“Yes,” I sob, desperate, my body trembling, my clit throbbing, the ache unbearable.
His fingers trace just around it—never pressing, never giving me enough. “You’ll cum when I tell you,” he growls. “Or you won’t cum at all.”
I nod frantically, tears streaking my cheeks, my voice breaking on every ragged breath.
“Say it.”
“I’ll cum when you say—” I gasp. “Please, Damien, please?—”
He presses his thumb to my clit. Finally. Finally.
“Hold it.”
I scream, my body shattering on the edge, my muscles locking, the pressure unbearable.
“Don’t you dare cum.”
His other hand grips my throat, choking off what little breath I have left. “Beg me, little spider. Beg me to let you fall.”
“Please—please—Damien—please—let me—please?—”
The words collapse under the weight of the sobs, the agony, the fire burning across my skin. He drags it out. He holds me there. Teetering. Breaking.
“Tell me why I should let you.”
“Because—because I’m yours—I’ll never leave—I’ll stay—I’ll stay?—”
He snaps the clamp over my clit—cold metal, sharp pressure. I scream. His thumb circles the trapped bud, grinding into the clamp until I’m thrashing, tears streaming, my whole body locking.
“Please—I can’t—I can’t?—”
His lips brush my temple. His voice is a promise, a lock, a shackle. “Cum for me, little spider.”
I cum so hard my vision whites out, my body convulsing, my sobs breaking into sharp, shattered moans. He doesn’t stop. He drags me through it, holds me there, milks every tremor from me until I’m nothing but a soaked, ruined mess against the desk.
His lips graze my ear. “Say thank you.”
I gasp it, my voice barely there. “Thank you.”
His grip stays tight. His body stays pressed to mine. “Say it louder.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For caging me.”
His smile cuts across my skin like a brand. “Good girl.”
I know I’ll never stop begging to be his. Even if someone else is watching. Even if someone else is waiting. Even if someone else wants to take me back. Because I’ve already been taken. And I don’t want to be free.
The clamp bites as I move. Every tremble of my thighs sends a fresh pulse of pain through me. I can’t close my legs. I can’t think beyond the pressure, the heat, the ache Damien left behind. I’m wrecked. Soaked. Shaking. Marked with candle wax and fingerprints and bruises I don’t want to fade.
Damien doesn’t let me collapse. He drags me up by my throat. His grip is the only thing holding me upright.
“Clean it,” he murmurs, his voice like silk over barbed wire.
I don’t ask what. I already know. His fingers smear my wetness across my lips. The clamp—wet, sticky, filthy—dangles from his other hand. I part my mouth without hesitation. He slides the clamp between my lips. It’s cold. It tastes like metal and me and him and pain.
