Chapter 14: Sleeping Betrayal Part 2
The humiliation from the basement had curdled into a cold, heavy shame that sat in his gut like a stone. Three days had passed without contact. The silence was worse than any command. He jumped at every notification, each one a lance of terror that turned to a deeper ache when it was just spam. He walked through his apartment naked now, a permanent state of readiness, his cock a heavy, useless reminder of his failure. The “corrections” Samantha had promised loomed in the quiet.
When the call finally came, it was from an unknown number with no video. Just Samantha’s voice, flat and businesslike.
“Nat wants a turn. She’s been… curious. Consider this part of your rehabilitation. You will obey her as you obey me. Any reluctance, any failure of attitude, and we will revisit the basement. Permanently.”
The line went dead. A moment later, a new video request popped up on his screen. The caller ID was “N.”
He accepted, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The video resolved into a stark, modern studio apartment. Harsh fluorescent light from track lighting washed over everything, eliminating shadow. The walls were bare except for a few framed photographs. He recognized them instantly—they were pictures of him and Samantha, taken from her phone. Him kneeling at her feet in a park. Him looking up at her from the floor of her old dorm. Each one captured his submission, his devotion, now displayed like clinical evidence.
In the foreground, on a low, glass coffee table, the laptop was positioned. And on the sleek white sofa behind it, lay Nat.
He knew her from Samantha’s stories. The quiet one. The one with the glasses and the reserved smile. She was petite, her body a delicate contrast to Cookie’s opulent curves. She wore only a simple black silk robe, untied and falling open. One hand held a large glass of red wine. The other was tucked between her legs, resting idly on the crotch of the man whose head was in her lap.
Micha. He was asleep, or pretending to be, his face nuzzled against her thigh. He was slight, with a tousled, boyish look. And sprawled in a deep armchair to the right, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned men’s dress shirt, was Lucia. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her full lips curved in a lazy, knowing smile. She was spectacularly curvaceous, her body a series of soft, generous waves. Her fingers trailed absently over her own inner thigh.
“There he is,” Nat said, her voice softer than Samantha’s, but with a sharper, more analytical edge. She took a sip of wine. “The famous Chris. The man with the… impressive equipment.”
Lucia let out a low, throaty laugh. “After all the stories, I was expecting a giant. He just looks… nervous.”
“He’s hard just from being looked at,” Nat observed, her eyes behind her glasses cool and assessing. “See? Look at that thing. It’s already twitching.”
It was. His body had betrayed him the moment he saw the two undressed women, the intimacy of the scene. His cock stood thick and rigid, jutting out from his body, a stark betrayal of his anxiety.
“Micha doesn’t get hard in his sleep,” Nat murmured, her gaze drifting down to the man in her lap. With a casual, almost contemptuous motion, she slipped her hand into the loose waistband of his boxers. She fished out his flaccid penis, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. It was small, soft, and utterly inert. She gave it a lazy, disinterested stroke. “See? Nothing. Like a little mushroom. He can’t even get it up unless I work at it for twenty minutes. And even then…” She let it go, and it shrunk back against his body. “Pathetic, right?”
Chris didn’t know what to say. He remained kneeling, his hands on his thighs.
“Samantha tells me you haven’t come in weeks,” Nat continued, shifting slightly. Micha murmured in his sleep, nuzzling closer. She ignored him. “She tells me you leak constantly. That you dream about it. That you’d probably blow your load if a strong wind hit you just right.”
Lucia’s fingers dipped lower, brushing through her own dark pubic hair. “It’s so wet down here, cariño,” she said, though her eyes were fixed on Chris’s screen. “Thinking about that big, denied cock. All that pressure. So unfair you can’t use it.”
“You want to use it, don’t you, Chris?” Nat asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. She took another sip of wine, her eyes gleaming over the rim. “You want to bury that huge, aching thing in a tight, wet pussy and just fucking pound until you explode. You want to fill a girl up. You want to make her scream.”
He gasped, a soft, involuntary sound. His cock throbbed, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.
“But you can’t,” Nat stated, the words final. “That’s not your purpose. Your purpose is to want. To ache. To be a good, desperate cuck for us to play with.” She let her hand rest on Micha’s head, a possessive, disdainful gesture. “At least he,” she nodded at the sleeping man, “doesn’t know what he’s missing. You know exactly what you’re missing. Every second of every day.”
Lucia’s breathing hitched. She had two fingers inside herself now, moving slowly in and out. The soft, wet sounds were faint but unmistakable through the laptop speakers. “Dios mío, it’s so fucking good,” she moaned, not for Micha, but for the camera, for him. “I’m thinking about how big you are. How Samantha says it hurts a little at first. I want that.”
“Now,” Nat said, putting her wine glass down with a sharp click. “Show me. Show me how hard you get for me. But don’t you dare touch yourself. Don’t you fucking dare. I want to see that monster throb. I want to see it drip. I want to see your balls tighten up like you’re going to shoot, and then I want to watch you stop it. All by yourself. Just from looking.”
She shifted again, and this time she pulled Micha’s limp cock out once more. She began to stroke it, a slow, mechanical motion. “This is all he’s got. This little, soft thing. And he’s my boyfriend.” She laughed, a brittle, cruel sound. “And you… you have that. And it belongs to Samantha. And now, for tonight, it belongs to me. So get hard for me, you desperate fucking cuck. Get harder than you’ve ever been.”
Chris obeyed. He stared at the screen—at Nat’s contemptuous, scholarly expression as she idly handled her boyfriend’s inadequate penis, at Lucia’s abandoned, writhing figure as she fucked herself with her fingers, her tits spilling from the open shirt. The visual was devastating. His cock hardened beyond what he thought possible, the shaft becoming a rigid, veined column, the head flushed a deep, angry purple. A steady, clear stream of pre-cum began to leak from him, dripping onto the floor between his knees.
“Look at that,” Lucia panted. “It’s like a fucking fountain. You’re making a mess, papi.”
“He’s close,” Nat observed clinically. “See the way his stomach is tensing? The way his thighs are shaking? He’s fighting it.”
She increased the pace on Micha, her wrist moving faster. The sleeping man stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust. “Even in his sleep, he’s useless,” Nat sneered. Then she looked directly into the camera, her eyes icy. “Don’t you dare, Chris. Hold it. I want to see you suffer.”
The orgasm gathered like a thunderhead, deep and devastating. He locked his muscles, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crack. He held his breath. The room swam. Lucia was moaning louder now, her fingers a blur between her legs.
“I’m gonna cum,” Lucia gasped. “Watching his stupid, broken face… fuck!”
With a sharp cry, Lucia arched back in the chair, her body convulsing. She kept her eyes open, locked on his, as she rode out her climax, her free hand pinching and pulling at her own nipple.
The sight, the sound, the sheer raw female pleasure pushed him over the final edge he was supposed to hold.
A violent, agonizing spasm wracked his body. A thick, desperate rope of cum shot from his cock, followed by another. It was a ruin, a catastrophic loss of control. He cried out, a strangled sound of utter defeat, as he painted the floor with his weakness.
The stroking on Micha stopped.
Silence, except for Lucia’s slowing breaths.
Nat’s face showed no anger. Only a deep, satisfied interest. She watched him tremble through the last few spurts, a scientist observing a failed experiment. “You came,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection.
He couldn’t speak. He hung his head, tears of shame mingling with the sweat on his face.
“Micha,” Nat said, her voice changing, becoming sweet, concerned. She shook the man in her lap gently. “Baby, wake up. I think you had a wet dream.”
Micha blinked awake, confused. He looked down at his own crotch, where Nat had been stroking him. A small, pathetic stain darkened the front of his boxers. His face flushed with embarrassment. “Oh shit, Nat… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “It happens.” She kissed his forehead. Then, over his head, her eyes met Chris’s on the screen. A cruel, victorious smile touched her lips.
“You see, Chris?” she said, her voice still soft, for Micha’s benefit, but her meaning clear as glass. “Even when he cums, it’s a disappointment. A little stain. A mess to clean up.” She held Micha closer, cradling his ashamed face against her breast. “But you… you make beautiful, desperate messes. Spectacular failures. Samantha was right. This is so much more fun than a real boyfriend.”
She reached forward with her free hand and closed the laptop lid.
The screen went black, leaving Chris alone in the dark with the puddle of his own disgrace, the ghost of Nat’s smile etched into his mind, and the certain knowledge that his torment had just found a new, more quietly brutal architect.