Chapter 26: The Clit kisses
The TENS unit’s wires were thin, sinister snakes. Ben connected them to the alligator clips with meticulous care, each click of the connector a tiny punctuation of doom. Maggie watched through a haze of tears, her breath hitching in time with the deep, rotating grind inside her. Her clit, a grotesque, purple-anchored centerpiece, throbbed under its metal teeth.
“Test pulse,” Ben muttered, more to himself than to her or the chat. He turned a dial on the small black box.
A jolt, sharp and clean as a scalpel cut, lanced from the clip on her hood down to the root. Her body snapped taut against the restraints, a silent, rigid arc. It wasn’t pain like the strap. It was pure, neurological trespass. It bypassed skin and muscle, speaking directly to the raw bundle of nerves underneath.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, no,” she whimpered as the sensation faded, leaving a ghostly buzz in its wake.
“Good conduction,” Ben noted clinically. He turned to the camera, a curator presenting an exhibit. “We’re going to cycle through frequencies. Chat, watch her reactions. We’re mapping her pleasure-pain thresholds in real time. This is live research.”
He turned the dial again.
This time, the current was a low, steady hum. It vibrated the clips, sending a ragged, teeth-rattling buzz through her swollen flesh. It was agitation, not shock. A maddening, unsustainable tickle that made her hips jerk futilely. The rotating shafts inside her twisted against the motion, amplifying the discomfort into a nauseating fullness.
“It’s… it’s too much,” she gasped, but the words were eaten by the machine’s ambient whir.
Ben increased the frequency. The buzz became a staccato pulse, a rapid-fire hammering against her hypersensitive nerves. Each pulse synced, horrifyingly, with the slow turn of the spiral dildos. Pulse-twist. Pulse-twist. Her body began to convulse in a shallow, rhythmic seizure. A fresh gush of fluid spurted into the milker’s tube. The reservoir level ticked up.
“Look at that,” Ben breathed, fascinated. “The system is creating a feedback loop. The genital electro-stimulation is triggering involuntary pelvic contractions, which in turn increase friction against the rotating penetrators, which heightens sensory input, which fuels the contractions. It’s a perfect, closed circuit of arousal.”
He was right. There was no escape, not even into numbness. The electricity carved pathways of frantic sensation, and the fucking machines built highways upon them. Her mind was a blizzard of static, white noise punctuated by the colored light of agony.
Chat was a frenzy of dollar signs and one-word commands: MORE. BREAK. FILL.
Ben read one aloud, his voice cutting through her fragmented consciousness. “This one’s clever. They want the milker reactivated at maximum suction, but only while the TENS is pulsing. They want to see if your clit can be made to spurt on command, like a huge cock.”
He didn’t ask for consent. He simply did it.
His fingers danced over the throne’s control panel. The milker’s seal, which had been merely holding, suddenly erupted into violent life
"I'm a cockslut!" she cried out, ecstatic. "Master, I love being a cockslut. Make me your cockslut, please!"
Her head dropped back, her eyes showing the whites as the surge made her clit stand at embarrassing firmness. It begged.
"My beautiful cockslut needs more," he told the chat, groaning. "So come here, loyal fans. You give me twenty options how I can dominate her and make her the cockslut she is. Twenty -- and no mutilation, no drastically hurting her. She needs to cum her brains out and cherish this huge, throbbing fuckpole of her clit I'm milking her cum through. Her holes are stuffed. But what does a cockslut need?"
He smiled and stroked her heaving tits. "Master overstimulating her big cock clit for milking, for one. Twenty. Let's go, I'll pick the best."
The screen exploded.
Messages flooded the feed, a rapid-fire cascade of obscene creativity. Ben scanned them, his lips moving silently as he read. The TENS unit continued its low, predatory hum, the clips sending tiny, vicious tremors through her bound flesh.
“Alright, listen up, you brilliant, filthy degenerates,” Ben said, a real laugh in his voice. He began to read them off, his fingers still absently adjusting a dial, making the current flutter. “One: ‘Lube up a fucking powerful wand vibrator and just park it right on that swollen cock-head, no mercy, until she screams herself hoarse.’ Classic. Effective.”
Maggie moaned, her hips giving a feeble, automatic jerk at the idea.
“Two: ‘Tie a length of satin cord around the base, really tight like a cock ring, then use a dropper to coat the shaft in peppermint oil and watch it throb.’ Three: ‘Warm honey all over it, slow, then lick it all off for the camera.’ Four: ‘Attach a tiny, textured silicone sleeve and fuck it with a thumb, fast and mean, like it’s a cunt.’”
Each suggestion was a lit match tossed onto the bonfire of her arousal. Her clit, monstrous and strained, seemed to pulse in time with his words.
“Five: ‘Suck it into a narrow tube, a really tight fit, and then pump the tube like you’re milking a fucking cow.’ Six: ‘Wrap it in a warm, wet washcloth and just squeeze, rhythmically, while you tell her what a leaky dick she has.’ Seven: ‘Get a cock pump specifically for it, see how big you can make it before it spurts.’ Eight: ‘Ice cube slowly up and down the shaft, then blow hot air on it, over and over.’”
Her breath came in ragged hitches. The twisting penetration inside her felt secondary now, a deep, rhythmic background ache to the focused tyranny being planned for her centerpiece.
“Nine: ‘Slide a vibrating cock ring over it and down to the base, let it buzz her entire pelvis.’ Ten: ‘Use a soft hairbrush, just the bristles, and scrub it hard like you’re cleaning a prize vegetable.’ Eleven: ‘Pinch and roll the head between two fingers, relentlessly, while you call her your little clit-cocked slut.’ Twelve: ‘Press a hitachi against her pubic bone so the deep rumble makes her whole cock dance.’”
“Please,” she begged, the word dissolving into a gasp as Ben tweaked the current. “Any of it. All of it.”
“Patience, cockslut,” he chided softly, his eyes still on the screen. “We’re just getting to the good stuff. Thirteen: ‘Have her fuck a silicone pussy sleeve made for small dicks, make her thrust into it.’ Fourteen: ‘Tape a small, ribbed condom onto it and then jerk it off with your hand.’ Fifteen: ‘Drip melted wax from a low-temp candle just on the head, let each drop make her jump.’ Sixteen: ‘Slap it with your open palm, not to hurt, just to make it bounce and jiggle.’”
The suggestions blurred, a symphony of filth that painted grotesque, exquisite pictures in her shattered mind. She could feel the ghost of each one—the icy shock, the brutal vibration, the humiliating confinement.
“Seventeen: ‘Put a clothespin on the hood, just for the sensation of capture.’ Eighteen: ‘Suckle it like a tiny dick, get your whole mouth around it and hum.’ Nineteen: ‘Use a soft, floggy little leather tassel and whip it so it flops around.’ And twenty… oh, twenty is good. ‘Cover it in her own juice, then stroke it with a velvet glove, the softest possible touch, until she’s crying from how sensitive it is.’”
Ben finally looked away from the screen, his gaze landing on her wrecked face, then drifting down to the purpled, wired, trembling organ presented to him. “A comprehensive menu,” he said. “We have the tools. Let’s compose a symphony.”
He started with number five. He released the rubber band, the sudden rush of blood making her cry out, and selected a clear, narrow cylinder from his cabinet. It was a tight, clinical squeeze. He lubed the rim and, with a firm, unyielding pressure, forced the throbbing head of her clit inside. The fit was punishingly snug, a relentless, circular grip.
He connected a small hand pump to a valve at the top. “This is the milking parlor, Maggie. You’re the prize heifer.”
He pumped. The suction was immediate and profound, a deep, hollow pull that seemed to draw the very core of her into that tube. Her clit distended further, thickening against the transparent walls. He pumped again. The sensation was less about pain and more about an overwhelming, radial stretching, a demand for total expansion.
“Fuck, my cock, it’s…” she babbled, her eyes wide and unseeing.
“It’s being milked,” Ben finished, his voice calm. He began a rhythm: pump, hold, release. Pump, hold, release. Each pull coincided with a pulse from the TENS unit, the electrical current now a sharp, bright complement to the deep mechanical suck. Fluid, not from her cunt but from the weeping tip of her clit itself, began to bead and get drawn up the tube.
He integrated number one. With his other hand, he picked up a powerful, bullet-shaped vibrator, coated it in slick, and pressed it directly against the base of the tube, right where her engorged shaft met her body. The high-frequency buzz was a scream against the deep, pulling ache. It was too much. It was everything.
Her orgasm didn’t build. It detonated. It was a white-out, a system-wide collapse centered on that one tortured point of flesh. Her body seized, the restraints cutting into her as her back arched violently. A strangled, continuous shriek tore from her throat as her cunt clenched wildly around the spiraling metal and her clit pulsed in its prison, releasing a visible, thin stream of clear fluid that was sucked away into the apparatus.
Ben watched, mesmerized, as the machinery did its work. He didn’t let up. Pump. Buzz. Pulse. The orgasm was forced to continue, stretched into a plateau of unbearable peak. She was sobbing, her face a mess of tears and spit, her mind completely gone, inhabited only by the feeling of her own grotesque pleasure being mechanically harvested.
“Good,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Yield is increasing. Look at that flow.”
He switched tactics, moving to number eighteen. He removed the tube, her clit springing out, dark red and slick. He leaned in, his breath hot. Then he took the entire, swollen head into his mouth.
The wet, human heat was a shocking contrast. His tongue swirled, firm and demanding, and he began to hum, a low, resonant vibration that traveled straight into her core. It was intimate and degrading, a parody of affection applied to a part of her that felt utterly non-human. She whimpered, her hands clawing at the air.
He sucked, hard, his hand coming up to stroke the shaft in time with the deep, corkscrew turns of the throne’s arms inside her. The dual rhythm—his mouth, the machines—drove her into a new, sobbing crescendo. This climax was deeper, more gut-wrenching, a helpless surrender to being used in exactly the way she’d demanded.
When he pulled off with a wet pop, her clit was a shiny, overworked thing, twitching in the cool air. “Such a responsive little cock,” he praised, his voice rough. He reached for the velvet glove suggested in number twenty.
The touch was agony. The soft, plush fabric was a thousand times more intense than any rough handling. The slightest stroke was a scalding brand of hypersensitivity. She screamed, a raw, broken sound, as he lazily palmed her, a cruel, gentle friction that was somehow worse than the strap.
“Please, no more, I can’t, I can’t…” she begged, but her body betrayed her, hips stuttering up into the touch.
“You can,” Ben corrected, his voice low and certain. He leaned close, his lips by her ear as the velvet continued its torture. “You will. Because you’re a cockslut. And this is what you’re for. The night is long, Maggie. The reservoir is only at eighty percent.”
He dipped a finger in the honey, suggestion three, and began to slowly, so slowly, drizzle it onto her quivering flesh.
The honey was warm, obscenely slow as it trailed over the burning, velvet-abused skin. It pooled in the swollen cleft beneath her glans, a viscous, golden weight. The sweetness in the air clashed with the scents of sweat, silicon, and her own spent arousal.
“They want more,” Maggie slurred, her voice stripped raw. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, rolled toward the glowing chat screen. Its endless scroll was the only scripture she could now comprehend. “The chat… Ben, the chat knows what this cockslut needs. Ask them… ask them how to really ruin me.”
Ben smiled, wiping the honey from his finger onto her inner thigh. “Still hungry? Even now?” He traced the straining column of her clit, feeling the frantic pulse beneath the surface. “You’re an insatiable fucking pig, aren’t you?”
“Yes! God, yes!” Her head thrashed side to side. “I wanna come from their words. I wanna be their idea. Please.”
He turned back to the monitor, his fingers flying across the keyboard to pin a new prompt. “You heard the beast. She wants your brains to break her body. Twenty more. No permanent damage. Just clever, cruel torment to make her fill this.” He tapped the large reservoir, now showing eighty-five percent. “Actually, let’s make this interesting.” He crossed to a cabinet, withdrew a larger, auxiliary glass cylinder, and connected it to the primary with a swift click. “There. Now she has to fill this too. More time. More suggestions. Go.”
The feed exploded anew. Ben read them aloud, his voice a steady, narrating drone against the backdrop of the throne’s mechanical grind.
“‘Tape a line of those tiny, snapping party poppers along her shaft and set them off one by one.’ ‘Inject a syringe of warm saline just under the skin of her hood, make a little bubble, then slap it.’ ‘Use a pet grooming brush—the wire kind—on it, gentle then hard.’ ‘Clamp her labia wide open with speculum forceps, expose everything, then dab tiger balm inside her actual cunt hole.’ ‘Screw a small, lightweight bolt onto her piercing ring and make her shake to hear it rattle.’ ‘Press a wide, flat ice pack against her whole mound until she goes numb, then hit her with the wand.’ ‘Put a weighted fishing sinker on a string and hang it from her clit, make her hold it up with her muscles.’ ‘Run an electric toothbrush over the frenulum, back and forth, non-stop.’ ‘Paint her clit with edible gold leaf so it looks like a tiny trophy, then defile it.’ ‘Insert a sound—a thin, cold metal rod—into her piss slit, just a little, just for the feeling of invasion.’ ‘Hook a small tens pad to each lip of her cunt, so every clench gets a buzz.’ ‘Put her in a vacuum bed with just her cock and holes exposed, then torment only what’s out.’ ‘Drip liquid latex over it, let it dry, then peel it off like a second skin.’ ‘Fuck her ass with a textured, electric dildo while you milk her.’ ‘Strap a fcking Magic Wand to the throne’s arm so the head is pressed directly on her glans, no escape.’ ‘Finally, make her thank every donor by name while she’s coming.’”
Maggie wept openly, a twisted smile on her lips. Every suggestion was a key turning in a lock deep in her degrading mind. “The wand,” she grunted, her hips straining. “The big one. On the head. Do it. Let them see my big cock head get fucked stupid by a machine.”
“Impatient,” Ben chided, but he was already moving. He retrieved the heavy, corded wand, its humming bulk familiar in his hand. He slathered the head with clear, cold gel.
He didn’t hold it. Instead, he used a complex arrangement of adjustable straps and rigging cable from the throne’s own framework. He fashioned a cruel harness, locking the buzzing head directly against the honey-smeared, swollen crown of her clit. The pressure was immediate and profound, a deep, monumental vibration that seemed to resonate in her teeth.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. The wand was a brutal, unrelenting monument to her demand. “Your big cock head is going to live under this until both reservoirs are full. It’s going to get tortured into submission. It’s going to feed the machine until it has nothing left. You love that, don’t you?”
“I love it! I’m a cockslut, I’m your cockslut!” she chanted, the mantra the only coherent thought left as the vibration began its systemic dismantling of her nervous system. It blurred the line between pleasure and a kind of seismic, neurological agony.
Ben, energized by the chat’s creativity, began to implement a rapid-fire selection. He started with the weighted sinker, tying it to her piercing. The tiny, cold weight pulled at the already tortured flesh, a constant, dragging ache beneath the volcanic rumble of the wand. He took the wire pet brush and dragged it lightly, then with more force, up the shuddering shaft. The fine wires scraped, a thousand tiny, pointed sensations that made her shriek.
He moved to her cunt, clamped wide by the speculum forceps. The cold steel held her open, exposing the pink, clenching interior around the spiraling metal dildo. He took the jar of tiger balm, dipped a cotton swab, and with horrifying precision, dabbed it just inside her entrance.
The heat was instant and catastrophic. It was a chemical fire, a seeping, intense burn that bloomed deep inside her, perfectly syncing with the deep, grinding rotation and the insane vibration on her clit. Her scream was a ragged, continuous sound, her body convulsing against every restraint. The sensation wasn't localized; it was a chain reaction, the heat in her cunt amplifying the electric torture of her clit, which fed back into the searing stretch of her ass.
He picked up the electric toothbrush, switched it on, and held its buzzing head directly against the thin, sensitive strip of flesh where her clit met her hood. The high-pitched, focused buzz was a razor's edge on top of the wand’s jackhammer.
“Please, please, please,” she babbled, her words dissolving into nonsense, her eyes seeing only the blaze of sensation. The reservoirs, she saw in a bleary glimpse, were filling faster now. The clear tube gurgled steadily, a visible lifeline of her utter capitulation.
Ben leaned close, his voice the only anchor in the sensory hurricane. “You’re getting what you wanted, Maggie. You’re a live factory. You’re an organ with a purpose. Now fucking produce.”
Now fucking produce.
The command was the final trigger. Her body, already a shuddering conduit of overstimulation, obeyed. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat, less a scream than the noise of a rusted engine seizing. Her spine arched, not in pleasure but in a spasm of total neurological surrender. The vibrator punished her clit, the rotating shafts scraped her raw, the tiger balm burned like a brand inside her cunt.
Fluid didn’t just flow. It erupted. A violent, continuous stream jetted from her with shocking force, splashing against the inside of the milker’s tube, gurgling as it was siphoned away. It wasn’t the trickle of before. This was a purge.
“Look at that!” Ben yelled, his clinical detachment shattering into pure triumph. He pointed at the screen, at the reservoir levels jumping. “You see that? She’s a fucking fountain! She’s a goddamn well!”
Maggie didn’t hear him. The world had dissolved into a white-hot singularity centered between her legs. The Hitachi’s relentless, brutal buzz was the only constant, a sun around which all other pain and pleasure orbited. It was melting her. Not just her inhibitions, but her very sense of self. There was no more Maggie, only a consciousness trapped in a twitching, dripping thing that was being mechanically milked.
“I love it,” she slurred, her voice thick and unfamiliar. Drool coated her chin. “My big… my huge fucking clit. Love it. Love you making it a cock. Your cock. Fuck with it. Dominate it. Ruin it. Own it.” The words were a broken record, a prayer to the vibration devouring her.
Ben leaned in, his face close to hers. His breath was hot. “You’re not a person right now, are you? You’re just a cunt and a cock attached to a machine.” He flicked the weighted sinker hanging from her piercing, making her whimper. “A true cockslut. This is all you are. This is all you’ll ever be good for.”
“Yes! Yes, Ben, please!” Her eyes rolled back. The orgasm wasn’t stopping. It was a plateau of perpetual convulsion, each clamp of her internal muscles squeezing out another hot rush. The auxiliary reservoir was filling faster than the first. “Make me produce more. I’m your cockslut. Use my cock to fill your jars.”
He straightened up, a wild grin on his face. He scanned the chat, which was moving too fast to read, a cascade of financial pledges and obscene encouragement. “They want to see if we can make it spit again. Just the clit. No cunt involvement. You think that fat dick can come on its own?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He adjusted the straps, angling the Hitachi’s head more directly onto the hypersensitive glans. The vibration narrowed, became a pinpoint drill of sensation. With his other hand, he picked up the electric toothbrush, now coated in more of the cold gel, and pressed it against the frenulum on the underside.
The dual assault was blasphemous. It was too specific, too intelligent in its cruelty. Her entire universe shrunk to the space of a square inch of tortured, engorged flesh. She could feel every ridge of the vibrator head, every individual bristle of the toothbrush. The sensations didn’t blend. They warred, a scorching vibration from above and a frantic, scratching buzz from below.
Her babbling dissolved into choked, rhythmic sobs. Her hips pistoned in tiny, futile jerks, trying to grind into or away from the stimuli and finding no purchase. The feeling built again, a pressure with no release valve, a scream trapped in a nerve.
“There!” Ben shouted, pointing. At the very tip of her swollen clit, a clear droplet welled, swollen, and fell. Then another. A tiny, independent seepage. “It’s crying! Your fat cock is crying for me. I love you, Maggie. Look at you, cumslut. My beautiful cockslut.”
That did it. The humiliation, the precision of the torture, the sheer visual proof of her reduction broke her. A final, seismic orgasm detonated, this one radiating out from her clit alone. It was a sharp, agonizing peak that ripped a shredded scream from her lungs. Her body went rigid as a board, every muscle locked, while her clit visibly pulsed and released another weak, pathetic stream of fluid that was greedily sucked away.
The Hitachi buzzed on, unabated. The throne’s arms continued their slow, grinding rotation. The reservoirs were nearly full. Maggie hung in the restraints, utterly spent, a hollowed-out vessel. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Tiny aftershocks twitched through her, each one wringing a final drop from her.
Ben watched the last of the fluid drip into the secondary cylinder. He reached over and, with a soft click, turned the Hitachi off.
The silence was a physical shock. The absence of the all-consuming buzz was louder than the noise had been. Maggie went limp, a puppet with cut strings. The only sounds were her ragged, wet breaths and the quiet hum of the throne’s mechanics.
He began to disengage the machinery. The clamps came off. The weighted string was removed. He carefully detached the milker. Her clit, released, was a shocking sight: a dark, purpled, wet lump of flesh, twitching sporadically like a dying animal. He undid the hip seal, the cool air hitting her sweat-slicked skin making her gasp.
Finally, he retracted the spiraled arms from her cunt and ass. The sensation of emptiness was profound, a yawning hollowness that felt colder than the metal had been. She was numb and raw simultaneously.
Ben didn’t speak. He simply gathered her, restraints and all, into his arms. He carried her the few steps to the bed, laying her down on the cool silk. He fetched a warm, damp cloth and began to clean her with a surprising, methodical gentleness, wiping away the honey, the sweat, the traces of fluid.
Maggie stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t form a thought. Her body was a foreign country, a ravaged landscape. She felt his hands, practical and careful, and a single, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path through the grime on her temple.
He finished, pulled a light sheet over her, and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the two full reservoirs, gleaming under the lamplight. Then he looked back at her shattered face.
“Ninety-six thousand dollars,” he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “In six hours. Just from the live stream. The Vod sale and clips will triple that.” He reached out, not touching her, just letting his hand hover near her cheek. “You produced.”
She blinked slowly. A shaky, breathy sound escaped her, not a word, but an acknowledgement. Her hand, trembling violently, moved from under the sheet. It didn’t reach for him. It drifted down between her own legs, her fingers gingerly, instinctively, seeking the throbbing, ruined flesh he had turned into a product.
Ben watched her explore her own devastation. He finally smiled, a real smile that touched his eyes. “Get some rest, cockslut,” he whispered. “I’ve got ideas for the next stream. Chat wants to see you fucked by the Aethelred while wearing a custom sheath. Something that’ll make your clit even bigger. Something you can never take off. I love you, princess. Let's make your clit cock the most beautiful thing.”