Chapter 1: Bambi's Jealous Tease
Samantha’s living room was a carefully staged shrine to her dominance. Velvet drapes, the color of a fresh bruise, framed the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the couch. In its reflection, every twitch was visible. The coffee table held the artifacts of her evening: two empty wine glasses, a third still half-full, and a glossy stack of gossip magazines. The central object was a single remote control, its volume dial turned all the way up.
On the laptop screen, Chris’s face was a study in strained devotion. He knelt on what looked like a hard floor, his breathing shallow, his eyes locked on the camera. He’d been like that for twenty minutes. Samantha loved the digital leash, the miles between them meaning nothing.
“Tell me again, baby,” Samantha said, her voice a smooth, melodic purr. She took a slow sip of Pinot Noir.
On screen, Chris swallowed. “I am two weeks denied, Mistress. I have not come. I have not touched myself without your explicit permission.”
“Good boy.” She let the praise hang, watching his shoulders relax for a fraction of a second before she tightened the screw. “But you thought about it, didn’t you? Tuesday night. You were bored.”
A faint flush crept up his neck. “I… I did. I’m sorry.”
“You will be.” She smiled, then patted the cushion beside her. “Bambi. Come.”
From the periphery, a petite figure emerged. Bambi, her hair a chaotic masterpiece of pastel pink and blue waves, padded silently on bare feet. A constellation of tattoos decorated her arms and the sliver of her thigh visible beneath her short, black skirt. She lowered herself onto the couch not as a person sitting, but as a devotee assuming a position. She settled, back straight, and then laid her head carefully in Samantha’s lap.
Samantha’s fingers immediately slid into the colorful strands, scratching Bambi’s scalp in long, firm strokes. Bambi’s eyes fluttered closed, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaping her lips.
Chris’s jaw tightened. Samantha saw it in the mirror’s reflection of the screen.
“Bambi had a difficult day,” Samantha narrated, her eyes on Chris. “Her sociology professor is an ass. So I told her she could have a little treat when she got home.” Her hand left Bambi’s hair and trailed down, coming to rest on the bare skin of her slave’s thigh. “Didn’t I, sweetheart?”
Bambi nodded, nuzzling into Samantha’s leg. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”
“What was the treat?” Samantha asked, though she was looking directly at Chris.
Bambi turned her head, just enough to flash a grin at the laptop camera. It was a wicked, knowing little smile. “I got to come, Mistress. Twice.”
The air in the room shifted. Chris’s controlled breathing hitched. His eyes, wide and dark, dropped from Samantha’s face for a split second—to where her hand rested on Bambi’s skin—before snapping back up, filled with a desperate kind of hunger.
“Look at her, Chris,” Samantha commanded, her voice dropping to a whisper that the laptop microphone greedily captured. “She’s so pretty when she’s happy. So obedient. She asks so nicely for what she wants, and she’s so grateful when she gets it.” She leaned down, her lips close to Bambi’s ear, but her words were for Chris. “She can touch herself whenever she wants this week. My gift to her.”
Bambi preened, arching her back like a cat under the praise. She even let out a soft, deliberate moan, her eyes locked on Chris’s pixelated face, challenging him.
Chris was stone-still, except for a muscle jumping in his jaw. The physical distance was a cruel joke. He was right there, yet infinitely far away.
“That’s not fair,” he breathed, the words escaping before he could cage them.
The room went silent. Bambi’s teasing smile vanished, replaced by wide-eyed anticipation. Samantha’s own smile didn’t falter; it crystallized.
“What was that?” she asked, her tone lethally soft.
Chris lowered his gaze. “Nothing, Mistress. I spoke out of turn.”
“You think my decisions regarding my slave are unfair?” She emphasized the word, making it sound petty and childish.
“No, Mistress. Forgive me.”
Samantha let him sweat for five long seconds, her fingers tracing idle patterns on Bambi’s leg. “You’re jealous,” she concluded, not unkindly. “That’s cute. It’s also irrelevant. Her service is perfect. Yours is… conditional. You’re there, I’m here. You think I don’t know what you get up to?” She leaned forward, filling his screen. “The rules exist for a reason. You ask. You beg. Or you get nothing.”
Bambi, seizing the moment, shifted. She turned onto her side, facing the camera fully, and draped herself more possessively across Samantha. She placed a small, deliberate kiss on Samantha’s stomach, right above the hem of her silk top. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and triumphant, stayed on Chris.
“She’s showing off for you,” Samantha chuckled, running a thumb over Bambi’s lower lip. “She loves it when you watch. She loves knowing she’s the good girl in the room.”
Chris said nothing. The raw want on his face was more eloquent than any plea.
Samantha decided to offer a crumb. A poisoned one. “Do you want to see what a good girl looks like when she’s rewarded, Chris? Since you’re so interested in fairness?”
He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Yes, Mistress. Please.”
“Bambi. Show him.”
Bambi didn’t need a second command. She slid gracefully from the couch to her knees on the plush rug, positioning herself between Samantha and the laptop. She kept her gaze on Samantha, a portrait of submission, as her hands began a slow, practiced journey up her own body. It was a performance, and Chris was the captive audience.
Samantha watched him watch. His agony was exquisite. The denial, the jealousy, the helpless obedience—it was a cocktail she’d mixed just for him. Bambi’s soft sounds were the soundtrack.
Just as Bambi’s rhythm began to build, her breath catching, Samantha held up a single finger.
Bambi froze instantly, hands trembling mid-air, a whimper trapped in her throat.
“Stop,” Samantha said, her voice cutting through the tension. She addressed the screen. “That’s all you get, Chris. A preview. Because you forgot your place. You questioned me.” She settled back into the velvet cushions, a queen on her throne. “Now you’re going to watch her finish, and you’re going to tell her how beautiful she is. You’re going to encourage my slave. And when she’s done, you’re going to ask me, very very nicely, if you may be allowed to edge yourself. Just once. For being so supportive of us.”
The cruelty of the instruction was perfect. Chris’s face went pale, then flushed again. To praise another woman, to facilitate her pleasure while locked in his own desperate need—it was a brutal refinement of his training.
Bambi looked up at Samantha, her eyes glazed with need and devotion. “Please, Mistress?” she whispered.
Samantha nodded. “Go on, sweetheart. He’s all yours.”
As Bambi turned her fervent attention back to herself, her moans now pointedly aimed at the man on the screen, Samantha brought her wine glass to her lips. She watched the two of them—one present and performing, one remote and breaking—and felt a warm, profound satisfaction. This was control. This was her art.
Chris’s voice, hoarse and defeated, finally came through the speakers. “You look… beautiful, Bambi.”
Samantha smiled. The game was on. And she had already won.
And she had already won.
The only sound in the room was Bambi’s sharp inhale and the faint rustle of fabric. She didn’t look at the laptop anymore. Her world had narrowed to the space between her own body and Samantha’s approving gaze. Her fingers, tipped in chipped black polish, trembled slightly as they dipped beneath the waistband of her skirt. She closed her eyes.
A ragged exhale crackled from the laptop speaker. Chris was holding his breath.
Bambi’s touch was not performative now. It was private, ritualistic, even as she knelt on a public stage. Her other hand came up, palm sliding over the bare skin of her stomach, tracing the lines of a intricate snake tattoo that coiled around her ribs. Her back arched, a slow, taut curve that made the chains on her harness glitter in the low light.
Samantha watched it all with a connoisseur’s calm. She took another slow sip of wine, the liquid dark as blood in her glass. “Talk to her, Chris,” she murmured, not asking. “Tell her what you see.”
On screen, Chris’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His voice when it came was stripped raw. “I see… her hand moving. Under her clothes. I see her hips pushing into her own touch.”
“And?” Samantha prompted, swirling the wine.
“And she’s… she’s getting wet. For you. Because you let her.” The words sounded torn out of him.
A soft, shuddering moan escaped Bambi’s lips. Her knees pressed together, then parted. The skirt rucked up higher. Her movements became less tentative, more urgent, a steady, focused rhythm. Her breath hitched in time with the motion of her wrist.
“She’s close already, isn’t she?” Samantha observed clinically. “Such a greedy little thing. Two orgasms today and she melts this fast for a third. Do you feel that, Chris? That urgency? That’s what you’re not allowed to have.”
“Mistress, I—” Chris began, a plea forming.
“Shhh,” Samantha silenced him. “You’re narrating. You’re not participating. What’s she doing now?”
Bambi’s free hand fisted in the plush rug, her knuckles white. A flush spread from her chest up her throat. She bit down on her lower lip, hard, to stifle a cry.
“She’s… her fingers are moving faster,” Chris ground out, each word an effort. “Her thighs are shaking. She’s going to come. Any second.”
“Bambi,” Samantha said, her voice dropping to a velvet command. “Look at him. Look at Chris while you do it.”
Bambi’s eyes flew open, glassy and unfocused. With a monumental effort, she turned her head towards the laptop camera. Her gaze was sheer, unadulterated triumph. She locked onto Chris’s pixelated, agonized expression as the tension in her body snapped.
She came with a silent, open-mouthed gasp, her body bowing forward then collapsing into a shuddering heap on the rug. The only sound was her ragged breathing, gradually slowing.
The aftermath was a thick, charged silence. Bambi lay spent, a small, satisfied smile on her face. Chris looked hollowed out, a shell of want.
Samantha set her glass down with a soft click. “Beautiful,” she said, to both of them. Then she leaned forward, her face filling Chris’s screen once more. “Now. What was it you wanted to ask me?”
Chris’s eyes were bleak. He swallowed. “Mistress Samantha… may I… may I please be allowed to edge myself? Just once?”
Samantha let the question hang, savoring the decay of his dignity. She glanced at Bambi, who was now curled on her side watching, a lazy cat with a full belly.
“No,” Samantha said, simple and final.
The word hung in the air, cruel and absolute.
Chris’s composure fissured. “But— you said—!”
“I said you were going to ask,” Samantha corrected, her tone turning chilly. “I never said I’d say yes. You questioned my fairness. You get nothing. You will thank Bambi for her show, and you will log off, and you will go to bed. Alone. And you will not touch yourself. Do you understand?”
The fight drained from him instantly, replaced by a slump of resignation. His “Yes, Mistress” was a ghost of a sound.
“Good. Bambi, darling, come here. You’ve earned your cuddles.”
As Bambi scrambled onto the couch, tucking herself under Samantha’s arm, Samantha gave the screen one last, dismissive smile. “Goodnight, Chris.”
Her finger hovered over the trackpad.
“Thank you, Bambi,” Chris whispered, the words utterly hollow.
Samantha clicked the red ‘end call’ button. His frozen, devastated face vanished, replaced by her own desktop wallpaper.
Silence, real and deep, settled over the velvety room. Bambi nuzzled into her side. “He sounded really broken at the end,” she murmured, not without a hint of pity.
Samantha stroked her hair, staring at the blank screen. A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of something—not doubt, never that—but a calculation, passed behind her eyes. It was one thing to have a pet on a leash. It was another to hear the leash strain to its absolute limit.
“I know,” Samantha said softly, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow’s game, the next twist of the screw. “Wasn’t it perfect?”