He pinches my clit lightly between his fingers—then fastens the clamp in place. Tight.
My legs shake.
I scream into the sheets.
“You don’t cum,” he repeats. “Not until I tell you. Not until your body knows who owns it.”
He mounts me again.
Pushes inside slowly.
Too slowly.
Stretching me. Filling me.
But still holding the clamp’s leash—tightening it slightly with each thrust.
“You’re going to cum so hard for me,” he whispers. “You’re going to cry when I finally let you. And then I’m going to make you cum again. And again. Until your pussy forgets anyone else was ever inside it.”
I sob, but I can’t stop pushing back against him.
I want it.
I want it so fucking bad.
But I can’t. Not yet.
Because he won’t let me.
And I think…
I think that’s what makes it unbearable.
What makes it perfect.
Each thrust unmakes me.
Not to please. Not to tease.
To own.
His hand fists in my hair, dragging my head up until my spine bows.
I can’t see him. I can only feel him—behind me, around me, inside me—his cock thick and hard and buried to the base, rocking in slow, devastating strokes.
The clamp tightens with every movement.
A tug on the chain.
A little whimper.
Then another thrust.
I choke on my moan, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
He leans in—mouth right at my ear, voice almost sweet.
“Your cunt’s trying to cum, little moth.”
