Chapter 37: Throat-Filled Obedience
A week of tenderness had passed, a strange and quiet interlude where Ben brought her tea and rubbed her feet, where they talked logistics for her upcoming collab with a European studio, where he fixed a bug in her subscriber portal. It was a grounding, a necessary breath. But the hunger beneath it never left. It simmered, a low heat in Maggie’s belly and a constant, throbbing awareness between her legs. Her clit, even at rest, felt heavy and significant, a perpetual reminder of its altered state.
Now, that simmer had reached a boil.
She was on her knees in the middle of the room, but not on the floor. A custom-built padded bench supported her shins and thighs, tilting her pelvis forward. Her arms were drawn behind her and cuffed to a horizontal bar, forcing her chest out, her back into a deep, vulnerable arch. A wide leather strap across the small of her back kept her locked in place. But the true genius—and agony—of the rig was the head harness.
It was a framework of padded straps and adjustable metal arms that cradled her skull, completely immobilizing it. From a bracket between her breasts, a vertical pole rose. At its top, another adjustable arm extended outward, ending in a soft, open ring. Ben’s hands were there now, his touch focused, his engineer’s mind in total control.
“Just a little lower, sweetheart,” he murmured, his fingers gentle on the heated, iron-weight of her erection. He guided the dripping, purple head of her clit through the ring. It held it there, perfectly aligned with her mouth. Then he carefully adjusted the angle of the overhead arm, bringing the ring—and her own massive, leaking cock—closer to her face.
“Open wide, Maggie. Let’s see you take the tip.”
She obeyed, her jaw unhinging, a low groan vibrating in her chest. The familiar, musky-sweet scent of her own pre-cum filled her nostrils. The swollen crown pressed against her lips, leaving a slick smear. With a tiny, helpless flick of her tongue, she tasted herself—salty, electric.
“That’s it. Now, the rig does the work. Your job is to take it. To swallow.”
He stepped back, surveying his creation. From her position, Maggie could only see the wall. Ben picked up a tablet, tapped it, and with a soft whir, two large, ultra-thin monitors descended from the ceiling on silent arms, positioning themselves at her left and right. They flickered to life.
On them, from multiple angles fed by discreet cameras in the room, she saw herself. The brutal, beautiful geometry of her bondage. The dramatic arch of her spine, the jutting of her bound breasts with their nipples already pebbled and tight. And her face, eyes wide and hungry, mouth stretched obscenely around the thick, veined base of her own sex. The image was so visceral, so profoundly shocking, that a fresh gush of fluid welled from her clit’s slit and trickled down its length towards her waiting tongue.
“Watch yourself, Magpie,” Ben said, his voice taking on that dark, instructional tone. “Watch what a desperate, cock-hungry slut you are. You see that? You’re dripping just from the sight of your own fuckpole. Now… let’s feed it to you.”
He tapped the tablet.
The mechanism holding the ring hummed. Slowly, inexorably, it began to push forward.
The head of her clit pressed past her lips, over her tongue. She gagged immediately, a reflex that shuddered through her entire suspended body. The monitors showed her eyes watering, the strain in her neck.
“Breathe through your nose,” Ben instructed, pacing slowly around her, watching both the real thing and the screens. “Look at that, Maggie. Look at your throat.”
On the screen, a side-angle showed the bulge forming in her pale throat as the thick intruder breached the back of her mouth. It was a profound, animal violation. Her own body was fucking her face.
The mechanism pulled back slightly, letting her gasp a wet, ragged breath before pushing forward again, gaining an inch more. It wasn’t fast. It was punishingly slow, allowing her to feel every millimeter of progression, every ridge and pulse of her own monstrous erection.
“Fuck yeah,” Ben breathed, crouching to watch her profile. “Look at that throat swallowing its own cock. You’re deep-throating yourself, you filthy, brilliant girl. That’s your fucking DNA you’re choking on. Your own goddamn essence.”
He was right. A continuous stream of her pre-cum was leaking from the slit, coating her tongue, her palate, trickling down her throat. She had to swallow or drown in it. Each gulp pushed the salty, slick fluid down, a relentless, auto-erotic feedback loop.
The mechanism reset, pulled back to the tip, then thrust forward again, harder. This time, it didn’t stop at her gag reflex. It pushed through it, forcing the solid, fleshy crown into her esophagus.
Glllk. The sound was obscene. Her body convulsed, her hips straining against the strap. On the screens, her face was a masterpiece of conflicted ecstasy—eyes screwed shut, tears tracking through her blush, mouth stretched to its limit around the girth of her.
“Open your eyes!” Ben commanded. “Watch!”
She forced them open, her gaze locking on the screen directly ahead. There she was, throat visibly distended by the shape of her own clit. The sight, combined with the unbearable, stretching fullness in her throat, sent a cataclysmic shock of pleasure to her core. Her pussy wept, a sudden warm drip she felt on the bench beneath her.
The machine began a rhythm. A slow, deliberate, fuck of her face. In, stretching her throat, making her gag and eyes bulge. Out, letting her rasp a breath streaked with her own flavor. In again, deeper, harder.
Ben narrated it, his voice hoarse with arousal. “Yeah, throat that big dick, Maggie. Gag on it. Feel it? That’s you. That’s all you. That’s the monster you built because you needed a cock to suck. And now you’ve got one, permanently attached. You can suck yourself anytime. You can fuck your own face. Look at it leaking! It’s loving this! It’s spraying your guts with your own girl-cum.”
She was babbling, a continuous, wet, “uhn-guh-uhn-guh” sound around the relentless thrusts. Drool and pre-cum slicked her chin and chest. The intimacy of it was shattered by the clinical, mirrored perspective of the screens. She was both subject and object, the one fucking and the one being fucked. It was the ultimate expression of her narcissistic exhibitionism, and it was unravelling her.
Seeing her own throat bulge on screen, Ben moved closer. “You want it deeper, don’t you? You want to feel it in your belly.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He placed a hand on the back of the head harness, and as the machine pushed forward, he added his own gentle pressure.
The effect was electric. The crown of her clit passed a new ring of muscle, sinking into a deeper, tighter channel of her throat. The bulge in her neck traveled lower. Her vision sparkled. The sounds she made were purely animal, desperate gurgles of submission.
“There,” Ben hissed, his face close to hers, watching her pupils blow wide. “There it is. Took it all. Your own fuckpole is down your throat."
The machine held her there, impaled on herself, for ten brutal seconds. Her throat fluttered wildly around the intrusion, a desperate, involuntary milking that sent corresponding bolts of lightning straight to her soaked cunt. Ben watched the monitor, mesmerized by the biological feedback loop on display. “Look at that,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Your throat’s trying to suck you off. It doesn’t even know the difference anymore.”
Then the mechanism retracted, pulling the slick, veined length of her clit back into the cool air with a wet pop. She dragged in a shuddering, ragged breath that was half-sob, her mouth hanging open, drool webbing her chin to her chest. “Please, Ben, more,” she slurred, the words garbled by her abused throat.
“Oh, there’s more,” he assured her, his voice shifting from awe to focused intensity. He moved to a small table holding the rest of tonight’s instruments. “Deep-throating yourself is just the appetizer, Maggie. Now we feed the rest of the machine.”
First were the clamps. He lifted the familiar, brutal silver clovers, their bite waiting. He attached them to her stretched, crimson nipples, one after the other. The sharp, crystalline pain made her back bow against the restraints, a hiss escaping her. But these weren’t standalone. From each clamp, a thin, flexible tube extended. And at the end of each tube was a small, bulbous silicone tip, glistening with lubricant.
“These aren’t for milk tonight, baby,” Ben said, his fingers trailing down the tubes. “These are for fucking.” He carefully guided the first silicone tip to the tiny, puckered opening at the zenith of her stretched nipple. With a soft, relentless pressure, he began to feed it in.
It was an impossible sensation. The clamp stretched her nipple outward, making the central duct impossibly taut, a tiny, tight bullseye. The invading tip, no wider than a drinking straw but unnervingly solid, pressed against that hyper-sensitive portal and pushed. Maggie screamed, a raw, shocked sound. It wasn’t just pain; it was a profound, internal violation she hadn’t known was possible. The tip slid in an inch, then two, burying itself inside the milk duct itself.
Ben attached the second tip to her other nipple, working it in with the same meticulous, merciless care. Once both were seated deep inside her, he connected the tubes to a compact, black machine on the floor. It hummed to life, a low, sinister thrum.
“Now, your main course,” he murmured, stepping between her splayed, elevated thighs. He was already hard, his cock swollen to an almost lurid thickness, the veins prominent. He’d injected the serum an hour ago; the specialized blend of chemicals and hormones designed to increase volume and potency now gave his erection a hot, heavy weight in his hand. He smeared the dripping head through her drenched folds, collecting her slickness, before positioning himself at her entrance.
He didn’t thrust. He tapped the tablet. “Let’s get the rhythm right.”
The machine at her nipples activated. With a sharp, precise pneumatic hiss, the small, embedded dildos pistoned forward, driving another fraction of an inch deeper into her ducts. Maggie shrieked, her body seizing. They retracted, then plunged again. A brutal, tiny fucking of her most intimate flesh.
On that exact beat, Ben slammed his serum-swollen cock into her pussy in one continuous, devastating stroke.
The dual invasion was synced, a hellish orchestra. The deep, full stretching of her cunt by his thick, urgent cock coincided perfectly with the sharp, internal spearing of her nipples. Her mind fragmented. She was being fucked in three places at once, each sensation feeding the others, a circuit of overwhelming violation.
“Yeah, Maggie, take it!” Ben grunted, already establishing the machine’s ruthless tempo, his hips slamming forward with each mechanical hiss. “Feel that? Your tits are getting fucked while I breed you. Your nipples are swallowing those little cocks just like your womb’s gonna swallow mine.”
He leaned over her, his breath hot on her ear, his thrusts never faltering. The head of his cock was a battering ram against her cervix, that tender gate now softened and receptive from relentless conditioning and her own feverish arousal. Each impact sent a jolt through her swollen clit, still jutting obscenely toward her face.
“And look at this greedy fuckstick of yours,” he growled, his hand reaching to grip the base of her clit. It was throbbing violently, a separate, desperate entity. “It’s so jealous. It wants to be the one flooding your throat. So let’s let it.”
He tapped the tablet again. The ring on the overhead arm adjusted, angling the weeping slit of her clit toward her open, panting mouth. From a port on its underside, a thin, medical-grade tube extended. With a soft click, a port on the corset-style sheath around her clit’s base connected to it.
A low, powerful hum started from a different machine. A milking pump.
It engaged with a deep, persistent suction directly on her engorged crown. The sensation was immediate and catastrophic. It wasn't like the clamps or the spankings. This was a deep, internal pull, hollowing her out from that supremely sensitive point. It triggered an orgasm instantly, a sharp, convulsive peak that made her pussy clamp like a vise around Ben’s pumping cock and her nipples gush a thin, clear fluid around the invading dildos.
But the machine didn’t stop. It
The milking suction tightened, pulling a thick, clear rope of pure Maggie straight up the tube from her clit’s pulsating slit. She watched it travel in the monitor's refection—a glistening strand of her own essence—before it arced down the secondary tube and into her waiting, gagging mouth. It hit the back of her throat, warm and slick and profoundly alien.
She had to swallow. Her throat convulsed around the intrusion of her own cock and the flood of her own cum. Gulp. It was salty, electric, a brutal feedback loop that made her eyes roll back. The pump pulled another thick load from her. Gulp. Another. "You're drinking yourself, you narcissistic slut," Ben panted, his balls slapping against her ass with each deep, rhythmic drive. "That’s your essence going right back where it came from. Fucking recycle it."
Her nipples were being ravaged. The tiny, buried dildos pistoned with mechanical precision, stretching her ducts into a new, full, unbearable shape. Each inward thrust was a sharp, bright lance of pleasure-pain that radiated straight to her clit and her womb. She loved it. This wasn't just sensation; it was a reorganization. "They're so deep, Ben," she sobbed around the fullness in her mouth, the words garbled.
"I know, baby. I'm stuffing them. Making room." His own breathing was becoming ragged, his thrusts losing their machined synergy and turning desperate, his cock swelling even further within her. The breeding serum was a live wire in his blood. "Gonna flood you. Gonna pump this cunt so full you'll slosh when you walk."
The milking pump worked in overdrive, making her clit spit its continuous stream down her throat. She was drowning in herself, swallowing convulsively, her belly starting to feel warm and sloshy with the sheer volume of it. Ben's pace became frenzied, a brutal, pounding staccato against her cervix. "You feel that head kissing your womb? It's knocking, Maggie. It's fucking knocking down the door."
"I want it! Please, I want it all!" she screamed, the sound choked, her body a bowstring pulled to snapping. The sensations fused—the deep nipple fucking, the throatful of her own cum, the ruthless stretching of her cunt. Her climax began as a tremor in her overfilled belly.
"Now! Squirt for me! Squirt down your own throat while I breed you!" He roared, his control shattering.
It triggered her. Her body convulsed, a seismic unlock. Her pussy didn't just clamp; it erupted. A hot, violent gush of fluid exploded from her around his pounding cock, soaking his balls, his thighs, the bench beneath them with a sound like a ruptured pipe. At the same moment, the milking pump wrenched another volley from her clit, and she choked on the double flow—her squirt soaking his sac, her clit-cum filling her mouth.
That sight—her choking on her own juices while drenching him—was his undoing. "Fuck! Taking it! Taking my seed!" His hips stuttered, then stilled, buried to the root. He pulsed.
It wasn't a normal orgasm. It was a geyser. The first thick, hot jet hit her cervix and she felt it, a distinct, internal splash. The second was heavier. The third seemed endless. He groaned, a gut-deep, animal sound of release, his body shaking with the force of it. "Yes! Filling you up! Ballooning that pretty fucking stomach!"
She could feel it, a spreading, molten warmth deep inside, the pressure building as he came and came, his cock twitching relentlessly, pumping her full. The sensation, combined with the brutal nipple fucking and the taste of herself, threw her into a second, harder climax. Her squirt became a continuous, helpless torrent, mixing with his flood inside her, all of it captured in high-definition on the monitors she could no longer focus on.
"Look at your belly," he grunted, his spasms subsiding. One hand slid down her trembling abdomen, pressing gently. There was a slight, firm prominance there, a subtle bloating from the sheer volume he'd deposited. "Feel that? That's me. Deep. That's promise."
He remained inside her, softening, as the machines finally whirred to a stop. The nipple dildos retracted with a wet, tender pop that made her whimper. The milking pump disengaged, leaving her clit throbbing and spent. The head harness released its hold, letting her limp head fall forward, strings of saliva and her own fluids connecting her to the slick, monstrous flesh now resting deflated against her chin.
He slowly pulled out. A gush of their combined release followed, warm and copious, dripping onto the bench. He uncuffed her hands, his touch shifting from dominance to care, rubbing circulation back into her wrists. He lowered the padding, gently laying her on her side on the ruined sheets, facing the monitors which now showed the aftermath: her glazed eyes, her cum-stained chin, the slight, telling swell low on her belly.
He curled behind her, his hand splayed possessively over that warmth. "Deep," he whispered again, his lips against her shoulder. "Got it so deep, Mags. You took every drop."
She hummed, a shattered, satisfied sound, her body humming with spent electricity. She pressed back against him, watching their mirrored, ruined forms on the screen until her eyes closed. The last thing she felt was the faint, profound pulse deep inside, and the ghost of a promise taking root.