Chapter 17: Nat moans theatrically as she forces Micha's flaccid cock inside her, the barely-there bulge stretching her lips obscenely while Chris's caged erection strains against steel. Annika giggles while timing the pitiful thrusts: 'Two inches maximum penetration - how tragic'. Erna suddenly produces a monstrous dildo, coldly instructing Nat 'Show the denied bitch what a real stretching feels like' as the toy disappears between Nat's spread cheeks, her scream of real pleasure echoing through Chris's apa
The metronome’s click had etched itself into his nervous system. Chris moved through his apartment with a new, subdued rhythm, his body operating on a kind of autopilot honed by the week of surveillance. The green camera light was a part of his landscape now, a digital sun he orbited. He slept facing it. He ate in its glow. The mechanical session had hollowed him out, leaving a strange, quiet space where frantic longing used to be.
The incoming call that evening was unexpected. The ID read ‘Nat.’ He’d only met her once, briefly, on a group call months ago. She was Samantha’s quiet friend, the one who always lingered in the background with an unreadable smile behind her glasses.
He accepted, his posture automatically straightening.
Her feed was dark, lit only by the pale blue glow of a nightlight. She was in a bedroom, her face close to the camera. Her long dark hair was down, framing a face that looked both nervous and fiercely determined.
“Hi, Chris,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
“Nat? Is everything okay? Does Samantha—”
“She doesn’t know I’m calling.” The statement was a bucket of ice water. A direct violation of the hierarchy, the rules. It should have made him panic. Instead, the hollow space inside him vibrated with a dangerous curiosity.
“You can’t—”
“I want to show you something,” she interrupted, her eyes gleaming behind her lenses. “But you have to be absolutely silent. Promise me.”
He nodded, mute.
She picked up her laptop. The camera angle swung, dizzyingly, before stabilizing. The scene it framed stole the air from his lungs.
Nat was in bed. Beside her, on his back, deeply asleep, was a man. Micha. Her boyfriend. His face was peaceful, turned away. The sheets were pooled around his waist.
Nat was straddling his hip, still clothed in a thin tank top and shorts. She began to move, a slow, subtle grinding motion against his side. Her eyes were locked on the camera Chris was viewing from.
“He’s a deep sleeper,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “A heavy meal, two glasses of wine… he’s out.”
Her hand snaked down, sliding under the waistband of her shorts. She bit her lip, her hips still making those tiny circles against Micha’s oblivious form. The sound of her fingers moving against herself, a wet, intimate whisper, filled Chris’s headphones.
“His pathetic cock can’t even wake up for this,” she murmured, a tremor of contempt in her voice. She hooked her fingers in her shorts and panties, pulling them down just enough. She shifted, lifting her hips, and angled the laptop.
The camera had a clear view. The neat thatch of her dark pubic hair, glistening with her own moisture. Her pussy lips, swollen and parted. With her other hand, she spread herself open for him, offering a pink, intimate glimpse of her inner flesh. She dragged a finger slowly through her slit, collecting slickness, and held it up to the camera. It shone in the dim light.
“But yours would destroy me, wouldn’t it?” Her whisper was hot, urgent. “Samantha talks about it. The thickness. The length. I lie here next to this… this nothing… and I imagine it. I imagine it splitting me open. Filling me up so deep I’d scream. He can’t. He’s too small. He tries, and it’s like being poked with a finger.”
Chris was stone. He couldn’t move. His own cock, traitorous and vast, was thickening, swelling against his zipper with a pulse that felt seismic. This was a different kind of torture. Not mechanical, but viciously personal. A live betrayal, a secret offered to him alone. The ache returned, not as a buzz, but as a deep, resonant throb.
Suddenly, the screen split. Two new faces appeared. Erna and Annika.
Chris’s heart stopped.
Erna’s wicked smile was immediate. “Caught you,” she singsonged, her voice crisp and commanding. Annika, beside her, giggled, her young eyes bright with malice.
Nat froze, her face flooding with horror. “Erna! How did you—”
“Samantha gave us admin privileges to the alert logs, you stupid slut,” Erna said, not unkindly, but with the force of a judge. “An unauthorized call to the subject triggers a ping. We’ve been watching for four minutes. Quite a show.”
“Please, don’t tell Samantha, I’ll—”
“Quiet,” Erna snapped. “You wanted to play with the big toy? You play by our rules now. Continue.”
Nat looked from Erna’s demanding face to Chris’s frozen one on her screen. Shame, fear, and a dark, complicit excitement warred in her expression.
“Show him what he’ll never have,” Erna commanded. “But make it better. Make it mean something. Micha’s right there. Use him.”
Annika leaned forward. “Yeah! Make his limp little dick twitch while we count Chris’s denied months. Let’s see if the sleeping princess feels anything.”
Trembling, Nat turned back to the camera. Her earlier confidence was gone, replaced by a shaking obedience. She pushed her shorts and panties down to her knees. Then, moving with a deliberate, terrifying slowness, she shifted her weight. She lowered herself, guiding Micha’s soft, flaccid penis with her hand. It was small, even completely soft. She positioned herself over it.
Chris watched, hypnotized, as she sank down. It wasn’t an entry. It was a placement. The tiny, soft member was enveloped by her puffy, wet lips, buried in her warmth but incapable of penetration. She began to move again, grinding herself against his limpness, using him like a warm, inert toy.
“Oh god,” she moaned, and this time it wasn’t performative. It was a mix of genuine arousal and profound humiliation. Her clit rubbed against his pubic bone. “He’s so soft. I can’t even feel him inside. It’s like… fuck… it’s like grinding on a thumb.”
“Count, Chris,” Erna said, her voice slicing through Nat’s moans. “How long has it been? Since you’ve been allowed to cum?”
His throat was sandpaper. “Two months and… eleven days.”
“Say it while you watch her,” Annika chirped. “Say ‘I have been denied for two months and eleven days while Nat grinds on her boyfriend’s tiny, useless cock.’”
He repeated it. The words were ashes.
“Now, Nat,” Erna purred. “Describe what you wish was inside you. Be graphic.”
Nat’s hips were moving faster now, a frantic, wet rocking. “I wish… I wish it was Chris’s cock,” she gasped, her eyes screwed shut. “I wish it was that huge, thick monster stretching my cunt until it burns. I wish I could feel it slamming into my cervix. I wish I could feel those big, full balls slapping against my ass. I’d let him fuck me raw. I’d let him cream deep inside this pussy that Micha can’t even reach.”
Micha stirred in his sleep. A soft, sleepy groan escaped him. His hips gave a tiny, unconscious thrust upward into Nat’s grinding warmth. His flaccid penis twitched, a pathetic, half-hearted pulse against her soaked folds.
“Look!” Annika squealed with delight. “It moved! His little worm moved! He’s getting hard in his sleep from you being a whore on top of him!”
It was true. A feeble swelling was occurring, a slight stiffening within her. Nat cried out, a sound of pure despairing ecstasy. Her movements became jerky, uncontrolled. She was using her boyfriend’s semi-conscious, inadequate arousal to get herself off, while describing another man’s superior cock to a live audience.
Chris was in agony. His own dick was a rigid, throbbing pillar straining against his jeans. Pre-cum soaked through his boxers, a hot, sticky blotch. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shatter the screen. He wanted to be the one making Nat moan like that, to feel her tight heat milking him dry.
Nat’s breathing hitched. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna come… on his stupid… little…”
“Don’t you dare,” Erna’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop. Right. Now.”
Nat froze, her body trembling on the precipice. A desperate, keening whine leaked from her lips.
“You don’t get to come,” Erna said calmly. “You called without permission. You betrayed your boyfriend. You teased our property. You are in denial now, too. Get off him. Now.”
Shaking violently, Nat lifted herself. Micha’s now semi-erect penis, slick with her juices, slipped free. It bobbed, confused and aimless, before beginning to soften again against his thigh. He mumbled something and rolled onto his side, away from her.
Nat stared at the camera, tears streaking her face, her body shimmering with unspent tension.
Erna turned her gaze fully on Chris. “And you. You got hard. You leaked. You watched another woman betray her man and fantasize about your dick. You are a participant. You will now go to the replica. You will fuck it, mechanically, for one hour. No metronome. You will maintain the exact same pace Nat was using at the end. We will watch. You will not speak. You will not count. You will just be the machine she wished for. Do it.”
The call didn’t end. The screen remained split three ways: Nat, collapsed and weeping in her betrayed bed; Erna and Annika, watching with cold, amused anticipation; and Chris, standing on command, walking to the dresser where the silicone sleeve waited.
He attached it. He lubed it. He knelt.
He didn’t need a click to guide him. The rhythm was etched into his brain: the frantic, wet, hopeless grind of a woman coming apart on a cock that couldn’t satisfy her. He pushed into the cold simulation and began to move, replicating the exact tempo of Nat’s desperation.
In the silence of his apartment, broken only by the slick, rhythmic sound of his obedience, Chris fucked the empty replica. He stared at the screen, at Nat’s tear-streaked face, at Erna’s smile. He was the machine. They were the users. And the deep, resonant throb in his groin was just another component, overheating, ignored, destined to run until it seized.
The slick, rhythmic sound of his own obedience was the only thing that existed. In, out. In, out. The replica’s cold, unyielding silicone gripped his shaft with a consistent, artificial pressure that mocked the hot, clenching desperation he’d just witnessed. On the screen, Nat had pulled her shorts up, her face a mask of smeared tears and shocking arousal. Erna and Annika watched Chris with the bored focus of engineers monitoring a pump.
“His rhythm is off,” Annika remarked, popping a piece of gum. “He’s slowing down. Thinking.”
“Reset the pace, Chris,” Erna said, her voice devoid of all warmth. “Remember the sound. The wet sound her cunt made while she rubbed on that sleeping disappointment. Match it.”
He sped up, the muscles in his thighs and back burning. The memory was corrosive: the glossy shine on Nat’s spread lips, the way Micha’s soft flesh had twitched, a dumb, biological response to a betrayal it couldn’t comprehend.
In her bedroom, Nat was staring at Micha’s sleeping back. A strange, hardened calm settled over her features. The initial shock of being caught had evaporated, burned away by a more potent fuel: power. She had done it. She had transgressed. And instead of being destroyed, she had been given a command. She was part of the game now.
“He’s still asleep,” she whispered into her laptop mic, her voice hoarse but clear.
“Then wake him up,” Erna replied, a smile curling her words. “You wanted to play. Finish the scene.”
Nat took a deep breath. She reached out and shook Micha’s shoulder. “Micha. Hey. Wake up.”
He grunted, stirring slowly. He rolled onto his back, blinking sleepily up at her. “Nat? Wha’s wrong? You okay?”
“I’m wet,” she stated, the words flat and absolute.
Micha’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was soft, a small, curled comma against his thigh. “Okay… that’s… good?” He reached for her, a habitual, sleepy gesture of affection.
She caught his wrist. Her grip was firm. “No. Look.” With her other hand, she pulled the waistband of her shorts away from her skin, showing him the darkened, damp fabric. “I’m soaked. I’m fucking dripping. And you were asleep.”
Understanding, slow and painful, dawned on his face. “Did you… have a dream, or…?”
“I was touching myself,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “Right next to you. I had my fingers in my pussy, grinding on your hip, and you didn’t even stir. I came this close.” She pinched her fingers together, a millimeter from contact.
On his knees, Chris faltered. His thrusts stuttered. He was watching a car crash in real time.
“Why?” Micha asked, his voice small, already wounded.
“Because I needed to,” Nat hissed, leaning over him. Her glasses slipped down her nose. “Because I was lying here thinking about a real cock. A huge, thick, brutal cock that would actually fill me up. Not this.” Her hand darted down, wrapping her fingers around his soft penis. He flinched. “Not this little thing that gets lost inside me. I was thinking about a cock that’s denied, that’s controlled, that’s so desperate it would break me in half to get release. And getting off on the fact that my boyfriend, with his sweet, tiny dick, was snoring right through it.”
Micha’s face crumpled. It wasn’t just hurt. It was a foundational erosion. “Nat… please…”
“Don’t ‘please’ me,” she spat, but her own breathing was getting ragged. A vicious excitement was taking hold. “You want to make me happy? You want to be a part of this? Then watch.”
She pushed him flat onto his back. She straddled his hips again, but this time she yanked her shorts and panties down to her ankles. She was fully exposed, her puffy labia swollen and glistening. She grabbed his hand—the one that had reached for her in affection—and guided it between her legs.
“Feel it,” she commanded, forcing his fingers through her slick folds. “That’s how turned on I am. That’s from thinking about another man’s monster cock while you slept.”
Micha’s eyes were wide with tears. His fingers trembled against her. He was hard now, a pathetic, trembling erection that stood maybe four inches tall. It bobbed against his stomach, a stark, inadequate contrast to the scene.
“Now fuck me,” Nat said, lowering herself onto him. She didn’t guide him in. She impaled herself on his small, stiff length in one rough drop of her hips.
He gasped. She didn’t.
“You feel that?” she panted, beginning to ride him with short, aggressive strokes. “You feel how loose I am for you? That’s frustration, Micha. That’s my cunt yawning for something you can’t give it.” Each word was a hammer blow. Each downward grind was a burial.
Chris was pounding the replica now, a furious, syncopated rhythm against Nat’s violent riding. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. He was fucking the ghost of her fantasy, his own denied cock weeping copiously, adding to the artificial lube.
“Tell him what you want,” Erna coached Nat, her voice a hot whisper in all their ears. “Describe the cock you really want.”
Nat’s head fell back. “I want a cock that stretches my walls until I scream. I want to feel it in my guts. I want to feel those big, full balls slapping my asshole when it rams into me. I want to be pinned and used and filled with so much cum it leaks out for days.” She leaned forward, putting her hands on Micha’s chest, her face inches from his. “And you can’t give me any of that. You’re just a placeholder. A warm, tiny dildo.”
Micha was crying silently, tears streaming into his hairline. But his hips were moving, thrusting up into her with a desperate, broken urgency. He was getting off on his own humiliation. On the devastating truth of her words.
“He’s gonna cum,” Annika giggled, pointing at Micha’s monitor. “Look at his stupid face! He’s gonna cum in his girlfriend while she tells him he’s a worthless fuck!”
“Don’t you dare,” Nat snarled, stopping her motion abruptly, squeezing her internal muscles tight around him. “You don’t get to cum. You don’t get that reward. You stay hard. You stay right there. You just… be. My. Toy.”
She resumed moving, a relentless, mechanical piston. Micha whimpered, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his orgasm, his expression a masterpiece of agony and base, shameful pleasure.
Chris’s world had narrowed to a blinding, white-hot point behind his eyes. The pressure in his balls was a critical mass. The replica felt like nothing, like air. He was fucking the idea, the devastating image of Nat using her broken boyfriend as a pathetic proxy for him.
“Chris is close,” Erna observed, her tone clinical. “Look at the pre-cum. It’s a river. He’s going to burst.”
“No,” Annika said, the word crisp and final. “Stop, Chris. Now.”
He froze, buried to the hilt in the cold sleeve, his entire body vibrating on the edge of an explosion. A strangled sound, part sob, part roar, choked in his throat.
On the bed, Nat finally let her own tension break. “Fuck it,” she moaned, and her movements lost their punishing rhythm, becoming a wild, frantic scramble. “Fuck it, fuck it, I’m coming!” She clenched around Micha’s insufficient length, her body convulsing in a harsh, coughing orgasm that looked more like pain than pleasure.
The sight, the sound of her raw peak, was the final strike. Chris’s control shattered. A hot, violent jet of cum erupted from him, painting the inside of the transparent replica in thick, white stripes. It was a silent, powerless climax, robbed of all relief, a mere physiological spasm.
He slumped forward, empty.
The screens were quiet. Nat collapsed onto Micha’s chest, both of them slick with sweat and shame. Micha’s erection wilted inside her, defeated.
Erna broke the silence. “A violation. A betrayal. An unauthorized orgasm.” She looked directly into Chris’s camera. “Samantha will be informed of every detail. The punishment will be architectural.”
The calls disconnected.
Chris lay on the floor, the replica still attached, dripping. The throbbing was gone, replaced by a cavernous, sickening emptiness. He had become an instrument in someone else’s humiliation, and his own climax felt like the farthest thing from release. It felt like a sentence.
In her bed, Nat finally rolled off of Micha. They did not look at each other. The space between them was now infinite, and it hummed with a new, terrible understanding.