Chapter 5: The Public Humiliation
The collar was a physical truth my clothes could not disguise. For twenty-four hours, its weight had been my world. I’d slept with the double inside me, waking every hour to a dull, aching fullness that had stolen any notion of rest. Now, showered and dressed for college, the leather was a constant pressure against my windpipe. I’d chosen a high-necked kurti, the embroidered fabric brushing the top edge of the collar, hiding it from casual view. But I felt it. With every swallow, every turn of my head, I was reminded.
My phone chimed as I packed my bag.
Master: The egg is in your top drawer. Lubricate it. Insert it before you leave. You will wear it to your lectures. The remote is with me. Your behavior today will determine its use.
A cold tremor ran through my hands. The egg vibrator was small, but its implications were vast. This wasn’t private torment in a locked room. This was taking the secret out into the fluorescent-lit corridors of my public life. This was the integration he’d promised.
I retrieved the smooth, silver egg. It was innocuous, a polished pebble. I coated it with gel, my fingers clumsy. In the bathroom, I hitched up my leggings and pushed it inside. The stretch was minimal, but the intrusion felt monumental. It settled against my front wall, a dormant, metallic secret. I pulled my clothes back into place. Nothing showed. I looked normal. I felt like a walking, ticking betrayal.
Rohan was already at the breakfast table, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up as I entered. “You’re slow. We’ll miss the bus.”
“I’m ready,” I mumbled, pouring tea.
Appa lowered his newspaper. “That’s a nice kurti, Sara. Modest.”
“Thank you, Appa.”
Rohan’s eyes flicked to my neckline, a swift, assessing glance. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He knew exactly what lay beneath the fabric. “Yeah, very proper,” he said, his tone bland. “Ready?”
The bus was crowded, the air thick with diesel fumes and student chatter. I stood holding a railing, jostled with every lurch. Each movement shifted the egg inside me. Rohan stood nearby, leaning against the back of a seat, his hand in his pocket. I watched that hand, my heart hammering. A casual shift, a thumb moving… would it be now?
It wasn’t. He just smiled, watching the city blur past the window.
College was a barrage of normality that felt like a personal assault. Friends called out greetings. The canteen smelled of sambar and burnt coffee. A professor with a kindly face discussed post-colonial theory. And through it all, the egg was a cold, foreign bullet in my cunt, and the collar was a noose around my neck.
My first lecture was in a hot, crowded hall. I slid into a seat near the back. Rohan sat several rows ahead, next to a group of his laughing friends. My phone buzzed silently in my bag.
Master: Spread your legs under the desk. Just an inch. Keep them there.
I obeyed, my thighs trembling as I parted them. The slight change in posture made the egg press differently. I felt it more acutely.
The professor droned on about macroeconomic policy. The drone became a hum in my ears. My focus narrowed to the space between my legs and the back of Rohan’s head. Five minutes passed. Ten.
My phone buzzed again.
Master: Now.
A low, insistent vibration suddenly pulsed to life inside me. It wasn’t intense, but it was undeniable—a persistent, buzzing thrum deep in my core. My pen slipped from my fingers. I clenched my jaw, staring straight ahead at the blackboard. The vibration continued, a steady, maddening tease. Heat began to pool in my belly. My cheeks flushed. I gripped the edge of the desk.
Rohan shifted in his seat, his hand going into his pocket. The vibration intensified. It jumped from a low hum to a sharper, more aggressive buzz. A startled gasp caught in my throat. I converted it into a cough, ducking my head. My cunt was beginning to spasm around the tiny, tormenting device. Moisture soaked my leggings. I was getting wet, here, in a lecture hall with two hundred people.
He played with me. The power would drop to a barely-there tremor, letting me shudder with relief, only to surge back stronger than before. Each cycle pulled me tighter, winding my nerves into frayed, desperate coils. I was panting through my nose, my knuckles white. The professor’s words were pure noise.
I watched Rohan’s back. He was leaning forward, nodding as if engrossed. His right shoulder was subtly angled. His hand was still in his pocket, moving minutely.
The vibration settled into a relentless, high-frequency drill. It was focused directly on my clit, a ruthless, electric stimulation. An orgasm began to build, a terrifying avalanche in this completely public space. I pressed my thighs together, trying to stifle it, but the pressure only amplified the sensation. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. The plastic chair creaked.
The girl next to me glanced over. “You okay? You look really flushed.”
“Fine,” I choked out. “Just… a bit warm.”
I was going to come. I was going to have a silent, screaming orgasm in the middle of Economics 101. The humiliation was a secondary fire under my skin. The peak was seconds away. My stomach tightened. My inner muscles fluttered wildly around the buzzing egg.
Rohan’s hand lifted from his pocket and scratched his neck. The vibration stopped.
The sudden, dead silence between my legs was a shock almost as violent as the stimulation. I sagged in my chair, a low whimper escaping before I could stop it. The denial was excruciating. My body was left vibrating with unmet need, dripping and clenching around nothing. Tears of frustration burned my eyes. I was utterly, publicly undone by an absence.
The lecture ended. People began to noisily gather their things. I couldn’t move. I felt exposed, my secret pleasure and anguish written on my face for anyone to see.
Rohan walked past my row with his friends. He didn’t look at me. But as he passed, his fingers, trailing by his side, brushed ever so slightly against my shoulder. A casual, brotherly touch. It felt like a brand.
My phone buzzed.
Master: Library. Second floor. West stacks. Philosophy section. Now.
The message was a lifeline out of the crowded hallway. I moved on wooden legs, the unused wetness in my leggings a cold, shameful reminder. The library was a cathedral of quiet, smelling of old paper and dust. The west stacks were dim, rarely visited. Floor-to-ceiling shelves created narrow, shadowy canyons.
I found the Philosophy section. It was deserted. My breathing echoed in the silent aisle.
Master: Aisle 3B. Bottom shelf. Kneel facing the shelves. Take out the egg. Put it on the floor. Then pull your leggings and panties to your knees. Present your cunt to the aisle.
My hands shook as I complied. Kneeling on the rough industrial carpet, I reached under my kurti, hooked a finger, and pulled the slippery, buzzing egg free. I set it on the floor, a tiny, wet planet. Then I tugged my clothes down, the air cool on my exposed skin. I bent forward, my forehead almost touching the spines of books on Kant and Nietzsche, my ass raised toward the empty aisle behind me. I felt the collar dig in. I was a raw, offered thing in this place of pure thought.
I heard a soft footfall. Not from my phone. From the aisle.
A shoe appeared in my periphery. Polished brown leather. Then another. Someone was standing behind me. My blood turned to ice. It wasn’t just a camera. He was here.
A fingertip, shockingly warm, trailed down the crease of my ass. I jumped, a scream stifled behind my teeth.
“Shhh.” It was his voice. Not through the phone. His real, low, whispering voice, breathed into the quiet of the stacks. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing this up close, did you? Seeing what my commands do to you in the wild?”
His hand smoothed over my ass cheek, a possessive, almost gentle caress that made me tremble violently. Then his fingers dipped between my legs, sliding through the soaked mess his remote had made. He groaned softly. “Fuck. You’re dripping. All that, just from a little buzz in a public room? You really are a perfect little slut.”
He pushed two fingers inside me without warning, a brutal, curling thrust. I buried my face against a book spine, muffling my cry. His fingers were bigger than the egg, real, and they knew exactly how to move. He scissored them, stretching me, before pulling them out and slapping my cunt with his wet palm. The sting was sharp, bright.
“This cunt belongs in a lecture hall, does it? Throbbing for its Master while people talk about fiscal policy?” His voice was a dark, thrilling poison in my ear. “You need to be ruined for public spaces. You need to feel so owned that every step you take reminds you of who filled you.”
I heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt. Then the broad, hot, blunt head of his cock was pressing against my entrance. Not a toy. Him. Real flesh, immense and demanding.
“This is what you needed in that hall,” he whispered, and he drove into me with one relentless, deep thrust.
The fullness was shocking, devastating. He was thicker than the double, hotter, alive. He buried himself to the hilt, his pelvis slapping against my ass, the force driving my forehead against the books. I saw stars. A choked sob ripped from my throat.
“Quiet,” he hissed, one hand snaking around to clamp over my mouth. The other gripped my hip, his fingers digging into the bone. He began to fuck me in earnest, hard, deep, punishing strokes that shoved me forward with each slam. The books rattled on the shelves. The sound of our flesh meeting, wet and obscene, echoed in the quiet aisle.
He owned the pace, the depth, everything. This was possession, raw and unequivocal. Each thrust was a claim staked deeper into my body. My cunt, already sensitized and desperate, clamped around him, welcoming the violation, craving it. The pleasure was a distorted, dark thing, woven inextricably with the fear of discovery, the feel of the carpet on my knees, the smell of his sweat and old paper.
“This is your proper use,” he grunted, his breath hot on my neck. “Not taking notes. Taking my cock in filthy, hidden places. Say it.”
His hand slipped from my mouth. “It’s… my proper use,” I gasped, the words torn from me with his next driving thrust.
“Whose cock?”
“Y-yours, Master.”
He fucked me harder, faster, the rhythm becoming brutal, frantic. I could feel his own control slipping. His hips pistoned, slamming into me with a force that felt like it would break me apart. The orgasm that hit me was a seizure, a silent, screaming convulsion that milked his shaft as he pumped into me. My vision whited out, my body dissolving into pure, submissive sensation.
With a final,