Chapter 20: The Edge Auction
The aftermath of the ruins clung to Chris like a second skin, a palpable soreness that went deeper than muscle. For two days, he moved through his apartment like a ghost, the memory of those eight pathetic releases echoing in the silence. The cage was a constant, cool reminder. He slept fitfully, haunted by the flickering neon and the chorus of their voices counting.
When Samantha’s call connected, the scene that resolved on his screen was different. The basement was prepped. The long table had been cleared. The girls—Noa, Cookie, Nicola, Annika, Conzi, Judy, Anna, Evana, Julika, Elia, and the ever-present Bambi curled at Samantha’s feet like a pet—were arranged in a loose semicircle. There was an air of giddy anticipation. A whiteboard leaned against a cracked concrete wall.
“Feeling recovered, pet?” Samantha asked, her voice a smooth, dark balm that promised nothing good.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Liar,” she chuckled. “But that’s fine. We have a new game. An auction.” She gestured to the whiteboard. “Each of my beautiful friends here is going to write down a number. The number represents how many edges you will complete while they tell you a story. A personal, graphic, detailed fantasy. They’re bidding their own time, their own creativity, for your suffering. The highest bidder starts.”
A low murmur of excitement rippled through the group. Bambi looked up, her multicolored hair shifting. “Do I get to bid, Mistress?”
“Of course, little one. You’re part of this.”
Chris felt a cold sweat break out on his back. Edges. After the ruins, his nerves were live wires. The mere thought of touching himself, of climbing that peak over and over to the soundtrack of their fantasies, was a new kind of hell.
They huddled, giggling, scribbling numbers on slips of paper. Conzi collected them and wrote the names and bids on the whiteboard.
“Noa… fifteen edges,” Conzi announced, raising an eyebrow.
Noa whooped, clapping her hands.
“Cookie… twelve. Nicola… eighteen. Bold. Annika… twenty.” Conzi smirked. “Our youngest is also our greediest.”
Annika just blew a kiss at the camera.
The list went on. Judy and Anna paired for a joint bid of twenty-five. Evana and Julika, seventeen. Elia, a cool ten. Bambi, with a shy smile, bid twenty-two. Samantha did not bid. She was the auctioneer, the owner of the prize.
“The winner,” Conzi said, turning the whiteboard around, “is Annika. Twenty edges to her story.”
Annika clapped, skipping to the chair placed directly before the laptop. “I’ve been thinking about this for days,” she breathed, her pale face alive with malice. “Okay, Chris. Unlock. And get that big, sad dick out. You’re going to stroke. And you’re going to stop every single time I say ‘edge.’ You know the drill. If you come, we start the ruins all over again. From one.”
The electronic whir rang in his ears. His hands, still carrying a phantom tremor, obeyed. The cage came off. His cock, still bearing the purplish hue of abuse, sprung free, already half-hard from dread and a conditioned, traitorous hope.
“Start,” Samantha commanded.
His hand closed around himself. A jolt of sensation, sharp and immediate, made him gasp.
“So,” Annika began, leaning forward, her black hair framing her face. “My fantasy. It’s about my philosophy TA. He’s, like, forty. Married. Glasses. Kind of a dad bod.” She smiled sweetly. “I go to his office hours. I’m wearing a tiny plaid skirt, no panties. I ask a question about Nietzsche and I lean over his desk.”
Chris began to stroke, a slow, steady rhythm. The image was clear, vivid, designed to wound.
“He can see everything,” she whispered. “And he gets so flustered. His dick gets hard in his stupid khakis. I just keep talking about the ‘will to power,’ and I slide my hand up my thigh.”
Chris’s breath hitched. His pace increased.
“Edge,” Annika said, flatly.
He froze, his whole body locking, his fingers digging into his shaft to stop the tide. He hovered, trembling, on the precipice. After a agonizing five seconds, Samantha said, “Continue.”
He resumed, the need sharper now, a throbbing ache.
“He stands up,” Annika continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “And he comes around the desk. His cock is out. It’s not huge, not like your stupid worthless monster, but it’s hard. And he bends me over that big, wooden desk. Pushes my skirt up. And he just rams himself into me. No asking. Just takes me.”
Chris bit his lip, his arm pumping faster. The crude language, the violation in her fantasy, stirred something dark and unwanted in him.
“He fucks me so hard the desk is banging against the wall,” she moaned, playing it up for the camera. “He’s grunting, calling me a slut, pulling my hair. I’m so wet for him. He’s filling me up.”
“Edge.”
The command was a cliff he skidded to a stop on. A tiny pearl of precum beaded at his tip. He whimpered.
“God, you’re pathetic,” Annika sighed. “Continue.”
It went on like this. Her fantasy grew more elaborate, more degrading. She described being taken by the entire football team in a locker room, being used as a party favor, each scenario tailored to highlight her own desirability and his utter lack of access to it. Each time he approached the cliff, her sharp, bored voice would call “edge,” and he would freeze, sweat pouring down his temples, his balls drawn up tight and aching.
By the tenth edge, he was weeping silently, his strokes becoming ragged and desperate. The fantasy had melted into a blur of graphic images—cocks, mouths, hands, all on her, in her, while he sat miles away, jerking his own like a fool.
“Fifteen,” Annika counted, after another brutal stop.
He was a mess. Precum dripped steadily, slicking his hand and his thighs. His abs were clenched like iron bands. Every nerve was aflame.
“Almost there,” she teased. “My fantasy’s almost over. He’s about to come. He’s going to pump his fat, married load deep inside me, and I’m going to thank him for it.” She looked directly into the camera, her eyes cold. “Edge.”
He sobbed, stopping again. The pressure was astronomical, a seismic need with no release valve.
“Seventeen.” She described the feeling of being filled. “Eighteen.” She described the mess dripping down her thighs afterward. “Nineteen.” She described washing it away in the TA’s private bathroom, smiling at herself in the mirror.
“And twenty,” she said, standing up. “The fantasy ends. He zips up. I walk out. And you stop.”
Chris’s hand fell away. He was panting, destroyed, hovering on an edge sharper than any razor. He hadn’t been allowed to crest, not once. He was stranded there, a live grenade with the pin pulled.
A round of applause echoed in the basement.
“Excellent,” Samantha purred. “A compelling opener. But the auction must continue. The next highest combined bid was Judy and Anna. Twenty-five edges. Your turn, girls. He’s perfectly primed.”
Judy and Anna moved into frame together. Chris’s eyes, blurred with tears, looked at them in utter horror. He was already at the breaking point.
Anna spoke first, her short hair sharp, her voice feminist treatise-cold. “Our fantasy is ideological. It’s about re-appropriation. We take a man like you, with a tool of such perceived power, and we turn it into a utility. A service device.”
“Unlock your hand, Chris,” Judy said, her small frame leaning in. “You don’t stop until we tell you to ‘edge.’ This fantasy is a long one.”
With a broken cry, his hand returned to his throbbing, dripping cock. The first stroke was almost enough to send him over. He squeezed the base, screaming into the quiet of his room.
“We strap you down,” Anna began. “On a medical table. Your famous cock is erect, isolated in a sterile clamp. We bring in women. Survivors. We let them use you. Not for pleasure. For catharsis. They can do anything they want. They can ride you until they’re sore, they can slap it, they can drip wax on it. It’s a symbolic acting-out. You are a living, breathing dildo with a heartbeat you don’t control.”
Chris stroked, his mind fracturing under the weight of the imagery and the physical agony. He was a thing. An object. The fantasy deconstructed him, piece by piece.
“Edge,” Judy said.
He froze, his body bowing off the chair.
They didn’t let him rest. They continued, describing a rotation of women, a clinical, joyless use of his body, reducing his most prized possession to a communal therapy tool. Each detail was a nail in his coffin of identity. Each “edge” was a turn of the screw.
By the tenth edge of their twenty-five, Chris was babbling. “Please… I can’t… no more edges… I’ll break…”
“You won’t break,” Judy corrected calmly. “The male psyche is resilient in its servitude. Continue.”
He did.
The count climbed, a relentless march into madness. The other girls watched, sipping drinks, making quiet bets on when he would finally snap. Bambi watched with wide, jealous eyes, her hand subtly between her own thighs, mirroring his motions but chasing a permission he would never get.
When Judy and Anna finally reached twenty-five, Chris was a statue of torment, his cock purple and weeping, his body shaking with involuntary tremors. He hadn’t spilled. He was held in a state of perpetual, seismic arousal, an atom about to split.
“Good,” Samantha said, her voice cutting through his haze.
“Noa, Cookie, Nicola… you’re up next. Think of good stories. He’s beautifully prepared for them.”
Noa uncoiled from her perch on the arm of the sofa, her slender frame humming with a predatory energy distinctly her own. “Finally,” she said, cracking her neck. “My fifteen edges. But I’m changing the rules a little, Sammy. Can I?”
Samantha’s smile was a slow bloom of permission. “It’s your fantasy, Noa. Do what you want.”
“My fantasy isn’t just a story. It’s a demonstration.” Noa pointed at Cookie and Nicola. “You two, come here. Chris, keep that pathetic dick in your hand. Don’t you dare stop stroking.”
Chris’s hand, slick with precum and sweat, resumed its agonizing pump. His vision swam as Cookie stood, her incredible ass swaying as she joined Nicola beside Noa. The three of them stood in a tight knot before the laptop’s camera, a living diorama of everything he could never touch.
“So my ultimate fantasy,” Noa began, her voice losing its usual playful lilt, turning low and conspiratorial. “It’s about being the center of attention. About having my friends use me while some poor, obsessed guy watches.” She unbuttoned her jeans slowly, her eyes locked on the camera’s lens. “You’re that guy, Chris. Watch.”
She pushed her jeans and panties down her hips in one motion, stepping out of them. Her pubic hair was a neat, brown triangle. Nicola, grinning, knelt behind her, placing her hands on Noa’s bare hips. Cookie faced her, sliding her own shirt off to reveal her full breasts spilling from a lace bra.
“Nicola’s going to eat me out from behind,” Noa explained, her breath hitching slightly as Nicola’s tongue made its first, flat stroke through her folds. “And Cookie’s going to sit on my face. I want to be suffocated by her perfect ass while I come.”
The raw, wet sound of Nicola’s mouth working on Noa’s pussy filled the basement, then Chris’s speakers. It was vulgar, intimate, and utterly captivating. Cookie, with a glance of pure power at the camera, shimmied out of her shorts and knelt on the couch, lowering her massive, round ass onto Noa’s waiting face.
“Fuck, yeah,” Noa’s voice was muffled, ecstatic.
Chris’s hand flew on his cock. The visual was too much. The slick, pink glimpse of Noa’s labia parted by Nicola’s probing tongue. The way Cookie ground down, obscuring Noa’s face entirely with the dusky flesh of her cheeks. The soft, wet, sucking noises.
“Edge,” Noa groaned, the command barely audible from beneath Cookie’s body.
Chris choked, freezing, his knuckles white. The ache was a physical scream in his groin.
“Keep stroking, you fuckhole,” Samantha instructed, her own voice slightly thickened. “Watch them. This is what you fund with your suffering.”
Nicola’s head bobbed rhythmically. Noa’s hips began to jerk, meeting her friend’s mouth. Cookie moaned, rocking back and forth on Noa’s face. “Her tongue is so good,” Cookie sighed, arching her back for the camera, presenting the glistening, pink furl of her own sex inches from Noa’s nose.
“I’m gonna come,” Noa shrieked, her body tensing. “I’m coming all over your tongue, Nicola! Don’t stop!”
Her orgasm was a violent, shaking thing. Chris could see the muscles in her thighs cord tight. Nicola buried her face deeper, drinking her in. The smell of sex seemed to permeate the digital signal, crossing the miles into Chris’s sterile room. He stroked like a madman, a soundtrack of greedy female pleasure thundering in his ears.
“Edge!” Noa screamed again, coming down.
He stopped, whimpering, so close. Precum drooled in a long, unbroken string from his tip to the floor.
Noa pushed Cookie off gently, gasping for air, her lips glistening. “Seven edges down,” she panted, a wild light in her eyes. “Switch.”
Nicola stood up, her lips and chin shining. She and Noa kissed deeply, sharing the taste. Then Nicola laid back on the couch, pulling Noa on top of her. “My turn to ride your face,” Nicola breathed, guiding Noa’s head between her thighs.
“Chris,” Noa said, her voice now hot and direct against Nicola’s flesh. “I want you to imagine your tongue is my tongue. I want you to imagine licking her pussy while you jack your useless dick. Imagine the taste. Sour and sweet. Imagine her clit, hard as a little pebble, under your tongue.”
He was lost, adrift in the hellish panorama. His tongue moved unconsciously in his own dry mouth as he watched Noa’s head work between Nicola’s legs. Nicola’s hand fisted in Noa’s hair, guiding her. “Right there, yes, fuck, just like that,” Nicola chanted.
“Edge,” Noa mumbled, the vibration against Nicola’s skin making her jerk.
Every “edge” was a laceration. His body was no longer his own; it was a dysfunctional engine revving mercilessly toward a nonexistent finish line. The girls’ performances were unselfconscious, hungry, a celebration of flesh that excluded him entirely.
On the twelfth edge, something in Chris’s mind fractured audibly.
“I can’t… I can’t know anymore…” he babbled, tears and snot streaking his face. His cock was a raw, overused instrument of torture. “It’s too much…”
“It’s never too much,” Conzi said from the sidelines, adjusting her glasses. “Male arousal is a linear, simplistic pathway. You are demonstrably still erect. Therefore, you can continue.”
“Fifteen,” Noa finally announced, rolling off a shuddering Nicola. Both girls were flushed, gleaming with sweat and other fluids. “My fantasy’s over. Thanks for the show, Chris.”
They didn’t tell him to stop. He just kept stroking, mechanically, his eyes blank pools of need, awaiting the next command.
Cookie sashayed to the chair next, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “My twelve edges are simpler,” she said, her voice all sweet venom. “I just want to talk about this.” She turned, presenting the staggering, panoramic curve of her bare ass to the camera. She reached back and spread her cheeks apart, offering a obscene, magnified view of her dark, tightly furled hole and the glistening lips below it.
“This is what you’ll never, ever get to touch,” she whispered. “Never get to fuck. It’s for real men. Men who don’t beg and cry on camera. Men who take what they want.” She began describing, in granular, filthy detail, exactly how she liked to be taken from behind—the brutal, slapping pace, the feeling of being stretched, the degradation of being used as a hole.
Each word was a twist of the knife. Each “edge” was a plunge into a deeper, darker ocean of lack. Chris obeyed, mechanically, a ghost in the machine of his own body.
By the time Cookie finished, his soul felt scoured. The basement was a cacophony of satisfied sighs and clinking glasses. He sat in his silent room, his still-hard cock a monument to his absurd, endless torment.
Samantha’s voice cut through. “A wonderful interlude. But the auction must be honored. Evana, Julika? Your seventeen edges are next. And I think… we need a new sensory dimension.”
Bambi, who had been watching with feverish intensity, perked up. “Mistress?”
“Bring the hitachi,” Samantha said. “And the leather cuff. We’re going to plug Chris’s ears. He’s going to edge to a fantasy he can’t hear. He’ll only see it. He’ll only see Evana’s mouth forming the words, Julika’s hands demonstrating on Bambi’s body. He’ll be utterly locked out.”
The momentum shifted, curdling into something even more isolating. Chris watched, numb, as Bambi was laid on the table, her wrist cuffed to a leg. Evana leaned into the frame, her beautiful face a mask of sadistic anticipation as she began to mouth a silent story. Julika’s hands, slick with oil, began to circle Bambi’s clit with the buzzing wand.
No sound reached him. Just the frantic, silent pantomime of pleasure and the violent, buzzing shudder of the toy against bare flesh. His hand moved, his world shrank to the agony of sight without sound, a frantic guessing game at the crest of each silent, screaming edge.