Chapter 13: The Weekend Party
The week that followed was a slow, agonizing crawl through ordinary life.
Jess went back to work on Monday. She sat at her desk, answered emails, attended meetings, ate a sad turkey sandwich in the break room while her coworkers discussed their weekend plans. Nobody knew. Nobody could see the marks that had faded from her wrists, the soreness that still lingered between her legs, the way her pulse spiked every time her phone buzzed.
Greg came home Sunday night. He kissed her hello, asked about her weekend, listened while she lied about a spa trip with friends. She'd gotten good at lying. The words came easy now, sliding off her tongue like water.
He fucked her that night—slow and tender, the way he always did when he'd been away. She came, but it felt distant, like watching someone else's orgasm from across the room. Her body responded, but her mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying the weekend in fragments. The tickling. The begging. The way those four women had looked at her like she was something to be consumed.
Greg fell asleep with his arm draped over her waist. Jess lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her phone glowing on the nightstand.
The group chat was still active.
The girls—Ren, Chloe, Maya, Sophie—had added her to a thread called "Our Toy." They sent messages throughout the week, little reminders of what they'd done, what they planned to do. A photo of the cream jar, sitting on a shelf. A video clip of Jess begging, her voice cracked and desperate. A countdown timer for their next session.
We're thinking bigger this time, Ren wrote on Wednesday. More girls. More hands. You interested?
Jess stared at the message for a long time. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed yes, deleted it, typed it again.
Yes, she sent. When?
Friday. Same place. But come prepared. We're not going easy on you.
She didn't tell Matt. Not at first. She wanted to keep this one for herself, a secret tucked close to her chest. But by Thursday night, the anticipation had become unbearable—a live wire buzzing under her skin—and she found herself driving to his apartment without consciously deciding to.
He opened the door before she knocked. Of course he did.
"You're going back," he said. Not a question.
"How did you—"
"I can see it on your face." He stepped aside, let her in. The kitchen smelled like coffee and something cooking—pasta, maybe. The same single bulb glowed over the sink. The same coffee stain marred the linoleum. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
Matt leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His dark eyes traced over her face, reading the tension there, the hunger she couldn't quite hide.
"You didn't tell them about me," she said. "About the boxes. About how this started."
"No."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. What matters is what you want."
Jess moved closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I want you to be there," she said. "Not in the room. But close. I want you to know what's happening to me."
Matt's jaw tightened. "You want me to watch."
"I want you to see."
He was silent for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone. "I'll text Ren. Make sure they know I'm coming."
The house looked different this time.
More cars in the driveway. More light spilling from the windows. Jess parked on the street, her hands trembling on the steering wheel. She'd worn what they told her to wear—a short skirt, no underwear, a thin tank top that left nothing to the imagination. The evening air was cool against her bare legs as she walked to the door.
She knocked.
Ren answered. She was wearing a black corset and leather pants, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Behind her, the living room was transformed.
Ten women.
Jess counted them twice, her brain struggling to process the scene. They were arranged around the room in various states of undress—some in lingerie, some in jeans and t-shirts, one completely nude, lounging on the couch like she owned the place. They were all different ages, different body types, different energies. But they all shared the same hungry look.
"Surprise," Ren said, smiling. "We brought friends."
Jess's mouth went dry. Her cunt clenched around nothing, a nervous flutter that spread through her whole body.
"I—"
"You can still say no." Ren's voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. "But I don't think you want to."
Jess shook her head. "I don't want to say no."
"Good girl. Come in."
The women watched her enter, their gazes tracking her like predators scenting prey. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else laughed, low and appreciative.
"She's smaller than I expected," a redhead in a silk robe observed. "Ren said she was tiny, but damn."
"She's perfect," Chloe said, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of wine. "Wait till you see her cunt."
Jess's face flushed. She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by strangers, her heart pounding so loud she was sure they could all hear it.
Matt was there. She spotted him in the corner, leaning against the wall, his phone in his hand. He gave her a small nod—encouragement, permission, something in between.
"Let's get started," Ren announced. "We've got a long weekend ahead of us."
They didn't waste time.
Two women Jess didn't know—a tall brunette and a stocky blonde—stepped forward and began stripping her. The tank top came off first, tossed aside. Then the skirt, yanked down her legs. She stood naked in seconds, exposed to ten sets of eyes.
"She's already wet," the redhead observed. "Look at her thighs."
"She's been wet since she got the text," Chloe said. "Ain't that right, toy?"
Jess nodded, her throat tight.
"Words."
"Yes. I've been wet all week. Thinking about this."
"Good." Ren gestured to a chair in the center of the room—a sturdy wooden thing with armrests and no cushion. "Sit."
Jess sat. The wood was cold against her bare ass. The women gathered around her, a semicircle of hungry faces. Someone produced a pair of metal clamps connected by a thin chain.
"Legs open," Ren commanded.
Jess spread her thighs, exposing her cunt to the room. The air was cool on her swollen lips, and she shivered.
Ren knelt in front of her, holding up the clamps. "These are for your labia. They'll keep you open so everyone can see. And they'll make everything more intense." She paused. "Color?"
"Green."
The first clamp bit into her left lip. Jess gasped, her hips jerking. The pain was sharp, immediate, and it sent a jolt of heat straight to her clit. The second clamp followed, and she cried out, her hands gripping the armrests.
"Beautiful," someone breathed.
Ren reached for the jar on the side table—the cream. Jess's heart lurched. She knew what was coming.
"This might sting a little," Ren said, unscrewing the lid.
It didn't sting. It burned. The cream spread over her exposed cunt like liquid fire, igniting every nerve ending, turning her clit into a throbbing beacon of need. Jess whimpered, her hips bucking against the chair.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Oh fuck, that's—"
"Intense?" Ren smiled. "Good. That's the point."
Matt stepped forward, pocketing his phone. The women parted for him, curious, respectful. He crouched beside Jess, his face level with her cunt, and studied the clamped, cream-slicked flesh with clinical interest.
"This is how you edge her," he said, addressing the room. "Watch."
His thumb found her clit. Jess jolted like she'd been electrocuted. The cream made every touch unbearable—pleasure and pain twisted together, impossible to separate. Matt rubbed slow circles, pressure building, and Jess felt herself climbing toward the edge within seconds.
"See how fast she responds?" Matt said. "That's the cream. It makes her desperate. But you can't let her come. Not yet."
He kept rubbing. Jess's breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her vision blurred. She was right there, right on the edge, her orgasm coiled tight in her belly—
Matt stopped.
Jess sobbed. The sound was raw, involuntary, dragged from somewhere deep in her chest.
"When she gets close," Matt continued, "you need to stop. Immediately. If you're not sure, use tickling. It kills the orgasm before it starts."
He demonstrated. His fingers danced over her inner thighs, light and quick, and the pressure that had been building vanished, replaced by an unbearable ticklish sensitivity that made Jess squirm and shriek.
"That's it," Matt said. "That's how you keep her on edge. Over and over. Until she's begging."
He stood, wiping his hand on his jeans. "She's all yours."
The women descended.
Hands everywhere. Mouths everywhere. Fingers inside her, stretching her, probing her. Someone's tongue on her clit, lapping at the cream. Someone else sucking her nipples. Someone's fingers in her mouth, in her ass, in her cunt all at once.
Jess lost track of who was doing what. The world reduced to sensation—heat and pressure and the endless, agonizing edge that she couldn't quite reach.
They tickled her every time she got close. Light, dancing fingers on her thighs, her stomach, her ribs. It was torture. It was exquisite. She begged them to stop. She begged them to keep going. She didn't know what she wanted anymore.
"Count," Ren commanded. "Every time you beg to come, we're keeping track."
"I can't—"
"Count."
"I need to come. Please, I need to come. That's one. Please, please let me come, that's two. Oh god, please, I'm begging you, that's three—"
The numbers climbed. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Jess's voice gave out somewhere around thirty, but she kept mouthing the words, her lips forming silent pleas. The women used her body like a toy, grinding against her thighs, pressing their cunts to her mouth, making themselves come while she watched, denied, desperate.
By midnight, the count was forty-seven.
"Forty-seven times you begged," Ren announced. "That's how many orgasms you owe us."
Jess wept. She couldn't help it. The tears came hot and fast, streaking down her cheeks.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't—"
"You can. And you will. But not yet."
They kept her on the edge all night. Whenever she drifted toward sleep, someone would touch her, wake her, bring her back to that razor's edge. The cream was reapplied every few hours, keeping her nerves raw and screaming.
By Saturday afternoon, Jess had stopped counting. Her world had shrunk to the chair, the clamps, the endless cycle of arousal and denial. The women came and went—eating, drinking, chatting casually while she writhed in the center of the room. They used her when they wanted, ignored her when they didn't. She was furniture. She was a toy. She was exactly what she'd asked to be.
Matt watched from the corner. He didn't participate—didn't touch her, didn't speak—but his presence was a constant, grounding her. Every time she looked at him, he was looking back.
Sunday morning arrived gray and quiet.
The women gathered around her one final time. Jess was barely conscious, her body a wreck of exhaustion and need. The clamps had been removed hours ago, but her cunt still throbbed, still ached, still screamed for release.
"Forty-seven," Ren said. "You remember?"
Jess nodded weakly.
"Time to pay up."
They started with fingers. Four women at once, hands working in tandem—two on her clit, one inside her cunt, one teasing her ass. The cream was still active, amplifying every touch into a lightning strike. Jess came within seconds, her body convulsing, a scream tearing from her throat.
"That's one," Chloe counted.
They didn't stop. They kept going, fingers and tongues and vibrators, forcing orgasm after orgasm from her ruined body. Jess lost consciousness twice. Someone slapped her awake, forced water down her throat, and kept going.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
Her orgasms became painful—dry, aching contractions that tore through her without relief. She begged them to stop. She begged them to keep going. The words didn't make sense anymore.
Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.
By the time they reached forty-seven, Jess was sobbing, her body limp, her mind blank. She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but lie there and tremble.
"Done," Ren said. "You did it."
Jess heard the words from far away, like someone calling to her from the end of a long tunnel. Hands lifted her, wrapped her in a blanket, carried her to a bed. She felt Matt's arms around her, his voice in her ear, murmuring something she couldn't understand.
She slept.
When she woke, it was dark. She was in Matt's car, her head in his lap, his fingers stroking her hair. The engine hummed beneath her, a steady, soothing rhythm.
"We're almost home," he said.
She tried to speak, but her voice was gone. Nothing came out but a dry rasp.
"Don't talk. Just rest."
She closed her eyes. The world faded in and out—streetlights, shadows, the rumble of the road. When the car stopped, she felt herself being lifted, carried, laid down on something soft.
Matt's bed. She recognized the smell.
He covered her with a blanket, tucked it around her shoulders. She reached for him, her fingers finding his wrist.
"Stay," she croaked.
He hesitated. She could feel the tension in his body, the war between what he wanted and what he thought was right.
"Please."
He stayed.
He lay beside her, on top of the covers, his body a warm presence in the dark. She curled into him, her head on his chest, her hand over his heart. He didn't touch her—not the way she wanted, not the way her body still ached for—but he was there. He was solid. He was real.
"Forty-seven," she whispered.
"I know."
"I did it."
"You did."
She felt him press a kiss to the top of her head. Gentle. Almost tender.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll be here when you wake up."
She slept. And for the first time in weeks, she didn't dream of edges or begging or tickling fingers. She dreamed of nothing at all.