Chapter 13: Countdown Strip Tease
The Berlin number had been Conzi, her instructions delivered in a clipped, academic tone that felt like a dissection. She’d made him recite a passage from a feminist critique of male sexual entitlement while edging, his voice breaking over syllables like “phallocentric hegemony.” After, his mind felt scoured.
Now, seventy-two hours later, another unknown number flashed, this one with a local area code. He answered on the first ring, already moving to kneel.
But it wasn’t a solitary face that appeared. The screen resolved into a jittery, multi-angle chaos. The camera was moving, passing from hand to hand. He heard laughter, the clink of bottles, a bass-heavy track pulsing somewhere in the background. The image stabilized, leaning against what looked like a stack of milk crates, framing a dim, low-ceilinged room.
Samantha’s face moved into the center of the frame. She wasn’t alone. Pressed close around her, peering over her shoulders or leaning into the shot, were Annika, Noa, Julika, and a girl with a spectacularly curvaceous figure he recognized from the tribunal as Cookie. They were in a basement, walls of cinder block painted a grimy blue, neon beer signs casting a sickly glow on their young, excited faces.
“Look who’s here,” Samantha said, her voice louder, buoyed by the energy of the group. “Our community project.”
“He looks like shit,” Annika observed cheerfully, taking a sip from a red plastic cup.
“Sleeping badly, puppy?” Noa asked, her grin wide.
He said nothing. His nakedness felt more exposed here, in this giddy, crowded space, than it ever had in the sterile silence of his own apartment.
“We’re bored,” Samantha announced. “And we’ve been talking. We decided we want to play a game. A counting game.”
Cookie bounced on her heels, her enormous ass straining against her tiny denim shorts. “It’s my idea!”
“Of course it is,” Julika murmured, the shy blond girl giving a small, sly smile that didn’t match her innocent appearance.
“Here’s how it works,” Samantha said, her eyes glittering with possessive authority. “You’re going to edge for us. You’ll start stroking that big, desperate cock of yours. But you have to hold each edge. For every full minute you successfully hold an edge without cumming, one of us takes off one piece of clothing.”
A flicker of something—hope? anticipation?—stirred in his gut.
Annika leaned in, her pale face filling a corner of the screen. “But if you fail… if you even think about spilling a single drop… then we get a real guy in here. And you get to watch him fuck one of us. And he gets to cum. All over whatever part of us he wants.”
The flicker died, frozen solid.
“That’s the game,” Noa said, clapping her hands. “You edge and watch us strip, or you fail and watch someone else get what you’ll never have.”
“Do you understand the rules?” Samantha’s voice cut through the giggles.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes.”
“Then get hard.”
His hand was a traitor, moving with a will of its own. The sight of them—five young women, flushed with drink and power, crowded together in the illicit basement air—was horrifically effective. His cock swelled quickly, jutting up thick and heavy, already leaking a clear string of pre-cum onto his stomach. The pulsing beat from their speakers seemed to sync with the throbbing in his groin.
“Start the clock, Julika,” Samantha ordered.
Julika held up a phone timer. “Now.”
He began to stroke, a slow, deliberate rhythm. He focused on the cold floor beneath his knees, the ache in his lower back, anything but the eager, mocking faces on the screen. He reached the edge faster than he wanted to, a dizzying surge of heat coiling at the base of his spine.
“Stop,” Samantha commanded.
He froze, his hand a vise around the base of his cock. His entire body trembled with the effort of containment. The need to finish was a physical scream in his skull.
Silence in the basement. He could hear their breathing. Julika watched the timer.
One second. Five. Ten.
“Fifty seconds,” Julika whispered, her eyes on the screen.
He grunted, biting down on his lip until he tasted copper.
“One minute,” Julika announced.
A cheer went up. Cookie whooped. “My turn!” she declared. She turned her back to the camera, her hands going to the hem of her tight pink tank top. In one smooth motion, she pulled it over her head, revealing a generous, pillowy chest held in a black lace bra. She turned back, jiggling slightly, a proud, boastful smile on her face. “Like what you see, edgelord? Too bad you’ll never touch it.”
“Again,” Samantha said, her voice hungry.
The second edge was harder. His mind kept snagging on the image of Cookie’s breasts, the swell of them above the lace. He pumped, the friction agonizing and exquisite. The edge rose like a tide.
“Stop.”
He held. The world narrowed to the burning pressure in his shaft.
Julika counted the seconds again, her voice a soft, relentless metronome.
“One minute.”
Noa stepped forward this time. With a dramatic flourish, she unbuttoned her cut-off shorts and shoved them down her slender hips, kicking them away. She wore only a tiny, bright green thong. She turned, bending over slightly to give him a full view of her pert backside, the fabric a mere strip between her cheeks. “All that denial must make you so… tense,” she purred.
He was panting now. The third edge was a battle. His body, abused and overloaded from days of torment, begged for release. He focused on Annika’s smirk, using her cruelty as an anchor. He climbed.
“Stop.”
He held, tears of strain leaking from the corners of his eyes.
The minute passed. “Done!” Julika called.
Annika didn’t wait. She pushed to the front, her petite frame blocking the others. Her pale, slender fingers went to the buttons of her black chiffon blouse. She undid them slowly, one by one, letting it fall open to reveal a flat stomach and a simple black bralette. Then she shimmied out of her skirt, letting it pool at her feet. She stood in her bra and a pair of boy-short panties, her skin ghostly in the neon light. “You’re doing okay,” she said, her voice sweetly mocking. “For now.”
Four edges. Four pieces of clothing. Four mountains scaled.
The fifth edge nearly broke him. Julika counted down from ten, her voice the only thing keeping him from the precipice.
“One minute,” she breathed.
Julika herself was the prize this time. With a blush that looked almost genuine, she reached behind her back and unclasped her own bra. She let it fall forward, catching it before it revealed her breasts, a teasing glimmer of side-boob the only reward. Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and pushed them and her plain cotton panties down in one move, stepping out of them quickly. She stood, trying to cover herself with her hands, her blond hair falling around her shoulders, her body tall and slender and utterly naked. Her shyness seemed to vanish, replaced by a bold, challenging stare. “Your turn to hold is almost over,” she said.
He was drenched in sweat, his arm burning, his cock a purple, veined testament to unsustainable pressure. The basement was a haze of young, female flesh now—bare shoulders, the curve of hips, the shadow between thighs. The air on their end of the call felt charged, ripe with their scent and their laughter.
“Last one,” Samantha announced. She hadn’t removed anything. She stood, fully clothed, a queen among her naked courtiers. “Edge for me. Make it a good one.”
He sobbed as he stroked. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a grinding, mechanical torture. The visual feast before him was a maze of forbidden fruit. He saw Cookie’s heavy breasts, Annika’s sharp hip bones, Noa’s taut stomach, Julika’s pale pubic mound. The climax gathered, a tsunami building in the deep.
“Stop.”
He locked every muscle. He was a statue of need, trembling violently on the brink.
The count began. “Fifty,” Julika whispered.
He groaned, a deep, animal sound.
“Forty.”
His vision spotted.
“Thirty.”
A tear traced a path through the sweat on his cheek.
“Twenty.”
He heard a door open in the basement. A male voice, blurry with alcohol. “Hey, you guys still down—whoa.”
“Ten,” Julika said, her eyes wide, not looking at the timer anymore but at something behind her.
Chris’s control shattered.
It wasn’t a decision. It was a structural failure. The tension, the visual overload, the sudden intrusion—it was too much. A hot, rogue spurt of cum shot from the tip of his cock, followed by another, a helpless, pulsing betrayal of his will. He cried out, a sound of pure agony, as his body convulsed in a pathetic, dribbling ruin.
Silence.
Then, Annika’s laugh, sharp and bright. “He failed!”
Samantha’s face was cold, disappointed. “You stupid, pathetic thing.”
The camera was picked up, swinging around. A frat boy came into view—tall, beefy, wearing a letterman’s jacket, his face handsome and stupid with drink. His eyes widened at the sight of the four naked girls.
“Tyler, perfect!” Noa squealed, grabbing his arm. “You’re just in time for the prize.”
“What’s the prize?” Tyler slurred, his gaze stuck on Cookie’s chest.
“You get to fuck one of us,” Annika said simply. “Him—” she pointed at the laptop, at Chris’s devastated, post-ruin face, “—gets to watch.”
Tyler’s confusion melted into a leering grin. “Hell yes.”
“Pick,” Samantha commanded Tyler, her eyes fixed on Chris through the screen.
Tyler’s bleary eyes scanned the offerings. He pointed a thick finger. “Her.”
He had chosen Cookie.
Cookie squealed with delight, pressing her massive tits together. “Good choice!”
The camera, now seemingly held by Julika, followed as Cookie led Tyler to a worn, corduroy sofa against the basement wall. She pushed him down onto it and, without ceremony, straddled his lap, facing the camera, her incredible ass looming large in the frame. Tyler fumbled with his jeans, pulling out a thick, already-hard cock. It wasn’t as big as Chris’s, but it was eager, glistening at the tip.
“Look at that,” Annika whispered into the microphone, her face close to it. “Look at a real cock getting ready to do what yours can’t.”
Chris watched, hollowed out. He was still weakly spurting the last drops of his ruin onto his own stomach.
Cookie reached behind herself, guided Tyler’s dick to her entrance, and sank down onto it with a loud, exaggerated moan. “Oh fuck, yes! It’s so deep!” she cried, though her eyes were on the camera, on Chris, wide and mocking.
She began to ride him, her huge ass bouncing, her breasts swaying heavily. Tyler gripped her hips, his face buried between her shoulder blades, grunting.
“Fuck her, Tyler!” Noa cheered from off-screen. “Fuck her for all of us!”
The sound was obscene—wet, slapping skin, Cookie’s faux ecstatic cries, Tyler’s guttural moans. Julika kept the camera steady, a perfect, horrifying tableau.
Annika’s voice was a poison dart in his ear. “She’s getting filled up. He’s gonna pump her full of cum. Thick, hot loads of it. And you’re sitting there with your sad little dribble all over yourself.”
Chris couldn’t look away. His own spent cock lay flaccid, a useless thing. The jealousy was a physical nausea. The self-loathing was absolute.
Tyler’s movements became frantic, jackrabbit thrusts upward into Cookie’s bouncing form. “I’m gonna cum!” he grunted.
“Do it!” Cookie screamed, throwing her head back. “Cum in my tight pussy! Fill me up!”
With a roar, Tyler slammed her down onto him and held her there, his body rigid. Cookie shuddered, moaning, as he emptied himself inside her. After a moment, she climbed off, turning to show the camera the mess of slick, white fluid already starting to seep out of her onto her inner thighs.
She walked right up to the lens, her lower abdomen and thighs glistening. She smeared a finger through the mess and held it up. “See what you don’t get to do?” she panted. “This is what a real orgasm looks like. This is what a man who’s allowed to finish gives a girl.”
Samantha took the laptop back, holding it close. Her face was a mask of icy displeasure. “The game is over. You lost. The committee will be informed of your failure. Expect… corrections.”
The screen went black.
Chris fell onto his side, curling into a fetal position on the hard floor. The cold, sticky mess on his stomach was a testament to his worthlessness. The phantom sounds of Cookie’s moans and Tyler’s roar echoed in the silent room. He had not only failed his Goddess, he had provided the entertainment for his own cuckolding. He was a tool, a prop, a lesson. He was nothing. And in the darkness, a new, deeper understanding took root: this was only the beginning of the games.