Every nook and cranny.

"I'm afraid not... your labia is in **** need of rejuvenation," you whisper, almost not believing the words coming out of your mouth. Forget the obvious lie: what were you doing?! What if you-

Ah, but these are not the questions you're really asking yourself as you lead her to the low table you made. A table, perhaps, to her untrained eye: this was a rack, with four posts that marked the corners, each with iron loops screwed in at various points to allow for hundreds of configurations. Below it, on a single shelf, were a number of tools of what would be your new trade with Isabella... and, unexpectedly, Penelope. She lies down on your creation, and watches you with rapt attention as you hoist her arms up and begin to bind them, and then her ankles, to the elevated posts on each corner. Your hands are trembling from fear and arousal, and pre-cum quivers on the tip of your urethra, as your fingers shakily embrace her wrists to tighten the nickel-plated cuffs. You wouldn't put it in, you promise yourself. Not merely before, but now as well: you would have your fun, and watch her squirm, but of course you wouldn't slip into that wonderful, velvety hole already enjoyed by so many before you. Indeed, aside from the risk of pregnancy, your crime would go completely undetected as long as you somehow trumped her parents' weakly-worded, single command.

Her slender fingers grasp at yours as nickel teeth click firmly against her left wrist. "B-But you won't... let it slip inside, right?"

"Of course not." Of course not.

Your hand sneaks under the table, and a black iron rod, with loops at either end, slips out from there in your grip. You open and then close the loops, using a few lengths of chain to bind them to the same posts as her hands. With the bar scooping the backs of her knees, there is but one position she can now manage: legs pressed to her torso, knees to her nipples, and her asshole and pussy staring at you as you occupy the bottom-end of your prisoner. You sigh in pleased disbelief at how helpless she is, as a carpenter might enjoy watching his table being eaten upon in a summer home: the hard labor, the sweaty hours alone in this basement, the fear and doubt... and now this beautiful, red hair-tinged cunt, with its pouty lips, is stuck blowing kisses at you from between her thighs. Dry, unwelcoming kisses. Penelope's breath began to quicken the moment you were binding one wrist, and now she's nearly hyperventilating. "M-Mr. Krowe, I know that this is... for the best, but I'm... I'm really willing to take second best at this-"

"This isn't an option, Penelope," you interrupt. "We have to do this or you will suffer irreparable damage down there... the sort that can lead to sensitive parts of you rotting off. From there, necrosis and a painful, long ****."

"Oh m... Oh my God! Why didn't anyone-?!" She babbles incoherently for almost a minute in response to this new terror, but then finally swallows hard and regains enough composure to ask, "Why didn't mom and dad tell me about this before? Or help me before?"

"I'm sure they did, Penelope... but probably while you were asleep, with medicine to keep you asleep. Unfortunately I don't have that medicine here, and they obviously forgot to tell me."

She's left staring up at the boards of the ceiling, taking in the new layer of incompetence or recklessness or disregard from her parents. Whatever thoughts she's forming then, however, are shattered as your thighs scoot up to her buttocks on the rack. "W-Wait-"

"We can't." You groan your words as you place the head of your meat at her entrance. She screams and bucks uselessly, ringing in your ears... and you slide upwards, along her slit, resting the length of your cock in the gentle folders of her most sacred place. The lubrication, the gliding pleasure, her terror... it's all almost enough to make you come uselessly into the air, over the black bar and onto her face or chest based on the angle of her helplessness. More of your precum builds, and a false orgasm subsides as you control yourself. Your prostate secretes only a tenth of what you've got in store, and a splash of gray wets her clit that has nothing at all to do with cocoa butter.

"God, I-I can't- no, this is... this is too dangerous! I feel something warm, are... I know you're sure, but it's like you're coming on it, and I know it's outside, but if it slips inside... God, no, please, I can't get pregnant again, I can't- they'll make me keep it, Mr. Krowe! Please! Please don't let me get pregnant! I can't, the fear, the changes, it's- God, please, I know you already said you wouldn't, but- but PLEASE DON'T COME!" Her incoherent babbling suddenly peaks, her body quakes and bucks with terrifying strength... and suddenly, she is still. And then she pees. Urine explodes from her own urethra and splashes your cock, her pussy, her thighs and the rack as she humiliates herself further. She cries and shakes her head, her hands struggling in the restraints as she no doubts attempts to hide her face in shame, but she doesn't stop until her bladder is finally relieved, and her anxiety finds no other route for relief.

You move ever so slightly inside that impossibly hot and moist place, your orgasm building to an uncontrollable peak. If you didn't relocate immediately, you were going to put a dangerous amount of semen down her birth canal, mere centimeters from where your head was partially buried in her folds. You have but two seconds to contemplate, and the madness of male ejaculation coursing through your primitive mind.