Chapter 7: Double Domination
The train back had been a four-hour trance. Nat stared out at the blurring countryside, but her vision was filled with the memory of Chris crumbling onto his carpet, weeping into his hands after she’d clicked the lock shut. The metallic finality of it echoed in her bones. She’d left him there, naked and sobbing, the cage back in place, tighter than before by two notches. She’d washed her hands in his bathroom, watching his smeared precum swirl down the drain, and left without a word.
The guilt never came. In its place was a cavernous, humming stillness. Micha had asked about her “conference.” She’d described a boring seminar on archival databases, her voice flat and believable. He’d kissed her forehead and told her she worked too hard. The normality of it was a dishwater-dull veneer over the live wire now buried inside her.
Lucia knew. She saw it in Nat’s eyes two days later over lunch. “You did it,” she stated, no question in her voice.
“I did.” Nat poked at her salad.
“And?”
“And nothing. I inspected the device. I verified its integrity.” Nat looked up, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “It’s very secure.”
Lucia leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “You’re a goddamn monster. I need details. Every single one.”
Nat told her. The words spilled out in a hushed, clinical torrent, but when she described the moment of unlocking, the sheer physicality of his freed cock, her voice faltered, grew thick. Lucia listened, rapt, her food forgotten. When Nat finished, Lucia sat back, blowing out a long breath.
“He’s ruined now,” Lucia murmured. “For her. For anyone but you.”
“He’s Samantha’s,” Nat corrected, but the words felt like a formality.
“Is he?” Lucia’s eyebrow arched. “He let you in. He begged you. You have the second key. You think Samantha knows what that does to a man’s mind? She’s playing a game of checkers from another continent. You’re playing chess on his skin.”
The idea rooted, grew tendrils. It whispered to her at night, beside Micha’s sleeping form. He’s ruined for anyone but you.
A week after her visit, an email arrived from Samantha. Chris reports the device is causing discomfort. Excessive edema. He claims the fit is now too restrictive. I’ve instructed him to send you daily photos for verification. You are to assess and report.
Nat opened the first attachment with cold, steady fingers. It was a close-up, clinical photo. The cage was indeed straining, the skin around the rings swollen and shiny. It looked painful. It looked delicious.
She wrote back. Verification requires in-person assessment. Static images are insufficient for a proper integrity check. Recommend a follow-up visit.
The reply was instantaneous. Approved. Saturday, 11 AM.
Nat didn’t go alone.
Lucia stood beside her outside Chris’s apartment door at 10:59 AM, holding a small, expensive-looking leather case. “For the cinematography,” she’d said with a wink. Inside was a high-end phone stabilizer and an external microphone.
Nat knocked. The door opened slower this time. Chris looked wrecked. Deep shadows hung under his eyes. He was dressed in the same sweatpants. His gaze, still submissive, flickered from Nat to Lucia and back, confusion and a flicker of dread in their depths.
“Samantha has expanded the inspection protocol,” Nat said briskly, brushing past him. Lucia followed, a silent, voluptuous shadow. “This is Lucia. She’s here to document the proceedings for Samantha’s records. To ensure… transparency.”
Chris stood frozen by the door. Lucia gave him a slow, appraising look, her eyes traveling down his body and lingering pointedly on the evident bulge in his sweatpants. “Nice place,” she said, her voice a warm, mocking contradiction to the sterile room. She set her case on the table and began assembling her gear with professional efficiency.
“Undress,” Nat commanded Chris, not looking at him as she took off her own coat. She was wearing a simple black dress. It was Lucia who had suggested it. “Wear something he can take off you. Something she can watch him take off you.”
He obeyed, his movements sluggish with shame. Soon he stood naked again, the strained cage a grotesque centerpiece. Lucia turned on her phone, the camera light a stark, unforgiving eye. She zoomed in on the device, panning slowly over the swollen flesh.
“Report your discomfort level,” Nat said, standing before him, her arms crossed.
“It’s… tight,” he managed, his voice gravel. “It aches. All the time.”
“Good.” Nat walked a slow circle around him. Lucia followed with the camera, capturing every angle of his humiliation. “A device should be felt. It’s a reminder. Now.” She stopped in front of him. “Samantha has authorized a full tactile assessment. Lucia, keep recording. Zoom on my hands.”
Nat reached out. She didn’t touch the cage first. She placed her palms flat on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. She slid them down over his tensed abdomen. His skin was feverish. She finally cupped the cold, hard steel of the cage in one hand, giving it a slight, jostling shake.
He gasped, his knees buckling slightly.
“Steady,” Nat murmured. With her other hand, she reached into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a simple, gold band. Micha’s wedding ring. She’d taken it from his dresser that morning, telling him she wanted to get it cleaned.
She held it up, letting the camera catch its gleam. “You see this, Chris? This is a promise. A small, simple, pathetic promise.” She slid the ring onto her own finger. It was too big, so she moved it to her thumb. “The man who gave me this can’t make me feel a fraction of what I feel looking at you right now. Broken. Needy. Owned.”
She closed her hand around the cage again, squeezing. Precum, thicker now, oozed from the tip and dripped onto her knuckles. “He fucks me with a little, useless prick that gets the job done in three minutes. You…” she leaned in, her lips close to his ear, her voice a venomous whisper picked up by Lucia’s microphone, “…you have a tool that could ruin a woman for life. And it’s locked in a fucking birdcage.”
She released him and took a step back. “On your knees.”
He sank down. The submission was quicker this time, more defeated.
Nat glanced at Lucia. Lucia gave a tiny, eager nod, the phone held steady.
“Lucia,” Nat said, her voice assuming a formal, instructional tone for the camera. “The subject appears agitated. Primary assessment indicates severe constriction. However, psychological state must also be evaluated. A stress test is required.”
“A stress test?” Lucia asked, playing her part perfectly.
“Yes.” Nat reached behind her neck and found the zipper of her black dress. She pulled it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The dress fell in a pool at her feet. She wore nothing underneath. Her small, perfect breasts, the dark triangle between her legs, were exposed to the cool air and the unblinking eye of the camera. Chris’s head was level with her waist. His breath hitched, a ragged, desperate sound.
“The subject will service the inspector,” Nat announced. “To gauge focus, obedience, and emotional control under extreme duress.” She looked down at the top of his head. “You will use only your mouth. You will not use your hands. You will not come. If you show signs of impending orgasm, you will stop and recite the alphabet backwards. Is that understood?”
A shudder ran through him. “Yes.”
“Begin.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His mouth found her, hot and hungry and devastatingly skilled. His tongue parted her folds, licking a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit. Nat’s head fell back. A low moan escaped her. It was different from last time. The audience, the camera, the ring on her thumb—it amplified everything. This was a performance. A coronation.
“Oh fuck, that’s good,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just possessing. “Such a good fucking mouth. Does Samantha know what a whore you are with your tongue?”
He moaned against her, the vibration making her legs tremble. His hands were clenched into fists on his thighs, knuckles white. He worked her with a frantic, focused precision, his nose buried in her, breathing her in.
Lucia circled them, the camera zooming in on his face, smeared with Nat’s wetness, then on Nat’s face, twisted in pleasure, then down to the angry, caged cock bobbing uselessly between his legs. She moved in close, the lens just inches from where his tongue plunged into Nat.
“He’s dedicated,” Lucia narrated softly, for the recording. “No hands. All mouth. Look at that focus.”
Nat was climbing fast, the coil tightening. “He’s better than my fiancé,” she panted, the words filthy and loud. “Micha tries, but he’s clumsy. He’s small. This… this is a fucking art.” She ground herself against his face, taking what she needed. “This is what a real man does. He serves. He worships. He knows his fucking place.”
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and loud. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, her thighs clamping around his head as she rode the waves against his unyielding mouth. When it subsided, she pushed him back, panting.
He knelt there, lips glistening, chest heaving. His cock wept a constant stream of precum now, a small puddle forming beneath him on the floor.
Nat, still buzzing, looked at Lucia. “Your turn.”
A wide, wicked smile spread across Lucia’s face. She handed Nat the phone. “Get the shot,” she whispered.
Lucia undressed with a theatrical slowness, a show for the camera Nat now held. Her body was a lush contrast to Nat’s petite frame—full breasts, wide hips, a spectacular ass. She walked to Chris, who stared up at her, dazed.
“You heard her,” Lucia purred, positioning herself before him. “Servicio completo, cariño. And make it good. I’m not as easy as she is.”
Chris went to work. If anything, he was more frantic, more desperate with Lucia. It was as if Nat’s climax had pushed him closer to the edge, and now the presence of another woman, another demand, was breaking him. He lapped at Lucia with a fervor that was almost religious, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back his own release.
Nat filmed it all. The sharp contrast of Lucia’s dark curls against his pale skin. The way his back muscles corded with strain. The desperate, rhythmic rocking of his hips, his caged cock bouncing with every movement. She zoomed in on the ring on her own thumb, resting against her thigh as she held the phone, then back on his tormented face.
Lucia’s climax was a louder, more vocal affair. She cursed in rapid-fire Spanish, one hand grabbing his hair, the other pinching her own nipple. When she finished, she shoved him away with a gasp.
“Dios mío,” she laughed, breathless. “Okay. Okay. I see it now.”
Chris was a mess on the floor. He was panting, sweat-slicked, tears cutting tracks through the moisture on his face. His cock was a furious purple, straining against the metal, visibly pulsing.
Nat put the phone down. She knelt before him, taking his face in her hands. He looked utterly shattered.
“You want to come, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice syrupy with false sympathy. “Look at you. You’re dying for it.”
A sob wracked his frame. He nodded, incapable of speech.
She held up her hand, the gold band of Micha’s ring catching the light. “This little ring,” she said softly, “belongs to a man who gets to come inside me whenever he wants. He gets to fall asleep after. He gets to call me his.” She tapped the ring against the metal of his cage. It made a soft ping. “You have this. And a mouth that makes me scream. And that’s all you get.”
She stood up. “Lucia, the key.”
Lucia, now dressed, retrieved the key from Nat’s purse and handed it to her. Nat took it. She looked at Chris. “On your back. Legs spread.”
He complied, his body flopping onto the carpet like a landed fish. He stared at the ceiling, eyes blank with despair.
Nat knelt between his legs. She inserted the key. Unlocked the cage. It sprang free, a monstrous, throbbing testament to his torture. She didn’t touch it. She simply held the open cage in one hand and looked at him.
“You have thirty seconds,” she said, her voice cold. “You will not touch yourself with your hands. You will hump the air. Like the animal you are. And you will not come. If you feel it building, you stop. You look at Lucia’s phone. You look at the proof of what you are. And you remember this is all you deserve.”
The orders were impossible, designed to break him further. A broken sound escaped him. He began to move his hips, a shallow, frantic thrusting into nothing. His hands clawed at the carpet. His face was a mask of agony.
“Twenty seconds,” Lucia called out, holding her phone up, the video of his servitude still playing on the screen.
He pumped faster, his cock leaking incessantly. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His body coiled, a spring ready to snap.
“Ten!”
He screwed his eyes shut, his thrusts becoming erratic, jerky.
“Five! Four! Three!”
With a roar that was half sob, half scream, his body arched off the floor. A violent shudder ran through him, but no release came. He’d forced it back, the orgasm denied, turned inward into a wave of brutal, convulsive pain. He collapsed, shuddering, his spent but unfulfilled cock twitching against his stomach.
Nat leaned over him. She snapped the cage shut around him again, clicking it locked. The sound was final.
“Report to Samantha,” Nat said, standing and smoothing her dress. “Tell her the device is functioning perfectly. The edema is within acceptable parameters for psychological conditioning.” She looked at Lucia. “We’re done here.”
They gathered their things. Chris didn’t move from the floor. He stared at the ceiling, tears streaming silently into his hairline.
As Nat reached the door, she turned back. He didn’t look at her.
“The next inspection,” she said, her voice clear in the dead silence, “will be in two weeks. I expect significant improvement in emotional regulation.”
She closed the door softly behind them. In the hallway, Lucia let out a long, trembling breath. “Holy fucking shit,” she whispered.
Nat’s hands were steady as she slipped Micha’s ring back into her pocket. The live wire inside her was no longer humming. It was singing.