Chapter 28: Private Aftermath
The plastic ties had left faint, pink welts on her wrists. Emily traced them now, sitting cross-legged on her rumpled bed, the fairy lights strung above her head casting a glow that felt both childish and illicit. Her dorm room was silent except for the low hum of her mini-fridge and the distant, muffled bass from a party down the hall.
Her body felt like a plucked string, still vibrating.
The images wouldn’t stop. They played on a loop behind her eyes, sharper and more visceral than any memory had a right to be.
Ryan’s hands, big and blunt, gripping her wrists. Not a character’s hands. His hands. The plastic scrritch. The finality of it.
Sarah’s voice, low and dripping with intent. Open.
But worse, better, were the images from after. The ones she’d watched while bound. Sarah and Mandy, on their knees. The shared, slick kiss around Jake’s cock. The way their faces had looked, painted and triumphant.
A hot, shameful throb pulsed between her legs. It was an insistent, physical echo. She squeezed her thighs together, but the pressure only made it worse. It was a demand.
Her eyes landed on the bottom drawer of her desk. It was stuffed with notebooks and textbooks. And one other thing.
The enormous tentacle of Nashabd, the appendage that had bound her to the dark entity, and her new identity as the Conduit.
She got up. The floor was cold under her feet. She knelt, pulled the drawer open, and shoved the academic detritus aside. Her fingers found the soft, zippered pouch at the back.
She didn’t take it to the bed. She stayed on the floor, her back against the side of her bed frame, as she unzipped it. The silicone was cool, a deep, ridiculous purple. It was thick, ridged, suckered, and intimidatingly huge. She’d attempted to use it twice since that fateful session, clumsy and self-conscious. It had felt like a medical procedure, and she couldn't get it anywhere near as deep as she had the first time, the ridges tearing and stretching at her soft vulvar lips.
Not tonight.
Her breath was already coming short. She shoved her sweatpants and panties down to her ankles in one rough movement. The air in the room hit her wetness, a cool shock that made her gasp. She was soaked. Just from the memories. The proof of her own depravity gleamed on her inner thighs.
She fumbled for the bottle of lube tucked in the pouch. Squirted a cold, clear pool into her palm. She slicked the toy, the sloppy sounds obscenely loud in the quiet. She didn’t tease. She wasn’t in the mood for foreplay. Foreplay had been the entire evening.
She guided the blunt, slippery head to her entrance. She was tight, clenched with nervous anticipation. She pushed.
A low, strained groan tore from her throat. It was a stretch, a delicious, burning fullness that immediately blurred the lines between pleasure and punishment. She forced it deeper, inch by inch, her head falling back against the mattress with a soft thump. The bell on her leather choker, forgotten until now, tinkled faintly.
Fuck. She nearly came just from the sound.
She began to move, a shallow, frantic rocking of her hips. The massive base of the dildo pressed against her clit with each push. But it wasn’t enough. The image wasn’t just the toy. It was the context.
She closed her eyes.
It wasn’t her hand. It was Ryan’s. He was behind her, his chest a wall of heat against her back, his breath hot on her neck. He wasn’t gentle. He was working her onto his cock, that thick, impossible thickness she’d felt when she straddled him, fucking her deep with brutal, efficient strokes.
“Take it,” a gruff voice muttered in her ear—her imagination, raw and unfiltered. “You wanted this. Wanted to be the little captive. Now take it like one.”
She fucked herself harder onto the thick wedge of silicone, the force driving a sharp cry from her lips. The bedframe rattled. Her free hand scrabbled at her breast, pinching her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, twisting it hard. The pain was a bright, clarifying counterpoint to the deep, splitting ache below.
The fantasy shifted.
It was Sarah now. Sarah was in front of her, kneeling, watching with that knowing, smirk. “You liked watching, didn’t you, Em?” Sarah’s voice was a purr. “You liked seeing me suck Jake’s dick. You wanted it to be you.”
In Emily’s mind, Sarah leaned in. But not toward the toy. She ducked her head between Emily’s splayed legs, her tongue lashing out, not at her clit, but at the point where the fake cock stretched her open, licking the mixture of lube and her own arousal that was leaking out around the edges. The image was so filthy, so specific, it made Emily’s entire body convulse.
“Yeah, you’re a greedy little slut,” Sarah whispered, her tongue circling. “You want two? You want his cock in your pussy and my mouth on your clit? You want to be used?”
“Yes,” Emily whimpered to the empty room. “God, yes.”
Her hand was a blur now, pounding the toy into her sodden cunts, swallowing the whole obscene mass of it on each stroke. The sounds were wet, brutal, pornographic. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. The bell on her choker jingled a manic, frantic accompaniment, further cementing her associations. Sweat dripped down her temple. She was animal, stripped bare, reduced to a single, driving need for release.
The climax built not as a wave, but as a seizure. It started deep in her core, a sharp, coiling tension that suddenly snapped. Her back arched off the floor, only the bedframe holding her up. A raw, screaming gasp ripped through her, tearing at her throat. Her cunt clamped down on the fake cock in a series of violent, milking spasms, as if trying to break it. Pleasure, white-hot and devastating, radiated outwards, short-circuiting thought, obliterating shame.
She rode it, grinding herself against the base until the sensations frayed into oversensitive twitches.
Then, collapse. Boneless. Spent.
She lay on the floor, the cold laminate a shock against her flushed skin. The toy was still inside her, a heavy, absurd reminder. She pulled it out with a soft, wet pop. The aftermath was a sticky mess on her thighs and the floor.
For a long time, she just breathed. The frantic images in her head had dissolved into a blank, buzzing static.
Slowly, she pulled her clothes up. She shoved the toy back into its pouch, zipped it away like a criminal hiding evidence. She wiped the floor with a discarded t-shirt, her movements robotic.
She stood up, her legs shaky. She caught her reflection in the dark window—a pale face, hair stuck to her forehead, eyes wide and dark in the fairy-light glow. The girl who looked back was a stranger. This wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It wasn’t a game. This was who she was, now.
Her phone, charging on her desk, lit up with a notification. She stumbled over to it.
A new message in the group chat, ‘The Lost Sanctum.’
A new message in the group chat, ‘The Lost Sanctum.’
It was from Sarah. No text, just a screenshot. Emily’s thumb hovered, then tapped. The image loaded.
It was a dashboard from the streaming platform, a stark graph spiking like a mountain range. But her eyes went straight to the highlighted number at the bottom: $1,247.80.
Her breath caught. A thousand dollars. For one night. For what they’d done.
Beneath the screenshot, Sarah had typed only three words: Chat was hungry.
A strange, cold heat flooded Emily’s veins, utterly different from the frantic arousal of minutes before. This was slower. Deeper. More calculating. They’d been paid. She’d been bound, gagged, used as a centerpiece, and the anonymous crowd had thrown money at the screen to see it.
And she had loved it.
The shame that usually followed her orgasms didn’t come. It was smothered under a heavy, thrilling sense of power. She did that. Her helplessness. Her silent, struggling performance. It had value.
She sat on the edge of her desk chair, the wood cold through her sweatpants. She stared at the number. Twelve hundred dollars. Her mind, usually so cluttered with coursework and character sheets, became frighteningly clear.
How do we make it two thousand?
Her hands drifted to her own body, her palms sliding over the soft cotton of her shirt. She cupped her small breasts, her thumbs finding her nipples, still tight and sensitive. She rolled them between her fingers, not for pleasure, but for assessment.
She had the body of a former gymnast—compact, tight, strong. But the chat, the money… it wanted spectacle. It wanted fantasy. Her tiny tits were fine for a college girl, but were they fine for a conduit?
A barbell through each nipple. The cold metal against her tongue. A chain connecting them, tugged by an unseen hand. The thought made her cunt, sore and spent, give a feeble, interested throb.
Or something more permanent. Silicone. Round, fake orbs that would fill a corset, that would jiggle with every desperate bounce on a thick, purple tentacle. She imagined Ryan’s huge hands finally having something to grab, his calloused fingers sinking into soft, manufactured flesh.
Her hand slipped down, past the waistband of her sweatpants. She was still slick. She found her clit, swollen and hypersensitive. She circled it, not to come again, but to feel it.
What if it was pierced? A tiny, gleaming ring. A little bead that would tap against her when she walked. Something for a tongue to play with. Something to make her even more of a show.
She thought of Ryan in the closet with Mandy. The sheer, silent power of his arousal, a physical fact that had warped the entire room. They hadn’t even seen him hard, but they’d all felt it. That was leverage. That was a draw.
Could she use that? Not just let it happen to her, but wield it? Walk into a session, knowing her captivity, her specific brand of helpless prettiness, would make that quiet giant stiffen in his jeans. Knowing the chat would see it in his eyes, in the strain against his zipper, and would pay to see it progress.
Her phone buzzed again in her other hand. A new message, this time just for her.
Sarah: You saw the tally. Your cut is 312 bucks. Not bad for a night’s work.
Emily’s fingers tightened on the phone. Work. That’s what it was. She typed back, her movements precise.
Emily: How do we get it to 500? Per person.
The three dots appeared immediately. Sarah was waiting.
Sarah: Now you’re talking. We need to plan. Not just react. We need a product.
Emily: I’m thinking about modifications.
A longer pause. Then:
Sarah: Physical or roleplay?
Emily looked at the faint red marks on her wrists. She thought of the cold clasp of the cable ties, the gag, the crushing fullness inside her. She thought of a captive’s value at an auction block.
Emily: Both.
She put the phone down, screen-up, so the glow of Sarah’s last message lit her lower face. Her other hand was still between her legs, her middle finger now pressing lightly at her own entrance, feeling the swollen, tender flesh. Her mind was no longer in her dusty dorm room.
It was in the neon-lit basement, under the projector’s glow. Mark’s voice was setting a scene. Ryan’s eyes were on her, dark and heavy. Sarah was holding something new—a set of polished steel clamps, perhaps, or a thin, cruel-looking needle.
The chat counter in the corner of her imagination wasn’t counting viewers. It was counting dollars. It was ticking upward, digit by digit, with every gasp she didn’t suppress, every tear she let fall, every deliberate, calculated arch of her soon-to-be-modified body.
How far would it go?
Her finger pressed deeper, a faint, promising ache. She didn’t know. But for the first time, she was genuinely, disturbingly eager to find out.