Chapter 15: Boyfriend Comparison
The shame from his uncontrolled climax had a physical weight, a thick tar that coated his insides. For two days, Chris moved through his apartment like a ghost, jumping at shadows, flinching when his phone chimed with mundane alerts. The promised punishment from Samantha had not yet arrived, and the anticipation was its own exquisite torment. He was raw, exposed, the memory of Nat’s clinical smile and Lucia’s orgasmic cries playing on a loop behind his eyes.
When the call came, it was not from Samantha. It was from Nat. The ID was just “N,” same as before. His stomach dropped, but his cock, traitorous and conditioned, gave a thick, heavy twitch against his thigh. He accepted the request.
The scene was different this time. Nat’s studio was dim, lit only by the cool glow of multiple screens—her laptop, a tablet propped on a stack of books, and the harsh, bright rectangle of Lucia’s phone screen. Half-empty wine glasses littered the coffee table. Lucia was curled in the armchair, phone held up like a documentary filmmaker, her face a mask of focused anticipation. She wore a tight black tank top and nothing else.
And on the sofa, Nat was straddling a sleepy, confused Micha. He was shirtless, his hair mussed, blinking in the low light.
“Hey, you,” Nat said into the camera, her voice a low, intimate purr. She wasn’t talking to Micha. “Good to see you again. I’ve been thinking about our little… session. How you painted the floor for me.”
Chris said nothing. He knelt, as was required.
“Micha, baby,” Nat cooed, shifting her weight on his lap. He stirred, his hands coming up to rest on her hips. “Wake up a little more. I’m feeling frisky.”
“Wha…?” Micha mumbled, a dopey smile spreading on his face. “Now? Lucia’s here.”
“Lucia doesn’t mind,” Nat said, not taking her eyes off Chris’s feed on her laptop screen. “Do you, Lu?”
“Not at all,” Lucia murmured, zooming in with her phone. “I’m just recording the audio for my podcast. Background noise.” She winked at the camera, at Chris.
Nat leaned down and kissed Micha, a deep, noisy kiss. Chris could see her tongue slide into his mouth. Micha responded, groaning, his hands sliding under Nat’s thin robe. She let him grope her small breasts for a moment before pulling back.
“I want you to touch yourself,” she whispered to Micha, loud enough for the microphones to catch. “I want to watch you get hard for me.”
“Okay,” Micha whispered, his voice husky with sleep and desire. He fumbled with the waistband of his pajama pants, pushing them down. His cock, soft and small, lay against his stomach. He wrapped his fingers around it and began to stroke.
It was a slow, uninspired motion. Nat watched with a detached curiosity, like an entomologist observing a common beetle. She looked at her laptop screen, at Chris. His own cock was already erect, a thick, vertical line against his body, the head weeping a steady silvery thread.
“Look at him, Micha,” Nat said softly, nodding toward the laptop. “Look at my friend Chris.”
Micha, bleary-eyed, glanced over. He saw Chris kneeling, his muscular body tense, his erection massive and blatant. Micha’s hand faltered on his own flesh.
“What the… Nat, why is he…?”
“He’s part of the fun,” Nat said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She reached down and guided Micha’s hand back to his cock. “He’s watching us. It turns him on. Look how hard he is. Now keep going. Get hard for me. Show him how you do it.”
A confused, embarrassed flush spread across Micha’s cheeks, but the novelty, the voyeuristic charge, seemed to work. His strokes became more purposeful. Under his hand, his penis began to stiffen, growing to its full, modest size. It was a pitiful transformation next to the monument on the screen.
“There,” Nat said, a hint of mockery in her praise. “Good boy. That’s all you’ve got, isn’t it? That’s your big show.”
Micha, lost in the sensation and the strange scenario, nodded, his eyes half-closed. “Yeah… I love you, Nat.”
“I know you do,” she said, her tone flat. She looked at Chris. “Say it, Micha. Say ‘I love you’ while you jerk your little dick.”
“I love you,” Micha whimpered, his hips beginning to buck into his fist. His erection, while small, was visibly rigid now.
On screen, Chris trembled. A fresh, copious droplet of pre-cum welled and fell. The ache in his balls was a deep, hollow throb.
Lucia zoomed her phone in on Chris’s straining cock, then panned to Micha’s frantic hand. “The difference is insane,” she breathed, her free hand slipping inside her own panties. “It’s like a fucking cocktail weiner next to a bratwurst. He’s gonna pop.”
Nat laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. She moved, sliding off Micha’s lap and onto her knees on the floor between his sprawled legs. She pushed his hand away.
“My turn,” she said. She took his small, fully erect penis in her hand. It was swallowed by her fist. She began to jerk him off, her motion efficient, almost rough. “You love me, Micha?”
“Yes! God, yes, I love you!” he gasped.
She looked directly into the laptop camera, into Chris’s eyes. “He loves me,” she mouthed silently. Then, aloud, “And what about you, Chris? Do you love me?”
He couldn’t speak. He shook his head, a minute, desperate gesture.
“No,” she agreed. “You don’t. You love Samantha. You’re hers. You’re just my toy. My big, leaky, desperate toy.” Her hand worked faster on Micha. “Look at him, Chris. Look at him while he comes. And you don’t get to.”
Micha’s breath hitched. His back arched. “Nat, I’m gonna…!”
“Then come,” she commanded, coldly. “Show Chris what a real, pathetic orgasm looks like.”
With a choked cry, Micha convulsed. His release was a brief, underwhelming series of weak spurts that landed on his own stomach. He collapsed back onto the sofa, panting, a sated, foolish smile on his face.
Nat released him, wiping her hand dismissively on the edge of her robe. She stood up, looking down at her boyfriend’s spent, glistening body with an expression of pure contempt. Then she turned to the screen.
Lucia panned the phone back to Chris.
“Now,” Nat said, her voice dropping to a hard, quiet tone. “You see it? That’s all he has. That’s the entire performance. And you… you’re still so full it’s painful, aren’t you?” She leaned close to her laptop camera, her glasses reflecting the screen light. “You’re swollen. You’re dripping. Your balls are so full they hurt. And you will not touch. You will not come. You will hold every drop of that for Samantha. You will stay like that, a monument to your own obedience, until she decides what to do with the mess you made for me.”
She reached out a finger and touched her own screen, directly over the image of his throbbing cock.
“I own this memory,” she whispered. “I own the video of you failing. And I own the video of him,” she gestured to the blissfully unaware Micha, “being less than a man while you watched. Lucia?”
“Got it all,” Lucia said, lowering her phone. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing slightly uneven. “The comparison shots are brutal.”
“Send it to Samantha,” Nat said, straightening up. “Let her see her property. Let her see what happens when I play with it.”
She looked at Chris one last time.
“Stay hard,” she said, and ended the call.
The screen went black. Chris remained kneeling in the dark, his body screaming for release, his mind replaying the sight of Micha’s satisfied face. The humiliation was no longer hot and searing. It was cold, settled, and permanent. He was not just Samantha’s. He was theirs. A spectacle. A thing to be compared and found wanting, even in his superior size. The silence after the call was the loudest sound he had ever heard, filled with the echoing, laughter-edged judgment of three women, and the ghost of a boyfriend who had no idea he’d just won.