Chapter 23: The Fantasy Auction
The hot water had turned tepid, then cold, but Nat remained under the stream until her teeth chattered. The physical chill was a welcome counterpoint to the feverish shame burning in her chest. She scrubbed her skin with a rough loofah until it bloomed pink, but the feeling of Erna’s taste, the memory of her own climax, seemed etched into her nerves. She dressed mechanically in clean sweats, tying her damp hair back. In the steamed mirror, her own eyes looked back—sharper, colder.
The apartment was quiet, a hollowed-out silence. She walked past Chris’s closed door, past Micha’s room where the light was off. In the living room, Lucia was curled on the futon, scrolling on her phone. She looked up, her dark eyes missing nothing.
“You look like you fought a war and lost,” Lucia said, putting her phone down.
“Something like that,” Nat muttered, sinking into the armchair.
“Was it the Erna thing? Chris said he handled it.”
Nat let out a dry, humorless laugh. “He handled it. Yeah.”
Lucia studied her friend. “You got that look. The ‘I’ve seen the darkness and now I have a plan’ look. It’s scary.”
Before Nat could answer, the front door swung open. Conzi walked in, dropping a heavy tote bag of books with a thud. Behind her, Bambi skipped in, her colorful hair a chaotic halo, followed by Annika, who gave a shy wave. The apartment began to fill, the energy shifting from hollow to charged.
Chris’s door opened. He emerged, looking refreshed, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants. His bare chest was a deliberate display. He stretched, drawing every female eye in the room—Conzi’s flickering away a second too late, Bambi’s widening with open interest, Annika’s dropping submissively, Lucia’s appreciative and knowing.
“Perfect,” Chris said, his voice filling the space. “Group meeting. Living room. Now.”
It wasn’t a request. They gathered—Lucia on the futon, Conzi perched stiffly on a wooden chair she’d dragged from the kitchen, Bambi cross-legged on the floor, Annika hovering near the doorway. Nat stayed in her armchair, an observer. Erna slipped out of her room, her movements subdued, and sat at Chris’s feet without being told. Micha’s door remained shut.
Chris didn’t sit. He stood in the center of their ragged circle, a ringmaster. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushed them down in one smooth motion, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock, already half-hard, rested heavily against his thigh.
A collective intake of breath. Conzi flushed, adjusting her glasses, her knuckles white on her knee. Bambi bit her lip, a smile playing on her face. Annika’s gaze was fixed, hungry. Lucia let out a low whistle. Nat felt a familiar, hated lurch in her stomach.
“New game,” Chris announced, his hand idly stroking his length, bringing it to full, intimidating hardness. “Confession circle. You’re all going to tell me a fantasy. The filthiest, most degrading, fucked-up thing you’ve ever dreamed about. The one you’re too scared to whisper in the dark.” He paused, letting the silence thicken. “Whoever makes me the hardest… gets this. All night. However they want it.”
The air left the room. It was a prize and a punishment rolled into one.
“Lucia,” Chris said, pointing. “Start us off. Impress me.”
Lucia, ever composed, leaned back. A sly smile touched her lips. “I want to be used as party furniture. At one of your dumb fights. I want you to bend me over the coffee table, fuck me from behind while your buddies place bets on how long I can take it. I want them to put their cigarettes out on the table an inch from my face while you’re pounding me. I want to be the ashtray, the centerpiece, the fucking prize.”
Chris’s cock twitched, thickening perceptibly. “Good. Practical. Conzi. Your turn. Let’s hear the feminist critique.”
All eyes turned to Conzi. Her jaw was tight. She hated this, hated him, hated the traitorous heat pooling between her own thighs. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I… I don’t have—”
“Bullshit,” Chris cut in, his voice soft, dangerous. “Everyone does. Especially the smart ones. The ones who think they’re above it. It’s always dirtier under the surface.”
Conzi’s composure cracked. The words spilled out, low and furious. “I want to be proven wrong. I want you to force me to my knees during my thesis presentation, in front of my whole department. I want you to pull my hair and make me recite patriarchal propaganda while you fuck my mouth. I want you to come on my notes, on my glasses, and make me present your cum as my final argument. I want everyone to see that I’m just a dumb slut who secretly loves being put in her place.”
Her chest heaved when she finished. Chris was fully erect now, a thick vein pulsing along the shaft. “Fuck, Conzi. Thesis defense. I like it.”
He turned to Bambi. The petite girl was practically vibrating. “Oh! Me! Okay, so, I want to be leashed. Like, a proper collar. And I want you to take me to that punk bar under the bridge and pass my leash to your biggest, meanest-looking friend. I want him to use me in the disgusting bathroom while you watch and tell him what to do. And then I want you to make me thank him and kiss his boots while I’m still dripping with him.”
Chris nodded, a connoisseur appreciating fine wine. “Creative. Annika.”
The pale, dark-haired girl whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want to be nothing. Just a… a thing you keep in your room. Under the bed. You just pull me out when you need a hole, any hole. You don’t even have to look at me. You can be reading, or on the phone, and just use me. And when you’re done, you just push me back under with your foot.”
A cruel smile touched Chris’s lips. He looked at Erna, nudging her with his foot. “You already won your prize. But tell us again. For the class.”
Erna looked up, her eyes glazed with devotion. “I want to be your urinal. I don’t want you to fuck me anymore. I just want you to use my mouth whenever you need to piss. Morning, night, in front of anyone. That’s all I’m for.”
Finally, his gaze landed on Nat. The room held its breath. She had been so quiet. She met his eyes, the cold certainty from the shower solidifying into a hard, clear plan.
“My turn?” she asked, her voice steady.
“Your turn, glasses,” Chris said. “Give me your best shot.”
Nat leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She didn’t look at his cock. She looked only at his face. “My fantasy isn’t about what you do to me. It’s about what I take from you.” She paused, letting the words hang. “I want you on your knees. Not metaphorically. Physically. I want you begging to fuck me, but I want you soft. I want to see the frustration in your eyes when your big, famous cock won’t work because I’m in control. I want to edge you for hours until you’re sobbing, until you promise me anything. And then, only when I’m ready, I want to ride you. And I want to look down at you and say, ‘This is mine now. You’re just the thing I sit on.’ And I want to come so hard I break you.”
The room was deathly silent. Chris’s expression had shifted from amusement to something darker, more intense. A challenge. His cock, however, remained rock-solid, throbbing. The confession of outright domination, of breaking him, had paradoxically ignited him.
He looked around the circle of flushed, expectant faces. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes passing over each one. “Conzi,” he finally said.
Conzi flinched as if struck.
“Your fantasy was the most authentic. The conflict. The humiliation of your own ideals.” He gestured with his cock. “You win. Come here.”
Conzi stood on shaky legs. The feminist texts in her tote bag seemed to glare in accusation. She walked to the center of the circle. Chris didn’t touch her yet. “On your knees. Recite it.”
Tears of shame welled in her eyes, but a powerful, awful excitement overwhelmed her. She sank to her knees before him, the rough carpet biting her skin. She looked up at his massive erection, so close she could feel its heat.
“I-I want you to force me to my knees during my thesis presentation…” she began, her voice trembling.
“Louder,” Chris commanded.
She spoke up, the filthy words echoing in the silent living room. As she spoke, Chris grasped her by her short blonde hair and guided his cock to her lips. “…and make me recite patriarchal propaganda while you fuck my mouth!”
He shoved himself inside, cutting off her words with a gagging choke. He didn’t start slow. He set a brutal, face-fucking pace, his hips pistoning, driving his length deep into her throat. Conzi’s glasses skewed sideways. She gagged and sputtered, tears streaming down her face, but her hands came up to grip his thighs, not to push away, but to hold on.
The other women watched, rapt. Bambi had her hand between her own legs, rubbing frantically over her jeans. Lucia watched with dark, approving eyes. Erna looked on with jealous hunger. Annika mimicked Conzi’s mouth movements with her own. Nat watched, her heart a cold, hard stone in her chest. She saw the exact moment Conzi’s shame broke and transformed into pure, abject submission. Her body went limp, then pliant, accepting the violation as her due.
Chris fucked her mouth with a relentless, rhythmic force, his gaze sweeping over his audience. “See? This is her truth. All the books, all the words… just noise. This is what she is.”
He pulled out, a string of saliva connecting his glistening crown to Conzi’s swollen lips. She gasped for air, coughing. “Now,” he growled, turning her roughly onto her hands and knees. He ripped her modest trousers and panties down in one violent pull. He spat onto his hand, slicked himself, and without any further preparation, drove into her from behind.
Conzi screamed—a raw, shattered sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure. She was tight, unprepared, and he filled her with a single, tearing thrust. He set a punishing rhythm, each slam jolting her body forward. Her thesis, her arguments, her entire worldview evaporated under the brutal, physical reality of being taken by the very archetype she despised.
“You love it, you hypocrite cunt!” Chris grunted, pounding into her. “Tell them you love it!”
“I love it!” Conzi sobbed, the confession torn from her. “I’m a dumb slut! I love your cock! I’m nothing!”
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough circles. Her screams climbed in pitch, morphing into shrieks of orgasm as her body betrayed everything she claimed to believe. Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep roar, he emptied himself inside her, his grip on her hipbones sure to leave bruises.
He pulled out, leaving her collapsed on the floor, trembling, filled, utterly broken. He stepped over her, picking up his sweatpants.
“Good game,” he said to the room, as if commenting on the weather. He looked at Nat last, holding her cold gaze. “Interesting fantasy, Nat. Maybe we’ll play yours next time.”
He walked back to his room, closing the door.
The living room was a tableau of aftermath. Conzi wept quietly into the carpet. Bambi helped her up, leading her to the bathroom. The others slowly dispersed, lost in their own private storms.
Nat remained in her chair. She hadn’t won the prize. But she had done something more important. She had seen the blueprint. He was stimulated by the challenge, by the threat of being overthrown. Her path was clear now. To beat him, she would have to become the ultimate contestant. She would have to learn to want his destruction more than she wanted his approval, and make him crave the knife she held.
She stood, walking past Conzi’s discarded books. She picked one up, a heavy volume on gender theory, and dropped it into the trash. The thud it made was satisfying. The real education, she understood now, was happening outside its pages. And she was finally ready to be a star student.