Chapter 6: Emily's fingers hover over the remote's controls as Charles trembles, the plug inside him humming to life at the lowest setting. 'Oh, we can do much better than that,' Lena whispers, guiding Emily's hand to turn the dial to maximum - watching with delight as Charles' body convulses, his cock leaking precum onto the plush rug while Eleanor describes in graphic detail how they'll take turns riding him once he's properly 'warmed up'.
The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling tapestry of cold, distant lights. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of leather and anticipation. Charles knelt in the center of the expanded playroom, the velvet cushions beneath his knees a small luxury against the hard floor. His nakedness was a familiar state now, but the new weight around his neck was not. A thin, black leather collar, from which hung a small, perfectly polished silver bell.
Eleanor stood by the door, a silhouette against the urban panorama. “Remember, my love,” she said, her voice calm and instructional. “The bell tells us everything. If you fidget, if you tremble, if you even breathe too hard… we’ll know.”
He tried to hold still, but the faint, involuntary tremor in his thighs set off a tiny, crystalline chime. The sound was absurdly delicate, a stark contrast to the raw purpose of the room.
The door opened. Lena entered first, a sly smile playing on her lips. Behind her followed a younger woman, Emily, her eyes wide as they scanned the room, lingering on the St. Andrew’s cross in the corner, the suspension hooks in the ceiling, before finally landing on him.
“Emily, this is Eleanor,” Lena said, her tone that of a curator presenting a prized exhibit. “And this,” she gestured towards Charles, “is the evening’s entertainment.”
Eleanor approached Emily, taking her hand in a welcoming gesture. “Lena’s told me so much about you. She said you have a… creative streak.”
Emily swallowed, her gaze flicking back to Charles. “I… I don’t know what she told you.”
“Only that you appreciate fine instruments,” Eleanor purred. “And that you enjoy being in control.”
Lena walked over to a low lacquered box and opened it. Inside, nestled on black velvet, was a sleek, black remote control. She picked it up and brought it to Emily. “We thought you’d enjoy directing the show tonight.” She pressed the remote into Emily’s hesitant hand. “This connects to the little friend we’ve tucked inside him. It has ten vibrational patterns. The dial controls the intensity.”
Charles’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t known. The plug buried deep in his ass was no longer just a passive presence; it was a weapon now, and the trigger was in the hands of a stranger.
Emily looked down at the remote, her thumb hovering over the dial. She looked at Charles, at his kneeling form, the bell silent now as he fought for absolute stillness. A slow, calculating look replaced the uncertainty in her eyes.
“What are the rules?” Emily asked, her voice gaining a thread of strength.
“There are none,” Eleanor said, moving to a deep armchair and crossing her legs. “He is your canvas. Paint whatever picture you desire.”
Lena settled on a chaise lounge, lighting a thin cigarette. “Don’t be shy, darling. He’s been thoroughly broken in.”
Emily took a step forward. She didn’t look at Eleanor or Lena anymore; her entire world had narrowed to the man on his knees and the device in her hand. She turned the dial, just a fraction.
A low, deep hum started inside Charles. It was a subtle, internal thrum, a presence that announced itself without being overwhelming. He let out a shaky breath, and the bell tinkled.
Emily’s mouth curved into a small smile. She turned the dial further.
The vibration intensified, shifting from a hum to a steady, insistent pulse. It resonated deep in his core, a maddening tease that promised nothing. His cock, which had been soft and ignored, began to stir, thickening against his thigh. The bell chimed again with the slight shift in his posture.
“He’s responsive,” Emily noted, almost to herself.
“Extremely,” Lena confirmed from her chaise, blowing out a plume of smoke.
Emily began to experiment. She switched patterns. The steady pulse became a staccato rhythm, then a slow, escalating wave that built to a sudden peak before dropping away, leaving him clenching around nothing. Each change was a fresh shock to his system. He was sweating now, a fine sheen coating his skin. The need to thrust back against the invisible intrusion was a physical ache.
“Please,” he whispered, the word torn from him.
The vibrations ceased instantly. The sudden silence inside him was somehow more agonizing than the stimulation.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” Emily said, her voice cool. She walked closer, circling him. The bell rang with every tiny, mincing step she took. She stopped behind him. “Such a pretty, helpless thing.”
He felt the tip of her shoe, a sharp, pointed toe, nudge at his balls. He flinched, and the bell sang a frantic, jangling note.
“You like that, don’t you?” she murmured. “Being our little bell-ringer.”
She increased the intensity on the remote to its highest setting and switched it to a chaotic, random pattern. It was like being fucked by a frantic, electric bee. Charles cried out, his back arching, his body convulsing. The bell was a constant, frantic accompaniment to his distress. Pre-come leaked from his tip, dripping onto the velvet beneath him.
“Look at him,” Emily said, her voice laced with a dark wonder. “He’s completely lost in it.”
“He’s where he belongs,” Eleanor replied, her tone one of deep satisfaction.
Emily came to stand in front of him again. She looked down at his suffering, at his straining, desperate cock. “You want to come, don’t you?”
He could only manage a frantic nod, the bell jingling wildly.
“Then beg for it.”
The words were a bucket of cold water and a shot of adrenaline all at once. Shame warred with a desperate, clawing need. The vibrations inside him were a relentless torture.
“Please,” he gasped. “Please, let me come.”
“Not good enough.” She twisted the dial, and the vibrations became a brutal, unwavering roar deep in his guts. His vision swam.
“Please, Emily! I’m your… I’m your slut. Your fucking thing. Please, let your thing come!” The words were ripped from a place beyond dignity, a raw, primal surrender.
Emily looked over at Eleanor, who gave a slight, approving nod.
“Okay,” Emily said softly. She didn’t turn off the remote. Instead, she knelt in front of him, her eyes level with his. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his cock. It was hot and slick in her grasp. She began to stroke him, her movements perfectly synchronized with the violent vibrations shaking him apart from the inside.
It was too much. The sensory overload was absolute. With a guttural shout that was half-sob, half-roar, he came. His release shot over her hand and wrist in hot, pulsing stripes, his body seizing, the bell on his collar a frantic, jingling mess.
She kept her hand on him, milking him through the last shuddering waves, the remote still humming in her other hand, prolonging the sensitivity into a near-painful oversensitivity.
When he was spent, sagging forward, supported only by her grip on his still-hard cock, she finally released him and turned the remote off. The sudden, profound stillness was a shock. He panted, dripping and broken, the occasional aftershock making the bell give a soft, lone chime.
Emily stood, looking at the mess on her hand. She then brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean, her eyes locked on his. The gesture was more dominating than any command.
She walked over to Eleanor and placed the remote back in the box. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady. “That was… educational.”
Eleanor rose and embraced her. “You’re a natural.” She looked over Emily’s shoulder at Charles’s wrecked form. “See? He’s perfect.”
Lena stubbed out her cigarette. “A virtuoso performance, my dear.”
Charles remained on his knees, the city’s indifferent lights staring in at him. He was covered in his own release, the inside of his body still echoing with the ghost of vibrations, the tiny silver bell finally silent. He had been played. And the music he had made was the sound of his own utter surrender.
The silence that followed was a physical weight, broken only by the ragged saw of Charles’s breath. He was a sculpture of spent desire, glistening and trembling on the velvet. Emily watched him, her expression unreadable, her fingers still tingling with the memory of his climax. She turned the remote over in her hand, her thumb finding the dial again.
“He’s not finished,” she stated, her voice low and certain. It wasn’t a question for Eleanor; it was a declaration to the room.
Eleanor’s smile was a slow bloom of approval. “The instrument is yours to play, my dear. Until you are satisfied.”
Emily’s eyes locked with Charles’s, seeing the dazed surrender in them. She wanted to shatter what was left. She cranked the dial to its maximum setting, but she didn’t press the button. Not yet. The anticipation was a sharper tool than the vibration itself. Charles’s body tensed, every muscle coiled, waiting for the onslaught. The silver bell on his collar gave a faint, shivering chime.
“You came because I allowed it,” she said, walking a slow circle around him. “Your pleasure is mine to give. Or to withhold.”
She stopped behind him, looking down at the subtle, shameful evidence of the plug buried inside him. She pressed the button.
A violent, immediate buzz erupted deep in his core, so intense it was less a vibration and more a brutal, internal pounding. He shouted, a raw, animal sound, his back arching violently. The bell jangled a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his throat. It was too much, an agony of sensation that bordered on pain, lighting up every raw nerve ending.
“Does that hurt?” Emily asked, her voice cool and clinical over the electric hum.
“Yes!” he gasped, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Good.” She switched the pattern to a rapid, staccato pulse, a relentless drumming against his prostate. His cock, soft and spent moments before, began to thicken again, a traitorous response to the torture. Pre-come beaded anew at the tip, a slick promise of a torment he didn’t think he could bear. “Your body doesn’t care if it’s pain or pleasure, does it? It just reacts. It’s just a thing.”
She moved to stand in front of him, watching the tears of overwhelmed sensation track through the sweat on his cheeks. She lowered herself to her knees, her face inches from his. The buzzing inside him was a constant, debilitating tremor.
“I want to see you beg to come again,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “But this time, you’re going to beg me to stop.”
She increased the intensity another notch. The world dissolved into a white-hot buzz. He was nothing but a conduit for this devastating current. His hips bucked involuntarily, a useless, pathetic motion. A long, broken sob escaped him.
“Please,” he choked out, the word barely recognizable. “Please, Emily, no more.”
“Louder.”
“Stop! Please, God, make it stop!” he cried, his voice cracking. The bell was a hysterical accompaniment to his breakdown.
She watched him for a moment longer, this handsome, broken man unraveling at her command. Then, with a final, contemptuous flick of her thumb, she turned the remote off.
The silence was absolute and shocking. He collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands, his entire body shuddering through the sudden void. He was hollowed out, scraped clean, the ghost of the vibration still twitching in his muscles.
Emily stood, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. She placed the remote back into the lacquered box with a definitive click. “Now he’s finished.”
The silence after Emily’s pronouncement was thick and heavy, broken only by Charles’s ragged breathing. Eleanor finally rose from her chair, the soft rustle of her dress a counterpoint to the electric stillness. “An exquisite performance,” she said, her voice smooth as polished stone. “But the evening is still young. Let’s move to the dining room. I’ve had a new idea.”
They left him there, kneeling in the aftermath. The faint, metallic taste of his own humiliation was a familiar coat on his tongue. After a few minutes, a silent attendant entered, wiped him down with a cold, damp cloth, and led him by the collar to the grand dining room.
The table was set with impeccable elegance, sterling silver and crystal glinting under the low light of the chandelier. The guests were already seated: Eleanor at the head, Lena and Mark to her right, David and a flushed Beatrice to her left. Emily sat beside an empty chair, her posture composed, but her eyes held a new, dark curiosity.
“Assume your position,” Eleanor said, her tone conversational, as if asking him to pass the salt.
Charles didn’t need further instruction. He crawled under the vast oak table, the world shrinking to the forest of legs and the scent of polished wood and perfume. The space was a familiar, shameful territory.
“A little background music, I think,” Eleanor announced, and a low, rhythmic jazz playlist began to flow through hidden speakers.
Then came the real command. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would. Make yourselves comfortable for the main course.”
There was a shifting of fabric, the soft rasp of zippers, the rustle of silk and wool. Above him, trousers were pushed down to bunch around ankles. Dresses were gathered and lifted, pooled around waists to bare hips and thighs. The air under the table transformed, becoming intimate and charged with the musk of bare skin. He was surrounded by a circle of exposed cocks and cunts, all within inches of his face.
“You remember the rules, Charles,” Eleanor’s voice filtered down, calm and clear. “A new song, a new course. Serve whomever you wish until the music stops.”
The first track, a slow saxophone number, began. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned his head, his movement causing the silver bell on his collar to give a soft, shameful tinkle. He saw Mark’s thick, semi-hard cock to his left, and Lena’s neatly trimmed cunt to his right. He chose Lena, pressing his face into her, his tongue seeking her out with a practiced desperation.
She gasped above, her thighs tensing on either side of his head. “Oh, good boy,” she murmured, her voice slightly strained.
He ate her with a focused intensity, his tongue working her clit, delving inside her, the sounds wet and obscenely loud in the confined space. He could feel the vibrations of conversation through the table, the clink of cutlery, a world of normalcy happening just above the animalistic reality he was creating.
The song faded out. He pulled back instantly, a string of her wetness connecting his mouth to her for a moment before it broke.
A new, faster-paced piano piece started. He pivoted on his knees. Now he was facing David’s heavy balls and erect cock. Without ceremony, he took the head into his mouth, sucking hard, tasting the faint, salty pre-come. David grunted, a sound of pure approval, and shoved his hips forward, fucking Charles’s throat in short, brutal thrusts.
“Fuck yeah, that’s the spot,” David groaned from above, his voice a low rumble.
The music stopped again. Charles released him, gasping for air, his own cock aching and ignored. The bell chimed with his heavy breathing.
The next song was a languid, double-bass line. He turned to find Beatrice. Her cunt was glistening, already wet from watching or anticipation. He buried his face between her legs, licking her with a slow, thorough rhythm that matched the music. She moaned, a high, tight sound, and her hand came down under the table, fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, but holding on.
“Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop,” she whispered, her hips lifting to meet his mouth.
He didn’t. He worked her through the entire song, feeling her body tighten, her breaths become shallow pants, until the final note hung in the air and he was forced to pull away, leaving her on the trembling edge. She let out a frustrated, choked sound.
A new beat kicked in. He moved to Emily. She was already watching the space under the tablecloth, her expression cool. Her cunt was bare, her lips swollen. He dove in, his tongue lashing at her, trying to replicate the brutal control she had exerted over him earlier. He wanted to break her composure.
He felt her jolt, a sharp intake of breath. Her hands gripped the edge of her seat. “You… filthy… animal,” she gasped, but she didn’t push him away. She ground herself against his mouth, her facade cracking into raw, grinding need.
The song changed once more. He was running out of time. He scrambled to Eleanor. Her scent was different, familiar and commanding. He worshipped her with his tongue, a devoted supplicant, trying to convey his utter submission through this single, wet act. He heard her soft, contented sigh from above, the highest praise he could hope for.
The playlist ended. Abrupt silence filled the room.
“You can stop now, Charles,” Eleanor said, her voice cutting through the heavy, panting quiet. “Dessert is served.”
He froze, his face still buried in his wife, his body trembling from the exertion and the denied release. The circle of exposed flesh around him seemed to pulse with a shared, unfinished energy. He had serviced them all, a machine responding to musical cues, and now he was simply to stop.
Slowly, he pulled back, collapsing onto his heels under the table. He was drenched in sweat and the fluids of others, the silver bell on his collar now silent. The guests above began to slowly, casually, rearrange their clothing, the soft sounds of zippers and shifting fabric a gentle dismissal. The conversation resumed, light and casual, as if nothing had happened.
He was left in the dark, the taste of five different people layered on his tongue, his own need a sharp, ignored pain in his groin. He was the main course they had all consumed, and now he was simply… finished.
The silence under the table was a vacuum, sucking the air from his lungs. Above, the clink of dessert forks on porcelain was a delicate, mocking punctuation to the raw animal stench of sex that clung to him. He was a discarded wrapper, sticky and spent.
Eleanor’s voice, cool and clear, cut through the wood. “Charles. Out.”
He crawled out from the sanctuary of his shame, the silver bell on his collar chiming softly with each movement. The guests watched him, their faces a gallery of satiated indifference. Emily wouldn’t meet his eyes, studying her wine glass instead.
“The evening requires a final act,” Eleanor announced, rising. She gestured toward the playroom door. “A punctuation mark.”
He followed her, his body moving on a string of ingrained obedience. The others trailed behind, a silent procession. The playroom felt different now, the air charged with a new, heavier anticipation. The St. Andrew’s cross stood against the far wall, a dark X of polished oak and reinforced steel.
“Here,” Eleanor said, her hand flat against the cold wood.
He understood. He walked to the cross and placed his back against it, the grain rough against his skin. Lena brought forward the leather restraints. She buckled a wide cuff around his left wrist, pulling his arm taut to a heavy iron ring bolted to the wood. The leather was cool and unyielding.
Mark secured his right arm, stretching him wide. David knelt to fasten his ankles, spreading his legs into a vulnerable, open V. He was completely exposed, pinned like a specimen. The bell at his throat was still.
“Such a beautiful canvas,” Eleanor murmured, tracing a finger down his sternum. “But it lacks a final color.”
She picked up a riding crop from a nearby table, flexing it in her hands. She stepped back, measuring the distance. The first strike landed high on his thigh, a sharp, stinging kiss that made his whole leg jolt. A bright red line bloomed on his skin.
“Count,” she commanded.
“One,” he gasped.
The next blow came lower, catching the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh near his balls. He cried out, his body straining against the restraints.
“Two!”
He lost count after seven. The pain was a fire, cleansing and clarifying. Each strike burned away a layer of thought, leaving only sensation and the sound of Eleanor’s breathing. His cock, soft and ignored, began to stir again, thickening under this brutal attention.
“Look at him,” Beatrice whispered, her voice hushed. “He’s getting hard.”
Eleanor paused, her chest rising and falling. She dropped the crop. She moved in close, her body pressing against his, her mouth at his ear. “This is what you are,” she breathed. “You are this need. Nothing else.”
She reached down and wrapped her hand around his erect, throbbing cock. Her grip was tight, possessive. She began to stroke him, a rough, demanding rhythm that was a continuation of the punishment.
“Come for me,” she growled, her voice raw with a power he had never heard in her before. “Come all over this cross you’re tied to. Mark it as yours.”
The command, the pain, the total helplessness—it was a key turning in a lock deep inside him. His hips bucked against the restraints as a climax ripped through him, more violent and convulsive than any before. He shouted, a wordless, guttural sound as his release shot across the wood between his splayed arms, hot and thick.
He sagged in the cuffs, utterly spent, the cross the only thing holding him up. Eleanor stepped back, wiping her hand on a cloth Lena handed her. She looked at the scene: her husband, bound, marked, and painted with his own release.
“Perfect,” she said, her satisfaction absolute. “Now it’s finished.”