Chapter 10: Feminist Edge Training
The coffee in Chris’s hand had long gone cold. He stared at the blank screen of his laptop, sitting at his kitchen table in the same spot he’d collapsed two nights before. The memory of Nat’s face, of Sophia’s command, was a fresh bruise on his psyche. The cage was a constant, dull weight.
When the video call request chimed, it wasn’t Samantha’s familiar avatar. It was a generic icon, and the caller ID read “C_A_J.” His stomach dropped. He knew. He answered.
Three faces filled the screen, but the backdrop was different. Not Sophia’s neon den of iniquity, but a room that looked like a cross between a library and a lecture hall. Shelves of dense, academic books lined the walls behind them. A whiteboard, partly erased, held fragments of phrases: “…androcentric hegemony…” “…the economy of desire…” In the center of the frame was a projector screen, currently blank.
Conzi sat front and center. Her short blonde hair was sharp, her glasses perched perfectly. She wore a simple, high-necked black sweater. To her left was a younger woman with a severe, short haircut and intense eyes—Anna. To her right was Judy, her shoulder-length blonde hair framing a face that was pretty but currently set in a look of clinical disapproval.
“Chris,” Conzi said, her voice flat, devoid of the playful malice he’d come to expect from Sophia. This was colder. “We’ve been reviewing the footage from your last session. Samantha granted us access. We have some thoughts.”
Anna leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips. “We think you enjoyed it too much. Even the humiliation. Especially the humiliation. It fed your fantasy. It centered your dick, again.”
“This isn’t about your pleasure,” Judy added, her voice softer but no less firm. “It’s about deconstructing the very foundation of that pleasure. It’s about making you understand the machinery you’re a part of.”
He said nothing. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Conzi gestured to the blank projector screen behind them. “We’re going to run a little seminar. Topic: Male Entitlement and the Illusion of Sexual Power. You’re the case study.” She tapped a key on her laptop. The projector screen flickered to life. It showed a frozen, zoomed-in image from his last call—his face, twisted in ecstasy and pain as he edged for Sophia.
“Look at you,” Anna said, pointing. “You think you’re being dominated? You’re getting off on the performance. Your suffering is a narcissistic spectacle. You consume our attention. You always have.”
“Uncage yourself,” Conzi commanded.
His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the key. The click echoed in his silent apartment and seemed to boom through their speakers. His erection, never far away, sprang free. It was a stark, vulnerable contrast to the academic setting on his screen.
“There it is,” Judy said, not with desire, but with the tone of a biologist pointing out a specimen. “The biological imperative, swollen with its own assumed importance.”
“Stroke it,” Conzi said. “Slowly. We’re going to talk. You’re going to listen. And you’re going to learn.”
He wrapped his hand around his shaft. The touch was fire after days of confinement. He gave a slow, tentative pull.
“Faster,” Anna snapped. “We don’t have all night. But not too fast. You don’t get to decide the pace. We do.”
He sped up, the slick sound of his pre-cum filling the quiet of his kitchen.
Conzi began, her eyes on her notes, not on him. “For centuries, the male orgasm has been treated as the endgame. The singular event around which all sexual activity orbits. The female body, our pleasure, is often relegated to the status of a supporting actor, or worse, a landscape to be conquered.” She looked up, her gaze piercing the camera. “Samantha is subverting that. By controlling your orgasm, she is forcibly recentering the narrative. It’s not about your climax. It’s about her will.”
Chris groaned, his hips pushing into his fist. The words, detached and intellectual, were somehow more degrading than any filthy name-calling. They were dissecting him, turning his need into a political failing.
“Feel that?” Anna asked. “That’s patriarchal entitlement. That ache you have? It’s the ghost of a thousand years of you thinking you could just take. You can’t take anything now. You have to be given permission. And we’re not in a giving mood.”
“Edge,” Judy commanded.
He stuttered his hand, stopping just before the point of no return. A sharp, breathy gasp escaped him. “Fuck.”
“Language,” Conzi chided calmly. “Your base impulses are showing. Again. Keep going.”
He resumed the slow, punishing rhythm.
Anna took over. “Let’s talk about objectification. You objectified Nat. You used the image of her body, her betrayal, as a tool for your arousal. You turned her personal life into your personal pornography. That’s what men do. They consume. They reduce.” She smiled, a cruel, bright thing. “How does it feel to be the one reduced? To be nothing but a living, throbbing dick on a screen for our analysis?”
“It… it hurts,” he choked out.
“Good,” all three said, almost in unison.
The lecture continued. They cycled through topics—the performative nature of male sexuality, the colonialist mindset of conquest inherent in the sexual act, the myth of the ever-ready, insatiable male. Each point was punctuated by a command.
“Edge.”
“Again.”
“Faster.”
“Slower. Listen to the point.”
He was a sweaty, trembling mess. Pre-cum flowed freely, coating his hand, dripping onto his stomach. His mind was split in two: one part lost in the building, excruciating pleasure, the other trapped in the cold, logical deconstruction of that very pleasure.
“You want to cum, don’t you?” Conzi asked, finally looking directly at him. Her eyes were like ice. “That’s the entirety of your consciousness right now. A desperate, biological whine. It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing.”
“Please,” he begged, the word torn from him.
“Please what?” Judy asked.
“Please, can I… can I edge again?” He hated the sound of his own voice, reedy and broken.
“No,” Anna said. “You have to earn permission to even approach your climax. You have to articulate what you’ve learned. Tell us. In your own words. What is this exercise really about?”
His brain scrambled, trying to assemble their jargon into a coherent sentence through the fog of his need. “It’s… it’s about dismantling my… my inherent assumption of sexual priority. It’s about making me understand that my orgasm is not a right, it’s a… a privilege granted only by female will.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Adequate,” Conzi said, her lips thinning in something almost like disappointment. “You’ve memorized the words. Do you believe them?”
“Yes!” he cried, thrusting into his hand helplessly.
“Prove it,” Judy said softly. “Edge. But say it with every stroke. Say ‘my pleasure is irrelevant.’”
He began to move his hand again, a frantic, sobbing rhythm. “My pleasure is irrelevant,” he chanted. “My pleasure is irrelevant. My pleasure is irrelevant.”
The mantra became a drumbeat, syncing with his pumping fist. The climb was faster now, unstoppable. The philosophy fell away, leaving only the raw, driving need.
“My pleasure is irrelevant! My pleasure is FUCKING irrelevant!”
He was right there, teetering. His balls were tight, drawing up. The head of his cock was a slick, burning flare of sensation.
“Stop,” Conzi said.
He froze. His entire body shook with the strain of holding back. A high, thin whine escaped his clenched teeth.
On screen, the three women shared a look. Conzi nodded.
“You may finish your edge,” she said.
The permission, so clinically given, unleashed him. The orgasm that wasn’t an orgasm ripped through him—a seismic, convulsive wave of pure, denied release. Nothing came out but a pathetic dribble of clear fluid. His vision whited out. He slumped back in his chair, panting, utterly spent.
The women watched his aftermath with detached interest.
“Re-lock the device,” Anna said, checking her nails.
With trembling, slick fingers, he forced his still-hard, oversensitive cock back into the unforgiving steel. The click of the lock was the period at the end of their sentence.
Conzi closed her laptop, making the frozen image of his agonized face disappear. “Seminar concluded. We’ll be sending our notes to Samantha. Expect further… tutorials.”
The call disconnected.
He sat in the dark, the smell of his own sweat and desperation thick in the air. The academic chill of their words had seeped into his bones, a new kind of captivity. They hadn’t just played with his body; they had scripted his humiliation, turning his own desire into a theorem of his inferiority. The silence now wasn’t just empty. It was full of their lingering, contemptuous logic. It was, in its own way, far more terrifying than Sophia’s wicked laughter or Nat’s guilty whispers. This was a sentence, not just for tonight, but for the very structure of his being. And he had recited it, willingly, in his own voice.