Chapter 28: Clit Crucifix
Ben’s grin vanished, replaced by a focused, predatory calm. “Operational parameters accepted,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, instructional murmur. He released her jaw and took a step back, his eyes scanning her body as if it were a schematic. “Present them. Now.”
Maggie’s breath hitched. She brought her hands to her breasts, pushing them together, squeezing until the soft flesh swelled and her pink nipples pebbled into tight buds against the cool air. The pose was deliberately obscene, a self-objectification that sent a fresh, sharp thrill through her.
“Good,” Ben said, not touching her yet. He walked to his workbench, a chaotic altar of cables and silicon. He returned with a small, familiar item: the black silicone sheath. He rolled it onto her throbbing clit with practiced efficiency, the tight compression making her gasp. It framed the glans, a dark corona around the purple, weeping tip. “Protection and focus. We don’t want any unnecessary damage to the shaft. Not for this experiment.”
He then fetched something new. It was a harness, but unlike the suspension ropes. This was made of sleek, medical-grade straps and adjustable buckles. At its center, where it would sit against her pubic bone, was a rigid, open ring. “The Clit Crucifix,” he said, the name flat, technical. “My first prototype for the new network. It doesn’t just expose, Maggie. It isolates. It presents.”
He guided her hands, still clutching her breasts, to hold them steady. Then he began fastening the harness around her hips and thighs. It was snug, unforgiving. He guided her engorged, sheathed length through the central ring. The effect was immediate and profound. The ring held her clit rigidly outward, pulling it slightly away from her body, suspending it in a state of permanent, vulnerable erection. She couldn’t retract it, couldn’t hide it. It jutted out, a fat, black-sheathed spear aimed at her own chin.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the vulnerability so total it stole her defiance for a moment.
“Engine presented,” Ben confirmed, stepping back to admire his work. “Now for the stimulus.”
He didn’t spank her. Instead, he produced two small, sticky pads trailing thin wires. Electrodes. “For the network. We need baseline data on glans response.” He peeled the backing off one and placed it with terrifying precision directly on the exposed tip of her clit. The adhesive was cold, the slight pressure agonizingly sensitive. He placed the second on the frenulum, the delicate underside where the shaft met the head.
A wireless controller was in his hand. “Level one. A gentle wave pattern.” He thumbed a button.
A current, sharp and clean, lanced through her. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was a bright, buzzing violation, a hummingbird’s wing beating directly on the core of her nerve. Her knees buckled, but the harness held her upright. A broken cry tore from her throat.
“Sensitive,” Ben observed, his eyes on her face, then flicking down to where her clit twitched violently in its ring. “Good. Data point logged.” He looked at her breasts, still pressed together by her own hands. “Now, implement the manual override. Jack your cock.”
Her hands trembled as she moved them. One stayed, pinching a nipple roughly, the other wrapped around the sheathed, imprisoned length of her clit. Her own touch felt alien, electric. She began to stroke, the silicone smooth under her palm, the rigid ring forcing her into a short, inefficient jerks.
She began to stroke, the silicone smooth under her palm, the rigid ring forcing her into short, inefficient jerks. Each tug sent the electrode's current sizzling straight into her core, a bright, nasty shock that made her toes curl against the floor. "Ben, please," she whimpered, her hand slowing as the overwhelming sensitivity threatened to short-circuit her motions.
He glanced at the large monitor lighting up the far wall, a flood of rapid-fire text from their live stream. "The audience is enthusiastic. They're compiling a list," he said, his voice detached as he scanned the scrolling feed. "Thirty concepts, ripped right from underground hentai forums and anime lore. Consider it creative direction." He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to her trapped, throbbing flesh. "While we wait for your little dick to harden up fully for its debut."
"Tentacle-milking attachment for the glans," he read aloud, his tone flat and instructional. "Forced ahegao triggered by specific decibel levels. Hypnosis files to induce the illusion of endless genital growth." The words hung in the air, vile and tantalizing. Maggie's strokes grew more determined, her fist pumping the sheathed shaft as her clit swelled further against the unyielding ring, thickening under her own touch.
"Electrical stimulation paired with narrative pornographic audio. Inflatable sleeve for the clit to mimic throat-fucking sensations." Ben knelt before her, his eyes on the screen, then on her. "Double anal penetration with synchronized clit-spanking pistons. A suction cup designed to pull the urethra slightly open." Her breath came in ragged hitches; each idea was a door kicked open in a dark corridor of her mind.
He listed more, relentless. "Taste-conditioning where orgasm is denied until she begs for a specific filthy word. Nipple clamps that administer shocks when the clit is touched. A full-body restraint that only allows movement to masturbate." Maggie's face began to slacken, her jaw unhinging as pleasure and psychological violation merged. Her green eyes lost focus, gazing past Ben at the relentless chat scroll.
"Predicament bondage where struggling tightens a cord around the clit's base. Cryogenically chilled lube followed by heated wax drips on the glans." Ben's hand came up and wrapped around hers on her shaft, forcing a faster, rougher rhythm. The ahegao fully claimed her features—eyes rolled back, mouth agape in a silent scream, tongue lolling thick and wet over her bottom lip.
"Sounding with weighted rods that vibrate. Lactation induction fantasy coupled with a milker for her cunt. Orgasm torture through edging algorithms that learn her tells." Ben leaned in, his breath hot on the exposed tip. "They want a demonstration. They want to see this fat fucking clit-head worshipped."
He opened his mouth and swallowed the swollen, purple crown, his lips sealing tight just below the electrode pad. The wet, sucking heat was an electric shock all its own. Maggie gasped, her hand jacking harder as Ben's tongue lashed the sensitive slit. He sucked with deep, greedy pulls, his cheeks hollowing, the obscene slurping noise filling the room.
"Fuck, your clit tastes like fucking victory and pre-cum," he mumbled, the vibrations shooting straight up her shaft. The chat kept scrolling beside them: "Pussy-free chastity with clit-only access. Simulated gangbang via surround-sound and programmed toys. Permanent marker used to label her parts for the audience."
Her hips strained, a futile attempt to fuck his face, but the crucifix harness held her rigid. Saliva dripped from Ben's chin onto her trembling thighs. He released her with a pop, his eyes glazed with lust. "They're suggesting I suck it clean while you make yourself come on it. Then start over."
He dove back down, taking her entire exposed head back into his mouth, suckling fiercely like a man starving. Maggie's hand became a frantic piston, her knuckles white, the silicone sheath rasping against her palm. The ahegao face locked in, a mask of mindless ecstasy, as the final ideas flashed: "Chemical arousal gel applied intra-urethrally. Toy cuckolding with machine performance comparisons. Full sensory deprivation except for clit stimulus."
The combination was too much. His mouth, her hand, the cruel ideas tattooing her brain—it all coalesced into a white-hot point of rupture. Her body seized, back arching impossibly against the harness. A thin, sharp cry tore from her throat as her clit erupted in Ben's mouth, a bitter, salty gush that he swallowed convulsively.
He kept sucking, milking her through the shuddering waves until she went limp, held up only by the straps. Ben pulled away, breathing heavily, her spend glistening on his lips. He looked at the monitor, then at her destroyed, blissful face.
"Baseline established," he said, his voice rough. "The network now has thirty new protocols to simulate." He began unbuckling the crucifix, his fingers deft and impersonal. "Tomorrow, we wire in the first one. See how deep this rabbit hole goes."
He released the final buckle, and her freed clit, slick with spit and her own release, slapped heavily against her thigh. Maggie didn’t collapse. She stayed upright, her spine wired with a new, buzzing purpose. The electrode pads were still adhered to her glans, tiny dead leaves on a purple plum.
“The list,” she said, her voice hoarse but clear. She pointed a trembling finger at the monitor, where the chat still scrolled. “I want it. All of it. I want to record my favorites.”
Ben watched her, a slow appreciation dawning in his eyes. He fetched a small digital recorder from the workbench, its red light a single, unblinking eye. He handed it to her. “Narrate.”
Maggie took the device, her thumb finding the record button. She pressed it and brought it to her lips, her gaze fixed on the scrolling text. She began to speak, her tone shifting from broken slut to eager curator.
“The double anal, with the mechanical spankers for my clit. That’s a primary objective. The narrative audio, where a story stimulates specific, timed patterns of electricity. I want that.” Her breath hitched as she read further. “The hypnosis files to make me believe it’s growing, permanently. Eleven inches. Yes. The forced ahegao protocols, tying my facial expressions to the orgasm cycles. All the forced orgasms. Especially that.”
She paused, licking her dry lips. Her other hand drifted down to her swollen flesh, fingertips skirting the edge of the electrode. “The glans needs dedicated milking. A specialized suction. The urethra… pulled open. That’s new. Sounds… stuffed inside while I’m being fucked in the ass with the biggest possible toy. And Ben… fisting my pussy while it happens. I want that logged.”
Ben nodded, his fingers already tapping at a tablet, entering her choices into a project file.
Maggie continued, her voice dropping, becoming more visceral. “Predicament bondage. So the struggle tugs on my clit. Makes me move to make it worse. Lactation induction fantasy, paired with the milker. Being gangbanged by every toy in the rack while someone just… jerks my clit-cock off. Tattooing the tip. Not with ink. With a needle, just the vibration, the sensation, to make me squirt my fucking brains out.”
She looked up from the screen, directly at Ben, her green eyes blazing. “The injection. To make it permanent. To make it grow. Then the massive stimulus to make me squirt all over myself until I’m empty.” She released the record button. The room was silent except for the hum of computers. “Those are my favorites. Ask them for more. In those veins. I want the full spectrum.”
A genuine, almost boyish smile touched Ben’s lips. He turned to the camera. “You heard her. Dig deeper. The more architecturally complex, the better.” He looked back at Maggie, his gaze settling on the electrodes. “While they brainstorm, we can prototype one. A simple fusion. The double anal with clit spankers. We have the assets.”
He didn’t ask. He moved. He guided her, her legs still unsteady, back toward the throne. He didn’t buckle her into the main seat. Instead, he bent her over its polished arm, her cheek pressed against the cool leather, her ass presented high. He fastened broad cuffs around her ankles and wrists, tethering them to strategic points on the frame, splaying her open.
From the rack, he selected two toys. The first was a long, brutal black silicone dildo, thick as Ben’s wrist, its surface ridged with unforgiving spirals. The second was shorter, thicker, a smooth obsidian pillar. He coated both in a clear, viscous lube that smelled of aloe and chemicals.
“The biggest cock,” he murmured, aligning the spiraled monster with her asshole. “And a substantial plug for variety.” He pressed the smooth pillar against her other, tighter entrance. “Breathe out.”
Maggie exhaled sharply, pushing her hips back in instinctual offering. He pushed both, slowly, insidiously, at the same time. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking, a burning fullness that yawned open deep in her pelvis. Her cunt, ignored and empty, clenched wildly around nothing. A choked, guttural sound was forced from her lungs as he seated both toys to their bases, the twin knots of their flared ends locking her impossibly open.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted into the leather, her body vibrating with the shock of the double invasion.
Ben attached the modules. Two mechanical arms, equipped with broad, flexible paddles, whirred into position on either side of her crucified clit. He synced them to a handheld remote. “Randomized rhythm, intensity linked to your vocal decibels. Scream, and they hit harder.”
He pressed a button.
Thwack.
The first paddle struck the left side of her swollen glans, a sharp, stunning slap. The electrode erupted with a corresponding sizzle of pain-pleasure current.
Thwack-thwack.
Two rapid hits from the right, then the left again. A chaotic, percussive torture. Her body jolted against the restraints with each impact, which drove the massive toys deeper into her ass. The feedback loop was instant, vicious, and perfect.
“Oh god, it’s too much, it’s—” she screamed.
The paddles reacted, their next blows heavier, meatier, smacking into her tender flesh with wet, punishing cracks. The current flared, a white-hot brand on her nerves. Her vision sparked. Her hips began to move in frantic, tiny circles, a helpless attempt to accommodate the overwhelming fullness, each motion tugging her trapped, beaten clit against its cruel harness.
“The glans is reddening beautifully,” Ben observed, his voice clinical beside her ear. He wasn’t touching her. He was just watching, remote in hand, a conductor. “Milk is already beading at the slit. The system is functioning. Chat is proposing subcutaneous insertions next. Biocompatible beads under the skin of your labia, to permanently alter the texture.”
Maggie couldn’t form words. She could only groan, a continuous, ragged sound that fed the machine’s violence. The spankers fell into a frenzied, unpredictable rhythm, a storm of slaps and sparks. Her ass was a cavern of relentless, stretching pressure. Her clit was a raw, throbbing heart being beaten outside her body.
An orgasm gathered, not from pleasure, but from sheer systemic overload—a catastrophic failure of her senses. It tore through her with the sound of ripping fabric, a dry, screaming climax that locked her muscles and emptied her lungs in a silent shriek. Fluid, thin and clear, jetted from her urethra in a weak, pulsing arc, spattering the floor beneath the throne.
The spankers stopped. The current ceased. The sudden silence was a physical void.
Ben gently removed the toys, the slow withdrawal almost as intense as their insertion. He unfastened her cuffs. She slumped into his arms, a vessel of used, trembling nerve-endings. He carried her to the bed, laying her down.
On the monitor, the chat was a frenzy of new, escalating ideas: subdermal haptic motors, remote control by subscribers, electrical induction of lactation hormones, a speculum for the clit hood, scheduled denial enforced by smart locks.
Maggie turned her head, looking at the screen. She smiled, a faint, blissful curve of her bruised lips. “Tell them,” she whispered, her hand finding Ben’s. “Tell them to keep going.”