Chapter 5: Samantha forces Nat to kneel before the laptop, Chris's caged cock displayed full-screen as she whispers 'Touch yourself for him, but remember - he'll never touch you,' while Micha cooks breakfast in the next room.
The morning light felt accusatory. Nat moved through her apartment like a ghost, mechanically preparing coffee, the events of the night before sitting in her gut like a stone. Every creak of the floor, every sigh from Micha who was now cheerfully scrambling eggs in the kitchen, sent a jolt of pure panic through her. She had checked her phone a dozen times—no messages from Chris, no missed calls from Samantha. The silence was worse.
She jumped, scalding her tongue on the coffee, when the doorbell rang.
Micha, wiping his hands on a towel, called out, “I’ll get it!”
Nat’s blood turned to ice. She stood frozen in the middle of the living room, the cozy clutter of books and throw pillows suddenly feeling like the set of a tribunal. She heard the door open, Micha’s warm greeting, and then the voice—smooth, confident, laced with a familiar, teasing melody.
“Hey Micha! Is Nat around? I was just in the neighborhood.”
Samantha.
Nat’s fingers went numb. The mug slipped, hitting the rug with a dull thud, coffee bleeding into the cream-colored wool. She didn’t move to clean it.
Samantha swept into the room, a vision of casual dominance in sleek athleisure wear, her hair in a perfect high ponytail. The silver key necklace was visible against her skin, catching the light. Her eyes found Nat immediately, and the grin that spread across her face wasn’t just friendly. It was knowing. It was possession.
“There you are,” Samantha said, her voice a purr. She held up her phone. “And look who’s up early, too. Say hi, baby.”
She turned the screen. Chris’s face, pale and strained under the harsh morning light of his own apartment, filled the display. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His eyes, when they met Nat’s through the video, held a silent, screaming apology. And terror.
“Hi Nat,” he said, the words flat.
Micha, oblivious, smiled. “Oh, a group call! Hey Chris. You guys want coffee?”
“We’re good, Micha,” Samantha said, not taking her eyes off Nat. “Actually, could you give us a minute? Girl talk. You understand.”
“Sure, no problem!” Micha retreated to the kitchen, the good-natured boyfriend, ever accommodating.
The moment he was out of earshot, the atmosphere curdled. Samantha walked forward, her movements predatory. She stopped inches from Nat, the phone still held up like a torch. “I was reviewing my router logs last night. Interesting spike in data usage from Chris’s place around, oh, 2:17 AM.” Her head tilted. “Right about when I got a weird notification that my sweet, locked boy was on a video call. But not with me.”
Nat’s throat closed. She couldn’t speak. Her eyes darted from Samantha’s smirk to Chris’s agonized expression on the screen.
“So I asked him,” Samantha continued, conversationally. “Baby, who were you talking to in the middle of the night? And you know what? He tried to lie. For you. Said it was a wrong number.” She let out a soft, chilling laugh. “But he’s terrible at lying. Always has been. The guilt just pours off him. So I checked his call log. And there it was. Your name. A twelve-minute call.”
Samantha’s free hand came up and brushed a strand of hair from Nat’s face. The touch was gentle. It made Nat shiver. “You looked so lonely last night, Nat. In your little bathroom. Whispering all those… needy things. I thought we’d give you a proper introduction to what you were trying to tease.”
“Sam, I didn’t—” Nat finally croaked.
“Shhh,” Samantha silenced her, her finger now touching Nat’s lips. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I’m flattered. You want what’s mine. I get it. Everyone does. So let’s have a show-and-tell.” She stepped back, glancing at the screen. “Chris. Stand up. Take the phone into the bathroom. Let’s give Nat the full view. The one she was fantasizing about.”
On screen, Chris visibly trembled. “Please, Sam…”
“Now.”
The word was a whip-crack. Chris flinched. The image jostled as he stood, the camera angling down to show his legs, his sweatpants, as he walked. Nat could hear his ragged breathing through the speaker. The view swung, settled on the familiar, sterile white of his bathroom tiles. The same backdrop from the photo.
“Drop them,” Samantha commanded, her voice cold and clear.
Nat watched, mesmerized and horrified, as Chris’s hands, blurry in the frame, hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down, along with his boxers. They pooled at his ankles. His legs were muscular, trembling. And between them, the cage.
It was more brutal in motion, in the unforgiving morning light. A polished steel tube, a complex-looking lock at its base, clinging ruthlessly to his groin. The size of the apparatus was staggering, a grotesque testament to what was contained within. The soft flesh of his balls, drawn tight and red, hung below the rigid steel ring. It was a violation. It was a masterpiece of control.
“See, Nat?” Samantha whispered, moving to stand beside her, her cheek almost touching Nat’s as they both stared at the screen. “This is what you wanted a peek at. This is what you were getting wet over while your boyfriend snored next to you. Look at it. That’s a King Cobra cage. The biggest size they make. And it’s full. Isn’t it, Chris?”
A choked sound from the phone. “Yes.”
“He’s straining against it right now, aren’t you, baby? Just thinking about last night. About Nat’s little thighs on her screen. About her telling you how small Micha is.” Samantha’s hand slid around Nat’s shoulder, pulling her closer, forcing her to watch. “Touch it, Chris. Show Nat how solid it is. Show her how nothing gets in or out.”
Chris’s hand appeared, shaking violently. He wrapped his fingers around the cold steel shaft, giving it a weak, demonstrative shake. The cage didn’t budge. The flesh inside it did, a distorted press against the metal vents. A low, pained whimper escaped him.
Nat’s own breath was coming in short gasps. Shame burned her face, but lower, a traitorous heat was spreading, pooling insistently between her legs. It was the most obscene thing she’d ever seen. It was the most arousing.
“Now,” Samantha said, her tone shifting to one of clinical instruction. “Nat, you’re going to participate. You wanted control? Here’s a taste. Tell him what you told him last night. Tell him what you’d do if you had the key.”
“I… I can’t,” Nat whispered, her voice breaking.
“You can, and you will,” Samantha hissed, her nails digging slightly into Nat’s arm. “Or I walk out of here and tell Micha exactly what his girlfriend does in the bathroom at night. Look at him, Nat. He’s waiting for your orders. He’s been trained so well.”
Nat looked. Chris’s eyes were squeezed shut, his head bowed in submission, his body a tense arc of humiliation and helpless arousal. He was waiting.
The words crawled up her throat, coated in filth and a desperate, clawing desire. “I’d… I’d make you kneel,” she began, her voice barely audible.
“Louder,” Samantha commanded.
Nat swallowed. “I’d make you kneel. And I’d put the tip of the key right against that lock. And I’d make you beg me to turn it.”
On screen, Chris’s whole body shuddered.
“And when you were sobbing for it,” Nat continued, the words gaining strength, fueled by the horrific power of the moment, “I’d just tease the hole with it. I’d scrape it along the bars. I’d make you feel that cold metal right where you’re hottest. And I’d ask you if Micha’s tiny cock ever made me this wet.”
A raw, broken sound was torn from Chris. His hand, still on the cage, tightened until his knuckles were white.
“Tell her,” Samantha urged him, her own excitement palpable in her breath against Nat’s ear. “Tell her what’s happening.”
“I’m… I’m leaking,” Chris gasped, his voice thick with tears of shame. “I can’t stop it. It’s… it’s coming out. Inside the cage.”
Nat understood. Pre-cum, with no outlet, no relief, just a seeping, futile humiliation inside that steel prison. The image was devastating. Her own underwear was soaked.
“Good,” Samantha breathed, enthralled. “Now, Nat. The final lesson. Tell him he can’t touch himself. Ever. Unless you or I say so. Even when this call ends. Even with the mess he’s making in there.”
Nat’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was crossing a final, irrevocable line. She looked at Chris’s tormented face, at Samantha’s triumphant one, and she gave in. “You can’t touch yourself,” she said, her voice now clear and cold. “You don’t get to come. Not unless we allow it. That’s the rule.”
Chris nodded, a jerky, pitiful movement. “Yes,” he rasped. “Thank you.”
Samantha smiled, a beautiful, cruel curve of her lips. She finally lowered the phone, ending the visual, but keeping the audio on. “Perfect. You’re a natural, Nat. See you soon, baby. Be good.” She ended the call.
The sudden silence in the room was deafening. The coziness was now a sick joke. Nat felt dizzy, unmoored.
Samantha turned to her, grabbing her chin, forcing eye contact. “That was fun. We’ll do it again. Officially, this time. You’re on the roster.” She let go, smoothed her top. “Clean up your rug. And for god’s sake, get laid. You’re strung tighter than a violin.”
With a final, appraising look, Samantha left, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
From the kitchen, Micha called out, “Everything okay, babe?”
Nat looked down at the dark stain on the rug, at her own trembling hands. She could still smell Samantha’s perfume. She could still see the polished steel glinting in the light.
“Fine,” she called back, her voice a stranger’s. “Everything’s fine.”
The brown stain on the cream wool spread, a shapeless continent of her guilt. Nat fetched a cloth and cold water, scrubbing mechanically at the fibers until her knuckles ached. The smell of bitter coffee mixed with the lingering trace of Samantha’s jasmine perfume, a nauseating cocktail.
Micha padded in, his socks soft on the hardwood. “Spill the whole thing?” he asked, his voice warm with concern.
She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Clumsy.” The lie was ash in her mouth. His kindness was a physical weight.
His hand, gentle on her shoulder, made her flinch. “It’s just a rug. Don’t worry about it.” He began helping her, blotting with a paper towel, his movements orderly and sweet. His touch felt like pity. All she could feel was the ghost of Samantha’s nails digging into that same shoulder, a possessive brand. Her skin still burned where the screen’s glow had lit her face, revealing her.
She was wet. Still. A slick, persistent humiliation that her cotton panties absorbed. It hadn’t faded. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a low, shameful throb between her legs. The image of Chris’s trapped, leaking cock was etched on the back of her eyelids. I can’t stop it. His broken voice was on a loop in her skull.
The day passed in a blur of normalcy that felt like a TV show she was watching. She smiled at Micha’s jokes over lunch. She folded laundry. She nodded as he talked about a new coding project. Her body performed the motions of Nat, the good girlfriend. Inside, she was a raw, twitching nerve, hyper-aware of the phone lying silent on the coffee table.
Every notification was a lightning strike. None were from Samantha. The absence was a test. It was a leash.
Evening bled into night. They ordered takeout. Sat on the couch. A historical drama played on the television, lush with costumed intrigue, but she saw only the sterile white tiles of Chris’s bathroom. Micha’s arm was around her, his fingers tracing idle circles on her arm. His touch, usually comforting, now felt unbearably light. Insignificant. It sparked nothing but a distant, clinical comparison.
His hands were smaller than Chris’s. Softer.
Her own restlessness became a tangible force in the room. She shifted. Crossed and uncrossed her legs. The ache between them had deepened into a hollow, demanding thing. It was fed by the memory of power, not affection. By the raw sound of a man breaking for her.
“You’re jumpy tonight,” Micha murmured during a commercial, his lips brushing her temple.
“Long day,” she whispered back, tilting her head to give him better access. A calculated move. His breathing hitched, pleased.
His kiss was tender, probing. She opened her mouth to him, swallowing his soft sighs. Her mind partitioned. One part cataloged the familiar taste of him, the gentle swipe of his tongue. The other part screamed. She kissed him back vigorously, climbing into his lap, needing to crush the thought, to smother the phantom images with physical sensation.
The gesture excited him. She felt the modest, familiar stiffness press against her through his jeans. A spike of pure, unwelcome clarity stabbed her. Small. The word, so viciously injected into her mind by her own voice hours before, echoed. It wasn’t Chris’s size she craved. It was the spectacle of its denial. The control. Micha was just… available.
“Let’s go to bed,” she breathed against his lips, her voice husky with a false desire she willed into being.
In the dim bedroom, she was frenetic. She pushed him onto the mattress, yanking his shirt over his head, her movements hurried, almost rude. She needed to be consumed, to feel something so overwhelming it would scorch the memory clean. She stripped her own clothes off, letting them fall to the floor, not in seduction but in discard.
Kneeling over him, she took him in her hand. He was already fully hard, a neat, narrow length. She pumped him once, twice, her grip firm. He moaned, his eyes fluttering shut. “God, Nat…”
She positioned herself and sank down onto him in one fluid, determined motion. He filled her. But he didn’t stretch the burning emptiness. He just… occupied it. A quiet tenant in a cavernous, screaming space.
She began to ride him, establishing a hard, relentless rhythm. Her hips pistoned, driving him deep, the slap of their skin loud in the quiet room. She braced her hands on his chest, her head thrown back, eyes clenched shut. She chased the feeling, grinding down, shifting angles.
“Fuck, yes,” Micha gasped, his hands flying to her hips, trying to guide her. His touch felt like an interference.
“Just let me,” she snapped, the words sharper than intended. She pinned his wrists beside his head, leaning over him. The new angle was better, the friction more direct against her clit. She rode him like a task, a punishment for them both. Her breasts swayed with the violent motion.
She looked down at his face. It was rapt, worshipful, lost in pleasure. He was so easy to please. So grateful. It infuriated her. She thought of Chris’s face, twisted in agony, thanking her for his denial. Thank you.
“Is it good?” Micha rasped, desperate for connection.
“It’s good,” she lied, the sentence a monotone grunt. “Don’t… don’t stop me.” She increased the pace, a frenzied, pinpointed hunt for her own release. She imagined the cage. The cold steel. The liquid despair seeping through the vents. The brutal, locked fullness. Her inner muscles clutched at Micha’s slender cock, trying to conjure a ghost.
It worked, in a perverse way. A climax began to coil, fueled not by his body but by her own dark fantasy, by the smuggled image of absolute power. Her breathing became ragged, animal.
“I’m close, Nat, I’m so close,” he whimpered, his body tensing beneath her.
“Come on then,” she growled, her voice foreign. “Come for me. Do it.”
His orgasm hit him; she felt the hot, internal pulses, his body arching off the bed with a choked cry. His surrender, his completion, it was the final trigger. Her own orgasm ripped through her, a silent, vicious clenching. It was sharp and shallow, a swift, satisfying theft rather than a shared gift. It left her hollowed out.
She collapsed beside him, sweat cooling on her skin. The silence rushed back in, heavier. The hollowness widened.
Micha curled into her, nuzzling her neck, sated and affectionate. “That was amazing. You were so hungry.”
She stared at the ceiling. The afterglow felt like sediment, a gritty film over everything. The itch wasn’t scratched. It was inflamed. His arm across her stomach felt like a chain.
Her phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up with a soft glow.
Not a call. A text. The preview showed a single name.
Samantha.
Nat’s heart stopped, then hammered against her ribs like a trapped thing. Micha mumbled, already half-asleep, his breath warm on her shoulder.
She didn’t move. She watched the screen until it went dark again, plunging the room into deeper black. The ghost of the light danced in her vision. Every nerve in her body was now a taut wire, vibrating towards that silent device.
She waited. The momentum of the day, of the frantic, failed sex, of the spiraling guilt, coalesced into a single, focused point of anticipation in the dark. She was holding her breath. The story was no longer about what she had done.
It was about what she would do next.