Chapter 1: The First Wet Dream
Thomas woke with a gasp, his hips arching off the mattress as the final waves of the dream pulsed through him. The image lingered beneath his eyelids: dusky skin gleaming under low light, the shift of supple curves, a mouth parting in a sigh that wasn’t pleasure but possession. Lia Lin. He’d come inside her in the dream, a release so visceral his bones still hummed with it.
His hand slid down his abdomen. The cotton of his boxers was soaked, cool and clinging. His cock, still half-hard, gave a traitorous throb against his palm.
“Christ,” he muttered into the dark room.
He threw the tangled sheet off and sat up, running both hands over his face. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed 4:17 AM. The apartment was silent, a curated stillness he usually found calming. Now it felt accusatory. The laptop on his floor was dark, closed since he’d finally forced himself to shut it last night. He didn’t need to open it to see her. She was etched on the back of his skull.
He stalked to the bathroom, turning the shower to cold. The water needled his skin, sharp and punishing. He braced his hands against the tile, head down, watching the evidence of the dream swirl down the drain. Discipline. Control. They were just words now, their meaning slipping through his fingers like soap.
By seven, he was back in his skin. Or a reasonable facsimile. Black gym shorts, a tight gray tee, five miles devoured on the treadmill while the sunrise bled over the city skyline. His client, a finance guy named Mark, met him at eight for weights.
“You’re quiet today,” Mark grunted, pressing the barbell.
“Focus is part of the program,” Thomas said, his tone even, spotting with automatic efficiency. His eyes tracked the muscle contraction in Mark’s arms, but his mind replayed the phantom sound of a whisper, a specific cadence that belonged to a screen, not a memory.
“Yeah, well, my focus is on the mimosa brunch my wife is forcing me to after this. Save me.”
Thomas managed a tight smile. “Breathe. Don’t lock your elbows.”
The morning passed in a blur of reps, schedules, protein shakes. A normal morning. He repeated it to himself like a mantra. He ate his lunch of grilled chicken and steamed broccoli at precisely noon, scrolling through training apps. His thumb, of its own volition, hovered over the browser icon.
No.
He got up, cleared his plate, walked to the bathroom. He just needed to piss. The apartment was too quiet. The city sounds from below felt muffled, like the world had been packed in cotton. He unzipped, but his body wasn’t interested. It was rigid with a different, gathering tension.
His phone was in his hand. He didn’t remember pulling it from his pocket.
The search was quick. He knew the name of the video. Her video. The one he’d watched last night before the dream. He tapped it, volume low. The familiar music started, synth and bass. And then she appeared, leaning back on a cream-colored sofa, smiling at someone off-camera. Lia. Her half-Thai, half-Brazilian heritage was a masterpiece of contrasts: the delicate bone structure, the full, generous mouth, eyes that held a challenge. She said something, her voice a low, melodic thread in the poor audio.
Thomas leaned back against the cool bathroom wall, sliding down until he sat on the tiled floor. He watched. His breath shallowed.
It wasn’t about arousal. Not just about it. It was a thirst. A deep, cranial ache that spread from his sternum to the roots of his teeth. The more he watched, the tighter the coil in his gut wound. She laughed, a real sound that broke the performance, and he felt a lurch in his chest as if hooked.
He couldn’t look away. Minutes bled. The video ended. He played it again. And again.
A notification flashed at the top of his screen—a reminder for a client call in twenty minutes. The real world, a faint, irritating tap on a thick glass wall. He ignored it. He opened another video. Then another. He was mining for something, a specific glance, a particular curve of her shoulder, the way she bit her lip when—
His free hand was in his shorts. He wasn’t deciding to do it. It was just happening, like a reflex. The pressure was unbearable, a dam straining. This time, awake against the bathroom wall, it was quicker, more violent. A raw, shuddering release that left him empty and simultaneously more starved. The screen flickered, her face smiling, unaware.
Shame was a cold second shower. He shoved his phone away, the device clattering against the base of the toilet. He rested his forehead on his knees, lungs burning. He never did this. Not like this. Not in the middle of the day, hiding on the floor.
The client call. He’d missed it.
He stood up on legs that felt unfamiliar, cleaned up mechanically, splashed water on his face. The man in the mirror had his hazel eyes, the flecks of gray at his temples, the disciplined line of his jaw. But the eyes were off. The pupils were wide, dark pools with a frantic energy shimmering underneath.
He tried to work. He sent a terse, professional apology email for missing the call, blaming a connectivity issue. He outlined next week’s program for another client. The words swam on the screen, rearranging themselves into the shape of her name.
Lia Lin. Lia. Lin.
By evening, the craving was a physical tinnitus, a high-pitched whine in every silent moment. He tried to drown it out. He turned the TV to a loud, mindless game show. He opened a textbook on sports nutrition, forcing his eyes to track each sentence. It was no use. The hunger had mapped itself onto his nervous system. It was in the twitch of his fingers, the tightness along his ribs.
He needed air. Real, uncomplicated air.
He grabbed his keys and headed down to the parking garage. The concrete space was cool, smelling of dust and oil. His footsteps echoed. He was almost at his car, a sensible, well-maintained sedan, when he saw her.
At the far end of the row, under a flickering fluorescent light, a woman was loading groceries into the trunk of a hatchback. She had long, dark hair. She was petite. The cut of her jacket emphasized her waist.
Thomas stopped dead.
It wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t her. This woman’s hair was straighter, her posture different. But in the unreliable gloom, for one heart-stopping second, his starving brain latched onto the silhouette and screamed LIA.
The woman straightened, turned, and began walking toward the elevator, her heels clicking in the cavernous space. She didn’t look at him.
A violent, utterly alien impulse shot through Thomas—to follow her. To get close enough to see if her skin had that same gold undertone, to hear her voice. His keys dug into his clenched fist.
He didn’t move. He stood there, frozen in the shadow of his own car, watching the elevator doors open and swallow her. The doors closed with a soft, final sigh.
The garage was empty again. But the obsession was now here, outside his apartment, breathing the same air. It had teeth. And it was no longer just in his head.
It was in the world. And it was hunting.
And it was hunting.
The walk back to his apartment was a blur of streetlights and shadows. His body felt like a tuned instrument, every nerve humming a single, discordant note. The ache in his groin was no longer just want; it was a hollow, demanding void. The glimpse of that woman in the garage had been a key turning in a rusted lock. It wasn't her. But it could have been. The possibility was a spark on dry tinder.
He shouldered through his apartment door, the click of the lock sounding far too final. The orderly silence of his minimalist space felt like a museum display of a life he no longer lived. He didn’t turn on the main lights. He moved through the dimness to the wall of windows, yanking the smart curtains closed with a harsh whisper of fabric. Darkness, complete and swallowing.
His cock was rigid, straining against his gym shorts, a painful and undeniable truth. His breath came in short, sharp pulls. The rational part of his mind—the trainer, the scheduler, the controller—was a faint, radio-distant signal. Static.
He didn’t decide. His hands moved.
The TV screen bloomed to life, a sterile blue before he navigated to the site. His fingers, usually so precise, fumbled. The search was already there in the history. Lia Lin: Sapphire Dreams. A playlist. He hit play.
The screen filled with color, with movement. There she was, but not alone. Another woman, blonde and willowy, traced a finger down Lia’s spine. Lia arched, her back a perfect bow, and laughed that same low, musical laugh. The sound bypassed his ears and went straight to his brainstem.
Thomas stood before the screen, transfixed. His hands went to the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down. The cool air did nothing. He was burning up.
From a drawer in his sleek media console—a drawer that should have held remote controls and charging cables—he retrieved the device. It was matte black, technical, a piece of engineered pleasure. A milking toy. He’d bought it on a whim months ago, used it once, and filed it away as a curiosity. Now, his hands worked with a mechanic’s efficiency, applying lubricant, strapping the rigid sheath around his throbbing length. The fit was tight, almost punishing. He connected the tube to the quiet pump unit on the floor.
His heart hammered against his ribs. A last shred of self screamed to stop.
He walked, the device awkward on him, to his bedroom. From the top shelf of his closet, behind a stack of unused shoeboxes, he took the handcuffs. They were heavy in his hands. Police surplus, purchased online during a different, darker curiosity. The timer mechanism on the central bar was digital, coldly pragmatic. He set it. Eight hours. The numbers glowed green in the dark.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the sheets still tangled from the morning. He brought his hands behind his back. The metal was shockingly cool against his wrists. He positioned one cuff, then the other. A deep, animal fear surged. This is insane.
His thumb hovered over the button on the cuff’s face.
On the TV in the other room, he heard Lia moan. It was a sound of pure, feigned ecstasy, and it severed his last tether.
He pressed the button.
A soft, digital beep. A decisive, heavy click-clack. The sound of freedom evaporating.
The reality of it crashed over him like a wave of ice water. Conscious thought, his own familiar inner voice, rushed back in a panic. What have you done? He was seated on his bed, hands locked behind him, completely vulnerable. The absurdity, the danger, the sheer lunacy of it tightened his chest. He was trapped. By his own hands.
He twisted his wrists. The cuffs bit into the bones. Solid. Unforgiving.
He tried to stand, stumbled, and fell back onto the mattress. A laugh, brittle and shaky, escaped him. This was a new low. A basement beneath the basement.
Then, on the floor by the bed, the pump unit whirred to life.
It started slow, a rhythmic suction that made his whole body jolt. Then it sped up, finding its programmatic rhythm. A relentless, mechanical tugging. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. It wasn’t pleasure. It was extraction. It was a force outside of him, pulling something fundamental from his core.
He cried out, back arching. The TV audio swelled—gasps, bedsprings, synthetic music. Lia’s voice, whispering yes, yes, yes.
He was pinned between two inexhaustible engines: the machine between his legs, milking him wildly, and the image on the screen, searing itself deeper into his psyche with each synchronized pulse. He fought for a second, muscles corded, a strangled protest in his throat. But the fight was pointless. The cuffs held. The machine sucked. Lia laughed.
His resistance shattered. His head fell back. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his chest, lost in the soundtrack of fake passion. The release, when it was wrenched from him, was convulsive, endless, and emptier than the silence in the garage. It left him shaking, hollowed out, a vessel being scraped clean.
But the machine didn’t stop. It reset. It began again.
And the timer on the cuffs, glowing green in the dark, read 7:59:48.
The horror was no longer about what he’d done. The horror, crisp and clear, was about what was to come. The next eight hours stretched before him, a terrifying corridor of forced sensation and borrowed desire, with his own helpless breath as the only clock.
The next eight hours stretched before him, a terrifying corridor of forced sensation and borrowed desire, with his own helpless breath as the only clock.
The machine did not care. It cycled. Suction, release. Suction, release. A perfect, pathetic rhythm.
After the first hour, the panic mutated into a grim, sweating endurance. His shoulders screamed. His wrists were raw. The initial violent sensitivity had dulled into a persistent, electric thrum that lived in his spine. The video played on a loop. He knew every sigh, every scripted gasp. Lia’s smile began to look less like invitation and more like predation.
He had to move. The pain in his shoulders was becoming untenable. With a groan that was mostly shame, he pushed himself sideways off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud that knocked the wind from him. The pump unit, sitting on the carpet, whirred indignantly at the jostle. He lay there for a moment, breathing in dust and despair. Then he began to worm his way backward, an injured beetle, dragging himself through the doorway and into the short hall toward the living room’s faint, flickering light.
It was a journey of inches and agony. Each movement tugged at the device still tightly fastened to him, sending fresh, unwanted shocks through his system. The synthetic material of the toy was slick with sweat and lube and spend. The pump’s tube pulled taut, then slackened with his pathetic progress.
He reached the living room rug. The coffee table corner was a dangerous monolith in his periphery. Using his heels and elbows, he pivoted, inching toward the couch. The screen dominated the space. Lia was on her knees now, the blonde’s hands in her hair. The audio was a chorus of feminine pleasure that felt like mockery.
With a final, grunting heave, he leveraged himself up and onto the couch cushions, collapsing onto his side facing the TV. The movement had been clumsy, frantic. His knee had knocked against the pump’s control panel.
A high-pitched beep.
The rhythm stuttered, then changed. The suction intensified dramatically, a sudden, voracious pull that made his entire body seize. The speed increased, the pulses coming fast and hard, a jackhammering demand. He’d bumped it. Max speed. Max suction.
“No, wait—” he gasped, but the protest was useless, spoken to an empty room and a machine without mercy.
His hips bucked, a helpless, automatic response to the brutal new tempo. On screen, the scene reached its fabricated crescendo. Lia’s head was thrown back, her throat a long, elegant line, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. The camera loved her. It worshipped every curve, every shudder.
Thomas stared, unable to blink. The mechanical assault and the visual feast synchronized into a feedback loop of pure, escalating compulsion. The pressure built, not as pleasure, but as an inevitable seismic event. His breath hitched. His toes curled against the couch fabric.
It broke over him, this time with a violence that bordered on pain. A raw, ripping climax that emptied him into the machine’s greedy tube. His back arched off the cushions, a silent scream tearing at his throat. “God—!”
The machine seemed to sense the yield. It sped up further, a victorious, relentless whirring, milking him ruthlessly through the last painful waves, demanding every drop.
As the tremors subsided, leaving him twitching and spent, his glazed eyes locked on Lia’s smiling, post-coital face on the screen. A dark, delirious thought, unspun from the core of his exhaustion, pushed past his lips on a shallow breath.
“All of it,” he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse. “All my cum is for you, Lia.”
The words hung in the air, shocking in their abject submission. A laugh, brittle and giddy, followed them. Fuck. He was wrecked. He was trapped. And a terrifying, undeniable current of excitement buzzed beneath the humiliation. The machine was already rebuilding the tension, starting its work anew. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t turn away.
He was going to cum for her all night long. He had no choice. The realization was a key turning in a rusted lock deep in his psyche. The fear didn’t vanish. It fused with something else, something darkly eager.
He sank deeper into the couch, his body a vessel for the machine’s programming and his own ruined worship. The green timer on the cuffs glowed in the dark room: 6:22:17. The video loop restarted from the beginning. Lia smiled her hello.
Thomas watched. And waited for the next extraction.
Hours bled. The cycle was a law of physics. Build, release. Empty, rebuild. The substance being pulled from him grew thinner, more transparent, but the machine’s demand did not falter. His world contracted to the couch, the screen, the gnawing ache in his shoulders, and the perpetual, rhythmic tug between his legs.
In a lull between cycles, his thirst became a louder animal than his hunger. The sink in the kitchenette was ten feet away. It might as well have been ten miles. He licked his parched lips, staring at the slender, tapering glass vase on the coffee table. It was empty, decorative. Useless.
A faint sound cut through the electronic hum and the porn audio.
A tap. Then a trickle.
His eyes, glassy with exhaustion, slid downward. From the clear output tube of the pump, where it emptied into a discreet, sealable container, a single, fat droplet of whitish fluid welled. It clung to the rim for a moment, catching the TV’s light, before falling with a soft plink into the half-full reservoir below.
His mouth was a desert. His throat burned.
The machine whirred, building toward another culmination. His body, traitorously, began to tense in anticipation. He watched the tube. Another drop formed, swelling, gathering what little he had left to give.
As the forced peak hit him, wringing out a dry, shuddering convulsion that was more pain than pleasure, a clear, insane thought crystalized. The pump was taking everything. Fluids. Salt. Water. It was leaving him hollow. It was all for her. All of it.
In the dead, dark minutes after, the thirst was a raging fire. He stared at the collection container, the liquid within shimmering palely. A broken sound escaped him, part sob, part laugh. He shifted his bound body, a painful, twisting maneuver, lowering his head toward the coffee table. His tongue, dry as paper, stretched out.
The final drop on the tube’s lip tasted of salt, and copper, and despair.
He collapsed back, a string of spit and defeat connecting his mouth to the machine. On screen, Lia traced a finger over the blonde’s collarbone. She looked directly into the camera, a knowing, intimate glance that bypassed the lens and drilled straight into Thomas’s ruined mind.
“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress in the audio.
This time, it wasn’t a line from the video. The audio track was silent. Her mouth hadn’t moved with the other sounds.
Thomas froze. The thirst, the ache, the trembling—all of it vanished under a flood of pure, glacial terror.
He stared. Lia on screen smiled her standard, looping smile, now a grotesque mask. But her eyes… Her eyes held a focus that wasn’t there before. They were looking out. Looking at.
The pump whirred, beginning its work again. He felt nothing but the cold dread soaking into his bones. The timer on the cuffs read 0:00:47. The final minute of his sentence.
The numbers ticked down. 30 seconds. 20.
With a soft, definitive clack, the cuffs released.
His arms fell to his sides, dead weight, screaming with pins and needles. He was free. He could move. He should rip the device off, smash the screen, flee this room.
He did not move.
He lay on the couch, limbs leaden, watching her. The machine continued to pump, a steady, possessive rhythm in the quiet room. He was empty. It was milking nothing. And yet it continued.
A gentle chime came from his laptop, still on the floor by the bedroom. A calendar notification. His first client was in five hours. The world, with its logic and its schedules, was tapping on the glass.
Thomas slowly, stiffly, pulled his arms in front of him. The raw, braceleted marks on his wrists were dark in the gloom. He did not look at them. He looked only at the screen, at the woman who had spoken a secret only he could hear.
His hand, trembling violently, moved of its own will. Not toward the release switch on the machine’s harness.
But toward the pump’s control panel.
His fingertip hovered over the power button.
He did not press it.
He moved it aside, and tapped the button that restarted the current program from the beginning. The suction deepened.
A sigh, ragged with defeat and something horribly like devotion, leaked from him. He settled back into the cushions, his gaze fixed on the glow.
The sun would be up soon. It didn’t matter.