In my forceps struggles a single bullet ant, angry and swollen with venom.

Wide-eyed, my boyfriend whimpers through the ring gag as I feint it toward his tongue. Last year I stung him once on the wrist; he spent the next 20 hours sobbing and begging for death.

I pull back, gliding the insect down his lean, heaving chest, pausing at his nipple, his navel, the dark fuzz of his happy trail. His rigid cock twitches against his belly, oozing a silky drop of precum.

One touch and he screams, spurting sticky, wanton white through his rictus of pain.

Perfect.