded panties in his mouth as his ruined orgasm drips from the tip of his cock down his knot to his swollen, bound balls.

I can feel the intensity of his aura and perfume ratchet upward after only one ruined cum; his alpha body chemistry working overtime to entice my body to respond to him.

In this artificial rut, he must knot me or Quentin as many times as he can as part of his biological imperative; failing to do so will induce touch starvation, then heat sickness, and if untreated… ultimately death.

Luckily for us, it seems that the first foiled orgasm has caused his system to shift; Rook's eyes roll back into his head as he gasps for air.

I dart forward and pull the panties from his mouth; Frank—his eyes clearer, more lucid. He struggles to catch his breath; his cock jumps against the wooden board that his cock, knot, and balls are threaded through.

"That's better," I purr, leaning forward to run my fingers in feather-light strokes from the base of his balls to the weeping tip of his cock. "This will be so much easier if you just cooperate, Frank."

"Fuck!" he whines.

"Why didn't you tell Compton and the others the whole truth?" I begin, changing form from gingerly touching to a firm grip that pumps from his root, over his knot, up and over his cockhead, and back again.

"I wanted to save you, to get you out of there," he bleats, finally weakened.

"Why didn't you just let me be free in the first place?" I signal to Quentin, who switches on the vibrator again.

"Because I was already in too deep with the Windmill.

You and Q know about Castle Security," Frank lets out a guttural grunt as he struggles against building orgasm.

"She took me in as a teen—raised me, I knew how strong they were, I knew if I ran with you—" Frank whines desperately, his voice failing him, his feet scrabbling against the floor as I milk his cock and Q cranks up the stimulation on his prostate.

I let go of his cock as Q pushes the vibrator above the halfway power mark.

"Why not just tell us the truth and run with us? You already knew we were fated mates," Q barks.

"I knew I couldn't protect you from the Windmill, and I didn't know if I could protect you from Rook—or if you would want me!" Frank yelps out as his cock begins that electric chain of spasms that makes me signal to Q to kill the power.

"Please!" Frank screams as another ruined orgasm bubbles up—a creamy burbling mess dripping from his twitching cockhead.

His scent sends the slick flowing down my thighs, and my clitoris beats in time with my heartbeat; hard and fast.

For a dizzying second, I nearly start freeing him from his bonds—begging him for his knot—but I shake it off and press on.

"Why didn't you try to free me during all that time at the Windmill!?" I scream, giving his balls a stinging swat.

" Aygh ! Because I'm a fucking coward!" he roars, sweat pouring from his brow now.

Just as I'm about to have Quentin start the vibrator again, Frank's eyes lock with mine and he begins to beg.

"Please—anything, I'll tell you anything you want—please just let me cum."