“Use your tongue.”
I press the clamp to the roof of my mouth, dragging my tongue over it, tasting the mess he made of me, feeling the dull ache where it just bit into me. His thumb presses under my chin, keeping my mouth open, watching me clean it. When he’s satisfied, he pulls it out and smears the spit across my cheek.
“Good girl.”
The words make my stomach twist in that dangerous, perfect way. I want to live inside them. I want to drown in them. His hand slides into my hair, fisting it tight, dragging me toward the desk.
“Get on your knees.”
My body obeys faster than my mind. I drop to the floor, my knees bruising on the wood, my thighs still sticky and trembling. He presses the clamp into my hand.
“Put it back where it belongs.”
My breath stutters. He waits. I part my legs, my hand shaking as I guide the clamp back between them, snapping it over the swollen, aching flesh he’s already broken. I choke on a sob as the pressure bites down, my whole body jolting.
His smile is slow, filthy, proud. “You’ll wear it.”
I nod, desperate, tears spilling again.
“You’ll feel it every time you move.”
“Yes,” I gasp.
“You’ll remember you’re mine.”
“Always.”
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, slipping inside, pressing down until I gag. “You’ll beg to keep it.”
I suck his thumb, nodding frantically.
“Say it.”
“Please let me keep it,” I choke out. “Please—I want to—I want to feel it—I want to wear it for you—I want?—”
He pulls his thumb out, dragging it across my tongue as he withdraws. “Good girl.”
His hand slides from my hair to my throat as he lifts me back to my feet, steadying me, pressing me against his chest like I’m something fragile he can still crush.
“You’ll tell me every time you feel it,” he whispers against my temple. “You’ll tell me when it bites. You’ll tell me when it aches. You’ll tell me when you can’t take it anymore.”
“Yes,” I gasp, my voice shattering in his grip.
“You’ll ask permission to cum.” His thumb taps the clamp through my soaked panties. “You’ll ask permission to take it off.” His lips ghost over my ear. “You’ll ask permission to fucking breathe.”
I shudder in his arms. “Say it.”
“I’ll ask permission,” I sob. “I’ll ask—I’ll beg—I’ll beg?—”
His hand tightens around my throat, stealing the last of my breath, holding me on the edge of panic, on the edge of collapse. “You’ll beg,” he breathes. “You’ll beg until I believe you.”
The surveillance monitor buzzes. A new feed flickers on. Not static this time. A live stream. Not ours. Not Damien’s. The angle is wrong. The frame is too clean. The quality is too sharp. AndI’m in it. I’m in it now. I’m on my knees. Right now. On the screen. In this room.
And the camera’s not ours.
I choke on a sob. Damien spins us both, his arm a vice around my waist, dragging me toward the screen. The angle… It’s behind us. It’s inside the apartment. There’s a camera here. There’s a camera right fucking here.
Damien’s breathing sharpens. His muscles lock. His hand drags across the desk, sweeping everything to the floor. He finds it. Tucked behind the lamp. A pin camera, blinking. The red light fades as he crushes it in his fist.
