Chapter 37: The growing pains
The velvet was cool against her back, a stark contrast to the feverish heat blooming between her legs. A few days had passed since the chamber, since Silas had fucked her around the deep, persistent intrusion of the machine. The memory was a ghost in her muscles, a phantom fullness she could still summon.
Now, alone in her bedroom’s perfumed dark, Maggie was chasing it.
She was nestled in a nest of pillows, the black lace curtains shifting in a faint breath of air from the climate control. The single candle threw dancing shadows across the low ceiling. Her left hand held her tablet, propped against her bent knees. Her right hand was busy.
The vibrator wasn’t some delicate thing. It was a broad, plush silicone tongue, ergonomic and powerful, currently pressed flush against the swollen, protruding length of her clit. It hummed, a low, insistent frequency that traveled straight up her spine. The fine silver chain glinted in the candlelight, one end clipped to the ring of her tongue stud, the other to the barbell piercing the glans of her clit. Every slight movement of her head, every swallow, sent a tiny, resonant tug through the sensitive metal, a constant reminder of the connection.
She was already wet, her folds slick, but she wasn’t touching her pussy. Not yet. This was for her clit. This was for the show.
She tapped the screen, navigating to a private, encrypted server. The file was labeled PROJECT DELANEY: PHASE 1 - INITIATION. She took a sharp breath, thumb hovering, then hit play.
The first video was stark, clinical lighting. Her own face, younger-looking, filled the frame. She looked nervous, excited. Her legs were in stirrups in a different lab. Silas’s voice, calm and persuasive, off-screen. “Just relax, Maggie. The suction is minimal. We’re just encouraging blood flow.”
On screen, her pubic mound was neatly groomed. And there, nestled in its hood, was a tiny, pink pearl. It was cute. Insignificant. A little button of flesh. She watched as a clear plastic pump cup was placed over it, forming a seal. A soft whirr.
On the bed, present-day Maggie increased the pressure of the vibrator, circling the broad head of her now-monstrous clit. The chain tinkled.
The video showed the tiny pearl beginning to darken, to puff up under the gentle suction. It peeked out from its hood, becoming a small, shy bud. Maggie on screen giggled, a nervous, thrilled sound. “Oh, wow. I can feel that.”
“That’s the point,” Silas’s voice replied, a smile in it.
She switched videos. PHASE 3 - ACCELERATED GROWTH. The lighting was warmer now. She was on a similar platform to the recent one, but earlier. Her clit was no longer a pearl. It was a proper bud, the size of a plump blueberry, protruding proudly. Ben was in this one. He leaned in, his mouth wide, and sucked the whole thing in.
Present Maggie moaned, her hips lifting off the velvet. The memory of that first real oral contact, the shock of a mouth on that specific part of her, was electric. On screen, Ben sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing. When he pulled off, her clit was glistening, thicker, visibly engorged from the attention. It looked like a fat little berry. “Fuck, it gets bigger when you suck it,” on-screen Maggie gasped.
“It’s designed to,” Silas said, entering the frame. He held a larger pump, this one with a gauge. “Blood vessel proliferation is exceeding models. We’ll increase negative pressure today.”
She watched, transfixed, as the larger cup sealed over her wet, suckled-on clit. The pump handle pulled. On screen, her back arched. Her mouth opened in a silent ‘O’. Her clit began to swell within the clear chamber, thickening, lengthening, becoming a thick stem of flesh. It was no longer a berry. It was a mushroom. A tiny, fat cock.
“Jesus,” present Maggie whispered, her own hand moving the vibrator in faster, tighter circles. The chain pulled taut as she bit her lip.
PHASE 7 - BREAKING THE INCH BARRIER. This video had a different quality. Grainier, as if from a hidden camera. It was just Silas and her in a smaller room. Her clit was a solid inch long, thick as her thumb, lying against her mound. Silas wasn’t using a pump. He had her clit in his hand, stroking it slowly, methodically, his eyes locked on a biometric screen.
“You’re responding to tactile stimulation as a primary erectile tissue,” he murmured, his voice intimate, captivated. “Watch.”
He tightened his grip, jerking her off in a slow, firm stroke. On screen, Maggie cried out, and her clit visibly swelled, pumping up even thicker, veins becoming prominent. It was a command performance. Her body was obeying his hand.
“That’s my good girl,” Silas said on the video, and present-day Maggie felt a surge of wetness soak the sheets beneath her. She was stroking herself in time with the memory, the vibrator a blur now.
The final video was recent. PRE-ANNIHILATOR: FINAL PUMP. This was days ago. She was on the chrome table, dripping with anticipation. Her clit was a beast. A full, thick shaft, lying against her lower abdomen, the pierced glans weeping. The pump this time was a monstrous cylinder. Silas sealed it over her, the plastic kissing the stretched hood.
“This is the last pump, Maggie,” he said, his voice thick with something that wasn’t just science. “After this, it’s all natural engorgement. Your body will do the rest, with the right… motivation.”
The pump pulled.
It was obscene. It was beautiful. Her clit grew before her eyes, swelling to fill the entire cylinder, becoming a fat, ruddy log of flesh, distended and shiny under the lights. The veins were like cables. When he released the pressure, it didn’t shrink back. It stayed. A permanent, heavy weight. A juggernaut.
On the video, she looked down at it, her eyes wide with lust and awe. She reached a trembling hand and wrapped her fingers around it. She couldn’t close her thumb and forefinger. It was hers.
“Fuck me,” present Maggie breathed. The memory of that feeling—the sheer, possessive weight of it—pushed her over the edge she’d been teasing. The vibrator’s hum was a scream against her nerves. The chain yanked as she threw her head back.
She came, hard and silent, a convulsion that locked her body. Her pussy, neglected and empty, clenched around nothing, gushing a hot stream onto the velvet. But the epicenter was her clit. It pulsed violently under the silicone tongue, a thick, throbbing rhythm that seemed to go on and on, matching the waves of pleasure crashing through her.
The tablet slid from her limp hand, landing on the sheets. The video was frozen on the close-up: her massive, pumped clit, glistening and dominant.
She lay there, panting, the aftershocks making her twitch. The vibrator’s low hum was the only sound. Her fingers, sticky, trailed up to touch the real thing. It was hot, throbbing, and exactly as it was on screen. The transformation was complete. She wasn’t watching a fantasy anymore. She was living inside it.
A slow smile spread across her face. She tugged gently on the chain, feeling the sweet, sharp pull in both piercings. This was her. This was the new normal. And it was only the beginning.
And it was only the beginning.
The aftershocks subsided, leaving a hollow, craving silence in their wake. Her clit throbbed, a persistent, needy drumbeat against her pubic bone. The tablet screen had gone dark. Maggie stared at the black reflection, seeing the outline of her own debauched smile. It wasn’t enough.
She tapped the screen back to life. Her finger, still slick, left a smudge on the glass. She scrolled past the clinical progress logs. She wanted the dirty stuff. The raw files labeled not by phase, but by sensation.
`CLAMP_SESSION_4.` `FLOG_01.` `BINDING_TEST_A.`
Her breath hitched. She selected `BINDING_TEST_A.`
The video opened with a close-up. Her clit, already substantial from the earlier pumps, was a fat, ruddy pillar of flesh. But now, a thin, black silicone band was being cinched tight around its base. Silas’s hands, steady and precise, worked the adjustable fastener.
“We’re testing ischemic arousal,” his voice explained, calm. “Restricting return blood flow will increase engorgement, sensitivity, and the subsequent rebound.”
On screen, Maggie whimpered. The band tightened. Her clit began to darken, purpling at the tip, swelling obscenely against the constriction. It looked angry. Trapped. Desperate.
“It hurts,” on-screen Maggie gasped, but she was spreading her legs wider on the table.
“It’s supposed to,” Ben’s voice replied from off-camera. “Pain is just unprocessed pleasure, right Doc?”
Present Maggie’s hand drifted from her own swollen flesh to the nightstand. Her fingers closed around a small, smooth silicone ring. She’d taken it from the lab. A souvenir.
On the video, Silas picked up a narrow, flat paddle. He tapped it once, lightly, against the bulging, bound head of her clit. The sound was a soft, terrifying pat.
Maggie on screen jolted as if electrocuted.
Present Maggie slid the ring over the tip of her own clit, pushing it down to the base. It wasn’t as tight as the one on screen, but the immediate pressure, the sense of confinement, made her gasp. She began to stroke herself slowly, the silicone creating a delicious, squeezing friction with every pull.
The video played on. Silas spanked her bound clit in earnest now. Not hard, but relentlessly. A rapid, rhythmic pat-pat-pat that made the imprisoned flesh wobble and jump. Each impact sent a visible shudder through on-screen Maggie’s entire body. She was crying, but her hand was between her own legs, frantically rubbing her soaking cunt.
“Please,” on-screen Maggie sobbed. “Please, it’s too much.”
“Tell me to stop,” Silas said, the paddle pausing mid-air.
There was a long, shuddering silence. The bound clit pulsed, an angry, betrayed heartbeat. On-screen Maggie shook her head, her knuckles white where she gripped the table. “Don’t stop.”
The paddle came down harder. A sharp, wet smack.
“Fuck!” present Maggie yelled into her empty room, her own strokes turning frantic and rough. The ring bit into her flesh, a bright bite of pain that melted instantly into a deep, congested heat. She was mimicking the rhythm on screen, her fist a blur, watching that earlier version of herself be tormented.
She couldn’t look away.
She opened another. `FLOG_01.` This was later. Her clit was bigger, even without a binding ring. Ben was in charge. He wasn’t using a paddle. He had a small, multi-tailed flogger with soft suede falls. He was smiling, a boyish, cruel smile.
“Just the tip, promise,” he said on the video.
He flicked his wrist. The falls landed with a whispering thwap across the hypersensitive glans. On-screen Maggie screamed, a sharp, animal sound. Her legs twisted in the restraints. Her clit, already huge, seemed to inflate another degree with the insult, twitching and straining upwards, begging for more.
Present Maggie’s mouth was dry. She needed more. She let go of her shaft, her hand aching. She bent forward, a slow, awkward curl of her body. She brought her face to her own pelvis. The scent of her arousal, salty and musky, filled her nose.
She opened her mouth. Her tongue, pierced and chained, licked out. It was a strange, contorted angle. She couldn’t take the whole length. But she could get the tip. The swollen, pierced, weeping glans.
She sucked it into her mouth.
The chain went taut, connecting her sucking mouth to the flesh being sucked. The metal taste of the barbell mixed with her own slick flavor. It was decadent. Perverse. Auto-cannibalistic. She watched Ben on the tablet, flogging her past self’s clit, and she sucked her own with a hungry, slurring rhythm.
The duality shattered her. She was the tormented and the tormentor. The subject and the obsessed fan. She fucked her own mouth with her own flesh, her hips pushing up weakly, driving her clit deeper past her lips. Gagging slightly. Loving it.
On the tablet, Ben finally stopped the flogging. He dropped to his knees, his mouth engulfing the red, beaten flesh, sucking the pain away. On-screen Maggie’s scream dissolved into a guttural, broken moan of gratitude.
Maggie pulled off her own clit with a wet, gasping pop. A string of saliva and precum connected her lips to the shining, abused head. She was babbling. “Yeah, suck it, just like that, fuck, suck my big clit-cock…”
She was insane with it. The feedback loop was complete. The videos were not a record. They were a manual. A trigger. She fumbled for the tablet, her fingers slipping. She needed the worst one. The one she both craved and feared.
`FULL_BIND_DENIAL.`
It loaded. She was strapped down, spread-eagled. Not just her wrists and ankles. Thin, strong straps were affixed to her labia, pulling them taut. But the central focus was her clit. It was monstrous, a thick, veined shaft. It was bound in three places: base, mid-shaft, and just under the glans with a cruel, narrow band. Each segment was engorged, purpling.
Silas stood over her, holding not a paddle or flogger, but a smooth, polished metal wand. It was cool to the touch, she remembered. He touched the tip to the bound head.
On-screen Maggie flinched, a full-body spasm.
“You will not come,” Silas said, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. It was a command, pure and surgical. “Your arousal will plateau at ninety-seven percent. You will remain there.”
He began to trace the wand along the trapped, throbbing length. Slowly. Deliberately. Applying just enough pressure to make the flesh deform around the bonds. It was agony. It was ecstasy suspended in amber.
Present Maggie’s own untouched, dripping cunt clenched in sympathetic agony. Her hand flew back to her own bound clit, but she didn’t stroke. She squeezed. She pinched the tortured flesh between her thumb and forefinger, mimicking the pressure of the straps. The pain was a white-hot star.
On screen, she was begging. “Please, Silas, please let me come. I need it. I’ll do anything.”
“I know,” was all he said, continuing his slow, torturous tracing.
Maggie watched her past self break. She saw the exact moment when resistance dissolved into absolute, willing submission. The moment she accepted the denial as her new purpose. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever seen. More intimate than any fuck.
She couldn’t hold back. The memory of that denied, plateaued pleasure was too potent. Her fingers pinched and twisted her own clit, rough and urgent. She wasn’t trying to come. She was trying to reach. To touch that impossible, suspended peak again.
She fucked her own fist, her body bowing on the bed, the chain a constant, punishing tug. She watched her own recorded ruin on a loop, and she chanted with her past self, a hoarse, broken whisper into the perfumed dark.
“Please. Please. Please.”
The word hung in the perfumed air, a broken plea meant for the man on the screen. The video `FULL_BIND_DENIAL` played on a loop, a horrific ballet of her own perfect suffering. Silas’s polished wand traced the bound, purpling segments of her clit with a physicist’s precision.
“You will not come,” his recorded voice stated again, flat and absolute.
Maggie’s own hand moved in a twisted parody of his touch. She wasn’t stroking. She was pressing. Her thumb dug into the hypersensitive ridge under the glans of her own flesh, mimicking the pressure of the narrow, cruel band she saw on screen. A sharp, breathtaking pain blossomed, instantly melting into a deep, congested heat that pooled in her neglected cunt. She was so wet it dripped down her inner thigh, a hot stripe against the cool velvet.
“It’s too much,” her past self gasped on the tablet, back arching against the restraints.
“It’s exactly enough,” Silas countered, his wand pausing to apply a steady, focused pressure right on the tip.
Present Maggie’s breath hitched. She watched, mesmerized, as her past clit throbbed under the metal, a trapped, frantic heartbeat visible in the swollen veins. The need in that image was a live wire shoved into her present nervous system. She needed that specific, excruciating attention. Her free hand scrabbled on the nightstand, knocking over a candle. It found what it sought: a smooth, cool glass dildo.
She didn’t push it inside herself. She brought the rounded, cool head to her own clit. She pressed it there, right against the pierced, weeping tip, and ground down. The pressure was immense, blunt, overwhelming. It wasn’t a release. It was an amplification. A white noise of sensation that blurred the line between pleasure and pain into a single, screaming point of need.
On screen, Silas leaned close, his mouth near her ear. “Look at it, Maggie. Look at what I’ve made for you. It’s begging. It’s a beautiful, desperate thing.”
She was looking. Her eyes were glued to the way her bound flesh jumped under his tool, to the slick sheen of her own precum beading at the slit. She sucked her own clit back into her mouth, frantic now, her tongue worrying the piercing, the chain pulling tight. The taste was metallic and salty. She gagged around the girth of it, her eyes watering, but she pushed deeper, fucking her own throat with her own flesh.
The dildo fell from her trembling hand.
“I can’t… I can’t hold it,” her recorded voice sobbed.
“You can,” Silas whispered back. “You will. Your threshold is my design. Feel it build. Feel it plateau.”
And she did. In the past and in the now. The pleasure coiled, a spring tightened past all reason, but there was no trigger, no release. It slammed against a ceiling she hadn’t built. A plateau. She hovered there, suspended in a breathless, agonizing limbo. Her hips moved in tiny, abortive circles, searching for friction that wasn’t there, that wouldn’t help. Every nerve was live, screaming.
The video showed her past self finally going limp, a marionette with cut strings, spent but unfulfilled. The bindings were carefully loosened. The blood rushed back, a painful, glorious flood that made her scream.
Present Maggie’s hands flew to the base of her own clit. She squeezed, hard, a brutal tourniquet of her own making. She held it, watching the glans darken, her vision spotting. She was chasing that rebound, that catastrophic flood.
“Now,” Silas said on the recording.
She let go.
The sensation was a physical blow. A roaring, red wave of sensation that tore through her without the clean peak of orgasm. It was a full-system overload. Her body convulsed, muscles locking, a silent scream tearing from her throat. Her cunt gushed, a hot rush that soaked the sheets beneath her, but her clit just throbbed, a furious, unsatisfied drum against her pelvis.
The video ended. The room was silent except for her ragged, sobbing breaths. The screen went dark, reflecting her wrecked face, her slick lips, her wild eyes.
She slowly, shakily, reached for the tablet again. Her finger left a smudge on the black glass. She didn’t navigate. She opened the camera app, switching it to selfie mode. The candlelight was kind, painting her in gold and shadow.
She pointed the lens down her body, framing the view. Her massive, slick clit, still pulsing. The mess she’d made on the velvet.
She hit record.
“Silas,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming. “It worked. The plateau. I found it again. By myself.” She paused, swallowing. “It’s not enough. I need… I need the next part. I need you to take me further.”
She zoomed in on her clit, a close-up of its violated, beautiful need.
“Tell me what to do next.”