Chapter 16: The Auction
The first strap clicked shut over his forehead, and the world narrowed to the blinding eye of the camera lens and the smell of vinyl and male anticipation. He was a specimen, pinned.
“Okay, chat, listen up!” Katie’s voice cut through the hum of equipment, cheerful and commanding, the voice of a game show host. She stood just outside the light, a silhouette with a tablet glowing in her hands. “The tip menu is live. Opening bid for the first segment starts at five thousand. We’ve got Spit Roast, Double Anal, Ruined Orgasm, Edge, Throat Fuck, Open Request. Place your bets. Top collective bid in sixty seconds picks the play.”
A digital timer appeared in the corner of the main feed, numbers dripping down. The chat, visible on a monitor just behind Katie, exploded into a strobing nightmare of usernames and dollar signs. Randy’s eyes, wide and glassy, tried to follow it, but the numbers blurred.
Jax moved into view, rolling his sleeves up another precise turn. He wasn’t looking at the chat. He was looking at Randy’s throat, at the delicate lock on the choker. He pulled out his phone, tapped twice.
A sonic ding echoed from Katie’s tablet. Her eyebrows lifted. “We have a major player. Jax in the room—not just an investor tonight, ladies and gentlemen—kicks us off with ten thousand. For… let’s see… the Throat Fuck segment.”
A collective murmur from Leo and Marcus. A challenge.
Randy’s own breath sounded ragged in his ears. The steel cage felt like a cold, forgotten limb.
Another ding. Katie’s smile sharpened. “And we have ‘SirCumsAlot69’ from the feed matching the ten, but for the Spit Roast. Looks like we have a duel.”
Jax didn’t glance at his phone. He stared at Randy, his expression unreadable. “Twenty,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying. “Spit Roast.”
The chat scrolled faster. Randy could make out fragments. “holy shit Jax wants it all” — “ruin that sissy” — “50k if she cries.”
Marcus chuckled, a low, nervous sound. He tapped on his own phone. Ding.
“Marcus enters at twenty-five for Double Anal,” Katie announced, her tone shifting to a sportscaster’s. “Thirty seconds!”
Jax’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He didn’t like being outbid, even in play. He held Randy’s gaze, as if transmitting a promise. Or a threat.
“Forty,” Jax said. “Spit Roast.”
The room held its breath. The timer bled: five… four… Dingdingding!
A cascade of sounds from Katie’s tablet. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise before her professional mask snapped back. “Well. Chat has pooled. A coordinated push from the ‘Cindy Crusaders’… they’ve dumped fifty thousand in the last three seconds.” She looked from her screen to Jax, a cool negotiation in her gaze. “The high collective bid is fifty-two thousand, eight hundred. For Spit Roast. But it’s not from you, Jax. It’s from them.” She gestured to the monitor, to the screaming, faceless crowd.
Jax’s expression darkened. He was a man used to owning the room, the deal, the property. He looked at Randy, then at the camera, understanding dawning. The audience had stolen his prize. He gave a slow, conceding nod, but his eyes were cold.
Katie stepped into the light, her energy shifting. The game was set. “Spit Roast it is. Gentleman, you know the positions. Jax, you’re on throat detail. Marcus, you’re rear entry. Leo, you’re on camera B, get the reaction shots. I’ll be… conducting.” She unzipped her jumpsuit. Underneath, she wore nothing but a pair of sheer black shorts and her own harness. She climbed onto the bench, straddling Randy’s caged, immobilized form, her back to his chest. He could feel her heat through the lace of his bralette.
She leaned back, her mouth near his ear. Her voice was a private scrape. “This is what you wanted. This is the file labeled ‘SP_ROAST_FINAL.mov’ you came to three Thursdays ago. Remember? You’re living it. Be good.” Then, louder, for the mic: “Chat says they want to hear the gag. They want the tears. Let’s not disappoint our investors.”
Jax moved forward, his belt already open. He was thick, fully hard, a blunt fact in the stark light. He didn’t bother with preamble. His hand closed in the platinum wig, fisting it, and guided himself past the glossed lips Randy had just admired in the mirror.
There was no slow build. It was an invasion. Randy’s body jackknifed against the straps, a muffled whump escaping his nose as the head hit his soft palette. The taste was salt and skin. His jaw screamed.
“Tight fit,” Jax grunted, not to Randy, but to the camera over Katie’s shoulder. He pushed deeper, burying himself to the root. Randy’s throat convulsed, a violent, automatic spasm. His eyes streamed, blurring the lights into starry explosions.
Katie rocked backwards against him, reaching behind to grip his thigh. “There’s the gag! Hear that, chat? That’s the sound of no air.” She was moving, grinding against the locked steel of his cage, a torturous, perfect pressure. “He’s trying to swallow, but Jax is too big. Look at his eyes. They’re begging.”
They were. They were begging for it to stop. They were also drinking in the sight of Jax’s stomach muscles clenching above him, the raw power of it. The secret, shameful wire inside him, the one that had sparked in the elevator, now burned white-hot. This was the nadir. This was the truth.
Jax began to move, a brutal, piston rhythm. Each thrust mashed Randy’s head into the vinyl pad. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. Saliva spilled from the stretched corners of his mouth, mixing with the ruined lip gloss, slicking Jax’s skin.
“Marcus,” Katie panted, her own arousal evident in her voice. “Now. While his throat is full. He can’t tense up.”
Randy felt hands on his hips, lifting them, positioning him. He felt the cold, extensive pour of lube, then the blunt, insistent pressure of a second man. The breach was a searing, impossible fullness. He screamed around Jax, a hollow, vibrating sound that made the microphone peak.
“Double stuffed!” Katie yelled, her composure slipping into something guttural and triumphant. “Look at him take it! Both ends! That’s your fifty grand right there, you beautiful perverts!”
The sensation was catastrophic. A pain so acute it circled back into a kind of piercing euphoria. He was nothing but a tube, a vessel, being used simultaneously, efficiently, like a machine. The humiliation was absolute. It was also… freeing. The Randy who gave PowerPoints, who negotiated contracts, was gone. There was only this animal, strapped and penetrated, sobbing and hard inside his steel prison.
Jax’s pace increased, his grunts becoming ragged. “Gonna choke you full,” he snarled, his fingers tightening in the wig.
Katie felt Randy’s body begin to seize, a telltale fluttering she recognized. “He’s gonna try to come!” she announced. “In his cage. Pathetic. Let’s see it.” She bore down harder, milking the sensation from him.
The orgasm hit like a silent detonation. It had no release, no relief. It was a convulsive, trapped eruption inside the unforgiving steel, a wave of agony-pleasure that ripped a torn shriek from his abused throat. His back arched against the straps, every muscle locking.
Jax, triggered by the violent spasms around him, cursed and drove home, pulsing deep into Randy’s gullet. Randy had no choice but to swallow, the rhythmic gulp reflex forced upon him, a final, degrading obedience.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, the wet, messy disconnect of flesh, and the electronic chatter of the chat, now a frenzied wall of celebration.
Katie slid off him, her skin gleaming with sweat. She looked down at Randy, a spent, shuddering mess, makeup streaked, lips swollen, eyes vacant. She wiped his cheek with a thumb, a gesture that could have been tender if her eyes weren’t already on the monitor, analyzing the metrics.
“Hydration break,” she said, her voice hoarse but already moving on. “Seven-minute intermission. Top bidder for the next segment is… ‘DaddyDontStop’ requesting Open Request. They want the ruin.” She glanced at Jax, who was tucking himself away, a look of dark satisfaction on his face. “You up for it?”
Jax nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll ruin him.”
Katie bent close to Randy’s ear. His breath hitched. He was broken open, raw.
“Halfway there, baby,” she whispered, her voice a mix of nurse and predator. “You’re doing so good. The numbers are insane.” She held a bottle with a straw to his lips. “Drink. Daddy’s not finished with you yet.”
Randy drank, the water feeling alien in his ravaged throat. He tasted salt and something else. He tasted Jax. The wire inside him wasn’t burning anymore. It had melted, become a fluid, yielding thing. He looked at the camera, and for the first time, his gaze wasn’t pleading. It was empty. Ready. He was Cindy. And Cindy would take whatever came next.
The intermission was a blur of bottled water, a towel that smelled of other men, and Katie dabbing at his running eyeliner with a practiced, clinical touch. "Eyes on me, baby," she murmured, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. "The vote is clear. You get zero releases tonight. The denial is part of the package they bought."
Randy’s spent body gave a feeble tremor. The earlier orgasm inside its cage already felt like a cruel taunt.
"Next up is the crowd-sourced special," Katie announced, turning to the camera with a bright, game-show host smile. "The 'Cindy Crusaders' unlocked the stretch goal. Twenty deposits. Backdoor only. And we’re going to edge him violently between each contributor." She scanned the room. "We need participants. Jax? You in for round two?"
Jax, leaning against the wall, gave a slow nod. "I’ll start the tally."
"Marcus, Leo, you're on deck." She glanced at the monitor. "And it looks like we have three new gentlemen freshly vetted and waiting in the green room. Send them in."
The door opened, and three strangers filed in, their ordinary faces looking vaguely out of place in the lurid light. They were just guys—a beefy man in a polo shirt, a lanky one with glasses, another who looked like he’d come from the gym. They looked at Randy, not with Jax’s predatory intensity, but with a curious, transactional interest.
"Welcome, gents. Rules are simple," Katie said, her tone breezy as if explaining a coffee machine. "You use him, you finish in him, you step aside. No kissing. Don’t damage the merchandise. We’re counting. Randy, darling, on your hands and knees. Present."
The command, delivered so sweetly, had him moving before his mind could formulate a protest. The vinyl was cold against his raw knees. He felt overwhelmingly exposed, the tail of the plug the only thing that had remained, a silly decoration.
"First load is a freebie," Katie narrated. "Jax, since you're an early investor. Let's remind everyone what we're working with."
There was no preparation this time. Jax stepped up behind him, and Randy heard the rip of another packet. The intrusion was a familiar, searing stretch. Jax moved with a detached efficiency, his hands gripping Randy’s hips hard enough to bruise.
"Edge him, Jax," Katie directed, watching Randy’s face. "Get him right to the brink and stop."
Jax’s rhythm shifted, becoming deliberate, aiming for the oversensitive spot inside him with brutal accuracy. Pleasure, sharp and unwanted, lanced through Randy’s exhaustion. A high, thin sound escaped his lips. His caged erection strained miserably against its prison.
"Look at that," Katie cooed into her headset mic. "He’s shaking. He’s right there. Okay, stop."
Jax halted, buried deep, perfectly still. The denial was a physical ache, a wave of nausea-inducing frustration. Randy whimpered, pushing back blindly, instinctively seeking the friction that had been taken away.
"Ah-ah," Katie chided. "No chasing it. And...finish."
With a grunt, Jax obliged, pumping his release inside with a few final, shallow thrusts. Randy felt the hot spill, a degrading internal marker. "One," Katie announced cheerfully. "Nineteen to go. Polo Shirt, you're up. But first, edge." She nodded to Leo, who stepped forward.
While the first stranger prepared behind him, Leo knelt in front of Randy. His touch was almost gentle as he gripped the steel cage and gave it a relentless, vibrating twist. The sensation was electric and agonizing, a direct line to his denied core. Randy sobbed, his forehead dropping to his arms.
"Polo Shirt, go!"
The swap was jarring. A different angle, a different rhythm, a stranger’s breath on his back. It was mechanistic. Insert. Pound. Bring him to a shuddering, whimpering edge with hands and toys and words. Stop. Then the intimate, impersonal deposit. "Two," Katie would call out, her voice the only constant.
The count climbed. Five. Eight. Twelve.
Randy lost track of time, of individual faces. He became a receptacle, his mind fleeing to a fuzzy static. The only anchors were the sharp, cruel edges of pleasure they manufactured in him, each one cut off more brutally than the last, and Katie’s voice, narrating his dissolution.
"Fifteen! Big tipper from 'WetWilly' says to make him beg for permission to come. Let's hear it, Cindy."
Randy’s voice was a shredded ruin. "Please," he rasped, not knowing whom he addressed. "Please, can I—"
"No!" the room chorused, a jovial, brutal unison, and the sixteenth man entered him as the word hung in the air.
By eighteen, the physical act was almost a secondary torment. It was the edging, the systematic, merciless manipulation of his nerves that was unmaking him. He was a live wire, stripped bare, sparking and helpless.
"Final contributor!" Katie called. "Let's make it a good one. Jax, you want to close the count?"
Jax, who had been watching with cool approval, stepped up for the third time. "I’ll seal the deal."
This time, there was a possessiveness to it. A claiming. Randy was too broken to even approach the edge; he just hung from his straps, taking it, feeling the final, hot rush join the cold, leaking mess within him.
"Twenty!" Katie declared, and the room erupted in rough applause from the participants. "Contract fulfilled. Tip has cleared. Absolutely historic."
She crouched in front of Randy, cupping his sweat-drenched face. Her eyes were brilliant with triumph. "You incredible thing," she whispered, for him alone. Then, louder: "But the night’s not over. We have our finale. The winning vote was overwhelming. Double anal. Throat fuck. Ruined orgasm. And then… denial. The ultimate finish."
She stood. "Leo, Marcus, you’re on the rear. Jax, you own the throat again. We do this slow. We do it mean. We break him all the way down."
The men moved into position. Randy was maneuvered onto his back again, his legs pushed viciously apart. The sight of two men lining up behind his ravaged, dripping body was a surreal portrait of his own obscenity. Jax leaned over his face, that thick, familiar presence blotting out the light.
"You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought," Jax whispered, before pressing down.
The fullness was beyond anything he could have conceived. It was a splitting, a reaming pressure that tore a silent scream from his lungs, a scream that was immediately stuffed by the relentless drive down his throat. He was pinned, utterly filled, a human knot. Katie’s hand closed around his cage, her grip firm and knowing.
"This is the finale, chat!" she cried, her voice ragged with shared exertion. "This is the ruin! Watch him fly apart and get nothing!"
She began to stroke and twist the cage in time with the brutal, synchronized rhythm of the three men. It was too much. An overwhelming, seismic peak gathered, inevitable and terrifying.
It hit.
A shockwave of raw, neural obliteration that arched his spine off the table. His body convulsed, a wild, desperate puppet, milking the men inside him as the pathetic, dry throb of a ruined orgasm leaked uselessly into its steel trap. It was pleasure stripped of all reward, agony without catharsis, a void masquerading as release.
The men finished, one after the other, as he lay spasming through the empty aftermath.
Then, silence. The oppressive weight of them withdrew. He was hollowed out, a shell smeared with sweat and sin and other men. Katie’s face swam into view, haloed by the harsh light. She smiled, softly, and unlocked the steel cage from his bruised flesh with a gentle click.
"There," she said, her nurse’s voice returning, soothing and final. "All done. You were perfect."
Her fingers brushed his chastened, ignored flesh. Not a stroke of mercy, but a physician’s confirmation of the diagnosis. Total systemic denial. The vote had been respected.
The last thing he saw before the lights cut was the camera’s red eye winking out, and the triumphant, loving exhaustion in Katie’s gaze as she reached to turn it off.