Chapter 2: Bambi arches against Erna's fingers with a theatrical moan as Annika coos, 'Look how wet she gets for real control - maybe if you beg prettier than her, we'll think about letting you stroke that pathetic cock next Tuesday' while Chris's strained 'Please!' echoes through the speakers.
The borrowed velvet drapes swallowed the streetlight, turning Samantha's bedroom into a pocket of perpetual midnight. The air clung, thick with sandalwood incense and the clean, sterile scent of leather from the assortment of cuffs and collars arranged on her dresser. They were on loan from Erna, whose taste ran to the professional. A small, high-end video camera on a tripod hummed next to the laptop, its red recording light a single, unblinking eye.
Samantha adjusted the camera’s angle, her fingers brushing cold metal. This wasn’t a casual show for the roommates anymore. This was a session. An experiment.
“He’s late,” Annika announced from the bed, where she was painting her toenails a venomous black. She blew on a toe, not looking up. “Maybe he finally grew a spine and jerked off. Wouldn’t that be tragic?”
“He wouldn’t,” Samantha said, her voice calm. The certainty was the bedrock of this entire endeavor. Chris’s obedience was more reliable than gravity. Still, a sliver of possessive anxiety made her check her phone. No messages.
Beside the laptop on the floor, Bambi shifted on her knees. The pale skin of her thighs was goose-bumped against the cool wood. She wore only a simple black collar, the O-ring hanging empty against her sternum. Her hair, a chaotic masterpiece of pastel pink and blue waves, was tied back neatly, emphasizing her youthful face. She kept her eyes down, her breathing measured, a portrait of trained submission. She’d been silent since she’d entered and taken her position.
Erna leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed. She was a study in contained potential. Petite, with sharp dark eyes that missed nothing, and a smile that seemed permanently etched with secret amusement. “He’s probably pacing, working himself into a proper frenzy. The anticipation is part of the breaking.” She pushed off the wall and adjusted the fall of the velvet behind the camera. “The lighting is better now. More dramatic. This’ll look good.”
The laptop chimed. Samantha’s spine straightened. She hit ‘answer’ before the second tone finished.
Chris’s face filled the screen. He looked wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes, his hair damp as if he’d just stepped from a shower. He was already shirtless. His eyes, wide and desperate, scanned the new, dim environment visible behind Samantha. They flickered over the camera, the drapes, and landed on Bambi kneeling on the floor. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“You’re late,” Samantha said, her tone flat.
“I’m sorry. I was… preparing.” His voice was sandpaper.
“You see the camera, Chris?” Erna stepped into frame, her face a cool mask. “This isn’t just for us tonight. This is for the archives. A record of your… progress.”
Chris swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Hello, Erna.”
“And you see Bambi?” Samantha continued, gesturing idly beside her.
Bambi’s head lifted at the sound of her name. She looked at the screen, at Chris, and a small, smug smile touched her lips before she resumed her downcast gaze. “Hello, Chris,” she whispered, her voice sugar-sweet.
“Hi, Bambi,” Chris replied, the words strained. The competitive dynamic between them was an old, familiar thorn.
Annika finally hopped off the bed, padding barefoot to peer over Samantha’s shoulder. “Ugh, he does look miserable. Good.” She popped her gum. “So, what’s the game? Are we just staring at his sad dick again?”
Erna chuckled. “Patience, Annika. Samantha?”
Samantha reveled in the center of this gravity. “The game is simple, Chris. You’re going to watch. You’re going to listen. And you’re going to ask, very politely, for any touch at all. Bambi,” she said, her voice shifting to a commanding purr.
Bibi looked up, her eyes gleaming. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Show Chris how a good girl earns attention.”
A faint blush colored Bambi’s chest and neck. With a deliberate slowness, she parted her knees slightly on the hard floor. She let her hands, which had been resting on her thighs, drift inward.
Chris’s breath hitched, audible through the speakers. His own hand twitched on his stomach, as if to move downward, but he caught himself.
“Ah-ah,” Erna tutted. “Hands on the headboard, Chris. Now. And don’t you dare look away.”
A groan of protest died in his throat. He raised his arms, locking his fingers behind the wrought-iron bars of his headboard. The position pulled his body taut, every muscle defined under the strain and the desperate need. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, on Bambi.
Bambi’s fingers began to move, a slow, circling exploration. She let her head fall back, a soft sigh escaping her. It was part performance, part genuine response. She knew she was being watched by the camera, by the women, but most of all by Chris. Her rival in service. Her movements became more explicit, her breathing shallower. A small, needy sound bubbled from her lips.
“Looks like she’s getting close, Chris,” Annika observed with clinical detachment. “Way faster than you ever could, I bet.”
“Please,” Chris choked out, his body trembling with the effort of staying still. The sight of Bambi, so openly pleasuring herself under Samantha’s command, was a specific, exquisite torture. Jealousy, arousal, and profound humiliation boiled inside him. “Samantha, please, can I… can I just touch myself? Just once?”
Samantha watched him unspool. This was the precipice. “Ask Annika.”
Chris’s eyes, wild, darted to find Annika’s face in the corner of the screen. “Annika. Please.”
Annika made a show of considering, tapping her black-painted fingernail against her teeth. “Hmm. I don’t know. You were late. And you’re watching another girl get off. That seems pretty greedy to me.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What do you think, Erna? Should we let him have a little stroke? Maybe just one?”
Erna circled behind Samantha’s chair, her hand coming to rest on Samantha’s shoulder. A gesture of alliance, of co-ownership. “I think he needs to understand the consequence of his gaze. He’s drinking in Bambi’s pleasure while being denied his own. I say he loses the privilege for the month. No touching at all. Not unless one of us specifies otherwise.”
A month. The word landed in the silent room like a stone.
Chris made a sound, a raw, animal noise of despair. His hips bucked once, involuntarily, against empty air. “A month? Sam… you can’t…”
“I can,” Samantha said softly, her eyes blazing with power. “And I just did. Erna’s right. You’re too greedy tonight. You’ll watch Bambi finish, and you’ll thank us for the lesson.”
Bambi’s rhythm hitched, her back arching. “Mistress… may I?”
“You may,” Samantha said.
Bambi’s release was silent but intense, a shuddering collapse forward onto her elbows, her face hidden in her colorful hair. The tremor in her shoulders was genuine. After a moment, she collected herself, sitting back on her heels, a look of blissful completion on her face. She looked directly at the camera, at Chris, and smirked.
Chris was crying. Silent tears tracked through the stubble on his cheeks, his body shaking with the effort of keeping his hands locked in place, of not reaching down to alleviate the brutal, aching pressure. He was broken open, his devotion and his desperation laid bare for the recording, for the judges in the shadows.
“Good,” Erna murmured, a note of genuine appreciation in her voice. “That’s a quality break. See how clean it is?” She wasn’t talking to Chris.
Samantha felt a rush that was almost dizzying. This was deeper, colder water than she’d swum in before. The thrill was addictive. “The month stands, Chris. No touching. Not a single finger. You’ll check in every morning and night. And we’ll be watching.”
Annika giggled. “Maybe we’ll have Bambi check in on him sometimes. To make sure he’s being good.”
Bambi’s eyes lit up. “I would love that, Mistress.”
Samantha nodded, the idea lodging in her mind. “We’ll see.” She looked at Chris’s shattered form on the screen. “You can put your hands down now.”
His arms fell as if the strings had been cut, heavy and limp at his sides. He didn’t move to cover himself. He just stared at the screen, hollowed out.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the words automatic, ingrained. “Thank you for… for the lesson.”
“You’re welcome,” Samantha said. She reached forward and ended the call. His weeping face vanished.
The room was suddenly, profoundly quiet. The red eye of the camera still glowed. Erna finally moved, walking over to it and pressing the stop button. The hum ceased.
“Well,” Erna said, turning around, her wicked smile fully present now. “That was productive.”
Annika bounced back onto the bed. “A month! He’s gonna be a lunatic. I call dibs on teasing him next Thursday.”
Bambi remained on the floor, catching her breath, that competitive gleam still in her eyes. “He cried,” she said, with a quiet satisfaction.
Samantha leaned back in her chair, the leather cool through her thin top. The power coursed through her, hot and dark. But in the silent aftermath, as her friends chattered about the result, a new, more complex feeling nestled beside the triumph. This was no longer just her and Chris. It was a council. A syndicate. She had opened a door, and Erna, with her calculated cruelty and professional gear, had simply walked right in.
She owned Chris completely. That part was unchanged. The question, lingering in the incense-heavy air, was who else now owned a piece of the game.
The silence after the call felt different. It wasn’t peaceful; it was charged, like the space between lightning and thunder. Samantha stared at the blank screen, her own triumphant reflection staring back, superimposed over the ghost of Chris’s broken expression.
“That camera was a fantastic idea,” Erna said, breaking the quiet. She ran a finger along the tripod leg. “The audio picked up every ragged breath. Every sob.” She spoke like a director reviewing a stunning first take.
Annika snatched a pillow and hugged it. “A month is a long time. You think he’ll actually make it?”
“He’ll try,” Samantha said, finally swiveling her chair away from the desk. The power was still there, a steady current in her veins, but Erna’s ownership of the idea—the professional recording, the ‘archives’—itched at her. “He always tries.”
Bambi rose stiffly from the floor, the marks from the hardwood etched on her knees. She found her silk robe and slipped it on, not tying it. “He looked fucking pathetic,” she said, a note of victory in her voice. She walked to Samantha’s side, a subtle claim of proximity. “Thank you for letting me serve, Mistress. It was… intense.”
Samantha reached out and absently twirled a strand of Bambi’s pink hair. “You were perfect. A good toy.” The praise was genuine, but her eyes slid to Erna, who was now inspecting the camera’s settings. “We should all get a copy of the file.”
“Obviously,” Erna said without looking up. “I’ll handle the edits. Clean up the audio, maybe add some titles.” A faint smile. “Session One: The Gaze.”
The proprietary tone was a splinter under Samantha’s skin. This was her dynamic, her boyfriend. Her conquest. She stood up, the chair rolling back. “I’ll decide the titles. Send me the raw footage first.”
Erna met her gaze, those dark eyes unreadable. A beat of silence hung between them. “Of course,” she finally said, her smile not wavering. “It’s your show.”
The tension dissolved, but its residue coated the room. Annika, sensing the shift, broke it with her typical bluntness. “I’m bored now. You guys wanna order tacos? I’m starving.”
They ordered tacos. They ate in Samantha’s bed, the fetish gear pushed unceremoniously to the floor. They talked about classes, about a problematic professor, about Annika’s latest crush. It was normal, almost jarringly so. The camera sat in the corner, a silent black monolith.
Two days later, the meticulous cruelty of the punishment began its work.
Chris’s morning check-in was a shaky, pre-recorded video. He looked pale. “Good morning, Samantha. Day two. No touching. I… I hope you have a good day.” His eyes were haunted.
Samantha played it on her phone while making coffee. She felt a flicker of something—not pity, but a possessor’s pride in a strained asset. She typed back a simple, ‘Good.’
The evening check-in was a live call. He was in his kitchen, chopping vegetables. His hands, his big, careful hands, moved with deliberate focus. “It’s harder when I’m not just in my room,” he admitted, his voice low. “Everything feels… heightened.”
“How hard?” Samantha asked, sipping her wine.
He stopped chopping. A long exhale. “Very.”
“Good. Continue.”
On the third day, she deployed Bambi. “Call him. Video. See what he’s doing. Don’t make it easy.”
Bambi’s face flushed with pleasure at the assignment. She did it from her own room, angling her phone to show the collar still around her neck. Samantha listened on speaker, watching from her own screen.
“Chris?” Bambi’s voice was all fake sweetness.
“Bambi? Is… is everything okay?” His concern was immediate, trained.
“Oh, yeah. Just checking in. Mistress wanted me to see how you’re holding up.” She leaned in, letting her robe gape. “You look tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you? Because you keep looking at my mouth.” She traced her own lower lip with a fingertip. “Remembering how I sounded the other night?”
Chris looked away from his screen, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I’m just here to help. Mistress says you need to learn. So tell me, what are you thinking about right now?”
A strangled laugh escaped him. “You know what I’m thinking about.”
“Say it.”
He hesitated. His conflict was palpable, a physical strain in the pixels. His loyalty to Samantha warred with the brutal need being exploited. “I’m thinking… about you. On the floor.”
Bambi’s smile was vicious. “Yeah? What part?”
“Bambi,” he warned, his voice dropping.
“Tell me, or I’ll tell Mistress you’re being uncooperative.” The threat was a perfect replica of Samantha’s own cadence. Samantha felt a spike of irritation—and arousal—at the mimicry.
“The sound you made,” he finally gritted out. “Right at the end. That little gasp.”
Bambi moaned softly, deliberately, into the receiver. She let the sound linger. “Like that?”
Chris put a hand over his eyes. “Jesus.”
“Not Jesus. Samantha. Remember who you belong to, even when you’re thinking about me.” She blew him a kiss. “Stay strong, Chris. Or don’t. It’s more fun if you break.” She ended the call.
Samantha’s phone buzzed a second later. A text from Bambi: ‘He’s close.🙃’
She didn’t reply immediately. The simulation had been effective, too effective. Bambi had slipped into the role with a little too much relish, had mirrored her power a little too precisely. And Chris, in his torment, had confessed a detail—the sound of Bambi’s climax—that now felt like a shared secret from which Samantha was excluded.
She poured another glass of wine. The game was evolving, the pieces moving on their own. Erna with her archives, Bambi with her performative cruelty, Annika awaiting her turn. They were all leaning on her lever, their collective weight pressing down on Chris.
Her phone buzzed again. Chris.
‘I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have said that. I’m struggling.’
She watched the typing bubbles appear and disappear for a full minute before he sent the next message.
‘I just miss you. I miss your permission. I don’t know what to do with this.’
The raw need in the words was a tonic. This was hers. This specific, directed desperation belonged only to her. The other women were scenery; he was still performing for an audience of one.
She typed back, her thumbs firm on the glass.
‘You take it. You hold it. You let it burn. And in 27 days, you ask me again. Not Bambi. Not anyone else. Me.’
His reply was instantaneous.
‘Yes.’
One word. A total yielding. She breathed out, the earlier irritation soothed.
A new message popped up, from Erna this time. A file attachment. The subject line: ‘RAW FOOTAGE – SESSION 1.’
Samantha didn’t open it. She left it in her inbox, a dark, digital asset. She finished her wine, the bold red taste coating her tongue. The ownership was fractured, but the core was still in her hands. Chris was a thread pulled taut, vibrating with a note only she could truly hear. The others just liked the sound it made when it was about to snap.
She decided then. The next session would be on her terms alone. No committee. No borrowed dungeons. She would remind everyone, especially the crying man on the other end of the camera, who had invented the game. And she would remind him by changing all the rules.