Chapter 6: The Comparison Game
The text had been a simple address and a time: 8 PM. No instructions, no context. Just coordinates. Nat had spent the day in a state of suspended animation, every tick of the clock a hammer blow to her nerves. She told Micha she was meeting an old college friend for drinks. She lied with an ease that scared her.
The address led to a sleek, modern condominium building. Samantha’s place. The lobby was cool marble and muted light. Nat’s knuckles, hovering before the door to unit 414, were white. She could hear the faint thrum of bass-heavy music from within.
The door swung open before she could knock.
Erna stood there, not Samantha. She was petite, with a sharp black bob and eyes that held a dark, amused intelligence. She looked Nat up and down, a slow, assessing sweep that left Nat feeling transparent. “You’re the new one,” Erna said, her voice a smooth contralto. “The quiet one with the boyfriend who doesn’t fill you up.” A wicked smile played on her lips. “Come in. Showtime’s about to start.”
Nat stepped into another world. The apartment was minimalist, almost severe, but the air was thick with a musky, charged scent—sweat, perfume, and something metallic. The living room was pristine, but a hallway door was ajar, spilling dim, red-tinted light and the source of the music.
“Through there,” Erna nodded, guiding Nat with a light but unyielding touch on the small of her back.
Samantha’s bedroom was a dungeon disguised as a luxury suite. The walls were a deep charcoal. One whole wall was a mirror, reflecting the scene in dizzying, fractured duplication. The centerpiece was a large, low platform bed, its black sheets rumpled. But the focus was not the bed.
The center of the room was flattened and cleared. Bambi was there, on her knees, bent over a large, intimidating black unit—a Sybian machine. She was naked except for a studded leather collar and a pair of fishnet stockings that were torn in several places. Her pastel-tipped hair was a wild mess. Her small body was slick with a sheen of sweat. A remote control was in Erna’s hand, who had now glided past Nat to take position.
Annika, looking like a pale, malicious doll in a lace bra and tiny shorts, was perched on the edge of the bed. She held a sleek laptop, its screen angled toward the room.
On the screen, Chris. He was in what looked like a closet, a stark single bulb overhead, his face gaunt and shadowed. He was shirtless. His eyes, wide and desperate, were fixed on something beyond the camera’s edge—on what was happening in the room.
“He’s been a leaky little mess all day, haven’t you, Christopher?” Samantha’s voice cut through the thrumming music. She emerged from a corner, dressed in a blood-red silk robe, tied loosely. She held a riding crop, tapping it idly against her thigh. “Ever since his little unauthorized chat. He can’t control his drips. So we’re having a remedial lesson.”
Samantha nodded to Erna. “Warm her up. Let him see what he’s missing. What he’ll never get.”
Erna’s thumb moved on the remote. The Sybian’s low hum jumped to a aggressive, vibrating growl. Bambi jolted, a sharp cry escaping her lips. She was already wet; the shimmer on her inner thighs and the dark, swollen lips of her pussy was visible to everyone. The machine’s central nub was buried inside her, and a separate, buzzing attachment pressed directly on her clit.
“Louder, slave,” Erna commanded, her voice calm and cold.
Bambi’s cries became louder, wanton. She pushed her hips back against the violent vibration, her back arching. “Oh fuck, fuck, it’s too much, Mistress, please!”
“It’s exactly enough,” Samantha corrected, walking over to stand behind Bambi, looking at Chris on the laptop screen. “You hear that, baby? That’s the sound of a girl who gets to feel something. Watch her.” She grabbed a handful of Bambi’s hair, yanking her head up so Chris had a clearer view of her fucked-out expression.
Annika giggled, tilting the laptop. “He’s crying, Sam. Look. Pathetic.”
Nat stood frozen by the door, forgotten for a moment. Her own body was responding, a treacherous heat flooding her. The raw display, the public agony of Chris, the brutal privilege of Bambi’s pleasure—it was horrifying. It was magnetic.
“Up the intensity, Erna,” Samantha purred.
Erna slid the remote control to its maximum. The Sybian screamed. The sound was a physical thing, a buzzing roar that filled the red-lit room. Bambi’s whole body went rigid, then shattered. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound devoid of any thought, as an orgasm was ripped from her. It was violent and convulsive. Her thighs quaked. Her juices made a visible, slick mess on the black leather of the machine. The air sharpened with the tang of female cum.
As the waves subsided into twitching aftershocks, Erna didn’t turn it off. The machine kept vibrating, merciless, forcing oversensitivity into pain. Bambi sobbed, her body trying to pull away instinctively, but Samantha’s grip in her hair held her firm.
“See that, Chris?” Samantha said, her voice cutting through Bambi’s sobs and the machine’s drone. “That’s a climax. A real one. Full, messy, and allowed.” She let go of Bambi’s hair and walked toward Annika and the laptop. She took the computer from Annika’s hands and held it close, her face filling Chris’s screen. Her expression was icy.
“Now look at you. Locked in a closet. Dripping into a steel tube. You don’t deserve that. You’ve lost the privilege of witnessing it.” She turned the laptop around, pointing its camera at Nat, who jolted as if electrocrated. “But she gets to. Nat gets to see what a real, allowed orgasm looks like. She gets to learn what power feels like. While you get nothing.”
Chris’s choked whimper came through the speakers.
Annika bounced off the bed and skipped over to the laptop, peering over Samantha’s shoulder at Chris’s image. “Ew, he’s leaking again! Look at the bottom of the cage! It’s all shiny!” She made a fake gagging sound. “You’re such a pathetic fuckpig. You see a girl cum and you just… dribble. You can’t even have a real orgasm like a man.”
“Rule is reinstated and amplified,” Samantha announced, her eyes locked on the screen. “You ask to leak. You ask to drip. Every single time. And now…” she glanced at Erna, who was now gently stroking Bambi’s trembling back, “…the authority is shared. Erna, Annika, and our new recruit, Nat. Any one of us can deny you. Any one of us can add time. You leak one more drop without explicit, begged-for permission from one of us, and we’re adding another month to your denial. Starting today.”
A strangled sound of despair came from the laptop.
“What’s that?” Annika chirped, her face sickly-sweet with false concern. “You have something to say?”
“P-please…” Chris’s voice was a shredded ruin. “Please, I’m… it’s so full… I can’t…”
“You can,” Samantha interrupted, her tone final. “And you will. Because it’s mine. And I say so.” She turned the laptop back around, her gaze softening into something more sinister. “Now. We have a new student here. Nat hasn’t had a hands-on lesson yet.”
She looked over at Nat, who felt her stomach drop away. “Come here, Nat.”
Nat’s legs moved on autopilot. She stepped over, the mirrors showing her a dozen versions of herself entering the scene, all of them pale and wide-eyed.
Samantha handed her the laptop. The warmth of the device buzzed in her hands. On screen, Chris was a portrait of utter devastation. Tears cut clean lines through the stubble on his cheeks. His eyes, when they met hers through the digital void, held a depth of surrender that was almost religious.
“He needs to ask permission for something right now,” Samantha said, standing behind Nat, her hands resting on Nat’s shoulders. “Can you feel it? He’s on the edge. He’s been on the edge since Bambi started screaming. He wants to beg to be allowed to have a pathetic, ruined little orgasm in his cage. Don’t you, Chris?”
Chris nodded, a broken marionette. “Yes,” he rasped.
“But he has to ask the right person,” Erna said from her spot by the still-quivering Bambi. Her dark eyes found Nat’s. “It’s your call, new girl. His first official request. His destiny is literally in your hands.”
Annika crowded in, her youthful smell of candy and malice in Nat’s nose. “Make him say it pretty. Make him say what a worthless, caged loser he is.”
Nat held the laptop. She felt the weight of the moment, the terrifying power siphoned into her palms. She saw his pain. She saw the shiny streak of pre-cum at the base of the steel. She felt the collective, expectant gaze of the women in the room. She saw her own reflection in the wall mirror—a mouse suddenly handed a lion’s leash.
She licked her lips, her mouth parchment-dry. The word formed, ugly and powerful and hers to wield.
“No.”
The word hung in the thick, musk-heavy air, a guillotine blade she had just dropped.
On the screen, Chris’s face disintegrated. A low, animal keen vibrated from the laptop’s speakers, his body curling inward as if punched in the gut. The shiny drop at the cage’s base trembled, fattened, but did not fall. He was obeying, even in his devastation.
“Good,” Samantha breathed, her voice a hot note of approval in Nat’s ear. Her fingers squeezed Nat’s shoulders. “That’s how it’s done. Clean. No ambiguity.”
Annika clapped her hands, a sharp, mocking sound. “He looks like he’s gonna puke! That’s so hot. Do it again, Nat! Tell him he has to beg to breathe next!”
Erna’s cooler, more analytical voice cut through. “He needs reinforcement. The denial needs a counterpart. A reward for the one who wielded it.” She moved away from Bambi, who was still slumped and whimpering over the now-silent machine. Erna walked to a sleek black chest at the foot of the bed, opening it to reveal an array of dark silicone and gleaming metal.
She pulled out a thick, veined dildo, a brutal black imitation of an erect cock. It was obscenely large, almost comically so. She held it up, its length catching the red light. “He should watch you take this,” Erna said, her eyes locking with Nat’s. “Since he can’t have anything of his own. He should watch you get filled by a cock that isn’t his. That will never be his.”
A jolt of pure, electric fear—and want—shot through Nat’s core. “I…” she stammered, the laptop feeling suddenly radioactive in her hands.
“Give that to me,” Samantha said, taking the computer from Nat’s numb grip. She angled it so Chris’s tormented view was now of the whole room, of Erna holding the fake cock, of Nat standing frozen. “You heard her, baby. You’re going to watch Nat get the fuck she needs. The fuck you can’t give her. Watch her take a real tool.”
Samantha nodded to Erna. “Prep her.”
Erna’s approach was methodical. She didn’t speak to Nat. She simply took her wrist, guided her toward the edge of the platform bed, and pushed her down until Nat was sitting, then lying back. The black sheets were cool and slippery. Annika bounced onto the bed beside her, leaning in close with a giggle. “Don’t worry, Nat. This one doesn’t have a sad little cage on it. It goes all the way in.”
Erna produced a bottle of clear lube, squirting a generous, cold pool onto the dildo’s head and along its terrifying length. The slick sound was obscenely loud.
“Spread your legs,” Samantha commanded from somewhere above. “Let him see the empty space. The space he’ll never fill again.”
Nat’s body moved, compliant, a separate entity from her whirling mind. She hooked her knees, let her legs fall open. The cool air of the room touched her wetness, a shocking intimacy. She was completely exposed, her pale thighs, the dark thatch of hair, her glistening pink folds, all on display for the mirrored walls, for the women, for the eye of the camera feeding directly to Chris’s private hell.
Erna knelt between her legs, the black silicone poised at Nat’s entrance. It felt huge, a ludicrous invasion. “Watch the screen, Nat,” Erna instructed softly, coldly. “Watch his face while I open you up.”
Nat turned her head. On the laptop screen, held aloft by Samantha, Chris’s expression was a car crash of horror and rapt, unwilling fixation. His mouth was agape, his eyes bruised and leaking.
Erna pushed.
The head, cold and slick and impossibly wide, began to stretch her. Nat gasped, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t quite pain but a staggering, overwhelming fullness. It wasn’t gentle. Erna applied steady, inexorable pressure, working the thick knob past Nat’s tight resistance. There was a lewd, wet pop as it breached her, and Nat cried out, her back arching off the bed.
“She’s so tight,” Annika observed, as if commenting on the weather. “Micha must be, like, a pencil. Look at her stretch!”
Erna began to pump the dildo, slow, deep, punishing strokes that dragged against every sensitive inner wall. Each inward thrust forced a choked gasp from Nat’s throat; each withdrawal made her hips twitch forward, seeking the fullness again. Her own betraying body was alight, a firestorm of sensation that short-circuited shame. The sheer, brutal size of the thing was a revelation, a physical ache that resonated deep in her womb.
“You seeing this, Chris?” Samantha asked, her voice conversational. “See how her little cunt is sucking on that rubber cock? See how hungry she is for it? This is what you made her. This is the need you created in her with your pathetic little midnight call.”
Nat’s eyes blurred, but she kept them on Chris’s face. His pain was her fuel. His utter powerlessness was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known. “Fuck,” she moaned, the word torn from her, vulgar and true. “Oh god, it’s so… deep.”
“That’s it,” Erna murmured, her rhythm increasing, her wrist a piston. The slap of silicone against Nat’s flesh joined the wet, squelching sounds of her forced arousal. “Come for him. Come on this fake cock while he dies inside his real one.”
The orgasm built not as a wave but as a seismic fracture, a splitting open from the inside. It was crude and mechanical and devastatingly effective. Her body clamped down viscously on the invading length, milking nothing, and she screamed—a raw, unfiltered sound of release that had nothing to do with love or tenderness.
As she trembled through the aftershocks, Erna didn’t stop. She fucked her with the dildo through the climax, prolonging the overstimulation into a sharp, unbearable sensitivity. Nat thrashed, over-full and raw, tears of overwhelmed sensation leaking from her eyes.
Finally, Erna withdrew the dildo with a slick, obscene slurp. Nat’s body felt hollowed out, used, and profoundly awake.
Samantha brought the laptop close, shoving the screen toward Nat’s fucked-out face. “Look. Look at your work.”
Chris was silent now, utterly broken. He was staring, unblinking, his chest heaving. The strain in his trapped cock was visible, a trapped, pulsing bulge against the steel that looked painful. A fresh, clear bead of pre-cum welled at the tip of the cage’s opening, held there by surface tension, a tiny, doomed jewel.
“He’s leaking again,” Annika sang. “Without permission. That’s a month, right? That’s a whole extra month!”
Samantha’s smile was a triumphant, savage thing. She looked from Chris’s ruined face to Nat’s spent body. “No,” she corrected softly. “Not a month.” She let the silence stretch, the only sound Bambi’s soft weeping and Nat’s ragged breaths.
“He lost the right to time. He’s on indefinite hold.” She addressed the screen, each word a nail. “Your next orgasm, Chris, is whenever Nat decides she wants to give it to you. It could be tomorrow. It could be next year. It’s hers. You belong to her denial now.”
She snapped the laptop shut.
The sudden cessation of his image, of his silent scream, was as shocking as a gunshot. In the ringing quiet, Samantha turned her dark, gleaming eyes on Nat, who was still sprawled and exposed on the black sheets. “You can go home to your boyfriend now,” she said, as casually as dismissing a cleaner. “Take that feeling with you. Remember who really owns you. And who you own.”
Nat slowly pulled her legs together, the ache between them a brand. She sat up, the room tilting. She fumbled for her clothes, her fingers clumsy. None of the women helped her. They watched, a tribunal of predators, as she dressed in the remnants of her old life.
She walked out without a word, the ghost of the fake cock’s stretch still echoing inside her. The condominium hallway was sterile and silent, a sarcophagus after the red-lit heart of the furnace. Her phone buzzed in her purse once, a vibration against her thigh.
She didn’t need to look to know it was from Samantha. The leash was digital, and it was taut. She descended into the night, the hollow feeling now a permanent residence, a locked chamber inside her that only one person had the key to, and he was forbidden from using it.