Chapter 8: Blindfolded Torture
The silence in Chris’s apartment had become a physical thing. It wasn’t just an absence of sound; it was a weight, a dense fog that smelled of his own stagnation. The hum of the refrigerator was a foreign intrusion. He’d stopped opening the blinds. The glow from his laptop was his only sun, his only moon.
Samantha’s response to Nat’s “integrity report” had been a single line: Procedure validated. Continue scheduled maintenance.
He’d read it twenty times, looking for a hidden emotion—anger, jealousy, approval. There was none. It was a clinical acknowledgement, a stamp on a form. It made what happened with Nat and Lucia feel both monumental and utterly meaningless. He was a specimen. A log entry. The cage felt heavier now, a permanent part of his anatomy, the edema having subsided into a dull, perpetual ache that flared whenever he thought of Nat’s thumb tracing Micha’s ring.
When the call request came, it wasn’t from Samantha directly. It was a group link. The notification pulsed on his screen like a trapped heartbeat. He clicked it.
The screen exploded into chaos.
Samantha’s face was in the primary window, a queen on her throne. Her dorm room was a riot of clutter behind her—clothes, posters, empty bottles. But she wasn’t alone. Three other faces crowded the frame, leaning in, their features distorted by the wide-angle lens. He recognized them from photos. Noa, with her mischievous grin and wild brown hair. Nicola, pretty and poised with a sharp glint in her eye. And Annika, youngest, her pale face a canvas of predatory amusement.
“There he is!” Noa crowed. “The famous locked boy!”
“He looks like shit,” Nicola observed, sipping from a red plastic cup.
“Aw, poor thing,” Annika cooed, her voice syrup-sweet and razor-edged. “All pent up. Sammy says it’s been, what, five weeks now?”
“Six,” Samantha corrected, her voice calm. She took a slow sip of whiskey from the bottle on her desk. “And he’s been a very good boy. Mostly. Chris, say hello to my friends. They’ve heard so much about you.”
His throat was desert-dry. “Hello.”
“We want to see it,” Annika demanded, her petite frame leaning so close her nose almost touched her camera. “The famous cage. The poor, sad, denied cock.”
“Show them,” Samantha commanded.
His hands, clumsy and cold, pushed down his sweatpants. He angled the laptop camera down. The collective gasp from the speakers was not one of pity. It was one of giddy, incredulous delight.
“Oh my God, it’s huge,” Cookie’s voice came from off-screen before her face pushed into view. She was a new one. Round-faced, with eyes that sparkled with vicious curiosity. “Even all locked up you can tell. That’s a fucking monster.”
“It looks miserable,” Nicola laughed. “I love it.”
“Okay, here’s the game,” Annika said, clapping her hands. She was clearly running the show, and Samantha was letting her. “We’re bored. We want to play. You’re going to edge. A lot.”
“Twenty times,” Noa chimed in.
“Exactly twenty times,” Annika emphasized. “You’re going to count them out loud for us. You get to twenty, you stop. Completely. If you go over, even a little, we add ten more. If you come, we’ll have Sammy mail your key to that Nat girl and you’ll never get unlocked again. Understood?”
The rules were a labyrinth of pain. His mind reeled. “Understood.”
“But it’s no fun if he can see us,” Cookie said, her voice a sly whisper. “It’ll help him focus on his pathetic little task. Put on the blindfold, Chris.”
A box appeared on the screen—a file transfer. He accepted it. It was a video file, black screen. “Play it full screen and don’t touch anything,” Nicola instructed.
He clicked play. The screen went utterly, profoundly black. Not just dark, but a pure, lightless void. At the same time, a soft, synthetic hum filled his headphones, white noise designed to drown out ambient sound. He was blind. He was deaf to his own environment. His world was now the voices in his headset and the aching flesh in his hand.
“Go on, then,” Samantha’s voice cut through. “Start.”
His touch was agonizing. Six weeks of denial had turned his skin into a live nerve. The simple act of wrapping his fingers around the caged shaft made his whole body jolt. He could feel every ridge of the metal, every constricted throb of the veins beneath. He began to move, a slow, torturous stroke over the unforgiving steel.
“That’s one!” Annika called out, as if officiating a sport.
He was already breathless. The stimulation was too much and not enough, the barrier between his hand and his skin a maddening torment. The second edge came crashing in moments later, a wave of heat and tension that clenched his gut. “Two!” he gasped.
“Slower,” Noa commanded. “We want this to last. Make him work for it, Chris.”
He tried to slow down, but his body was a traitor, hips stuttering forward to meet his fist. The third edge, the fourth, they came in relentless succession. “Three! Four!”
“He sounds like a fucking train,” Cookie giggled. “Choo-choo!”
“He’s not counting right,” Annika said, her voice cold. “That was sloppy. That was one edge. Start over.”
A bolt of despair shot through him. “What? No, please—”
“Start. Over.”
The groan that tore from him was one of profound emptiness. He took his hand away, letting his cock twitch in the cold air. He waited, the need a screaming white static in his brain. After a minute that felt like an hour, he began again.
“One.”
This time, they were merciless. They made him dwell on the precipice. “Feel it?” Nicola taunted. “Feel it building? Hold it right there. Taste it. Now stop.” He’d whimper, withdrawing his touch, his body shaking. They’d make him wait, counting the seconds, before letting him begin the agonizing climb again.
“Two.”
His world narrowed to the burning in his groin and the chorus of cruel, young voices. They talked about him as if he weren’t there.
“Nat said his mouth is pretty good,” Noa mentioned conversationally.
“She would know,” Nicola replied. “She tested it thoroughly.”
“Bet he’d love to bury his face in Cookie’s ass right now,” Annika laughed. “Look at it, Chris. Oh wait, you can’t!” The sound of a sharp slap echoed, followed by Cookie’s yelp and subsequent giggle.
“It’s right here,” Cookie moaned, and he could hear the wet sound of a finger slipping through folds. “So fucking wet from watching this. He’s making me so wet and he doesn’t even get to know.”
He was at edge twelve. His body was slick with cold sweat. Tears mixed with the snot on his upper lip. Every muscle was rigid, trembling on the brink of a collapse that wouldn’t bring relief.
“Thirteen!” he sobbed.
“You sound pathetic,” Samantha said, her first comment in minutes. The sound of her voice, so familiar, so dispassionate, was its own kind of torment.
Fourteen. Fifteen. The edges began to blur into a continuous state of near-rupture. His balls were a solid, painful weight. His cockhead, pressed against the small opening of the cage, was raw and inflamed.
“Sixteen! Seventeen!”
“He’s close to breaking,” Nicola observed clinically. “Voice is gone. Listen to that rattle.”
“He won’t break,” Annika said, confidence absolute. “Sammy broke him a long time ago. He’s just a thing now. A needy, leaking thing. Eighteen!”
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t form words. The numbers were just animal noises forced past his lips. “N-nineteen!”
The final climb was a vertical cliff. Every stroke was fire and broken glass. The orgasm gathered, a tsunami held back by the thinnest dam. It wasn’t just in his cock; it was in his teeth, his fingertips, behind his eyes.
“Here it comes… here it comes…” he chanted, a desperate prayer.
“STOP.”
The command from Annika was a gunshot.
He froze. His whole being convulsed. The wave, poised to crash, hit an invisible wall and surged back into him, a shockwave of inverted pleasure so violent he vomited a thin, bitter stream onto the floor beside his chair. He dry-heaved, his body seizing.
Silence from the headset.
Then, slow, synchronized applause.
“Bravo!” Annika said. “Twenty. Right on the number. You have incredible timing for a pathetic edging slave.”
“Now, wasn’t that fun?” Noa asked.
He couldn’t speak. He was a hollowed-out shell, dripping with sweat and spit and vomit.
“Clean yourself up,” Samantha said, her voice finally returning to the forefront. “You did adequately. My friends are amused. That’s the point.”
He slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool laminate of his desk. The applause in his ears dissolved into overlapping chatter, a cocktail party in hell. He heard the glug of more whiskey being poured, a zipper, Cookie’s low whisper about how fucking soaked she was.
“Clean yourself up,” Samantha had said. The vomit was a small, acrid puddle on the floor. He didn’t move. His muscles were liquid. The cage was a fossilized part of him, a cold, heavy knot of pure want.
“He’s broken,” Nicola murmured, not without a hint of admiration.
“Not broken,” Samantha corrected. Her voice was clear, surgical. “Just emptied. For now. Chris.”
His name was a hook in his jaw. He lifted his head.
“You did what they asked. You followed Annika’s count. That deserves a concession.” She leaned into her camera, her face filling his black screen, her tone a bizarre mix of tenderness and absolute dominion. “Take the cage off.”
The words didn’t compute. They hung in the static-filled air. Take it off.
“Do it,” Annika snapped, her bratty impatience slicing through his stupor. “We’re waiting.”
His hands, trembling violently now, fumbled for the small key on its chain around his neck. It felt like a relic from another life. The click of the tiny lock was the loudest sound in his universe. The mechanism released with a soft sigh.
He peeled the contraption away.
The sensation was apocalyptic. Cool air washed over skin that hadn’t breathed in forty-two days. The sheer, unconstrained weight of his own erection was a shock—a visceral, painful fullness that made him cry out. It was angry, purple, throbbing with a heartbeat of its own, a slick bead of precum already welling from the tip. He was monstrously hard, and utterly, terrifyingly free.
“Oh, fuck,” Cookie breathed, her camera jostling as she moved. “Look at that. It’s… it’s fucking angry.”
“It’s beautiful,” Noa said, her voice hushed for a second before reverting to its teasing lilt. “All that for us, Chris? You’re dripping like a leaky faucet.”
Samantha allowed them their moment of awe. Then she spoke. “Now you can see.” His screen flickered back to life, the blinding grid of four faces assaulting his light-starved eyes. They were all leaning close, eyes wide, devouring the image of his liberation. “Your reward is the view. Your task remains. Twenty more edges. Right now. Start counting.”
The instruction was so profoundly sadistic it stole his breath. Freedom was just a new layer of the trap. He wrapped his fist around his bare cock, and the direct skin-on-skin contact was like grabbing a live wire. A choked groan tore from his throat. He could see them watching. Annika, chewing her lip, her small hand disappearing between her thighs under the desk. Nicola, with a cool, evaluating smirk. Cookie, biting her knuckle. Noa, grinning wildly.
And Samantha. Watching him watch them.
“One!” he barked, the climb instantaneous, a dizzying rush up the first slope.
“Slow,” Samantha commanded. “We want to see the strain. We want to watch the veins pulse.”
He slowed, dragging his fist up the thick shaft, twisting over the swollen head. The precum smeared, a slick gloss. He could see everything: the dirt under Nicola’s fingernails, the peeling sticker on Noa’s laptop, the flutter of Annika’s eyelids as she touched herself.
“Two!”
“Does it feel better without the cage, you pathetic fuck?” Annika asked, her voice tight. “Bet it does. Bet you want to shove it right into my tight little nineteen-year-old pussy, don’t you? You can’t. You just get to edge while I get myself off thinking about how you never will.”
Her words were a lash. His hips jerked. “Three!”
It became a obscene ballet. The raw, physical act of his fist pounding his flesh, and the visual feast of their casual cruelty. Noa lifted her shirt, showing him her small, perfect breasts, pinching her nipples. “Remember Nat?” she said. “She told us how you lapped at her like a hungry dog. You’re ours now.”
“Four! Five!”
Cookie stood up, turned her back, and bent over, showing him the full, staggering curve of her ass in tiny shorts. “Nat said you’re a good eater,” she said, looking back at him between her legs. “This is all you’re ever gonna get to taste, Chris. Pixels.”
The edges came faster, harder to control. The visual stimuli short-circuited his already fried nervous system. “Six! Seven! Eight!”
“He’s losing it,” Nicola observed, laughing. “He’s gonna blow just from watching Cookie’s ass.”
“He fucking better not,” Annika snarled. “Nine! That was too quick. Make him wait, Sammy.”
Samantha, silent for a long moment, finally spoke. “Stop.”
He froze, his cock leaping in his hand, the crest of the ninth wave receding with a nauseating swirl in his gut. He panted, staring at the screen, at their amused, beautiful, hateful faces.
“Continue,” she said.
The rollercoaster resumed. “Ten! Eleven!”
He was a machine glitching, overheating. Sweat poured down his chest. His balls were drawn up tight, aching with unreleased pressure. The room smelled of sex and sick and his own desperate animal musk.
“Tell us what you want to do to it,” Noa urged, playing with her nipple. “Tell us while you stroke that huge, useless dick.”
“I want…” he gasped, eyes locked on her fingers. “I want to fuck your tits… I want to come on your face…”
“Disgusting,” Nicola sneered. “Twelve!”
“I want to tear that ass apart, Cookie,” he growled, the filth pouring out of him, a necessary valve. “I want to make you scream.”
Cookie moaned, rubbing herself against the edge of her chair. “Thirteen!”
Annika was close, he could see it. Her breaths were short hitches. “You’re… you’re just our toy,” she stammered, her brattiness fraying into her own arousal. “A fucking… edgeslave. Fourteen!”
The numbers blurred with his vision. The pleasure was a white-hot brand, searing. He was nothing but a cock and a pair of eyes, owned by the figures on the screen.
“Fifteen! Sixteen!”
“I’m gonna come,” Annika suddenly announced, her voice high and surprised. She gasped, her body tensing, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as she shook through her orgasm for him to see. “Seventeen!”
The sight of her climaxing pushed him to the razor’s edge. He was teetering, his groin a nuclear reactor going critical. “Eighteen! Nineteen!”
One left. The final edge. The room on screen was chaos—Annika recovering, Noa cheering, Cookie clapping. Only Samantha was still, a statue of control.
“The last one, Chris,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “Make it perfect for me.”
He stared into her eyes on the screen. He brought himself to the very brink, a shaking, trembling monument to denied need. He held it there, the orgasm a shimmering castle in the air, one touch away from reality.
“Twenty,” he whispered, and let go of his cock.
He didn’t come. The release didn’t happen. He just hovered in that terminal state of almost, his entire body locked in a rigid arch, every sinew screaming. A thin, broken sound escaped his lips.
On the screen, Samantha smiled. A real, warm smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
“Good,” she said, as her friends whooped and laughed around her. “Now you understand the price of a reward.”
The “good” echoed in the hollow of his chest. It meant nothing. It was a calibration. He sat there, his spent, shuddering cock still exposed to the camera, the air conditioning chilling the sweat on his skin. The cheers from the screen felt distant, like noise from another apartment.
Annika recovered first, wiping her fingers on her black jeans. Her post-orgasm languor evaporated, replaced by a sharper, hungrier energy. “That was a cute warm-up,” she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. “But I’m bored again.”
The room on screen stilled. All eyes turned to her, then to Samantha, who merely arched an eyebrow, ceding the floor.
“You heard her,” Annika continued, leaning forward. The pale skin of her chest flushed. “Twenty edges with the cage off? That’s not a price. That’s a fucking tease. For him and for me.” She pointed a finger at the camera, at him. “You’re still hard. You’re leaking all over your hand. You think you’re done?”
Chris’s breath hitched. His cock, impossibly, gave a thick, aching pulse. A fresh string of precum stretched from the tip to his thigh.
“No,” he whispered.
“No,” Annika mimicked, her tone saccharine. “You’re not. Sammy gave you a little treat. I want to take it back. I want to make it worse.” Her eyes glittered. “Put the cage back on.”
A collective intake of breath from the other women. Even Noa looked surprised. Samantha’s expression remained unreadable, a faint smile playing on her lips.
The command was a physical blow. The thought of constricting that raging, sensitized flesh again was a unique madness. His hand trembled violently as he reached for the hated device where it lay on the desk, still warm from his body.
“Do it slow,” Annika instructed, her voice dropping to a vicious purr. “Let us watch. I want to see the exact moment that purple head gets forced back into its little prison.”
The metal was cold. He fumbled with the two halves, his fingers numb. He positioned the ring behind his balls, the weight of it a dread promise. He guided his erection toward the opening. The swollen, wet crown pressed against the small aperture and wouldn’t fit.
“Push,” Annika said.
He applied pressure. A dull, spreading pain flared. He gasped.
“Harder. It went in before, it’ll go in now. Make it fit.”
He shoved, a sickening, mechanical act of self-mutilation. His cockhead deformed, squeezing through the tight metal ring with a sensation that was less pain and more profound, wrong pressure. A high, thin sound escaped his clenched teeth. Once the head was through, the shaft, thick with engorged blood, was a worse battle. He had to work it inch by torturous inch, the metal teeth of the cage grazing his oversensitized skin.
“Look at his face,” Cookie murmured, fascinated.
His eyes were screwed shut, tears leaking from the corners. His jaw was a rigid knot of sinew. Finally, with a click that sounded like a bone snapping, the lock mechanism closed. The relief he’d felt moments before was obliterated, replaced by a congested, throbbing agony. It was tighter than before. His flesh swelled against the new confines, punished for its brief taste of freedom.
“Beautiful,” Annika breathed. “Now it’s really suffering. Now it’s honest.” She shifted in her seat, her tone turning conversational, casually brutal. “So, Chris. Nat’s little field trip. Lucia’s phone in your face. Tell me about it.”
The whiplash from physical torment to psychological dissection left him reeling. He opened his eyes. The screen was a gallery of expectant faces. “What about it?”
“The ring,” Annika said, as if it were obvious. “Micha’s wedding ring. On her finger. In your mouth. Did you taste it? The cheap gold? The betrayal?”
He remembered the cold metal band tapping against his teeth, the visual of it glinting as Nat rode his face. “Yes.”
“Did you like it?” Nicola asked, her voice cool. “Knowing you were better than her fiancé? Knowing her pathetic, small-dicked man was at home while his girl was grinding on a locked-up slave?”
The truth was a toxin in his veins. “Yes.”
“You’re a fucking cliché,” Noa laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “A cheating fetish. How boring.”
“It’s not boring,” Annika countered, her gaze fixed on him. “It’s data. It tells us what he responds to. Humiliation isn’t just about him. It’s about using him to humiliate others. That’s what got him hardest, wasn’t it, Chris? Not just Lucia filming. It was being a tool for Nat’s little betrayal. You got off on his failure. On his inadequacy.”
She was inside his head, picking through the wreckage with precise, filthy fingers. He said nothing. His cock gave a pathetic throb against its steel shell, confirming everything.
Annika nodded, satisfied. “So that’s the game. More. I want more of that. But we don’t have Nat here.” A sly smile spread across her face. “We have something better. We have information.”
She looked off-screen, at someone in the dorm room. “Cookie. Your phone. The group chat with that guy… what’s his name? The one who keeps sending you dick pics thinking he’s impressive.”
Cookie giggled, a bright, cruel sound. “Ryan? Yeah, hold on.” She disappeared from the frame, rustling could be heard.
Dread, cold and solid, formed in Chris’s gut.
Cookie reappeared, holding her phone. “Got it. He’s so thirsty. Sent one this morning, actually.” She turned the screen toward the webcam. It was a poorly lit, gym bathroom mirror selfie of a moderately endowed, smiling young man.
“Perfect,” Annika said. “Chris, listen closely. You’re going to get Ryan on video call. Right now. You’re going to show him your caged cock. You’re going to tell him it’s bigger than his. You’re going to tell him Cookie thinks his dick is a joke. And then you’re going to beg his forgiveness for being superior to him.”
The room spun. This was a new stratum of degradation. It was public, it was targeted, it weaponized his own enforced chastity into a cudgel against a stranger. “I can’t,” he choked out.
“You can,” Samantha said, speaking for the first time since the caging. Her voice was flat, final. “You will. Annika has the floor. Her demand is valid.”
“But… my face…”
“We’ll angle the camera,” Annika snapped, impatient. “Just your torso and that sad, locked cock. Now call him. Put it on speaker. We all want to hear.”
His hands, slick with sweat, fumbled for his own phone. He found Cookie in his contacts—she’d been added weeks ago as a “resource.” He tapped Ryan’s name. A video call request. It rang once, twice.
Ryan answered. He was in a messy bedroom, shirtless, headphones on. “Cookie? Hey, babe! What’s up?” His voice was cheerful, unsuspecting.
Annika mouthed at Chris: Now.
Chris held his phone up, framing the pathetic tableau of his groin, the cage, the still-damp streaks of his earlier torment. He kept his face out of shot.
“Ryan,” Chris said, his voice raw and strange to his own ears.
Ryan’s smile faltered. He squinted. “Uh… who’s this? Where’s Cookie?”
“This is about Cookie,” Chris recited, the words ash in his mouth. “She asked me to show you this. My cock. In its cage.” He shifted, the metal gleamed under his desk lamp. “It’s bigger than yours. Even locked. She laughs at your pictures. She thinks your dick is a pathetic joke.”
Silence from Ryan. His expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, then dawning, humiliated anger. “What the fuck? Is this some kinda weird prank? Cookie!”
From the laptop speakers, Cookie’s voice rang out, clear and bright. “It’s true, Ryan! He’s way bigger than you! And he’s not even allowed to use it! You’re just… lame.”
Ryan’s face crumbled. It was the look of a boy whose fragile masculinity had just been publicly dismantled for sport. He stared, speechless.
“Now beg,” Annika hissed from behind the scenes, her command audible only to Chris.
Chris took a shuddering breath. The shame was a fire in his bones. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he whispered to Ryan’s shattered image. “I’m sorry for being bigger than you. I’m sorry she prefers this.”
Ryan made a strangled sound. The call went dead.
The dorm room erupted. Howls of laughter. Cookie was doubled over, wheezing. Nicola clapped. Noa shook her head in delighted disbelief. Annika beamed, proud as a sculptor.
Chris dropped his phone. He was empty. Purged. The cage felt like a deserved tomb.
Annika’s laughter subsided first. She wiped a tear from her eye, her gaze returning to Chris, who sat motionless in his pool of shame. Her smile didn’t fade; it intensified, sharpening into something truly ravenous.
“See?” she said, to the room, to Samantha, to him. “That’s how you use him. That was fun.” She paused, letting the residual giggles die. “But it was just a phone call.” She leaned forward until her face dominated his screen, her pale skin and dark eyes filling his world. “I want a live one. I want someone right there in the room with him. I want to watch him break in person while they laugh at him.”
She glanced at Samantha, a challenge and a request in one look. “You have other friends. You have other… resources. Nat proved he can perform. So find someone. Bring someone to him. Right now.” Her voice dropped to a whisper that crackled through the speakers. “I’m not finished watching. My demand isn’t for more of the same. It’s for everything.”
She sat back, crossing her arms, her expression one of imperious expectation. The demand hung in the stagnant air of his apartment, a new, impossible horizon of shame. The chapter of his confinement had just been ripped open, and the next page was blank, waiting for Samantha to ink it with someone’s name, someone who would walk through his door and see the animal in its cage. Annika’s eyes stayed locked on his, unwavering, insisting without words that the night, and his ruin, was still unbearably young.