"I'm so glad you approve," she purrs as she lines the spit up with Esme's entrance, holding it with two tentacles for more control. Another tentacle wraps around Esme's waist, holding her in place. One wraps each limb as well, securing her further. One of Sable's hands cups one of Esme's breasts, while the other fingers her lightly.

She slides the spit slowly forward, the unyielding metal spreading Esme's folds as it slips inside. It's warm to the touch, having been heated up in the rack, and Sable lets out a heated sigh as it presses in.

Oh, that feels good. And the anticipation only makes it better. She holds ever so cooperatively still, no matter how much she wants to squirm.

"Good girl. Being so still for me."

It thrusts the spit slowly deeper, filling her up as the metal shaft slides in, stopping just short of her cervix before pulling back our until only the pointed tip is inside.

And then it thrusts in again, a little faster this time, and again a little faster, fucking Esme with the spit, making love to her with the mercilessly sharp steel.

"It's okay to squirm for a little longer, though."

It leans down and kisses her deeply.

She lets herself relax a little, kissing back and rocking her hips, but she doesn't want to go too wild because it's going to be very important to have self-control soon.

Every thrust feels full of enthralling potential—could this be the one, could this—it's not that she doesn't expect Sable to tell her, it seems likely that Sable will tell her, but there's nothing stopping Sable from just spearing her at any moment, and that lingering hint of uncertainty is really incredibly hot. Being fucked like this, by her gorgeous tentacle demon girlthingfriend, her beautiful captor, who has the power and the right to turn her into a skewered piece of meat anytime it wants... she's in heaven.

All this thrusting has an effect on Sable, as well, her breath coming hotter and faster from feeling the spit inside Esme. 

She thrusts faster, fingertips teasing little circles around her clit, tantalizing her with the uncertainty. {I could tell you,} she purrs into her mind, {or I could just lock your body in place myself and surprise you.}

Every thrust could be the one. Every thrust is a risk, a chance that Sable might decide now's the moment to turn her into meat.

{All this pleasure is just making you taste better, too.}

"Fuck," she whimpers. "So good..."

She imagines it, anticipates it, wants it. Wants Sable to take over her body and slide that spit all the way through her. Holding still for this on purpose is hot, it's good, it's satisfying, she likes it; having that control taken away from her at Sable's whim is a captivating fantasy. She'd be hard pressed to say which one she likes more.

It keeps thrusting, keeps fucking her steadily, driving her to one orgasm and building toward a second. Just as Esme reaches the edge of the second, Sable seizes control of most of her body, lining her hips up with the spit and holding her in place, leaving only her head and her voice free.

It thrusts deeper, just as she hits the peak, stretching her pussy wider and deeper than it was ever meant to go as it pushes through her cervix, then pierces through her womb with a sharp bite of steel.

Sable deftly eases the tip of the spit past delicate organs until it reaches the bottom of her stomach, then it thrusts forward again, pushing in.

Slowly, firmly, it fucks her with the spit again, carefully keeping the tip inside her stomach and avoiding nicking anything. 

It lets her have control of most of her body again, only holding her lower torso in place to make sure she can't accidentally puncture herself anywhere else.

The thing is, Esme isn't that much of a masochist, per se. It doesn't take much pain to get her flinching away instead of leaning in.

What she enjoys about pain isn't the sensation, it's the narrative. Hurting herself or being hurt for someone, as an expression of their power over her and her devotion to them.

And the narrative of this pain is that she's being fucked, speared, claimed, her whole body wrapped around Sable's long metal shaft like a sex toy, because she belongs to Sable body and soul, and Sable is going to roast her on this spit and eat her as a celebration of that mastery and its desires.

It hurts. It hurts a lot. Strictly speaking it hurts more than she can take. Her breath is quick and shallow and the parts of her she can move are shaking.

But when she moans a half-coherent "fuck, fuck, fuck me," what she means is that she feels all this and wants more, wants to be fucked deeper, claimed more thoroughly, wants to feel that whole shaft inside her and know every inch of her is giving Sable pleasure, wants to be owned and used and cooked and eaten. There is a need in her that is deeply, richly satisfied by what Sable is doing to her, and everything that's coming will only satisfy it even more.

Fuck that's delicious to hear, and to feel in her mind. 

It leans down and kisses her deeply, then seizes complete control of her body as it breaks the kiss. 

Carefully, it lines the spit up with her esophagus and pushes deeper, working its way up into her throat. Her head tips back under Sable's control, the edge of the island shifting down to make room as her throat and mouth move into alignment.

And then the spit glides gently through her throat, into her mouth, and out through her lips.

Sable thrusts the spit further through her, centering her on its length, and releases control over her body.

"There you go, precious morsel. You're all spitted, pierced through." It caresses down her body with a hand, fingertips tracing the path of the spit. "You took that so well."

The contrast between the painful piercing pressure of the spit inside her and the delicate softness of Sable's gentle touch is exquisitely beautiful. She moves a little, and it hurts, and it deeply and viscerally reminds her of how thoroughly at Sable's mercy she is right now, and she thinks about that enchantment letting Sable feel the spit fucking her, and she twists and squirms, reveling in the duality of her pain and Sable's pleasure, of its power and her helplessness. There is pleasure for her, too, but right now it's an afterthought. Right now what arouses her is how much this hurts, how utterly inescapable it is, and how every part of her from her lips to her thighs is wrapped around this unyielding shaft to please her beloved owner.

Sable flushes and lets out a shivery breath at the feelings of Esme twisting and squirming around the spit. 

"You're utterly gorgeous like this, and I'm going to keep you conscious to savor it all the way back to this table. You're going to feel the heat of the fire, and the sharp bite of my teeth. You're mine, and I'm going to show you just how intense that can be."

She conjures a pair of purple ropes, smooth and soft and silken to the touch, but made from a highly heat-resistant synthetic, and starts tying Esme's hands to the spit in front of her head, carefully making sure her arms are bent at a comfortable angle.

This announcement is greeted with choked whimpering noises in a generally enthusiastic tone.

Finishing tying her arms, she moves down to Esme's legs with a wicked grin. "And the specific way I'm tying off your hands and feet has a point, too," she explains, tying off Esme's feet with her knees at a similar angle. "You should be able to get a grip on the spit with your hands and feet and pull yourself across, fucking yourself with it."

Once she finishes tying Esme off, she grabs each end of the spit with a tentacle and carries her over to the firepit. The glass cover slides away, and a forked support pole rises at each end.

Esme can feel the warmth even from here, a few feet away.

At this distance it's a pleasant sensation, like warming yourself by a fire.

It's not going to stay that way.

She tests out her grip on the spit, sliding herself up and down. Pain seasoned with a hint of pleasure, and the knowledge that Sable gets to feel everything she's doing. The comforting certainty of being so fully in Sable's power, and the terrifying, tantalizing anticipation of what Sable is about to do with that power.

—aw, darn, they got carried away so fast that they never got around to having a conversation about honorifics, so she doesn't know if 'please roast me, Mistress' is an appropriate thing to say—

Sable laughs delightedly and presses a kiss to Esme's throat. "That's a wonderful thing to say, morsel."

Then it turns her over so her breasts and pussy can get the initial brunt of the heat and sets her over the fire. 

Warm becomes hot becomes painfully hot, and she whimpers and keeps fucking herself on the spit, clinging to the knowledge that her twisting squirming sliding body is bringing Sable pleasure. It's so important to bring Sable pleasure. It's so important to belong to her. It's so important to be utterly completely hers, down to the last bite.

The scent rising off her as the heat reaches her well-oiled skin is amazing. She's going to taste very good.

Fuck she smells delicious.

Sable snap-conjures a basic chair just past the head of the firepit and slumps into it, gasping at the feeling of Esme's writhing body, mouth watering at the smell.

"How do you already smell this good?"

She bites her lip and buries a hand in her left breast and watches, squirming in her seat and savoring the view.

One of her tentacles stretches low around the outside of the firepit before reaching up to grab the far end of the spit, turning it slowly and steadily.

Esme could spend a long, long time like this, lost in a haze of pain and arousal, fucking herself on the spit, feeling the shift in how her weight hangs and where the fire reaches as the spit turns, reveling in all of it.

Minute by minute, slowly, steadily, that delicious scent gets richer, deeper, more complex, more enticing.

Esme's aroma is powerfully distracting for Sable. More than once she almost starts to get up before her morsel is fully cooked, the scent is so tempting. She keeps herself in place by focusing on the sensation of Esme's movements along the spit, thrusting a tentacle into her pussy and fucking herself hard, rocking in her chair, eyes locked on Esme's cooking body. Her breath comes in ragged pants, her body shaking through orgasm after orgasm as Esme watches and roasts.

The more she cooks, the more it hurts, and the more it hurts the less coherent she gets, but she never stops dragging herself back and forth along the spit, forcing herself to pleasure Sable as she cooks. Every time she gets a glimpse of Sable writhing in gorgeous ecstasy, she feels that deep satisfaction again, the rightness of knowing she belongs to this beautiful wonderful demon who gets to do anything with her and chose to do this.

By the time she's done, she smells absolutely divine. Nothing should smell this good. She's going to be the best thing Sable has ever tasted.

The moment Esme's done cooking, Sable stretches out its tentacles and plucks her from the fire, carrying her back to the island. It turns her over onto her back and sets her down, and barely manages to restrain itself enough to slide the spit out of her and set it aside.

"You smell delicious, Esme," it purrs.

She shudders as the spit slides out of her, in pain and pleasure and relief and loss. Everything hurts. Everything hurts and all is right with the world. Sable's voice is so good, she can hear how much Sable is enjoying this, how much it's going to enjoy her. She wants that. She wants to be enjoyed.

It leans down over her, sharp teeth glinting as it brings its mouth to her right bicep. It takes a slow breath, savoring the aroma, and then bites down, teeth sinking fiercely in, tearing free a rich chunk of Esme's meat.

Oh fuck, that hurts... She gasps and shivers, immersed in the intensity.

Sable, meanwhile, is having a very different experience.

There's no mistaking it anymore. Esme isn't just delicious, isn't just a beautiful mortal morsel. Her flavour explodes onto Sable's tongue and down her throat, and with it comes life and lust and power, comprehensively nourishing, filling every drop of her being with energy and growth and satisfaction.

The same sourceless certainty that introduced her to Esme in the first place tells her that this is a gift, that Esme is a fountain of divine nectar made to taste impossibly good and grant more power with every sip and bite. A gift for Sable, created by this experience they had and are having together, sealed by Sable's teeth.