Chapter 46: The Double Clit Torment
Consciousness returned not as a light, but as a pressure. A dense, steady, filling pressure at the back of her throat, rhythmic and insistently soft. The world assembled itself from components: the low, tectonic hum of machinery, the scent of her own sweat and spit and the sterile silicone taste on her tongue, the chill of the steel stage beneath her bare back. And the weight. The heavy, unnatural weight resting on her chest, pinning her. She blinked, her vision swimming into the violet and crimson strobe. Above her, suspended from a gleaming articulated arm, was a thick, flesh-toned shaft. It was grotesquely familiar. The pronounced ridge of the glans, the specific map of veins she’d studied in her own mirror, the slightly curved taper – it was her. A perfect, 24-inch silicone clone of her own engorged clit-cock.
And it was fucking her mouth.
Her throat worked on instinct, convulsing around the invading girth. The machine paid no mind. It withdrew in a smooth, slick slide, the ridged head dragging against her palate, then pushed back in, that steady, deep penetration that bypassed gag reflex through sheer, practiced repetition. It hit a spot that made her eyes water, a deep, internal nudging that felt less like choking and more like a profound, anatomical acknowledgment. Her own pussy, stuffed and creaming around the sphere, gave a sympathetic throb.
A laugh bubbled up, trapped behind the occupying silicone. This was it. The perfect, ridiculous circle. She was sucking herself off. The absurdity of it, the narcissistic poetry, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted excitement through her gut, cutting through the fog of her previous blackout. She was the subject and the object, the worshipper and the idol, all on a stage drenched in violet light.
“There she is,” Ben’s voice cut through the hum, warm and close. He was crouched beside her head, his face etched in the sharp relief of the spotlight. He wiped a strand of saliva-soaked hair from her cheek. “Took a little trip, did we? Needed a bigger vessel for the journey back?” He tapped the silicone shaft where it met the apparatus. “Recognize her? Had it 3D scanned from last week’s close-ups. The folks at ‘SiliconeSelf‘ did a bang-up job. Life-sized and life-like. Right down to the little beauty mark.”
He grinned. Maggie’s eyes, wide and watering, darted from the toy to his face. A muffled sound – part question, part awe – gargled in her throat.
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Ben said, his hand moving to the base of her actual clit-cock, which lay thick and heavy against her abdomen, a twin to the thing in her mouth. It was a shocking, almost painful sight. Twenty-four inches of her own flushed, veined flesh, a proud, impossible tower of sensitivity. “You’re the architect. We’re just decorating. And the chat,” he nodded toward the invisible crowd, “wants the decorations to match.”
He reached for a leather strap, not a paddle this time, but a long, thin belt of supple black leather. He let it dangle for a moment, then brought it down in a swift, sharp crack across the upper third of her real clit-cock.
The sensation was a lightning bolt of pure signal, bright and shockingly distinct from the deep, blurred fullness in her throat and ass. Her body jerked, causing the machine in her mouth to skid against her teeth. A low, approving murmur came from the darkness.
“See?” Ben said casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Symmetry. The toy gets the deep throat work. The original gets the… punctuation.” He struck again, the same spot, a relentless stylist focusing on a single detail. Thwack. The flesh darkened, a bloom of crimson under the neon. “Martin, stop admiring the merchandise and get to work on the base. She needs a hand, not an audience.”
Martin, the earnest craftsman from before, stepped into the light. He’d swapped his paddle for a textured glove, the palm studded with small, soft rubber nubs. He gripped the root of her massive shaft where it emerged from her swollen lips, his touch firm and encompassing. He began to pump, a slow, milking motion that tugged at the very core of her, synchronizing with the thrust of the clone in her mouth. Up in her throat, down on her cock. A perfect, obscene mirror.
Maggie’s mind, still brittle from the last session, began to fractal again. But this was different. This was a cognitive dissonance she could cling to. She was both the mouth, stretched and used, and the cock, worshiped and abused. The colon dildo, still buried deep in her ass, anchored her between these two poles of sensation. She was a bridge of stretched, slick orifices, a living circuit of feedback.
Ben observed the system, a technician monitoring gauges. He read from the floating screen only he could see. “Chat’s loving the mirror play. ‘EchoChamber’ is tipping heavy. But they have a question. If the toy is twenty-four inches, and our lovely Maggie here is twenty-four inches… how much of her own glory can she actually take? They want to buy inches of depth. A dollar a millimetre. Starting now.”
A new counter appeared on the main screen, numbers flickering upward with dizzying speed. The machine in her mouth gave a soft chime. Its stroke length increased by a fraction. The next thrust went deeper, a centimetre more of her own replicated anatomy sliding into her, stretching her esophagus around the foreign yet familiar shape. A guttural choke this time, real panic flickering behind the excitement.
“Breathe through your nose, Magpie,” Ben instructed softly, his hand resting on her forehead. “It’s just you. Just more of you. You ever wonder what you taste like? Now’s your chance to find out.” Thwack. The strap landed again, a vicious counterpoint to the deepening invasion.
The numbers climbed. Another inch purchased. The machine adjusted with a whirr. The silicone head now pressed against a space that had no business accommodating it. Her body fought, her diaphragm fluttering, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. Yet, beneath the struggle, the filthy thrill surged brighter. They were buying her. Not her time, not her image, but her actual, physical capacity. They were spending money to see how much of herself she could swallow.
Martin’s gloved hand worked faster, the nubs stimulating the frenulum with every pull. Her pussy, forgotten but not idle, spasmed around the sphere, squeezing out another dollop of cream that joined the mess on the steel.
“She’s creaming,” Ben announced, his voice rising with the crowd’s unseen energy. “She’s choking. She’s taking her own fat cock eight inches down her throat and her body is celebrating. Look at that asshole cling to that colon toy. It’s a fucking symphony of self-cannibalism.”
The donation counter blurred, a cascade of digits too fast to comprehend. Nine inches. The thrust was a solid, nauseating push that made her ears pop, her throat opening in a silent, straining scream around the unyielding silicone. Her heels skidded against the slick steel, seeking purchase that wasn’t there. Martin’s glove whispered and tugged, a grounding rhythm against the root of her, while Ben’s strap fell in sharp, measured cracks that painted lightning across her senses.
“She’s tasting her own fucking cock,” Ben narrated, his voice thick with a weird, professional awe. He wiped her streaming eyes with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. “You in there, Magpie? Or are you just a throat now?” Her answer was a wet, hiccupping gag as the machine retracted, dragging a thick rope of saliva that glittered in the stagelights. “Ten inches. ‘DepthRaver’ just bought the next two. Let’s see if her stomach lining feels the same.”
The new depth was an atrocity. It wasn't just deep. It was elsewhere. A place of internal pressure and alien fullness that bypassed thought entirely. Her body bucked, a spinal reflex, but the restraints and the weight of the machine held her down like a specimen. Tears weren't emotional now; they were hydraulic, squeezed from her by the insistent pressure against her very structure. Yet, through the primal panic, a dark, triumphant thought fizzed: they’d paid to send her here. To this impossible edge.
Ben leaned close, his breath hot against her ear, his words cutting under the mechanical hum. “They want twelve. A full foot of you in you. Historic shit, Maggie. You’ll be the first.” The strap landed again, not on her cock, but across her inner thigh, a sharp, redirecting sting. “Stay with me. Don’t float away now. I need you present for the invoice.”
Eleven inches. A profound, choking stillness settled in her chest, a sense of organ displacement. Her vision tunneled, the violet lights fracturing into starfields. The rhythmic, muffled bang of the machine against the back of her throat was the only clock she had. Thud. Thud. Thud. Martin’s hand sped up, his nubbed glove a frantic counter-rhythm, trying to pull her back into her body through the single, overloaded nerve pathway of her cock.
“Last one,” Ben whispered, his eyes on the final, soaring number. “Make it count.”
The machine drove forward.
It didn’t stop at twelve. It hammered, a final, solid impact that felt like her spine had been tapped with a cold chisel. There was no more throat. There was just occupation, a total, silent claiming of a space that had never known light or touch. Her body went rigid, a perfect, arched line of stunned acceptance. For three endless seconds, she existed only as a container.
Then the machine retracted, a slow, seismic withdrawal that seemed to pull her stomach up with it.
She gasped, a raw, scraping inhale of ozone and sweat. The empty space in her throat felt cavernous, holy, and abused. Ben’s hand was on her cheek, turning her head. “Legend,” he said, simply. The crowd’s roar was a distant ocean. “Now. The encore.”
Before she could even process the air in her lungs, his attention snapped to the other end. “Martin, the colon toy. Extract. Now. We’ve got the ‘Airtight’ package queued.”
Martin released her throbbing cock and moved with efficient grace to the machine buried in her ass. He hit a release. The colon dildo, slick and gleaming, began its own withdrawal, a familiar, stretching emptiness that made her clench uselessly around it. As it fully emerged, that spent, open feeling followed, her body remembering the gape from before.
But there was no time for memory.
Ben already had the new implement in hand. It wasn’t a dildo. It was a solid, black silicone plug, absurd in its girth, flared at an almost comical angle. It shone under the lights, coated in a thick, clear gel. “Chat voted while you were busy swallowing your future,” he said, his voice all business. “They want you stuffed. Sealed. Full.”
He positioned the blunt, monstrous tip against her slack, twitching entrance. “This,” he said, applying steady, inexorable pressure, “is for after the show. So you don’t forget where you’ve been.” The widest part met resistance, her body rebelling at the fresh invasion so soon after being emptied. She cried out, a hoarse, broken sound.
Ben shoved, his weight behind it.
The plug seated home with a deep, final pop. The sense of fullness was immediate and total, a dense, packing pressure that dwarfed the fucking that had preceded it. It didn’t move. It just was. A cork in a bottle. A period at the end of a screaming sentence. Her asshole ached around the brutal stretch of the neck, a dull, radiating throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
She went limp, every muscle surrendering. The clone still nudged at her lips, a gentler, shallow fucking now, a ghost of the violation. Martin softly pumped her cock, milking the last weak drops of fluid from her spent body. Ben looked from her glazed eyes to the camera, a slow smile spreading.
“Delivery confirmed,” he said to the watching thousands. “Twelve inches deep. And ass, thoroughly stuffed.” He placed a warm, heavy hand on the base of the plug, letting the audience see her flinch. “Receipt’s inside her. She’ll feel it for days.”
Ben’s hand slid from the plug to the slick, overheated junction of her thighs. His fingers traced the puffy, strained lips of her cunt, slick with her own cream, before drifting upward. They found the base of her clit-cock, which lay thick and throbbing against her abdomen, a road map of veins pulsing under flushed skin. “But the hotel minibar’s not closed yet,” he murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft spot just beneath the crown. “We still have the feature presentation waiting. Isn’t that right, Martin?”
Martin, who had been quietly wiping down his textured glove, looked up. He nodded toward Maggie’s swollen shaft. “Been a while since we gave the main attraction some direct feedback. It’s twitching like a dreaming dog.”
“Feedback,” Ben echoed, amused. He wrapped his whole hand around the girth, not squeezing, just possessing. His touch was a brand of ownership. “She’s so full elsewhere, she’s probably forgotten this is the original console. The one that boots up the whole system.” He began to stroke, a slow, maddening drag of skin on skin, using her own slickness as lubrication. “Let’s remind her.”
His other hand joined, not stroking, but exploring. His fingertips feathered over the swollen head of Maggie's cock, a touch so light it was closer to a thought than a sensation. They traced the ridge, circled the leaking slit, drifted down the sensitive underside where the skin was thinnest. It was less a caress and more like a cartographer mapping the borders of a sensitive nation. Maggie whimpered. After the deep, structural violations of her throat and ass, this focused attention was excruciatingly precise. It peeled her nerves bare.
“See that?” Ben said conversationally to Martin, his fingers still dancing. “She doesn’t know if she wants to push into it or flinch away. The system’s confused. Overloaded ports, maybe.” He applied the faintest, most delicate pressure to the frenulum. Maggie’s hips jerked a half-inch off the steel. “Or maybe just a dusty connection.”
“Needs a firm tap,” Martin suggested, his voice casual. He picked up the leather strap Ben had discarded earlier. He tested its weight in his hand, gave it a short, sharp snap against his own palm. The crack made Maggie flinch.
“A diagnostic tap,” Ben agreed, his stroking hand not ceasing its lazy, infuriating rhythm. “Go on. Start gentle. We’re recalibrating.”
Martin stepped in. He didn’t wind up. He simply flicked his wrist, sending the tip of the strap licking across the upper third of her shaft. Thwap. It was a bright, clean sting, a spike of pure information that made her gasp.
Ben’s stroking fingers immediately soothed the spot, his palm rubbing over the warming skin. “Good signal. Strong response.” His teasing fingers found her slit again, collecting a bead of fluid to slick his movements. “Again. A little lower.”
Thwack. This one had more shoulder behind it, landing where the shaft began to swell from its root. The pain was deeper, a thud that vibrated into her pelvis. Maggie cried out, a ragged sound around the phantom fullness in her throat. The plug in her ass felt suddenly more present, a dense counterweight to the sharpness.
“She’s linking them,” Ben observed, his voice low and clinical. His stroking grew marginally firmer, matching the beat Martin was setting. “The spank isn’t just a spank. It’s an echo. It travels down to where she’s stuffed full and rings the goddamn bell.” He squeezed the head gently, milking another clear thread of pre-cum. “Fascinating.”
He looked at Maggie’s face. Her eyes were screwed shut, her mouth open in a silent pant. “You hearing that bell, Magpie? Is it pretty?” He nodded to Martin. “Ring it again. Let’s chase the sound.”
Martin fell into a rhythm. Not a frantic beating, but a measured, percussive interrogation. Thwack on the left ridge. A pause where Ben’s slick fingers circled the spot. Thwack on the right. A soothing rub. Then two in quick succession: thwack-thwack across the tender underside. The variation was torture. She couldn’t brace; she could only receive.
Each impact sent a jolt through her. The pleasure of Ben’s relentless, now-firm stroking wove into the pain, braiding them into a single, inseparable cord of sensation. The plug in her ass became a focal point, each spank seeming to press it deeper, making her more aware of the obscene fullness. Her breathing hitched, becoming shallow, frantic pants.
“She’s climbing,” Ben said, his own breath starting to come faster. His hand was a piston now, sure and demanding. “Look at that. The base is swelling. It’s trying to get away and get closer at the same damn time.” He locked eyes with Martin. “No more gentleness. Just hit her. Wherever. However. Take her to the top.”
The spanks lost their rhythm. They became a storm. Martin laid into her with the strap, striking the length, the head, the root. The leather sang, a sharp, wet sound against her slick flesh. Crack! Thwack! Smack! The pain blurred, becoming a white-hot halo around the core of building pleasure Ben was ruthlessly stoking.
Maggie was a bowstring pulled past its limit. The world narrowed to the fusion of fire and friction between her legs. The stage, the lights, the crowd—all of it dissolved into a roaring nothingness. There was only the slap and the stroke, the deep, stuffed ache and the surface inferno. They were weaving her climax for her, threading it on a needle of violence.
Her back arched, a tensile curve of pure tension. A guttural, torn sound ripped from her throat, unrelated to the gag that was no longer there. “Please, please, please—” she chanted, a begsong with no object.
Ben’s hand was a blur. Martin’s final blow was a masterpiece, a full-armed, searing crack directly to the very tip of her clit-cock.
It detonated her.
The orgasm didn’t wash over her; it erupted from the marrow of her bones. It was a silent, convulsing explosion that locked her muscles and stole the air from her lungs. Her cunt spasmed wildly around nothing, pumping cream in rhythmic pulses that splattered her own thighs. Her cock throbbed in Ben’s relentless grip, each pulse a shockwave echoing the fading sting of leather.
She saw patterns in the dark behind her eyelids—crimson fissures on a black field. A high, thin whine filled her ears. She was nothing but a conduit, a wire fused by the current.
Ben finally stilled his hand, gentling his grip as the violent pulsing began to subside. He held her spent, throbbing flesh as it slowly softened against her stomach, a wet, beaten thing. Martin lowered the strap, his chest heaving.
The silence on stage was profound, broken only by the hum of dormant machines and Maggie’s shattered, whimpering breaths. Ben leaned close, his lips nearly brushing her ear.
“Console rebooted,” he whispered, his voice thick with something like reverence. “System fully responsive.”