Chapter 2 #2
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.
“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. And I’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.
I can’t breathe. Not from the clamp. Not from his hand. From the weight of knowing—The second stalker was here. Not last week. Not last night. Just now. Just now.
Damien’s pulse thunders against my back. His grip never loosens. His voice is low. Sharp. Savage. “He’s inside the building.”
My legs buckle. He doesn’t let me fall. He drags me tighter. He presses his lips to my ear. “He’s still watching.” His tongue flicks against my skin, filthy, slow, a brand I’ll never wash off. “Good.”
Damien’s grip on me tightens as he crushes the camera in his fist, shards biting into his palm, drops of blood slicking his knuckles. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care. He’s already hunting.
His other hand is still fisted in my hair, dragging me with him as he storms to the control desk, slamming the override keys, flipping feed after feed, moving faster now, sharper now.
“He’s inside the building,” Damien mutters, more to himself than to me.
“He’s inside. He’s watching. He’s closer than I thought. ”
My heart crashes against my ribs, a snare drum beneath his grip. “Don’t look away from the screens,” he snaps, dragging the second monitor into split view.
His voice is flat. Focused. Deadly. I can’t look away.
He’s there. A figure. Blurry. Brief. Passing the stairwell feed three floors below us. Damien slams the emergency lockdown on the building. Steel bolts grind into place. The exits deadlock. The lifts freeze. The cage isn’t just for me anymore. It’s for him, too.
“You won’t move unless I tell you to.” Damien’s breath is a razor against my ear. “You won’t breathe unless I say.” His grip on my throat tightens. “You’ll tell me if the clamp bites.”
I nod, my throat crushed under his palm. Damien slides his gun from his holster, the motion calm, efficient, terrifying. He clicks the safety off. His thumb presses against my pulse.
His other hand fists in my hair. “You’ll count your breaths while I’m gone.” His voice is steady, but his muscles are carved from stone. “You’ll keep your legs open.” His thumb taps the clamp.“You’ll keep this on.”
I nod frantically, breathless, desperate.
“Say it.”
“I’ll count my breaths,” I gasp, my voice cracking, my body trembling. “I’ll keep my legs open. I’ll keep the clamp on.”
“Good girl.” His teeth graze my cheek, his gun pressed to the small of my back. “You’ll beg for me to come back.” My throat locks. “Say it.”
“I’ll beg for you to come back.”
A cruel smile ghosts over his lips. “You’ll beg until you believe I will.”
He presses his lips to mine, sharp and bruising, stealing what little air I have left. And then he’s gone. The door slams. The bolt snaps. And I’m alone.
I drop to the floor, my legs spread, the clamp biting every time my thighs twitch, every time I dare to breathe. I lose track of time until the door grinds open again.
Damien is back. His boots are slick with blood. He doesn’t speak. He just kneels in front of me, his breath sharp, his eyes wild, and he drags me into his lap like he can’t stand the distance for one more fucking second.
His hand fists in my hair. His lips crush against mine. He tastes like sweat and blood and adrenaline. His other hand slides between my legs. His thumb presses the clamp deeper, grinding it against me until I sob into his mouth.
“Say thank you,” he growls against my lips.
“Thank you,” I gasp.
“For what?”
“For coming back.”
His grin is a violent thing. “You’ll always beg for me.” His thumb circles harder, sharper, crueler. “You’ll always wait.”
“Yes,” I sob, my body trembling in his grip, the edge already tearing me apart.
“You’ll always stay.”
“Yes.”
He presses his lips to my ear, his breath filthy and hot. “You’ll cum for me now, little spider.”
I shatter against him, wrecked and sobbing, my body convulsing under the weight of him, the weight of the clamp, the weight of the cage I don’t want to leave. His hands hold me there. His lips brand me there. His voice carves me deeper. “You’re mine.”
And I’ll beg to stay that way. Forever.