Page 176 of Little Spider

He strokes me again. “Louder.”

“I’M YOURS!”

My cry echoes off the walls, but he keeps me teetering. I’m slick and sobbing, folds fluttering beneath his ministrations, nipples throbbing at both clamp and the drip of warm wax. My skin heats around each cooling rivulet, silk chafing my wrists.

I whisper his name. “Damien—please, I’m begging?—”

He pauses, head tipped, eyes glittering. “I know you are.” Then his tongue is back, swirling, pressing, withdrawing—pleasure and denial sewn together in every slick flick.

His voice slides into a playful threat:

“Incy wincy spider climbed between her thighs…

Down came her monster, with fire in his eyes.

Out came the whimpers, the sobs, the cries?—

But no, little spider… you don’t get to rise.”

The nursery rhyme twist steals my breath, wracking me with fresh sobs. My body quakes, torn between agony and ecstasy. I beg again; my voice is ragged as metal scraping glass.

He lifts his head at last, dark and dangerous. “You want to cum?”

“Yes,” I choke out.

“Then play.”

He rises and retrieves a black velvet box, setting it on my thighs like a sacrament. I watch, heart pounding, as he flipsit open to reveal toys that glint in the candlelight: clamps, vibrators, a slender ice cube, a curved plug crowned with a spider motif.

He watches me choose: the bullet, the ice cube, the plug. He nods, grin sharpening his features. “Good girl.”

First, the plug—lubricated, then slid deep inside me with a slow, punishing thrust. My walls stretch around its tapered curve, and I gasp as it settles against nerves already humming with need. He clicks the bullet to its lowest setting and tapes it to the base of the plug. A low buzz vibrates inside me, constant and relentless.

Next, the ice cube—with a predatory gleam in his eye, he drags it over my trembling nipples, teases along the clamp, then clamps it between his teeth. He leans down, presses the cold crystal to my burning clit. My spine arches, and I scream—sharp, astonished pain melting into feverish fire.

He leans back. “Game’s started. Let’s see if you win, little spider.”

He swirls his tongue around me once, twice, each movement teasing me toward oblivion, then yanking me back. The contrast—icy shock on my clit, the hot vibration buried inside, his breath flickering over every heated inch of skin—drives me insane.

One misstep: I clamp down on the plug. He growls. “Careful. If you lose it, you lose everything.”

My whimpers spill out. His fingers splay across my thighs, pressing me open. “That’s not the word I want.”

A cruel smile. “What word?”

“Surrender.”

He presses the melting ice cube directly to my clit. I shriek, panic bursting in my chest as the plug shifts, deeper, tighter. The vibration hums like a living thing.

I’m so close—vision blanching white, mouth falling open—but at that moment, he pulls everything away. Ice, tongue, breath—all gone.

I collapse into hysteric sobs, plug buzzing remorselessly inside me. “You almost lost,” he murmurs, tracing two fingers along my damp folds, quiet enough only I can hear. “That close.”

“Please…” I whisper, every tear falling hot.

“Say the word.”

I lift my head. My voice is cracked and small: “Surrender.”