Page 177 of Little Spider

He ponders me with hungry eyes. “Not yet.”

The word still shudders between us. I’ve offered him everything—my body, my voice, my surrender—and yet he holds my release hostage, savouring every second of my desperate need.

And so I stay there—bound, dripping, trembling under his control—waiting for the moment when mercy finally tastes like freedom.

He hovers over me, eyes narrowed, as though I’m a tiny creature pinned beneath his gaze. My legs tremble in their silk bindings; my thighs glisten with need. The glass plug inside me thrums like a heartbeat, reminding me how desperately I’m being denied.

He lowers his voice until it’s a purr. “New rule.”

My chest tightens.

Gentle—so impossibly gentle—he trails two fingers along my slit, barely brushing my wetness, and it feels like ice. “You don’t get to cum just because you give up.”

My throat closes on my own gasp. “Wha?—”

A sadistic smile curls at the corner of his mouth, dark and sharp. “You only get to cum if you win.”

He reaches down to the bullet at the base of the plug and twists it to its highest setting. An urgent vibration pulses through me, violent and unrelenting, and I cry out, archingagainst the mattress. The clamps on my nipples bite deeper with every heartbeat, and my wrists burn where the silk holds me tight.

He crawls between my spread thighs, pressing his mouth to my throat without fucking me—just covering me with the heat of his body. “You want to win, little spider?”

He doesn’t pause for my answer before pinching my clit—just once—and I shudder through every nerve ending, teetering on the cliff of release. My own scream catches in my throat; my vision swims.

“I’ll let you cum when I say,” he whispers, voice thick with promise and threat. “Only when my cock is buried so deep you forget your own name.”

He withdraws and pauses, then returns with a deliberate, sinister slowness, tongue tracing callous circles over my swollen flesh. The plug buzzes ruthlessly; I’m soaked and shaking, drowning in the pressure he’s created. Each flick of his tongue is an exquisite torture—never enough, never the rhythm I crave.

He rises, mouth hovering above me, and leans in: “Do you feel that hum inside you?”

My voice is a broken sob, but I nod. He presses two fingers at my entrance, curling them to hit that impossibly sweet spot that sends white-hot lines through my body. I arch, silent, desperate, trapped between longing and pain.

“Not allowed,” he growls when I murmur the wrong answer. He slaps my inner thigh, a sharp punctuation that makes me inhale a sob. “Where do you want it, Raven?”

“My…my clit,” I choke out. He shakes his head. “My…my throat.”

“Getting warmer,” he rasps, plunging his fingers deeper as I choke back tears and moan into the mattress. He pulls out, spits in his hand, and strokes himself—hard, slow—watching me quake beneath him.

His voice is a low vow. “You’re going to stay on the edge until your cunt forgets what orgasm is.”

I sob as his fingers dance just inside me, thumb brushing my clit in vicious circles. My body clenches around nothing but air and need. I’m his: skin raw, senses ablaze, utterly ruined.

He rises, cock slick in his fist, and kneels between my thighs, never letting me see relief in his eyes. He drags the head of his cock across my inner thigh, the heat so close I ache violently. “Look how swollen you are.”

I shake, unable to speak.

With a final, deliberate tease, he presses the red crown of his cock against my clit—then pulls away. I scream; he wipes a drop of pre-cum across my lips. “If you want my cum, little spider…earn it.”

He strokes harder now, faster, hand bobbing against his thigh. The sound echoes in the hush. I watch, helpless, as he builds himself toward release. Each grunt, each flick of his wrist, is a reminder that I am denied.

“Tell me how much you want to see me cum,” he commands.

“Please,” I whimper. He pinches my clit and I cry out. “Wrong answer.”

The plug thrums so violently I fear it will shatter me. He strokes his length mercilessly, breath hot against my ear: “You’ll cum when I decide. Not a moment sooner.”

Then—and I almost can’t believe it—he cums. Thick ropes of cum splatter across my chest, my throat, pearling along my jaw. He never breaks eye contact; never melts from his towering cruelty.

My eyes burn with tears, but I hold his stare. He leans down, drags his fingers through the mess, and smears it across my lips. “You didn’t flinch,” he murmurs, almost gentle.