Chapter 22: Shared Fantasy Torment
The silence after the screen went black in Samantha’s penthouse had felt absolute, a held breath. For Chris, in the bleak quiet of his own apartment, it had stretched into days. The cage was a cold, permanent fact. The memory of their spit drying on his skin was a phantom itch he could never scratch. He moved through his routines like a ghost, the titanium weight a constant reminder that he was, in all ways that mattered, sealed shut.
Samantha, however, was just getting started.
“He needs to understand the scope,” she’d told Nat over coffee the next afternoon. “It’s not just about me. It’s about the principle. The access belongs to us. To our circle.”
Nat had listened, pushing her glasses up her nose, a faint flush on her cheeks. She’d seen the aftermath of the spit ritual through social media clips, heard the awe in the others’ voices. She thought of Micha, his earnest, fumbling efforts, the disappointing quickness, the modest size that left her feeling more architect than participant in their sex life. The idea of Chris, his considerable size bound in helpless frustration, was an image that wouldn’t leave her.
Now, two nights later, it was her turn.
Her apartment was different—a loft space with exposed brick and harsh, beautiful track lighting that made everything look stark and candid. A sleek espresso machine hissed on the kitchen counter. Samantha was present only as a small, approving video window on Nat’s laptop, a silent overseer. The main screen displayed Chris. He was kneeling again, the cage a dull glint against his skin. He looked hollowed out.
Beside Nat, lounging on a deep charcoal sofa with a glass of red wine, was Lucia. She was all dark, knowing smiles and confident curves, her eyes already gleaming with predatory interest.
“He understands the rules, Nat,” Samantha’s voice came through the laptop speaker, clean and crisp. “He will address you as Ma’am. He will follow your commands. He may not cum. He may not even approach the edge without explicit, verbal permission which you will not give. Understood, Christopher?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice sandpaper on stone.
“Good. He’s all yours, girls. Have fun.” Samantha’s window minimized, becoming a watchful eye.
Nat took a steadying breath, feeling a thrilling, unfamiliar power surge through her. This was nothing like managing Micha’s tentative touches. This was raw governance.
“Show me,” Nat said, her voice quieter than Samantha’s but no less firm.
Chris’s hands moved. With a soft click, the cage came off. His imprisoned cock sprang free, thick and full, the veins prominent, the head dark with congested blood. It bobbed slightly, a dumb, eager animal unaware of the slaughterhouse.
Lucia let out a low whistle. “Dios mío, Nat. You weren’t exaggerating. And it’s all just… wasted on him.”
“It’s not wasted,” Nat corrected softly, leaning closer to her screen. “It’s repurposed. It’s our toy. Start stroking, Chris. Slowly. We want to see every twitch.”
He wrapped a fist around himself. The first pull made his abdomen clench. A bead of pre-cum welled immediately at the slit, catching the light.
“Look at that weepy little hole,” Lucia laughed, sipping her wine. “He’s a faucet. So, cariño, you get to listen tonight. You get to hear what real cocks do. What they feel like. While you play with your lonely little toy.”
A deep, pained sound rumbled in Chris’s chest.
“Quiet,” Nat said. Her heart hammered. This was it. The betrayal was electric, thinking of Micha asleep in his bland apartment, completely unaware. “Keep stroking. Lucia, tell him about Madrid.”
Lucia stretched, her shirt riding up. “Ah, last summer. A party in Chamberí. Five guys. Maybe six. I lost count after the third tequila.” She smiled at Chris’s moving hand, his tempo increasing subtly. “Slow down. Did she say you could go faster? You think you’re one of them? You’re not even a participant. You’re the audience.”
Chris forced his pace back to a maddening, glacial drag.
“Better. So, this one guy, Alejandro, he had a cock like a fucking Coke can. Seriously. I couldn’t get my mouth around it. I had to use both hands and just lick the head like it was a fucking ice cream cone.” Lucia’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. “He fucked me from behind while his friend, this blonde Swedish guy, fed me his dick. I was so full, coño. Stuffed. Gagging. Coming over and over just from the sheer fullness of it.”
Chris’s breath hitched. His fist moved faster, almost reflexively.
“I said slow!” Nat snapped, the command startling even herself.
He whimpered, gripping the base of his cock hard, strangling the urge.
“He’s close already,” Lucia observed with clinical disdain. “Pathetic. Hold that edge, cuck. Just hold it right there while I finish. So Alejandro is pounding my ass, the Swede is fucking my mouth, and another guy, a friend of theirs, he’s just kneeling in front of me, jerking his big, fat cock, painting my face with his load while I’m getting wrecked from both ends. The smell of sweat and sex and cum was so thick… and the sounds… that slapping, wet sound of a real, hard fuck…”
Chris groaned. His body was rigid, a statue of tension. The head of his cock was leaking a steady, clear stream now, dripping onto the floor between his knees. Every muscle in his torso was corded tight, trembling on the precipice.
“Stop,” Nat commanded.
His hand froze, shaking violently, millimeters from the point of no return. His face was a mask of exquisite agony.
“Look at him,” Nat murmured, more to Lucia than to Chris. “He’s dangling. One word from me and he falls. But he won’t get it.” She shifted, feeling a hot, slick ache between her own legs. This was better than any touch from Micha. This was creation and ruin. “Now it’s my turn. Keep holding, Chris. Don’t you dare let go.”
She leaned into the camera, her glasses reflecting the screen’s glow. “I imagine it sometimes. With Michael.” The use of his real name was a calculated cruelty. “He tries, you know? He’s sweet. But it’s over so fast, and it’s so… small. I have to fake it every time. So I close my eyes. And I don’t imagine his little dick. I imagine something like yours. But not helpless. I imagine being pinned down by it. A stranger, maybe two or three. No conversation. Just them pulling my clothes off, someone grabbing my hair, another spreading my legs. One of them pushing inside me, so deep it hurts, just filling me up in a way Michael never, ever could.”
Chris’s cock gave a violent, jerking throb. A fresh gout of pre-cum spilled out.
“I imagine,” Nat continued, her voice a husky whisper, “being on my knees, like you are now. But with a different purpose. With a line of men. Just servicing them. One after another. Their hands on my head, fucking my throat, making me gag and drool all over myself. Cum on my face, in my hair, all over my glasses. Being used like a common little fucktoy until I’m a messy, exhausted ruin. That’s what a real cock is for. That’s what you could be doing. But you’re not. You’re just a leaky, denied bitch, holding an edge for women who will never, ever let you finish.”
His control shattered. It wasn’t an orgasm—it was a pathetic, anguished seepage. A pulsing, helpless dribble of clear fluid escaped him, a weak mockery of release, pooling beneath him on the hardwood. He crumpled forward, a sob tearing from his throat, his deflated, still-hard cock dribbling out the last of his ruined desperation.
“Oh, mierda,” Lucia cackled. “He just had a dry orgasm! Look at that pathetic mess!”
Nat felt a climax of her own ripple through her, sharp and stunning, triggered purely by the sight of his total defilement. She didn’t touch herself. She just let it happen, a quiet, powerful wave of ownership.
“Clean it up,” she ordered, her voice steady though her knees felt weak. “Lick it off your floor. Every drop.”
Weeping, Chris bent, extending his tongue to the small, shameful puddle.
Samantha’s voice returned, warm with approval. “Perfect, Nat. You have a real talent for this. Now lock him back up. The fun is over.”
With trembling hands that were not her own, Nat watched as Chris, broken and obedient, fitted the titanium tube back over his wet, sensitive flesh. The click was the period at the end of her sentence.
“Good boy,” Nat said, the words foreign and delicious on her tongue. “Now you can go. Think about Michael. Think about what I imagine when he’s inside me. It’s not him.”
The call ended. The screen went black.
In the sudden quiet of her loft, the hum of the refrigerator seemed loud. Lucia exhaled, a long, satisfied sigh. “Joder, nena. That was… art.”
Nat said nothing. She simply stared at the dark monitor, a new, hungry certainty settling in her bones. She finally understood what Samantha got out of it. It wasn't just control. It was transcendence. And she wanted more.
And she wanted more. The metallic taste of power was still on her tongue, sharp and addictive. Across the sofa, Lucia’s knowing grin mirrored the unspoken shift between them; they were co-conspirators now, bound by the shared secret of Chris’s broken whimper.
Two days later, the craving hadn’t faded. It had fermented. Nat’s sleek loft felt different, charged with potential. She’d just finished a frustrating, phoned-in video date with Micha, his timid voice doing nothing to quell the restless heat under her skin. She needed to see the evidence of her control again, to verify that the collapse she’d engineered was permanent.
She was setting up her laptop, the sterile glow washing over her hands, when the intercom buzzed. It wasn’t Samantha’s scheduled check-in. The screen showed a petite figure drowning in an oversized black hoodie, a flash of pale face and long, dark hair.
“It’s Annika.” The voice was a sugary chime through the speaker. “Sam said you might be playing. Let me up.”
A jolt, equal parts apprehension and thrill, shot through Nat. This was the brat, the prodigy of cruelty. Her involvement changed the calculus entirely. Before Nat could formulate a protest, the entrance door below gave a definitive buzz; Annika had anticipated the permission, had already pressed her way into the building.
Moments later, the loft door swung open. Annika breezed in, shedding the hoodie to reveal a tiny, ripped band t-shirt and shorts that barely covered her thighs. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the track lighting. “He’s on?” she asked, not bothering with hello, her eyes laser-locked on the laptop.
“I… was about to connect,” Nat managed, her authoritative tone from the other night evaporating under Annika’s focused intensity.
“Perfect. Don’t mind me.” Annika flopped onto the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her, a predator making itself comfortable. She pulled a hair tie from her wrist and began slowly gathering her hair. “I just want to watch. Unless you need help. He can be a real bitch to manage when he’s wound up. I know from experience.”
The unspoken challenge hung in the air. Nat squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated in her own space. She connected the call.
Chris appeared. He looked worse. Darker circles, a new gauntness to his cheeks. The cage was a familiar fixture. His eyes flickered with a faint, hopeless dread when he saw Nat, then widened almost imperceptibly at the sight of Annika curling on the sofa behind her.
“Ma’am,” he whispered.
“He sounds like a fucking ghost,” Annika remarked casually, as if reviewing a disappointing product. “You need to wind him back up, Nat. A ghost can’t suffer. It’s just… ectoplasm.”
Nat took a steadying breath. Annika’s presence was a live wire, forcing her to perform. “Cage off. Now.”
His fingers fumbled with the lock. The device came away, and his cock, loyal to its base programming, began its slow, thick fill. It was a grotesque parody of health, engorged and veiny against his visibly weakened body.
“Stroke it,” Nat commanded. “Get it nice and hard for us. We have a guest.”
His fist closed around himself. The motion was practiced, devoid of pleasure, a mechanic’s duty.
Annika leaned forward, her chin in her hands. “Faster. You jerk off like my grandpa. Do you need us to send you a tutorial? Maybe one of Lucia’s gangbang videos?” She giggled, a sound like breaking glass. “Remember all that spit, Chris? Remember it dripping off you? I bet you dream about it. I bet you wake up sticky from dreams of our mouths.”
Chris’s rhythm hitched, his breath shortening. Pre-cum beaded, a glossy pearl at his tip.
“He’s so easy,” Annika sighed, feigning boredom. “It’s barely a challenge. Let me try.” She didn’t wait for Nat’s consent. She stood, padded to the desk, and nudged Nat gently but firmly aside, taking direct control of the keyboard and mouse. Her scent, something sweet and citrusy, filled Nat’s space.
“Listen to me, cocksleeve,” Annika purred, her face close to the camera. “You’re going to hold that fat dick of yours at the base, right where it meets your balls. You’re going to squeeze it tight, and you’re going to listen. You don’t get to move. You just get to get hard and leak like the worthless fountain you are.”
He obeyed, his knuckles white with the force of his grip, strangling his own erection.
“Good. Now, Nat here told me about her little fantasy. Cute. Really. But it’s so… theoretical.” Annika’s voice dropped, becoming intimate and vile. “Let me tell you what I did last night. I had a date. This college guy, swimmer’s body, absolutely beautiful. We went back to his place. I let him kiss me. I let him get my shirt off. I let him get his fingers into my pussy, and I was so wet for him, Chris. I was dripping down my thighs.”
Chris made a strangled sound. His trapped cock pulsed in his fist, a frantic, muffled heartbeat.
“He was so excited,” Annika continued, her lips brushing the microphone. “His dick was so hard pressing against my leg. Nice size, too. Not a monster like yours, but… healthy. Usable. I got on my knees for him. I took him in my mouth and I sucked him like I was starving for it. I deep-throated him until my eyes watered and he was grabbing my hair, fucking my face, calling me a perfect little slut.”
She paused, letting the image burn. Saliva glistened on Chris’s lower lip. A thin rope of pre-cum escaped the tight seal of his fist and trailed down his fingers.
“And then,” Annika whispered, “I stopped. I stood up. I wiped my mouth. And I told him I had a boyfriend who wouldn’t like it. I told him no. I made him beg. I made him get on his knees and promise me anything. And then I left him there, with his big, angry, blue-balled dick in his hand, and I went home and texted Samantha all about it while I made myself cum thinking about his pathetic face.” She leaned back, smiling sweetly. “That’s control. You don’t just imagine fucking. You create the ache. You manufacture the denial. You own it.”
Chris was shuddering, a full-body tremor. The agony wasn’t just physical; it was psychic, a corrosive envy poured directly into his open nerve-endings. He was picturing the anonymous swimmer, picturing Annika’s mouth, her approval, her choice—all the things eternally withheld from him.
“He’s gonna blow,” Annika said clinically, glancing at Nat. “A dry one, probably. Just like with you. He’s got no stamina for real torture.” She turned back to the screen. “You want to cum, Chris? Do you want to spurt all over your stupid hand thinking about my mouth on a real man?”
A broken, garbled “Please” escaped him.
“Please, what?” Annika snapped.
“Please… Annika…”
“No. Squeeze tighter. Choke it. Until it hurts.”
He did, a sob wrenching from his chest. His body bowed, the muscles in his arm and abdomen standing in harsh relief. It was a silent, convulsive eruption—nothing but a few desperate, clear pulses weeping from his tortured slit, a physiological surrender with none of the release. His eyes rolled back, whites showing, before he sagged forward, forehead nearly touching the floor, crying without sound.
Annika watched, her head tilted. “See? He’s just a machine. Input humiliation, output wasted cum.” She handed the mouse back to Nat, her job complete. “Lock him up. I’m bored now.”
Nat, her own arousal a sharp, clenched fist in her belly, found her voice. It was colder now, tempered by Annika’s demonstration. “Clean your mess. Then cage yourself. We’re done.”
With dead, automated motions, Chris licked the scant fluid from his hand and from the floor. He reassembled his prison, the final click a sound of absolute termination. The call ended on his empty, defeated posture.
Annika was already pulling her hoodie back on. “You’ve got potential,” she said, yawning. “But you’re too nice. You have to want to break him, not just borrow him.” She headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Next time, call me. We’ll do something fun. Maybe a three-way with Micha on speakerphone. Let him listen.”
Then she was gone, leaving Nat alone in the humming quiet. The screen was black, reflecting her own face back at her—glasses, dark hair, lips parted. She saw a stranger there, hungry and capable of a deeper, more inventive cruelty. Annika was right. She had been playing at control. Now, she wanted to engineer the break.