I can feel it—my arousal dampening the air. The spider’s legs trace the soft valley of my mound, teasing the hypersensitive bud just above my slit. A spiral of need uncoils in my gut; my thighs tremble around it. Damien circles me, stroking himself, one hand grazing my hair in a mock caress, the other pressing lightly at my throat.
“This is what you wanted. To be objectified. To be worshipped and degraded in the same breath.”
My breath hitches as those tiny feet linger atop my clit, the pressure almost nonexistent yet searing in its precision. My body arcs toward the sensation—an involuntary plea—but my mouth stays clamped shut. He leans in, voice smouldering: “If she walks across your clit and you cum— I’ll sew it shut with silver thread.”
A sob hitches in my chest. The spider shifts again, stepping along my inner fold. My vision swims; every nerve ending sings with ache. I know he means it. I know I can’t let go.
I whimper as the spider perches there, right on the apex of my need, suspended in exquisite torture. Damien’s free hand plucks her up gently—so reverent it makes my skin crawl—and he tucks her back into her glass prison. Then he returns to me, eyes as dark as sin.
“You didn’t cum,” he breathes, brushing a strand of hair back. “Good girl.”
Relief rakes through me, tangled with the ache that still coils tight between my thighs. His fingers trace over the plug humming inside me, along the chains banding my nipples. Then he whispers, low and fevered: “Now I’m going to give you a choice.”
My heart flutters. He grips my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “You can cum,” he says, voice velvety and cruel, “but if you do, you’ll have to wear my cum inside you for three days—plugged, tied, unable to wash or close your legs.” His lips twitch.“Or you can wait, beg again, and maybe—if I feel generous—you’ll earn a real orgasm. Inside. Filled. Owned.”
Choice throbs between us like a live wire. My hips jerk as he slides two fingers along my wet folds, the plug still nestled deep. “Not until you feel how filthy your choice really is.” He presses one finger in, torturously slow. I sob as muscle tightens around him. He adds a second, stretching me wider. “You want my cum for days? Soaking you, dripping in secret?”
I moan, my answer lost in the haze of pain and yearning. He grinds his palm against my mound. “Or… you can wait. Starve on your knees for a deeper fuck.”
His thumb teases above my clit—never enough. I writhe, desperate. He leans close, teeth grazing my throat: “What does your filthy little cunt want most?”
“I want it inside me,” I whisper. My voice cracks but is unshakable.
He frowns. “What?”
“I want your cum inside me for days. I want to leak it when I wake, when I walk—knowing I can’t wash or close.”
A feral growl rumbles in his chest. His fingers deepen, curling to find the spot that makes me shatter. I whimper, hips bucking, until he withdraws, slick and swollen. He presses those damp digits to my lips. “Taste your choice.”
I open, tongue swirling around him—bitter, salty, shame and surrender all woven together. Each lick is worship. I moan, trapped in the exquisite obedience of it.
“You really want it?” He strokes his cock, already hard. “Speak.”
I swallow, words sticky on my tongue. “I want you to fill me. To mark me with your cum for days.”
He groans, ravenous. His cock slides between my thighs—heavy, hot, slick. “Beg.”
“Please, Damien,” I sob. “Fuck me. Fill me. Make me forget what it feels like to be empty.”
His grin is a blade. Then he plunges into me—brutal, immediate, stretching me wide despite the table’s restraints. I arch, nails raking into the leather straps, every thrust splitting me open between pleasure and pain.
“This is what you wanted,” he growls, hips pistoning. “To be kept full. Used. Owned.”
My eyes burn, tears streaking as the clamp chains tug at my nipples. The plug pulses inside me with every slam of his hips. My body twists, desperate for release, but he holds me at the edge.
“You’ll leak for me,” he promises in a voice of iron. “Three days. Plugged, open. Every drop staying right where I put it.”
His next thrust steals my breath. My walls clamp around him, and at last he groans—a deep, triumphant roar—and empties into me. Warm and thick, his come floods me, mixing with my arousal, dribbling down my thighs.
I sob in the aftermath, fully wrecked. My chest rises in ragged pants as his claim slides out with moist little plops. He watches it spill, reverent. “You’re made for leaking,” he murmurs, fingers coating in my mess.
Rising, he retrieves a new plug—wider, blackened, tipped with a silver spider. My belly clenches. He brings me back into spread-eagle position, dips two fingers into my slick and drags it back inside me, then slides the fresh plug home.
My spine arcs. My breath catches in a silent cry as the plug seals me shut. He kisses my lips—soft and spiteful.
“There. Plugged. Filled. Mine.”
He steps back, eyes shining. “You don’t cum tonight. You dream of it.”
