Chapter 16: Sophia's voice crackles through the bathroom speakers - 'Stop shampooing and start stroking, loser. I want to see that soapy cock jump in your hand while Noa tells you about the guy splitting her in half last night.' Chris's hands tremble as he obeys, the water cascading over his twitching erection while Noa's graphic descriptions make his balls ache.
The replica never left his sight. It sat on the dresser now, a deliberate relocation so it would be visible in the wide-angle shot of his laptop camera. That was the new rule. The "Stroking Surveillance," Samantha had called it, her voice buzzing with a sterile kind of excitement through his phone speaker. The camera stayed on, 24/7, streaming a low-resolution feed to a private server she controlled. He was a specimen in a digital jar. His apartment, his sanctuary, was now a panopticon.
He moved through the space like a ghost, hyper-aware of the little green light on his laptop. Sleeping was the worst. He’d wake from a feverish dream, his hand instinctively moving toward his throbbing cock, only to freeze, his eyes shooting to the camera. Was someone watching right now? Was it Sophia, idly scrolling through the live feed with her morning coffee? The paranoia was a constant itch under his skin, as pervasive as the denial itself.
The first random check came on the third day. He was in the shower, the water sluicing over his shoulders, his hand soaping his chest when the bathroom door—which he’d stupidly, optimistically left ajar—was pushed open. He jerked, covering himself.
“Don’t stop on my account.” Sophia’s voice came from his laptop speakers, placed on the closed toilet seat. The screen showed her leaning close to her own camera, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She was wearing a low-cut gym top. “You’re supposed to be clean for your check-in later. Finish washing.”
Heart hammering, he turned his back to the camera, hastily rinsing off.
“I said don’t stop. Turn around. Let the water run over you. I want to see if you’re respecting Mistress’s property.”
He turned slowly, the water hitting his back. His cock, semi-hard from the shock and the sheer violation, began to thicken under the spray.
“There he is,” she said, her tone clinical. “The main attraction. Looks like he’s waking up. Is the warm water getting him excited, Chris?”
“No,” he lied, his voice echoing off the tiles.
“Liar. I can see it from here. It’s twitching. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to put your hand on it. You’re going to stroke it, slowly, under the water. You’re going to get right to the edge. And then you’re going to stop. And I’m going to watch you do it.”
“Sophia, please…”
“Now. Or I call Samantha and tell her you’re refusing a direct command during Surveillance Protocol.”
Trembling, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft. The water made his skin slick. He moved his fist, a slow, torturous glide. The heat of the water and the friction of his hand created a maddening, slippery tension. He bit his lip, his hips giving tiny, involuntary thrusts into his own grip.
“Count the strokes,” Sophia ordered. “Out loud. Let’s see how pathetic your willpower really is.”
“One… two…” His voice was a ragged whisper against the drum of the shower. Each upward pull dragged a low moan from his chest. His balls tightened, a familiar, terrifying cascade beginning deep in his groin. “Six… seven… fuck… eight…”
“Eyes on the camera, Chris. Look at me while you jerk your desperate dick.”
He forced his head up. Her face was a mask of cool appraisal. She wasn’t turned on; she was conducting an experiment. It made it so much worse.
“Nine… ten… I’m close… I’m so close, Sophia…”
“Then stop.”
He froze, his knuckles white, his entire body locked in a spasm of interruption. The need was a physical scream in his veins. Pre-cum mixed with the shower water, dripping from his tip.
“Good,” she said, as if noting a satisfactory data point. “Now shut off the water. Air dry in view of the camera. I want to see him soften. I want to see the frustration settle back in.”
He obeyed, standing on the bathmat, dripping and shuddering, as his arousal reluctantly, painfully receded under her impassive gaze. Only when he was fully soft, shivering from cold and adrenaline, did her window blink out. The feed was just live again, unattended. The humiliation was total, and worse, it was archived. He knew it was being saved. Everything was.
Two days later, Noa hijacked the feed. It was late evening. He was on the couch, trying to read, the dull, ever-present ache between his legs making concentration impossible. His laptop screen, always in his periphery, flickered to a larger image. Noa’s face appeared, grinning.
“Bored!” she announced, popping her gum. “And my date tonight flaked. So I’m thinking about his dick. Wanna hear about it?”
Chris closed his eyes. “Noa…”
“Too bad! It was massive. Not as long as yours, maybe, but so thick. Like a fucking beer can.” She leaned in, her perky breasts pressing against the neckline of her camisole. “I couldn’t even get my lips around it at first. I had to lick it like a fucking ice cream cone, just slurping up the sides. He tasted so good, Chris. Salty and musky. And when he finally shoved it in my mouth, I gagged. Actually gagged. Tears in my eyes. It was so hot.”
Chris’s hand clenched on his book. His cock was a steel bar against his sweatpants.
“He fucked me doggy,” she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I swear to god, every thrust felt like he was rearranging my insides. I could feel him in my stomach. I came so hard I saw stars. And he just kept pounding, his balls slapping against my clit. He filled me up. I’m still sore. I can still feel the stretch.”
A low groan escaped Chris’s lips. He was painfully hard, the fabric of his pants tented obscenely.
“Aw, look at you,” Noa giggled. “All worked up over a story. Does it make you jealous? Does it make you want to rub that huge, denied cock of yours? You can’t, can you? You have to just sit there and listen to how a real dick, one that gets used, fucking wrecks a pussy.”
She blew him a kiss. “Anyway, just wanted to share. Maybe I’ll send you a pic of the bruise on my ass later. Bye!” Her window vanished.
He sat in the vibrating silence, his breathing harsh. The images she painted were incendiary. He could smell the sex, hear the slap of skin, feel the ghost of that thickness stretching a hole that wasn’t his to fill. He didn’t touch himself. The surveillance light glowed, a unblinking digital eye. He just hurt.
The reckoning came at the end of the week. The call was scheduled. Not a random check, but a formal review. When he answered, the screen was split. Samantha was on the left, severe and beautiful. Conzi was on the right, a spreadsheet open beside her, her glasses reflecting the data.
“Welcome to your performance evaluation,” Conzi said, her voice devoid of inflection. “We’ve compiled the notable events from the surveillance archive. Let’s review.”
Samantha remained silent, watching him, a slight smile on her lips.
“Day Two, 23:14,” Conzi read. “Subject observed with erection for forty-seven minutes while watching a film with a romantic subplot. No mitigation action was taken. A failure of mental discipline.”
“Day Three, 07:18,” she continued. “Shower incident with Sophia. Subject reached the edge in ten strokes. A mediocre count, demonstrating poor stamina. The subsequent softening took three minutes and forty-two seconds. Acceptable, but not exemplary.”
Chris felt sweat bead on his temples. They had timed it. They had fucking timed it.
“Day Four, 14:07. Subject adjusted himself through his clothing seventeen times in a two-hour work period. Indicative of a fixation bordering on pathological.”
“Day Five, 21:33,” Conzi’s voice grew cooler, sharper. “Response to auditory stimulus from Noa. Erection achieved in under thirty seconds. Maintained for nineteen minutes after stimulus ended. A severe failure of emotional regulation. You are allowing external narratives to control Mistress’s property.”
Samantha finally spoke. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
His mouth was dust. “I’m… I’m trying, Mistress. It’s so hard.”
“It’s supposed to be hard,” she snapped. “That’s the entire point. You are failing the basic tenets of your training. You are letting your cock think for you. Conzi?”
Conzi minimized the spreadsheet. A video player window opened. It was the shower footage, from Sophia’s point of view. There he was, naked, vulnerable, stroking himself under the water. His face was a mask of agonized pleasure. The audio of his ragged counts, his pleading, filled his apartment. He had to look away.
“Pathetic,” Conzi stated. “A mere ten strokes. You are a slave to sensation. You need a corrective experience. One that removes narrative, removes fantasy. Pure, clinical function.”
Samantha nodded. “Give him the instructions.”
A file transfer request popped up on Chris’s screen. He accepted it. A PDF opened. It was titled “Protocol: Mechanization.”
“You will fuck the replica,” Conzi said flatly. “But you will not imagine it is Sophia. You will not imagine it is anything. You will attach it to a stable surface. You will kneel behind it. You will set a metronome to sixty beats per minute. You will insert on the click. You will withdraw on the click. You will maintain this pace for thirty minutes. You will be monitored. Your only vocalizations will be a count of each cycle. The goal is not pleasure. The goal is precision. The goal is to divorce your huge, stupid cock from your brain entirely. To make it a piston. A tool. A thing that operates on a rhythm we set.”
Chris read the document. It was exhaustive. The angle of insertion, the depth, the approved lubricant, the specific way to secure the sleeve. It was a technical manual for his own degradation.
“Now,” Samantha said. “Set it up. We’re waiting.”
With trembling hands, he followed the instructions. He fixed the replica to a weighted exercise block on the floor. He set a digital metronome on his phone. He lubed the sleeve and himself until he shone under the camera light. He knelt on the hard floor behind it, the cool silicone awaiting him.
“Begin,” Conzi’s voice ordered.
He pressed the start button. A steady, unfeeling click-click-click filled the room. On the first click, he pushed his hips forward, sheathing himself fully into the tight, ridged channel. A gasp was ripped from him.
“Count,” Samantha warned.
“One,” he choked out. On the next click, he pulled all the way out, the head popping free. “Two.” Click. He plunged in again. The rhythm was brutal, mechanical. There was no building pleasure, only a relentless, repetitive stimulation. In, out. In, out. His mind tried to wander, to grasp for a fantasy to make this feel good, but the sterile click and the demanded count pulled him back each time.
“Three. Four. Five.”
His knees ached. The sound of his flesh meeting silicone, a wet, rhythmic slap, synced with the metronome. He was a machine. A fuck machine. His cock was just a part of the apparatus. Pre-cum leaked, mixing with the lube, making obscene, sucking sounds.
“Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.”
Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor. The sensation was agonizing. It was stimulation without release, friction without purpose. His body screamed for a change in pace, for a hard, frantic fuck to end the torment, but the click-click-click was an unyielding god.
“Forty-one. Forty-two.”
He was so hard it hurt. His balls were tight, desperate nuts of need. The edges of his vision blurred. The count became a mantra, the only thing tethering him to consciousness.
“Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.”
The metronome stopped. He was buried to the hilt, frozen. A final, vicious click echoed in the silence.
“Hold it there,” Samantha whispered. He could hear the awe in her voice. “Look at you. You’re not a man. You’re a perfectly programmed device.”
He held, trembling violently, feeling the fake silicone grip him. He didn’t imagine anything. He was just a rod in a hole.
“Now,” Conzi said, her voice holding a trace of something new—not warmth, but a profound, satisfied respect. “Disengage. Clean up. The session is logged. Your performance was… acceptably robotic.”
As he pulled out, his body screamed for release, but the order was ingrained. He cleaned the replica, his movements precise, automatic. The women ended the call. The surveillance light remained on.
He collapsed onto the floor, spent but unfulfilled, his mind eerily quiet. The constant, buzzing need was still there, but it felt different now. Managed. Contained. He looked at the replica, no longer a totem of forbidden pleasure, but a piece of lab equipment. He looked at the camera’s green eye.
He didn’t wonder if they were watching. He knew they were. And a new, chilling thought settled over him: this was easier. The thinking, the longing, the jealousy—that was the hard part. Being a machine was simple. He closed his eyes. The click-click-click still pulsed in his skull, a new heartbeat. They hadn’t just watched him this week. They had begun, systematically, to erase him.