CHAPTER THIRTY TWO #4
My heart thunders as he opens the terrarium.
The spider slips out, slow and deliberate, its legs sighing against the glass table.
First it inches over my stomach—ticklish agony—then arcs up between my breasts, brushing the sensitive hollow of my throat.
I whimper, slick leaking out of me at every nerve-shredding step.
Damien’s fist jerks his cock, slow, torture close enough to make my body twitch. “Shaking for me. Begging for what you’ll never get.”
The spider reaches my collarbone. My breath flutters. He clamps my jaw, no escape: “Stay still or I’ll strap your eyelids open and make you watch her skitter between your thighs.”
I tremble. He loosens his hold just enough to trail a finger through my folds. My muscles clench around empty air. “You’re soaking,” he murmurs. The spider lifts onto the strap at my temples—click—and another binds beneath my jaw. My eyes are forced wide, every blink a betrayal of my terror.
Damien looms above me, cock in hand. “You wanted to be nothing. Now watch.” His finger presses between my folds again, teasing me as the spider lowers itself toward my cleft. Eight legs brush my wetness—so soft, so insistent. I cry out, body shivering, wrapped in equal parts lust and dread.
He strokes me—gentle, maddening—while the spider’s tiny feet explore my inner thighs. My world narrows to skin, slick, spider, finger, cock. I’m a vessel of trembling need, utterly helpless, utterly his.
And beneath the staccato hum of the bulb, with that dark spider feeding on my naked flesh, I beg myself to remember who I was—but find only the want, raw and bleeding, that he’s carved into me forever.
The spider’s tiny legs skitter again—first across my ribs, then inching downward, each movement a deliberate taunt.
My stomach quivers beneath its weight; my hips twitch, craving release, but my eyelids refuse to obey the leather straps.
Damien has my gaze pinned wide open, and I can’t look away from the exquisite terror of it all.
Every minute step, every delicate footfall, I feel against my raw flesh. My cunt throbs so hard the pulse races through my pelvis like electricity. A distant part of me remembers: I asked for degradation. But as the spider edges closer, I taste fear in every breath.
“Keep breathing,” Damien’s breath brushes my ear, warm and possessive. “Keep watching. You wanted degradation, spider? Then witness it.”
My throat tightens, tears pool behind my eyes. The spider halts, poised at the apex of my thighs. My clit pulses under the vacant air, begging for contact. I’m frozen—more terrified of disappointing him than of anything else.
“If she walks across your clit,” his voice drops to a savage whisper, “and you come—I’ll never let you come again.”
One tiny leg raises. The spider—a living feather—descends.
First a toe-length, then another. My skin flinches under each feather-light brush.
A shudder streaks through me as it crosses my lower belly, gliding along the slick seam of my folds.
I want to scream, to buck and shatter these bindings, but his hand at my throat is a constant reminder: one wrong twitch, and I will pay.
“You’re a display now,” Damien murmurs, his words a molten weight in the charged air. “A breathing hole, a living altar so soaked even the spider wants to taste you.”
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.”
I’m left trembling, soaked, utterly his.