Barbara ("Babs" Gordon) leaves her boyfriend, Dick Grayson, a letter about her hottest fantasy and gives him permission to make it all happen. She wants to be bound open and blindfolded, begging for him to use her clitoris until she can't speak coherently. Her fantasy is for him to pump her clit relentlessly until it juts out from under its hood, a big tempting target. She wants him to describe it to her to get her off while he teases and treats her clit like a fuck toy, using it to make her cream herself. If she faints, her letter consents for him to keep going until she comes back to herself. He's to enact his every fantasy on her ripe clit, right down to having her clit fucked in a vacuum tube as she sprays cum in great squirts for a digital audience. Her two conditions: he talks dirty and lovingly the whole time, and he makes her clitoris a teased and tormented object of his devoted worship, quivering and begging for attention he promises to lavish until she's making an ahegao face and her fat clit stands proud for him to tease and fuck. Have him desperate to make it big enough to clamp.

Chapter 4: Synchronized Torment

The silence was a living thing. It was the hum of the white noise machine, the wet, ragged pull of Barbara’s breath, and the profound, aching absence of the pump’s hiss. Her clit, trapped in the long, narrow tube, was a universe of sensation unto itself. It wasn’t just throbbing; it was broadcasting a continuous, sub-audible signal of need that vibrated through her pelvis and up into her throat.

Dick watched her. He watched the tear tracks drying on her temples, the fine tremor in her restrained wrists, the utterly captive swell of her breasts rising and falling too fast. He saw the digital clock reflect in her blindfold. They had been at the peak for seven minutes. The sculpture was set.

“It’s holding,” he said, more to himself than to her. His voice was husky from disuse. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen brightening to his touch. The last image he’d taken—the shocking, full extension after the twelfth pump—glowed up at him. It was a technical marvel. A testament to will.

But it was just a picture. Static.

He swiped it away and opened a different app. A simple, clean interface with a single pulsing button. He tapped it. A low, almost inaudible buzz emanated from the device. He set the phone down.

His fingers bypassed the clover clamps, the beads. They closed around a new object, one that hadn’t been in the earlier lineup. He’d saved it. It was heavier than the tweezer clamps, a sleek matte black silicone with a subtle, complex shape. At its core was a small, dark window of glass.

“You remember your notes?” Dick asked, his thumb stroking over the cool, intricate surface of the toy. “You wrote about synchronization. About… resonance.”

Barbara’s head tilted slightly toward his voice. Her lips, swollen from biting them, parted. “The… the thought of it… my heartbeat…” She couldn’t finish. The idea alone, articulated now, sent a fresh shudder through her.

“Yeah,” he said. He leaned over her, his shadow swallowing the red light on her body. He showed her the device, letting it hover in her narrowed world. “This listens. It finds the dominant rhythmic pulse in the tissue it’s attached to. And then it doesn’t just vibrate. It pulses back. In perfect time. It echoes you.”

A small, broken sound escaped her. Understanding and terror.

“It’s going on the base,” he continued, his voice a low, conspiratorial thread. “Right where you’re most tender. Right where all that feeling is concentrated into one stem. It’s going to talk to the part of you I made. And it’s going to have a conversation.”

He didn’t ask for permission. They were past that kind of asking. This was the trajectory she’d authored. He simply moved.

With his other hand, he found the valve on the long, tapering pump. He released it with a soft, wet gasp. The suction broke. He lifted the tube away.

The revealed flesh was a shock, even to him. Freed from its glass prison, it didn’t soften. It stood impossibly firm and prominent, a fat, dark, shining protrusion. It was visibly longer than it had any right to be, the skin stretched to a profound tightness, gleaming with a mixture of lube and her own slickness. It was obscene. It was a fact. It pulsed in the open air, a frantic, lonely rhythm.

Dick didn’t give her time to process the new exposure.