Mr. Knight Choke Me Challenge

You hold out your hand, and Miguel swears that he is losing his mind.

It’s so… small. Small like the rest of you. Tiny, even. Compared to him.

“Miguel?” you prompt impatiently, and he finally hands you the apple he’s holding, trying not to black out when your little fingers curl tightly around it.

“Thank you,” you huff, insolently, and the hot fire which slides down his spine when he thinks about checking your tone is almost intolerable. Almost.

There’s definitely something wrong with him. Yeah - something besides the more obvious spider-y shit that’s wrong with him. This is something else; because he definitely should not be almost passing out in the cafeteria. Not while thinking about how your hand is so small and strong and how huge his cock would look if only you curled your palm tightly around it.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this at all - and especially not in the cafeteria queue. His suit does not leave a lot of manoeuvre room to successfully obscure the fact that his blood is rushing south. Dangerously fast.

“Miguel!” You wave your palm in front of his vacant face, and he attempts -vaguely- to regain some composure. “Are you even listening to me?”

He’s not. Not listening, but he’s looking.

Fuck. Look at you in that skintight suit. Look at you.

He could pick you up so easily. String you up so easily in his webbing until you were spread open for him, your limbs groaning with the stretch of it. Breasts jiggling as you struggle against your restraints, the reverberating tension in the rope causing your flesh to ripple and bounce.

God. You would look so tiny if he forced his huge throbbing arousal inside of you. So fragile.

He wants that. To split you on his cock. To fuck you so hard that he breaks you.

Anywhere that he considers putting his dick appeals to him. Stuffing it into your mouth. Making you spit on him and grip him in both of your stupid little hands.

Fuck. You would hug him so fucking tight. It would make him feel so powerful to watch you struggling with the size of him. To know he could do whatever he wanted to you.

He wonders. Wonders if it would feel better to have you squirming and screaming on his ropes…or, whether he’d prefer you a different way.

Whether he’d prefer to graze his fangs down the column of your throat. To inject just enough venom into your neck to keep you perfectly still. Still enough, that he could do whatever he wanted to you without even needing to care whether you liked it.

Without hearing your protests.

Without anything else to focus on except his own pleasure. Of the feeling of him filling you up with more than you can take and pushing your juices out of you until they drip down to coat his balls. Of him fucking you while thinking about how sore you would be by the time he was done with you. By the time he’d finally had enough of you spasming around his length, your face tear-stained and eyes -finally- all glazed and vacant.

God, you’re so fucking small. Small enough that he wonders if he could grab up your whole ass cheek in one handful, his talons biting into your firm yet forgiving flesh. If he could cup you whole cunt and feel it warm against him.

Small enough, that maybe he could wrap you up completely in his webbing. Like a cocoon, almost. Leaving nothing but your face and your tits and your wet holes exposed for him.

Maybe he’d leave you venom-free while he did that. Would let you protest. Would give you plenty to protest about. Would let himself get off to the sound of you sobbing that it’s too much. That it’s too big. That you need him to stop.

Fuck - he doesn’t know if he could. Doesn’t know if he could ever stop once he was finally inside you. Not until your little cunt had squeezed every last drop from him - and even then. Even then, maybe he’d keep going until you were fucked open and dripping several of his loads out of you. Until he was maybe even getting bored of the way he’d feel you clamp down around him again and again, gushing with your release - regardless of whether you wanted to.

Hell. Maybe he’d even leave you there strung up for later. Maybe he’d keep you all for himself and never let you go.

“Miguel?” you ask, this time with concern, and the innocence in your eyes as you look up at him - look up at him because you’re so small, so tiny - makes his balls ache. Makes him think about the ways he could make you gag on him, two of him, three of him, so full of him everywhere over and over and over. “You alright?”

“I need you to meet me later,” he husks. “Alone.”

“Okay…” you place your tiny, pathetic hand on his forearm and god; he can’t take it.

All of his senses are so entirely focussed in on you until you’re practically a pinprick. Until his vision of you is so sharp he thinks he must be looking at you with ten eyes. Until there is nothing else in the room.

Wait…

There…

is no room.

His hands…

His hands are bound, not yours. He’s the one who…

Oh God…

He looks down at his naked, sweat-sheened, love-bitten body, his thick arms pulling back and bound behind his head. His cock is out, huge and hard and glistening - flushed a deep crimson with need. Throbbing so hard it hurts.

“Miguel!” you say again, and this time your voice feels far more… real. “Come back to me, love,” Suddenly he remembers. Remembers where he is.

Remembers what you’re doing to him.

Remembers your venom and the power it holds. Remembers your hallucinogen, pumping in his veins.

“Oh Miguel,” you sing-song, squeezing his aching cock in your hands - your small, perfect hands. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

You straddle him now, nude and perfect and so petite you can barely touch your knees to the floor to either side of him as you spread your cunt over his body. Your own arousal is leaking from you. Shining his length as you glide your folds over the girth of him until his cock jerks up, begging to fill you.

He looks down at the red scratches on his bare chest, and he remembers, a dark, crooked smile bedding down over his features as he delights in you. In the combination of reality and fantasy. In the haze only you can induce. The pleasures only you can draw out of him.

“Do you have a little bit of a size kink, baby?”

“Uh. Uh huh. Yes, ma’am.”

“I can taste it. Tastes good.” He wants to taste you. Wants to kiss you. Thank you - but he cranes his mouth up towards yours - thrusts his hips up to shove against your cunt - and you scold him with a sharp tut of your tongue.

Not yet.

“Alright then, love. Let me indulge you.” You drag your claw down his bared, sweat-sheened chest, over the meat of his pec, leaving a shallow trail of seeping red - like you’re trying to bleed him a new suit. He winces - a sharp intake of air - baring his fangs and straining against his restraints once more to no avail.

“Mmmm,” you hum, the sound fragmenting into multiple echoes of sweet, honeyed syllables as your sugary venom takes effect on him all over again. “Okay, sweetie. Let’s see how big I can make your cock look while it’s inside of me. How about that?”

You sink. Hinge at the hips on top of him to lick along the red stripe of iron tang on his chest. And then… Then you sink down on his length, spearing yourself on him, pushing yourself off his chest -palms smearing red. Throwing your head back and writhing your walls around him as he groans for you.

He knows you’ll be able to taste it. Taste his fantasies on the tip of your tongue, in his blood - and he knows too, that you’ll give him exactly what he wants.

He remembers now. Understands. Remembers how this works; and, just like that - he’s back there. He’s back in the cafeteria.

Your voice is all the way in his head, just like he’s shoved all the way in your cunt. Your voice is in his ear, like a devil’s whisper from over his shoulder, even as he could swear that, at the same time, he’s standing here in the cafeteria. Watching you play the angel in front of him. “Show me your fantasy, Miguel,” you whisper, hot and sweet against the shell of him, and so he does.

He’s here. Standing. Towering over you with his stature. Towering over you, and his mouth curls into a devilish snarl as he looks down at your stupid, small hand on his arm. Oh - he remembers. He remembers how it works now.

Here, he can do exactly what he wants to you. Exactly what he wants without repercussion… and he’d already had some exceptionally good ideas on how to make the most of that.

He tongues a single fang as you look up at him. As you look up, so innocent. “You know what?” he asks, turning you abruptly around and folding you right over the table. Shoving your face into its surface with one hand. Tearing the ass right out of your suit with the other, splitting it open like he’s about to do with you. “Why wait until later, little one?”

It is more fun this way, he decides.

It’s much more fun when you struggle.

It’s okay though.

It’s okay.

He shushes you, even as you scream.

Here; in this space, he is free to be a monster. Doesn’t have to hold it back or push it down any longer. Doesn’t need to feel ashamed.

Here, he gets to make his fantasies come true - and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

When you cry out in pain, Miguel feels monstrous; and he likes it. And, even as you squirm beneath him, he knows, that in reality -in the real reality- you like it too.

After all, you’re even more monstrous than he is.

Speaking of… Miguel feels another sharp, blazing, delicious sting across the expanse of his chest - and he remembers.