Chapter 9: Nat arches over Micha, her hand moving agonizingly slow on his modest erection while Chris watches, caged and helpless - 'That's right baby,' Nat coos to Micha, her eyes locked on the laptop where Chris's strained face appears, 'You feel so good inside me' (a lie Conzi instructed her to say). Micha's blissful groans of 'Oh god Nat you're so tight' twist the knife deeper as Conzi coldly informs Chris, 'This is the closest you'll ever get to her pussy.'
The wait was a physical space. Chris stood for an hour after Conzi’s screen went black, his hand finally falling away from his aching flesh, leaving it bared to the empty room. The command was a loop in his mind: You will remain exactly as you are. He finally sat on the edge of his bed, then lay back, staring at the ceiling. His cock stood stubbornly, stupidly upright, a monument to futile readiness. He didn’t sleep. He vibrated.
When his laptop chimed fourteen hours later, the sound was a surgical strike. He scrambled, his heart a trapped bird. It was a group call request, but the initiator was Conzi. He accepted.
Her window opened first. She looked fresh, sipping coffee. Beside her, a new face filled a second window. A woman with dark hair and intelligent, cautious eyes behind stylish glasses. She offered a small, nervous smile.
“Chris, this is Nat,” Conzi said, her tone conversational, as if introducing colleagues. “Nat, this is the subject.”
“Hi,” Nat said, her voice softer than the others.
“Nat has followed your progress with interest. She has a… personal academic curiosity regarding comparative male physiology and the psychology of submission. She’s also in a unique position to provide a live case study.”
Chris said nothing. His gaze flicked between them. His body was still humming from the endless plateau Conzi had forced upon him.
“Micha is here, too,” Nat said, glancing off-screen, her expression shifting to something gentler. “He’s agreeable. He understands it’s for… research. For us.”
The camera angle in Nat’s window widened. She was seated on the edge of a bed, the plush, dark fabrics of her sanctuary behind her. Beside her, a man appeared. Micha. He had a kind, sensitive face, etched with genuine anxiety. He offered a weak wave.
Conzi leaned forward. “Here is the lesson, Christopher. You exist on a spectrum. At one end, total abject submission, coupled with significant physical endowment. At the other, a more… conventional romantic partnership, coupled with a pronounced physical deficiency. Both men are denied. Both men are powerless. The methodology of denial is the only variable.”
Chris felt a cold dread pool in his stomach.
“Nat,” Conzi instructed, “would you begin the comparative display? Audio and video, please. Chris, you will watch and listen. You will not speak. You will not touch yourself unless directly ordered. Understood?”
He nodded, his throat sealed shut.
On screen, Nat turned to Micha. She cupped his face. “It’s okay, baby. It’s just us. Just helping me understand some things.” Her kindness seemed genuine, which made what followed worse.
She encouraged him to lie back. With slow, intimate movements, she undressed him. His body was lean, nervous. When his boxers were pulled down, Chris saw it. Micha’s small penis lay flaccid against his thigh, insignificant. Micha instinctively tried to cover himself, his face flushing deeply.
“Shhh,” Nat soothed, moving his hands away. “It’s okay. I love it. I love you.” She began to stroke him with a tender, practiced familiarity. Her fingers were light, almost reverent. Slowly, under her touch, he began to stiffen. The erection was modest, a few inches at most. Michaela’s eyes were clenched shut, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“See how she touches him?” Conzi’s voice was a clinical commentary in Chris’s ear. “The pity is woven into every stroke. It’s gentle because it has to be. There’s no threat there. It’s a toy. A pet hamster.”
On screen, Nat was making soft, convincing sounds. “Mmmm, that’s it, baby. You feel so good.” She increased her pace slightly, her small fist moving easily, enveloping him completely. She leaned down and kissed his stomach, avoiding his eyes. Micha was whispering, “I love you, Nat, I’m sorry, I love you.”
“He’s apologizing for existing,” Conzi noted. “Fascinating. Now, Nat, describe the sensation. For our subject.”
Nat didn’t look at the camera. Her eyes were on Micha, but her words were for Chris. “It’s… small. Warm. It fits so easily in my hand. I can feel it throb, just a little. It’s like… a little button. Sweet.” She said ‘sweet’ like it was a curse. She bent further, taking him into her mouth. He gasped, his hips giving a tiny, reflexive buck.
“Oh god, Nat… yes…”
She worked on him with a soft, sucking insistence. Her performance was masterful—the flick of her tongue, the hollowing of her cheeks—but Chris, pinned in the agony of his own denial, could see the disconnect. Her eyes, over the rims of her glasses, were focused on the wall, calculating. She was servicing a device, not worshipping a man.
“She’s going to make him cum,” Conzi stated. “Watch the efficacy of minimal stimulation. Watch how little it takes to conclude this… transaction.”
It didn’t take long. Micha’s body tensed. “I’m gonna… Nat, I’m…”
She pulled off, her hand taking over, stroking rapidly. A thin, weak gasp tore from him. His orgasm was a shudder, a small, pained sigh. A few sparse drops of semen welled out onto her fingers and his stomach. He collapsed back, spent, a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. Nat wiped her hand on the sheet without looking and kissed his forehead. “Good boy. So good for me.”
The silence in Chris’s room was deafening. On screen, Micha, flushed with shame and afterglow, curled into Nat’s side. She stroked his hair absently, her gaze finally lifting to the camera. There was a glitter in her eyes now, a dark, awakened hunger.
“Now,” Conzi said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Look at you, Christopher.”
His own massive, neglected cock lay against his thigh, a stark, brutal contrast to the scene they’d just witnessed. It was a monster of unspent need, thick and heavy with blood, dripping continuously onto his chair.
“You see the difference? He gets to come. He gets the gentle touch, the sweet words, the orgasm from his loving girlfriend. He is pitted. You are punished. He is inadequate and rewarded. You are overwhelmingly adequate and perpetually starved. Which is more demeaning, do you think?”
Chris couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in the comparison.
“Nat,” Conzi continued, “would you like to direct the next segment? I believe you had a request.”
Nat carefully extricated herself from Micha’s drowsy embrace. She adjusted her glasses, her face settling into a harder expression. “Yes. I want to see it. I want to see that huge, denied cock I’ve heard so much about. I want you to stroke it, Chris. But I want you to imagine it’s me. That my little mouth is trying to take it. That I’m gagging on it. That I’m laughing at it because it’s so uselessly big.”
Her words, so casually cruel, were a lightning strike. His hand moved to his shaft without being told.
“But slowly,” Nat commanded, her voice gaining strength. “I want to see the agony. I want to see every vein pop. I want you to show me what it looks like when a real dick is desperate.”
He obeyed. His fist wrapped around the girth, a brutal contrast to the image of her small hand on Micha. He began a torturously slow pull, skin gliding over swollen tissue. The pre-cum made a obscene, sticky string.
“Micha,” Nat said, not looking away from Chris’s feed. “Baby, watch this. Look at what a real cock looks like. Isn’t it grotesque?”
Micha, his face pale, reluctantly looked at the screen where Chris was displayed. His eyes widened, a complex flood of horror, fascination, and bitter envy twisting his features. He buried his face in Nat’s pillow.
“Tell me you want to fuck me with that,” Nat said to Chris, her voice cool. “Say it.”
“I… I want to fuck you with it,” Chris groaned, the admission tearing from him.
“Tell me you’d ruin my little pussy. That you’d split me open.”
“I’d ruin you. I’d split you open.” Each word was ash in his mouth.
“But you never will,” she smiled, a wicked, beautiful thing. “All that meat. All that wasted power. You’re more pathetic than he is.” She jerked a thumb towards the gently sobbing Micha. “At least he came inside me last night. What have you done? You’ve just leaked on your own floor for weeks.”
Her verbal lashing was more effective than any command. The pressure in his groin was atomic. His slow strokes became frantic. He was hurtling towards the edge, the need to erupt, to prove his potency somehow, overwhelming Conzi’s earlier prohibition.
“He’s approaching,” Conzi noted, unperturbed.
“Let him,” Nat said, her eyes gleaming. “Let him get right to the very brink. I want to see his face when he’s not allowed to finish.” She leaned into her camera. “You’re a good boy, Chris. Such a good, desperate boy. You want to cum for me, don’t you? You want to spray that load all over your screen, pretend it’s on my glasses, on my tits.”
“Yes, god, please, Nat, I need to—”
“HOLD IT.”
The voice was Conzi’s. It was not a shout. It was a door slamming shut.
Chris froze, his whole body seizing in a rigid arc of torment. A choked scream was locked in his throat. His cock pulsed violently in his white-knuckled grip, on the catastrophic edge of detonation.
Conzi’s face was serene. “Thank you, Nat. That was an exemplary demonstration. The contrast is now fully internalized for the subject.”
Nat leaned back, savoring the image of Chris’s tortured pose. She bit her lip, a flush on her own cheeks. The power had visibly aroused her. She’d betrayed her boyfriend and broken a stranger, all without leaving her bed.
“The session is concluding,” Conzi announced. “Chris, you may stop touching yourself. You will remain unlocked. You will await further instructions. The lesson of the day, reinforced, is one of perspective. Your endowment is not a gift. It is a locus of control for others. A smaller man is pitied and released. You are envied and imprisoned. Think on that.”
The call ended.
Chris collapsed forward, his forehead hitting the cool surface of his desk. He was sobbing, great heaving sobs of frustration and shame. His cock, still wildly erect and pulsing, felt like a hideous tumor. The image of Nat’s cruel, scholarly smile was fused to the ache in his balls. She had seen his raw need, had dissected it, and had found it pitiable. She had used her own boyfriend’s inadequacy as a weapon against him, and it had been exquisitely effective.
Down the hall, in her bedroom, Nat scrolled quietly through the saved screenshots from the call, a secret, devious smile playing on her lips. Micha, feeling guilty for his tears, reached for her. She let him hold her, her mind a thousand miles away, fixated on the captured image of a huge, desperate, and thoroughly broken cock that now, in some small way, belonged to her as well. The silence in both rooms was profound, heavy with the aftermath of shared, secret degradation.
The silence in both rooms was profound, heavy with the aftermath of shared, secret degradation.
In his room, Chris didn’t move for a long time. The phantom sensation of Nat’s clinical, cruel voice seemed to cling to his skin. He eventually stood on shaky legs, his cock still absurdly hard, a dull, persistent ache that had settled into his bones. He walked to the shower and turned the water to a punishing cold, hoping the shock would reset something, anything.
It didn’t. The cold water beat on his back, but his flesh refused to soften. It was a brand now. He shut off the water and stood dripping, staring at his blurred reflection in the steamy glass. Pathetic. The word echoed. More pathetic than he is. He grabbed a towel, rough against his skin.
A new notification chimed from his laptop on the desk. A direct message, not a call. From Nat.
Her message was plain text. ‘I saved the screenshots. The one where you’re crying is my favorite. Your face is a masterpiece.’
He stared at the words. A fresh wave of shame, hot and acidic, burned his throat. He had no reply. Another message popped up.
‘Conzi gave me your permission schedule. Samantha approves. I own your next edge. Tomorrow, 9 PM. Be ready. Don’t you dare touch yourself before then.’
The ownership was casual, absolute. He was being transferred like a library book. He simply typed ‘Yes.’
Across the city, Nat was not asleep. Micha snored softly beside her, an arm thrown over her waist in innocent possession. She carefully lifted it and slipped out of bed. In the cool blue light of her laptop, she reviewed the footage again. She zoomed in on Chris’s face at the moment of his denied climax, the sheer animal ruin in his eyes. A warm, slick pulse throbbed between her own legs.
She opened a new chat window with Samantha. ‘Your dog is very well-trained. Thank you for the loan.’
Samantha’s reply was almost instantaneous. ‘He’s not a dog. He’s a toy. And toys get shared. Did you have fun?’
Nat smiled, her fingers typing quickly. ‘More than I anticipated. The contrast was… instructive. Micha is sweet. Chris is useful. Different kinds of tools.’
‘Good. Use yours. Break mine a little more. He needs the perspective.’
Nat closed the laptop. She walked to the bathroom, her mind racing. She leaned against the sink, looking at her own reflection. The quiet academic was gone, peeled back to reveal something hungrier. She slid a hand into her panties, finding herself wet and swollen. She thought of Chris’s huge, desperate cock, the way it had wept for her. She thought of Micha’s small, spent thing. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles.
She imagined not denying Chris. She imagined ordering him to fuck her, to use that monstrous tool exactly as she demanded, to fill her until she screamed. The fantasy was a bright, shocking flare. Her climax built quickly, a tight, sharp coil. She bit her lip to stay silent, her fingers working faster, picturing his submissive eyes watching her come first. Always first.
Her body tensed and a silent, shuddering orgasm ripped through her. She slumped against the counter, breathing hard. The betrayal was now complete, a living thing in the room. She had just gotten off on another man while her boyfriend slept twenty feet away. The guilt was a distant, faint whisper, utterly drowned out by the resonant, vibrating power she now held in her hands.
The next evening at 8:58 PM, Chris was seated before his laptop, naked. His body was a live wire of anticipation. He hadn’t touched himself. The denial had become a physical presence, a second skeleton made of pure need. The call connected.
Nat filled the screen. She was in a different room now, a tidy home office. She wore a simple burgundy sweater and glasses. She looked like she was about to grade papers.
“Hello, Chris,” she said, her voice a calm, cool stream.
“Hello, Nat.”
“I want you to make yourself cum.”
The command was so straightforward, so opposite to what he expected, that his mind blanked. He simply stared.
“I want you to have a powerful, complete orgasm. Right now. You have my permission.” She adjusted her glasses, a small smile playing on her lips. “But.”
His heart, which had leaped, now froze.
“You will narrate it to me. You will describe, in exact, filthy detail, exactly how you would fuck me if you were here. What you would do to my body. You will paint the picture for me while you stroke that huge, sorry cock. And if your description is unsatisfactory, if you hesitate, if you leave anything out, I will revoke the permission. You will stop on the edge. Do you understand the assignment?”
He understood. This was a different kind of torture. Poetic, intimate, and brutal. “I understand.”
“Begin.”
His hand closed around himself. The feel of his own grip after so long was electric. He started moving, a slow, tight glide. “I… I would push you onto that desk,” he started, his voice already ragged. “I’d hike up that pretty sweater. I’d tear your panties off.”
“Language, Chris. Be specific. Don’t tear. Describe.” Her tone was that of a bored professor.
“I’d hook my fingers in the lace of your panties and snap them. I’d pull them down your thighs. You’d be shaved, bare. I’d spread your legs and just look at you. Your pussy would be wet, already shining for me.”
“Better.” Nat had not moved. Her hands were folded on the desk.
“I wouldn’t fuck you right away.” He was picking up speed, his fist a piston. “I’d get on my knees. I’d bury my face in you. I’d eat your cunt until you couldn’t speak. I’d make you cum on my tongue, make your legs shake. I’d taste every bit of you.”
A faint flush appeared on Nat’s neck. “And then?”
“Then I’d stand up. I’d rub the head of my cock through your wetness. Tease your clit with it. Press it against your hole but not push in. I’d make you beg for it.”
“Would I beg?” Her eyebrow arched.
“Yes. You’d be whimpering. You’d be saying ‘please, Chris, please fuck me, shove that big cock in my little pussy.’”
“Say it again.”
“Please, Chris, please fuck me, shove that big cock in my little pussy,” he moaned, his own words pushing him closer.
“Then what?”
“I’d push in. Just the head at first. Stretch you open. You’d be so tight, god, you’d be gripping me. I’d watch your face as I filled you up, inch by inch, until my balls were pressed against your ass.” His strokes were losing rhythm, becoming frantic. “I’d fuck you hard. I’d pound that desk into the wall. You’d feel me in your throat. I’d make you take every bit of it.”
Nat’s breath had shallowed. One hand drifted below the screen. “And would you cum in me?”
“Yes. I’d fill you up. Pump my load so deep inside you. Claim you.”
“Stop.”
His hand froze. He was millimeters from the point of no return. A whine escaped his clenched teeth.
“Revoked.” Her voice was crisp. “You didn’t describe my reaction. You only described your own conquest. That’s male fantasy. I want the real picture. Did I like it? Was it too much? Did I cry?”
He was trembling, sweat dripping from his brow. The denial was a physical blow.
“Start over. From the beginning. And this time, remember I am a person, not a fleshlight. My pleasure, my pain, is the point. Your orgasm is incidental.” Her hand was moving under the desk now. She was touching herself as she broke him.
Chris began again, his voice broken, his body screaming. He described her whimpers, her nails digging into his back, the exact moment her eyes would roll back. He narrated the tight, fluttering clamp of her orgasm around him, the way she’d beg him not to stop. He did it for twenty minutes, edging and crashing back down over and over at her command, each description more granular, more desperate, more for her.