Page 179 of Little Spider

Shame rushes hot, but the ache between my legs drowns it. I part trembling lips. “I want you to keep me like this—ruined, open, edged until I can’t think.”

His hand plunges between my thighs, two fingers slipping inside. I gasp at the maddening tease. Not enough. Not the edge—only the promise of it. My body trembles; I sob silently, collapsing into the torment.

“You think that was your darkest?” he hisses.

I nod, and he yanks my hair back so my spine arches. “Liar. What haven’t you told anyone? What secret sin do you hide even from yourself?”

He slaps my clit—sharp smack that steals my breath. I flinch. “No looking away,” he snaps.

“I—” My voice breaks.

He presses the rod into my thigh. “Say it. Then I’ll let you cum. Say it so I can ruin you forever.”

I choke on words, then let them spill. “I want you to fuck me until I forget who I am. Make me cry—not because it hurts, but because I love it too much to stop.”

A guttural groan rumbles through him as his fingers deepen inside, curling just so. My skin shivers, slick and alive. “Used,” I gasp. “Like a toy you don’t clean, don’t hide—just pull out whenever and fuck till you’re empty.”

He growls approval, hand picking up pace, driving me to the brink. I shudder, desperate, but still too broken to come. He withdraws, and I crash against nothing. A scream tears out of me.

“You said you’d let me cum if you spoke the truth.” He inches closer, lips grazing mine. “Now I want to hear it every night.”

He clips the leash on my collar and drags me down the hall—bareback, quaking, soaked. My legs quake but I follow, because resistance would be madness. We pass closed doors, mirrors, until he stops at one I’ve never seen open.

His boot splinters the wood. Leather, wax, resin, cold stone assault my senses. The single yellow bulb above flickers like a dying eye, illuminating matte black walls. At the centre stands a metal table strapped with shackles; an array of instruments gleams on a silver tray. Beside it, in a glass terrarium, a spider so black with splashes of red it swallows light watches us.

I freeze. “Damien?—”

“Shhh.” He pushes me onto the table—wrist and ankle cuffs snap shut. My thighs spread painfully wide. I’m pinned, exposed, every nerve ending raw.

His cock, rock-hard, brushes my shoulder blade. Mouth at my ear, he rasps, “You’ll beg under her gaze. You’ll scream while my come pools in you. And you won’t come until she crawls across your skin, just like the filthy web-slut you are.”

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.”