Chapter 38: Clit Slut Confession
The leather cuffs were cool and definitive against her wrists. Maggie let out a shaky breath, the sound loud in the quiet room, as Ben tightened the final strap across the small of her back, securing her to the custom spanking bench. The polished wood pressed against her stomach, her ass presented high and open, but the real focus was lower. The bench’s design forced her hips forward, making her oversized, throbbing clit jut out obscenely into the empty air, a fat, plum-dark glans weeping a clear bead of slick onto the towel beneath. A monitor was angled to her left, a black mirror showing the live feed from the high-resolution camera mounted on a tripod behind Ben.
She was rigged. Ready.
“Red light’s on,” Ben said, his voice a low hum that wasn’t quite his everyday tech-advising tone. It was darker, edged with a possessive gravel that made her cunt clench. He moved into her line of sight, holding the leather paddle. It was simple, brutal, and well-oiled. “You consented to this. The full confessional. Remember?”
“Yes.” The word was a gasp. Anticipation was a live wire under her skin.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I consent. I want to tell them. I want to say it all.”
He smiled, a quick flash that didn’t reach his eyes, which were fixed on the swollen prize between her legs. “Good girl.” He trailed the cool edge of the paddle up her inner thigh, avoiding contact with her clit. The denial made her whimper. “Let’s start easy. What’s your name for that thing?”
She swallowed, her eyes flicking to the monitor where her own desperate face, her own massive erection, was displayed in glorious 4K. “My cock,” she whispered.
The paddle connected with a sharp, flat crack against her right ass cheek. The pain was bright, clean, a shockwave that rippled straight to her core. She cried out, back arching.
“Louder. For the subscribers.”
“My cock!” she yelled, the humiliation a sweet fuel. “It’s my fucking girl-cock!”
“Better.” He soothed the sting with his palm, a rough, circular massage. Then his fingers drifted forward, through her soaked folds, and he took her glans between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle, mocking squeeze. Pre-cum welled and dripped. “And what do you want them to know about it, Maggie? What’s the fantasy you’ve been too ashamed to type even in your secret journals?”
He released her and stepped back. The absence of touch was torture. The camera zoomed in with a faint whirr, the lens focusing on the intricate, angry-red veins mapping her shaft on the monitor. She was watching herself twitch. It was the most obscene thing she’d ever seen. It was everything.
“I…” She licked her lips. “I want to be in a bar. A dive bar. And I’m wearing a short skirt, no panties. And I… I pull it out. Right there on the stool.”
“Pull what out?”
“My clit. My big, fucking clit. I just pull my skirts up and it’s there, hard and huge, and I start stroking it. I want everyone to see. I want everyone to watch and tell me to jack my big cock. I want them to force me to cum."
Ben listened, his expression unreadable. He picked up the paddle again. “That’s a good start. A little tame, but honest.” He swung. Crack. This time on the left. The pain was deeper, a thunderclap that resonated in her bones. Her clit jumped, leaking another hot string of fluid. “But I think you can go filthier. I’ve seen your search history, remember? The machine gangbangs. The auto-cunnilingus. The futa forums you just look at.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “Tell them the really dirty one. The one that makes your fucking heart stop.”
Tears pricked her eyes. Not from pain, but from the exposure. He was right. He always knew. The camera was a thousand eyes, and Ben was their priest.
The camera was a thousand eyes, and Ben was their priest. His silence now was heavier than any question, a waiting void she had to fill with her own corruption. She stared at the monitor, at the glistening, vulnerable thing she had grown and adored and feared, and the last barrier within her shattered.
"I want it to be milked." The words tumbled out, raw and quiet. "Not by a person. By a machine. One of those clear-suction pumps for huge cocks. I want to be strapped down just like this, with my legs spread, and I want the tube fitted so tight over my clit-head that it hurts. I want to watch the pump turn on and see my glans get pulled in, see the suction make it purple and huge, see my own fucking pre-cum get sucked down the tube into a jar." Her breathing became ragged, shallow. "And I don’t want a choice. I want the timer set. I want to beg for it to stop and have the machine just keep sucking, milking me dry, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of me until I’m just a shaking animal hooked up to a fucking pump."
Ben’s hand smoothed over the hot, branded skin of her ass. "Now that’s the Maggie I know." His praise was a dark balm. His fingers left her skin and returned to her clit, not soothing, but claiming. He gripped the shaft, his fingers tight around the base, his thumb finding the dripping slit.
He began to work her, a ruthless, twisting jerk that was closer to a punishment than a pleasure. "Say it, you big clitslut," he growls, his fingers working her glans as she whimpers, the slick sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Tell the camera how much you love having your huge fuckpole abused. How you love every forced orgasm that makes your big clit shake and squirt. Watch yourself gape, cockslut," he murmurs, playing the live feed on a monitor where she can see her own clit twitch and leak under his brutal ministrations.
"I love it!" she screamed, the confession ripped from her throat. Her hips tried to buck against the bench’s restraint, a futile, beautiful struggle. "I love when it’s raw and used! I love when I can’t stop it! Fuck, Ben, please—"
"Please what?" He leaned into her field of vision, his own eyes flicking to the monitor, to the image of his hand mauling her sex. "Use your words. The camera needs audio."
"Please make me cum just from this! Just from spanking and pulling my clit! I need it! I need to squirt all over the lens!"
He let go of her abruptly.
The sudden loss of contact was a cruel shock. She sobbed, dropping her forehead against the cool wood. On the monitor, her clit pulsed, a frantic, needy heartbeat, swollen and shining under the lights.
She heard the rustle of his jeans, the clink of a belt buckle. Not the paddle. A different sound. When he stepped back into view, he held a short, heavy leather flogger, the falls thick and braided. He dragged the tips through the wet mess between her legs, soaking them. The smell of her own arousal, musky and sharp, filled her nostrils.
"For the subscribers," he said simply, his voice calm, almost conversational.
The first strike wasn't a crack. It was a thick, wet thud as the soaked leather landed directly across her engorged clitoral shaft.
The sensation was blinding—a white-hot burst of pure, agonizing stimulus that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with obliteration. Her entire body seized, a silent scream locked in her chest. Before she could process it, the second strike came, parallel to the first. A guttural roar tore from her lips.
"Watch it," Ben commanded, his voice steady over the sound of the blows. "Watch your own cock take it."
Tears blurred her vision, but she forced her eyes open, forced them to focus on the screen. The high-definition capture was merciless. She could see the leather distort the flesh of her clit, see the violent tremor that ran through it after each impact, see a clear jet of fluid not from her cunt, but from the tiny slit at the tip of her glans, piss or cum or something else entirely. The humiliation was absolute. The arousal was catastrophic.
Her world narrowed to the cycle: the wet impact, the seismic shock, the leaked proof on camera. Her cunt was a dripping fist, clenching around nothing, each strike on her clit sending painful, delicious spasms deep into her womb. She was babbling, a stream of "yes" and "more" and "thank you" and "my cock, my cock, my cock."
He stopped. The silence rang. She was shuddering, her clit a throbbing, bruised monument on the screen, glistening with spit and sweat and her own strange emissions.
She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock then, not at her pussy, but pressing against her ravaged clit, using it as a guide. He shoved himself into her cunt in one brutal, grounding thrust. The fullness was a relief, a homecoming. He buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping against her tender flesh.
He wrapped one hand in her fiery hair, yanking her head back to see the monitor. His other hand reached around and reclaimed her battered clit, pinching it hard.
"You see that?" he hissed in her ear, his hips beginning a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. On screen, his fingers were a vicious crown around her swollen sex, his own body moving in and out of her beneath it. "That’s your truth. That’s what you are. A crying, squirting, clit-addicted whore for the whole world to see." He fucked her harder, his pace losing all finesse. "And you’re gonna come for them. Right now. You’re gonna give them your filthy, forced orgasm. Aren’t you?"
She was nodding, helpless, her eyes glued to the degrading, beautiful proof of herself. "I am. I am, I am—"
The orgasm detonated not from her cunt, but from the ruined nerve-center he still tortured with his fingers. It ripped through her like shrapnel, a convulsing, endless wave that clamped her around his driving cock and made her clit pulse wildly in his grip, spitting its last bitter drops onto the towel below. She screamed, the sound torn and real, as the camera captured every twitch, every tear, every surrender. Ben followed with a final, deep snarl, his own release a hot flood inside her that the lens could only imagine.
He collapsed over her, the weight a familiar anchor. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint, persistent hum of the camera’s recording light, a tiny red eye in the dim room. The smell of sex was a physical presence—salt, skin, and the iron-rich scent of her own wetness mingling with the leather of the restraints.
His cock softened inside her, a gradual retreat that made her feel emptier than the bench’s constraints ever could. He carefully released her hair, his fingers untangling from the sweaty strands with an unexpected tenderness that contrasted violently with what they’d just done. He pulled out slowly.
A wet, spent sound followed. The feeling of his cum leaking from her, warmed by her own body, was a visceral footnote to the scene. On the monitor, the image was static: her bound form, the glistening mess between her legs, the slow trail of fluid on her inner thigh.
Ben moved. He didn’t immediately uncuff her. Instead, he walked around the bench, his steps soft on the creaking floor, and came to kneel in front of her. His face was level with her ravaged clit. He studied it, his expression unreadable. He reached out and with two fingers, collected the mixed fluids leaking from her and smeared them gently over the swollen, purpling flesh.
“Look at me, Maggie.” His voice was hoarse, used.
She lifted her head. Her green eyes were shattered glass.
“That was good content,” he said, and it was the tech advisor speaking, assessing. Then his thumb traced the edge of her glans, a feather-light touch that made her whole body flinch. “But you held back. At the end. I felt it.”
She shook her head, a weak denial. “I didn’t. I came. You felt it.”
“You came from the pain. From the overload. You gave the camera a performative seizure.” He leaned closer, his breath warm on her sensitive skin. “You didn’t give me the confession. The real one. The one that isn’t for them.” He gestured loosely toward the camera. “The one that’s just for us, here in this fucked-up little nest we’ve built.”
He cupped her entire pussy then, his palm a warm, shocking cradle over her labia, his fingers splayed up through her coarse red curls. It wasn’t a grip. It was a hold. Possessive, but shockingly gentle. “Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to something private, almost ruined. “And look at me while you do it.”
The sob came from a place deeper than any orgasm had reached. “I’m a clitslut.” The words were broken pottery in her throat. “I’m a big, fucking, addicted clitslut. This thing—” she tried to gesture, but the cuffs held her, “—it’s not a part of me. It is me. It’s my engine. My compass. It’s what I think about when I’m buying groceries, Ben. I look at zucchinis and I imagine them splitting me open.”
A tear tracked through the sweat on her temple. He watched it fall. His other hand came up, and he began to spank her clit. Not with the paddle’s violence, but with a rhythmic, open-palmed cadence. Spank. Spank. Spank. It was almost conversational. A punctuation to her words.
“I want you to want it as much as I do,” she gasped, the spanks sending bright, aching sparks through her exhausted nerves. “I don’t just want you to use it for the clicks. I want you to be hungry for it. To look at it and get so fucking hard you can’t think. I want you to need to hurt it and taste it and own it like I need to show it off. I want your horniness to be a mirror.”
Spank. Spank.
“I want you to be just as much of a pervert for my huge clit-cock as I am for taking whatever you give it.”
He stopped spanking. His hand, the one cupping her, shifted. Two fingers pressed up inside her, through the slippery mix of their cum, and curled. A soft, internal caress. His thumb resumed its rhythm on her glans, not spanking now, but rubbing tight, deliberate circles that made her see streaks of white light at the edges of her vision.
“Yeah?” he breathed. His pupils were black pools. A vein throbbed in his temple. He was still kneeling, but she could see the fresh, thick hardness of him now, jutting against his stomach. “You want me to be a fucking degenerate for this fat, huge, beautiful cock of yours?”
“Yes.” It was a plea.
“Then watch,” he growled.
He shifted his weight. Still cupping her pussy, holding her open, he guided himself with his other hand. He didn’t enter her. He pressed the broad, weeping head of his cock against her swollen clitoral shaft, pinning it against her pubic bone. A guttural sound ripped from him. He began to fuck it.
He fucked her clit.
His strokes were short, brutal, and filthy, his shaft grinding along the length of her engorged flesh, the friction unbearable and exquisite. Precum and her own fluids mixed, a slick, obscene lube for this blasphemous act.
“This what you want?” he choked out, his composure vaporized, his hips pumping like a animal’s. “You want me to lose my goddamn mind trying to get off on your horse dick?”
She couldn’t speak. She could only nod, her mouth agape, a silent scream of validation trapped in her chest. The sensation was impossible—a concentrated, universe-ending pressure on the very core of her being. He was making love to her. He was worshipping her.
His rhythm faltered. His loving, cradling hand tightened convulsively on her pussy. His other hand clamped on her hip, nails biting skin.
“I’m gonna… fuck… Maggie…”
His roar was raw, stripped of all performance. He slammed against her one final time, his body bowing, and she felt the hot, pulsing jet of his cum paint her stomach, her curls, her abused and trembling clit. The sight of him coming undone, purely from this, unlocked her own finish.
It was a quiet, deep, full-body convulsion that milked her own cunt around nothing and made her clit throb under the slick, cooling evidence of his need. She simply fell apart, held together only by the cuffs and the cradle of his hand.
He slumped forward, his forehead resting against her thigh, his breathing a wreck. The camera’s red light glowed, steady, capturing the aftermath of a different kind of truth.
The camera’s red light glowed, steady, capturing the aftermath of a different kind of truth.
Time stretched, thin and sticky. Ben’s breath cooled on her thigh. The weight of his head was an anchor. Maggie stared at the ceiling, her vision blurring the cracks in the plaster into river maps. Her clit was a dull, monstrous ache, a heartbeat separate from her own. She felt utterly ruined. She felt more real than she had in years.
Ben finally stirred. He pushed himself up, his movements sluggish. He didn’t look at her, not at first. He looked at the camera, then walked to it, his naked body moving with a spent grace. The red light winked out. The silence that followed was thicker, more private.
“I’ll get the wipes,” he said, his voice raspy. It was his regular voice, or nearly so. The gravel was gone.
He returned with a warm, damp cloth and a dry towel. He worked with a methodical care, cleaning the cooling spend from her stomach, her curls, the tender landscape of her sex. Each pass of the cloth was clinical, but his fingers, where they brushed her skin, weren’t. They trembled, just slightly.
“Uncuff me,” she whispered. It wasn’t a demand. It was a request, fragile as blown glass.
He nodded, fumbling with the buckles. The leather straps fell away. Blood rushed back into her wrists, a prickling flood. She tried to sit up, her muscles protesting, a symphony of delicious bruises. He caught her elbow, steadying her as she swung her legs off the bench, her feet finding the cool wood floor.
They stood there, naked and shaky in the lamp’s low light, not quite looking at each other. The spanking bench stood between them like a guilty secret. The air smelled of salt, sex, and the honest sweat of hard work.
“That last part…” Ben began, then ran a hand through his hair. “The… uh… the content. It’s unusable.”
Maggie looked at him. A laugh bubbled up, raw and unexpected. “What, you think the ‘fucking my girlfriend’s gigantic clit’ scene doesn’t have market appeal?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “The audio’s a mess. My dialogue was… subpar. Unprofessional.” He glanced at her, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. “It got a little real.”
She stepped around the bench, closing the distance. She placed her palm flat on his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart. “It was perfect.” She leaned her forehead against his collarbone. “Now I’m starving.”
They ordered greasy Chinese, eating straight from the containers cross-legged on the rumpled bed. The mundane act of scooping lo mein with chopsticks while nude, their bodies marked and tender, was its own kind of intimacy. The torn condom wrappers and discarded flogger were just part of the landscape.
“So,” Ben said around a mouthful of beef, pointing his chopstick at her. “The milking machine thing. You weren’t just riffing.”
She put her container down, the sweet and sour sauce suddenly cloying. Her pulse, which had finally settled, gave a hard thump. “No. I wasn’t riffing.”
“It’s feasible. Technically.” He was in engineer mode now, his eyes losing their haze, focusing on an invisible schematic. “The suction pumps designed for FTM guys post-metoidioplasty. They’re medical grade, variable pressure. We could modify the collection tube. Feed it into a clear reservoir.”
Maggie listened, her own hunger shifting, coiling lower in her gut. She watched his hands gesture, mapping the air. “You’ve already looked into it.”
“I did some cursory research after I saw your search history. Purely speculative.” He gave her a sideways look. “The synchronization is the real trick. We can’t just milk you. It’s not a static shot.”
“What do you mean?” She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them.
“Narrative,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Tension and release. It can’t just be a machine sucking on you. There has to be a why. A consequence. A… a countdown.” His eyes gleamed. “We pair it with a restraint system. Something that forces your head down. Makes you service your own clit while the pump works.”
The image was immediate and devastating. The special bondage rig from their last hardcore shoot came to mind, the one that had forced her to deepthroat her own flesh. This would be a refinement. A darker evolution. Her mouth watered.
“You deepthroat yourself,” Ben continued, his voice low, sketching the scene in the air between them. “The pump is timed. A ten-minute cycle, maybe. And if you don’t swallow everything the machine milks out of you by the time the cycle ends…” He trailed off, letting the horror linger.
“What?” The word was a breath.
“Then the milking continues. For another cycle. And another. Until you do. Until you drink every last drop of whatever your huge fucking clit produces. We could call it… ‘Accountability’.”
A sharp, shocking bolt of pure desire arced through her, tightening her nipples, making her swollen clit give a painful, eager throb against her thigh. It was horrifying. It was genius. It was everything she craved—the complete loss of control, the debasement, the mechanical, relentless focus on the very part of her she had grown into a fetish object.
“Jesus, Ben,” she breathed, her cunt clenching hot and empty.
He saw her reaction. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, the shy tech advisor completely gone, replaced by the co-author of her corruption. “You like that.”
“It’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.” He put his food aside and slid closer. He didn’t touch her sex. He put his hand on her jaw, tilting her face to his. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “But you want it. You want to be nothing but a massive clit and a mouth, with a machine deciding when you drown.”
She turned her head, taking his thumb into her mouth, sucking the taste of soy sauce and salt from his skin. She released it with a pop. “I want it. How soon can you build it?”
“I’ll start sourcing parts tomorrow.” His hand slid from her jaw, down her neck, over her collarbone, coming to rest, finally, on the aching swell of her breast. His touch was proprietary now, already thinking of how it would look in the new rig. “We’ll need a heavier bench. Anchors in the floor. The milking pump is easy. The real custom work is the oral restraint. It has to be adjustable. Precise.”
He was talking logistics, but his fingers found her nipple, pinching it just to the edge of pain. She arched into it, a soft gasp escaping her. The planning was foreplay. The schematic was a dirty promise.
“Next Saturday,” she said, the decision solidifying as she said it. “Shoot it next Saturday. I want a week to think about nothing else. To get so afraid of it I can’t sleep.”
Ben leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. His voice was a dark pledge. “You’ll dream of the taste of your own cum, Maggie. And you’ll beg for the machine to give it to you.”
He pushed her back onto the sheets, following her down. His kiss was hungry, but it wasn’t for her mouth. It was a seal on the pact. His hand slid between her legs, not to tease, but to claim, his fingers pushing into her wetness, measuring her readiness for what they had just conceived.
The empty food containers were forgotten. The camera was off. But in the shadows of the room, the future scene was already taking shape, more vivid than memory, a specter of gears, latex, and brutal, hydraulic truth.