Chapter 6: Sleeping Betrayal
The aftermath of the party had left a static charge in the air, a lingering electricity that hummed beneath Nat’s skin for days. The image of Chris, gigantic and trembling on the wall, was burned into her retina. But more than that, it was the memory of her own power—the deliberate, cruel twist of the knife she’d delivered while Tyler’s tongue was in her mouth—that replayed in her mind on a loop. It had been her secret until yesterday, when Lucia had cornered her.
“I saw you,” Lucia had murmured over coffee, her dark eyes knowing. “I saw your face. You weren’t just doing it to mess with Chris. You were doing it for you.”
Nat had confessed then, in a hushed, shaky torrent of words: Micha’s gentle, disappointing touches; the way he’d come in two minutes last time, apologizing after; her growing obsession with Samantha’s stories of a man who could be edged for weeks, whose need was a tangible, monstrous thing. Lucia had listened, then smiled a slow, conspiratorial smile. “So get a taste for yourself,” she’d said. “Samantha owes you a favor after your little performance.”
Now, in the deep silence of her own bedroom, the only light came from the laptop screen on her knees. Micha lay beside her, his back turned, his breathing a slow, rhythmic snore. The clock glowed 2:17 AM. The world outside was still.
On the screen, Chris’s face was a study in exhausted anticipation. He was propped against his headboard, shirtless. The faint, silvery gleam of metal was just visible below his navel.
“You’re sure he’s asleep?” Chris’s voice was a sandpaper whisper through her headphones.
Nat turned the laptop, angling it. The screen now showed Micha’s sleeping form, the duvet covering him to the waist. “Out cold,” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “He took a sleeping pill after his shift. He won’t wake up.”
She watched Chris’s throat work as he swallowed. “Samantha said… she said you had permission. To talk to me. Alone.”
“I do,” Nat said. She licked her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. “But she didn’t set the rules for tonight. I did.” She let that hang, savoring the faint flicker of fear in his tired eyes. “First, show me.”
Chris’s hands, which had been lying at his sides, moved. He pushed the sheets down. The cage was a brutal, clinical piece of engineering. Stainless steel rings encircled the base of his cock and balls, holding everything in a constricted, helpless package. His cock, even flaccid and imprisoned, was impressive in its girth, straining against the rigid bars that made any erection an exercise in futile, painful pressure.
“It’s locked?” Nat asked, her own breath catching.
“Yes.” He said it like a vow. “Samantha has the key. I haven’t come since… since the party. Since you…”
“Since I made you watch,” she finished, a thrill spiking through her. She shifted, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her skin. “Show me what you can’t touch.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible rock of his hips, a pathetic simulation of a thrust. The metal shifted minimally. A low, pained groan escaped him. “This is all I can do.”
“Good.” The word was sharp, final. “Now. I want you to see what I touch.”
She didn’t give him time to process it. She simply turned the laptop camera, pointing it downward, following the line of her own body. With her free hand, she slowly, silently, gathered the hem of her nightgown. She pulled it up, past her thighs, past her hips, revealing the dark triangle of her pubic hair, the pale skin of her stomach. She heard Chris’s sharp intake of breath through the headphones.
Then, holding his gaze through the camera lens, she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of her panties.
Her eyes fluttered shut for a second as her own fingers found her wetness. She was already soaked. The adrenaline, the illicit thrill, had done their work. She let out a soft sigh, deliberate, meant for the microphone. When she opened her eyes, she saw Chris’s face had gone taut, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth.
“You’re thinking about this, aren’t you?” she whispered, her fingers circling her clit with a lazy, knowing pressure. “While you’re locked in that little cage, you’re thinking about my fingers inside me. How wet I am. How I got this wet watching you suffer.”
His composure cracked. “Fuck,” he hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily against the unyielding metal. A strained sound of pure frustration choked out of him.
“Shhh,” Nat soothed, a cruel parody of comfort. “You’ll wake your boyfriend.” She glanced at Micha’s still form, then back at the screen, a smile playing on her lips. “Let’s give you something else to think about.”
She withdrew her glistening fingers from her panties. Without breaking eye contact with Chris, she reached over. Her hand hovered above Micha’s hip. Then, with a slow, precise motion, she peeled back the duvet.
Micha slept on, undisturbed. He was wearing only a pair of loose cotton boxers. The outline of his body was soft, relaxed. And there, nestled in the fabric, was the small, innocuous bulge of his flaccid penis.
Nat moved the laptop closer, framing the shot: her hand, her slick fingers still shimmering in the low light, hovering just above Micha’s crotch. On the other side of the screen, Chris stared, mesmerized, horrified.
“This,” Nat whispered, the words dripping with vile sweetness, “is what fucks me. Or tries to.” She used her dry index finger to gently lift the elastic waistband of Micha’s boxers, peeking inside for a fraction of a second before letting it snap back. “See? Cute, right? Like a little mushroom. He gets so proud when it’s hard. It’s almost adorable.”
Chris made a sound like he’d been gut-punched.
“You’re different,” Nat continued, her voice dropping to a huskier register. She brought her wet fingers back to her own mouth, tasting herself slowly, never looking away from the camera. “You’re a monster. A beautiful, denied, weeping monster. Look at you.” She nodded toward his caged cock on her screen. “Trapped. Useless. And so much bigger than he’ll ever be.”
She returned her hand to under her nightgown, this time pushing her panties aside. She slid two fingers inside herself with a soft, wet sound that the microphone picked up perfectly. She arched her back slightly, biting her lip. “Micha would have come already,” she moaned quietly, fake, for Chris’s benefit. “He’d be snoring again. But you… you could be here for hours, couldn’t you? If I let you. If I told you to fuck me with that big, fat cock, you’d last and last. You’d make me come over and over until I couldn’t speak.”
Chris was trembling. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs. His cock pulsed vainly against its steel prison, a trapped animal testing its bars. A bead of clear fluid seeped from the tip, smearing on the metal.
“But you’re not here,” Nat sighed, pumping her fingers in and out of herself now, the sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. “You’re there. In a cage. And he’s here.” She let her free hand fall, landing possessively on Micha’s hip. The sleeping man sighed and shifted slightly, snuggling back into the pillow. “My sweet, small-dicked boyfriend. Who has no idea his girlfriend is sopping wet, fingering herself to the sight of another man’s caged cock.”
She was close. The danger, the filth of her words, the sheer power was coiling tight in her belly. She watched Chris watch her. His eyes were glazed, desperate, riveted to the small, moving bump under her nightgown where her hand worked.
“I’m gonna come,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m gonna come thinking about your huge, denied dick. Thinking about how I could own it. How I could make it weep like it is now. And you… you’re going to sit there. In your cage. And you’re going to hold it. You’re not going to make a sound.”
She came then, a silent, shuddering climax that tightened her entire body. Her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open in a soundless cry. She milked it, prolonging the waves, until she was spent and trembling.
When she opened her eyes, Chris was a ruin. Silent tears tracked down his cheeks. His body was rigid with unmet need, the cage an obscene mockery of his arousal.
Nat pulled her hand out, wiped her fingers casually on the sheet. She covered Micha again, tenderly, as if tucking in a child. Then she looked at Chris.
“That was for me,” she said, her voice cold and clear now. “A little taste. Samantha says you’re not to be unlocked until she returns next month. Not even for cleaning. I think that’s a wonderful idea.” She leaned closer to the screen. “I’ll be watching. And the next time Micha fumbles on top of me, finishes quick and rolls off… I’ll be thinking of you. Trapped. Hard. Mine.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She simply ended the call.
His face vanished, replaced by her desktop wallpaper. The room was suddenly, profoundly silent, save for Micha’s snoring.
Nat slowly closed the laptop. She lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. The guilt was a faint, distant echo, drowned out by the roaring, satiated hunger in her veins. The power was still there, electric and addictive. She had done it. She had broken him, all while her boyfriend slept beside her.
A slow smile spread across her face in the dark. She couldn’t wait to tell Lucia every detail.
She couldn’t wait to tell Lucia every detail. The aftershocks still vibrated in her fingertips, a phantom wetness between her thighs. She waited until Micha’s snores fell into a deeper, predictable rhythm before sliding out of bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet as she padded into the living room, her phone already dialing.
Lucia answered on the second ring, her voice hushed but alert. “Well? Did you do it?”
“He was caged,” Nat whispered, curling into the corner of the sofa. The fabric felt rough against her silk nightgown. “Locked. He couldn’t touch anything but the metal.” She recounted it all in a breathless rush: the angle of the laptop, the way she’d exposed Micha’s flaccid cock, the precise, filthy words she’d used. She described Chris’s silent tears, the shuddering strain of his body against the stainless steel prison.
“You made yourself come while he watched his own cage?” Lucia breathed. A clink of glass came through the phone; she was pouring a drink. “You vicious bitch. I love it.”
“It was… different.” Nat’s voice dropped, confessional. “It wasn’t just power. It was ownership. That thing between his legs, that huge, stupid dick… it belongs to Samantha. But for twenty minutes, it belonged to me. It was mine to torture.”
“And Micha?”
“He never stirred.” Nat looked toward the dark bedroom doorway. A strange, hollow affection twisted inside her. “He’s peacefully asleep, dreaming about god-knows-what, completely unaware his girlfriend just came harder than she ever has with him by humiliating another man.”
“That’s the best part,” Lucia said, and Nat could hear the grin in her voice. “So what now? One taste and you’re done?”
Nat was quiet. The city’s faint glow painted the room in shades of gray. The empty feeling was returning, the hunger gnawing deeper. “No,” she finally said. “It’s not enough. Seeing it on a screen… it’s not real.”
“What’s real, then?” Lucia’s tone shifted, knowing.
“I want to see it,” Nat said, the words solidifying as she spoke them. “In person. I want to see the cage. I want to hear the metal strain. I want to be the one holding the key.” The admission hung in the quiet room, shocking even to her. “Samantha is overseas for another three weeks.”
A long silence stretched on the line. Lucia took a slow sip of her drink. “You’re talking about a visit.”
“He lives four hours away by train,” Nat said, the plan crystallizing with terrifying speed. “I could go on a Saturday. Tell Micha I’m at a library conference.”
“You’d go to his apartment.” Lucia’s voice held no judgment, only a sharp, calculated interest. “You’d be alone with him. With Samantha’s property.”
“Exactly.” Nat’s heart hammered against her ribs. “He’s conditioned to obey. If I tell him Samantha authorized it, he’ll comply. He’s desperate for any contact, any relief.”
“And what would you do?” Lucia pressed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Once you had him there, in the flesh?”
Nat closed her eyes. The fantasy unspooled in vivid, depraved detail. “I’d make him kneel,” she whispered. “I’d inspect the cage like a vet inspecting a lame animal. I’d tap the metal and watch him flinch.” She took a shaky breath. “I’d make him undress me. Slowly. With his teeth if I wanted. I’d make him use that pretty mouth of his, make him lick me until I screamed, but he wouldn’t be allowed to use his hands. His hands would stay behind his back.”
“Fuck, Nat,” Lucia murmured, a hushed reverence in her tone.
“And then,” Nat continued, her voice gaining strength, “I’d unlock him. Just for a minute. I’d let that fat, angry cock spring out, all purple and desperate. I’d touch it. Just once. I’d feel the heat of it, the throbbing. I’d compare its weight to Micha’s in my hand. And then I’d lock it right back up.”
“You wouldn’t let him fuck you?”
“No,” Nat said, the word final and absolute. “That’s Samantha’s. But his mouth, his hands, his shame… those could be mine. For an afternoon.” She opened her eyes, staring into the dim room. “I want to see the relief in his eyes when the cage comes off. And I want to see the absolute devastation when I click it shut again, tighter.”
Lucia exhaled slowly. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Since the party,” Nat admitted. “Since I saw him on that wall. He’s not a person then. He’s a instrument. A beautifully tuned instrument of need.” She paused, feeling the truth of it. “I want to play him.”
“Then do it,” Lucia said, her voice firm. “I’ll cover for you. Text me the details. Every single one.” She gave a low, dark chuckle. “Micha will never know his quiet little girlfriend spent a Saturday ruining a man’s soul.”
They hung up. Nat sat in the dark, the plan solidifying from fantasy into intention. The guilt was a thin, wispy thing, blown away by the scorching wind of her desire. She returned to bed. Micha mumbled in his sleep and rolled toward her, his small hand flopping onto her stomach.
She lay rigid, staring at the ceiling. His touch felt like a claim, a ownership that suddenly seemed laughable, pathetic. His gentle, inadequate possession of her body was a cage in its own right. She had just discovered she held the key to a different one, far more potent.
Sleep was impossible. Her mind raced on a loop of metal clicks and choked sobs. A smile, sharp and victorious, cut through the darkness on her face. She had crossed a line tonight, from observer to architect. The fall was inevitable, and she was already leaning over the edge, hungry for the drop.
The next morning, she emailed Samantha. The message was carefully calibrated, dripping with false concern and feigned curiosity. I worry the isolation is affecting Chris’s mental state, she wrote. Perhaps a supervised, strictly non-sexual welfare check would be beneficial? I’d be happy to assist, as a friend to you both. It might reinforce your control, having a proxy in the room.
The reply came two hours later, just as Nat was microwaving oatmeal for a grumpy, sleepy Micha.
I trust you implicitly, Samantha’s email read. Your discretion is appreciated. He will be expecting you Saturday at 2 PM. The rules are attached. Do not deviate.
Nat read the attachment. A list of commands. A code for his apartment door. A specification that the inspection was “visual and tactile for verification of device integrity only.” Samantha had thought of everything, and in doing so, had given Nat exactly what she wanted: a piece of paper that was not permission, but a warrant.
She deleted the email. She ate her oatmeal. She kissed Micha goodbye as he left for work, his lips dry and perfunctory against hers.
The train ride Saturday morning was a four-hour meditation in anticipation. She wore simple clothes—black jeans, a plain t-shirt, flat shoes—but beneath them, her skin felt hyper-sensitive, electric. She’d chosen her plainest cotton panties, a deliberate mockery of the occasion. The key to the chastity device, sent overnight in a discreet envelope, burned a hole in her purse.
His apartment building was nondescript, middle-class. Her knocks on door 4B were soft, deliberate. The door opened.
Chris stood there, dressed in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He looked older than on the screen, the lines of denial and stress etched deeper around his eyes. His gaze dropped to the floor immediately. “Nat,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Hello, Chris,” she said, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. The apartment was neat, sterile, almost like a hotel room. It smelled of clean linen and lonely masculinity. She set her purse down on a small table. “You know why I’m here.”
“Samantha’s instructions,” he mumbled, closing the door. He remained by it, a visitor in his own home.
“Correct.” Nat turned to face him. She allowed her eyes to roam over him, a clinical, assessing look. “Show me the device.”
His hands trembled as he pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down. The cage was there, a cold, hard fact against his flesh. In person, it was more brutal. She could see the slight reddening of the skin where the metal met his body, the faint impressions of the locking mechanism.
“Closer,” she commanded.
He took two hesitant steps forward. She didn’t touch him. Not yet. She just looked. The silence in the room was thick, pressurized.
“On your knees,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth.
He sank to his knees on the carpet, his head bowed. The submission was automatic, total. It made her core clench with wet, ruthless heat.
She circled him slowly. From behind, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine was rigid with shame and expectation. She stopped in front of him again. With a slow, deliberate movement, she reached out and used her index finger to lift his chin. He resisted for a fraction of a second, then allowed it, his eyes meeting hers. They were shattered.
“You thought about this,” she stated, not asking. “Since I hung up. You thought about me coming here.”
He gave a minute, agonized nod.
“You thought about what I might do.” She let her finger trail down the line of his jaw to his throat. She felt his Adam’s apple bob under her touch. “Did you hope I’d be kind?”
A tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. “No.”
“Good.” Her hand fell away. She walked to the couch and sat down, crossing her legs. “Stand up. Take your clothes off. All of them. I want to inspect the entirety of the subject in containment.”
He moved like an automaton. The t-shirt went over his head, revealing a toned, trembling torso. The sweatpants and boxers were shoved down his legs. He kicked them aside and stood naked before her, his arms stiff at his sides, the cruel metal device the glaring focal point of his body.
Nat let her gaze travel over him, slow and appraising. His legs were strong. His stomach was taut. His cock, imprisoned, was a trapped, swollen threat. It was larger than she had even imagined, the sheer girth of it making the cage seem impossibly small.
“Come here,” she said, patting the space on the floor directly in front of her knees.
He obeyed, kneeling again, this time so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She could smell him—soap, a faint musk of anxiety, and something else, something primal and desperate.
“The key,” she said, holding out her hand.
He flinched. His eyes flickered to her purse and back, a frantic, hopeful, terrified look. He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling in ragged hitches. With shaking hands, he reached for her purse, found the small key, and placed it in her outstretched palm. The metal was warm from his touch.
She held it up, letting the light glint off it. “This is the only thing standing between you and relief,” she said softly. “This little piece of metal. And I hold it.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” he choked out, the word ripped from him.
“Beg.”
He crumpled. “Please,” he wept, his forehead dropping to the carpet near her feet. “Please, Nat, please unlock it. Just for a minute. Please let me feel the air. Please, I can’t… I can’t think anymore. It’s all I am. It’s all pain. Please.”
She listened, a goddess hearing a prayer. She let his sobs fill the room. She watched the way his entire body shook with the force of his need. When his words dissolved into incoherent whimpers, she finally moved.
“Sit back,” she commanded. “Legs apart. Hands behind your back.”
He scrambled to comply, sitting back on his heels, his thighs splayed. The cage was presented to her like an offering on an altar. She slid off the couch, kneeling on the floor before him. She was close enough to see every detail: the intricate lock, the individual bars, the swollen, angry head of his cock peeking through the front.
She inserted the key. The click was deafening in the silent room.
His whole body jerked. A guttural, broken sound tore from his throat as the mechanism released. She slowly, carefully, peeled the device away.
What sprang free was a monument to deprivation. Thick, vein-riddled, dark with pooled blood, it stood rigid and weeping. Precum dripped steadily from the slit, painting a shiny line down the shaft. It twitched in the open air, a raw, exposed nerve.
Nat let the cage fall to the carpet with a dull thud. She just looked, her own breath catching. It was obscene. It was beautiful. It was power incarnate.
“You may not touch,” she reminded him, her voice husky.
His hands, which had started to creep forward, snapped behind his back again. He was panting now, his eyes wide and wild, fixed on her face.
She reached out. Using just her fingertips, she traced the swollen vein along the underside. The skin was fever-hot, silken and stretched taut. He cried out, a sharp, punched-out sound. A fresh pulse of precum drooled from the tip.
“Micha’s,” she whispered, almost to herself, as her fingers ghosted over the slick head, “could fit in my mouth three times over and I’d still have room.” She wrapped her hand around the base, not stroking, just holding. The sheer weight of it, the heat, the throbbing aliveness of it was intoxicating. She gave a single, firm squeeze.
Chris whimpered, his hips bucking involuntarily. “Please…”
“Please what?” She tightened her grip, her nails digging in just enough to sting.
“Please… let me… use it. Let me… please you.” The words were a garbled mess of need.
She leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing his ear. Her other hand went to the waistband of her jeans. “You want to fuck me, Chris? You want to slam this desperate, aching cock into my pussy? You want to finally, finally come?”
“God, yes, please, yes,” he sobbed.
She unbuttoned her jeans with one hand, pulling the zipper down slowly. She shifted just enough to tug them and her plain cotton panties down over her hips, exposing herself to the cool air of the apartment. She was already wet, her arousal slick and evident.
She guided the weeping head of his cock, nudging it against her soaked entrance. He moaned, a deep, animal sound of absolute torment. The heat of him there, at her very edge, was an almost unbearable promise.
She held him there, not letting him enter, just letting the swollen tip press against her. “This is what you want,” she breathed, rotating her hips slightly, smearing her wetness over him. “This is what you’ve dreamed about for weeks.”
“Please, Nat, I’ll do anything, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” she cut him off, her voice like ice. She pulled back, removing the contact completely. His cock, bereft, jerked in the empty air. “Because you don’t deserve it.”
His face shattered. He looked at her with utter devastation.
She stood up, leaving her jeans around her thighs. She looked down at him, at his magnificent, useless erection. “Hands and knees. Now. And don’t you dare touch yourself.”
He collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, a broken animal. She stepped over him, positioning herself above his face. She lowered herself slowly, until her soaked, open sex was hovering just above his mouth. He could feel her heat, smell her musk.
“Clean up your mess,” she ordered.
He didn’t hesitate. His tongue laved out, broad and desperate, dragging through her folds, gathering her arousal mixed with his own precum from where she’d rubbed against him. He ate at her with a frantic, starving intensity, his nose pressing into her, his hands fisted in the carpet to keep from touching her hips.
Nat braced her hands on the back of the couch, her head falling back. His mouth was skilled, frantic, overwhelming. It was worship and punishment fused into one act. She let the pleasure build, coiling tight low in her belly, fueled by the absolute control,