Chapter 14: Cookie's Ass Smother
Three days later, the phantom ache in Chris’s balls had settled into a constant, low-grade throb. The memory of the committee’s laughter was a raw scrape on his psyche. When his laptop chimed with a video call request, his stomach clenched. It wasn’t Samantha’s designated ringtone. It was a generic, unknown ID.
He answered.
Cookie’s face filled the screen. She was in a dim dorm room, the blue glow of her own screen the primary light. She wasn’t smiling. Her expression was one of cool, appraising curiosity.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was lighter than Samantha’s, but it carried an edge of ownership. “Samantha said I could have a private session. You remember me, right?”
“Yes,” Chris said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Cookie.”
“Mhm. The ass.” She said it as a simple fact. “Samantha’s busy. So you’re mine for the next twenty minutes. Strip. I want to see if you’re as hard for me as you were for the group.”
Chris stood, his movements stiff. He peeled off his t-shirt and sweatpants, letting them pool on the floor. His cock, traitorous and conditioned, was already half-hard, stirring at the sound of her voice, at the memory of her description—smother you with it.
“All the way,” Cookie commanded, leaning closer to her camera. “Hands on your head. Let me look at you.”
He complied, interlocking his fingers atop his skull. The air in his apartment was cool on his skin, raising goosebumps. His cock filled out completely under her silent scrutiny, bobbing heavily, already glistening at the tip.
“Wow,” she breathed, a flicker of genuine awe breaking through her controlled demeanor. “Noa wasn’t exaggerating. It’s a fucking beast.” She bit her lip, her eyes tracing its length. “Okay. Kneel.”
He lowered himself to his knees, the hardwood unforgiving. He kept his hands laced on his head.
“Now,” Cookie said, pushing back from her desk. She stood up, and the camera captured her full form. She was wearing only a thin, black thong. The fabric was a mere whisper against the majestic swell of her hips, a precarious bridge swallowed by the breathtaking expanse of her ass. It was a perfect, round, heavy curve that dominated the screen. She turned slowly, giving him a full profile, then presented her back to him. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression now smug.
“This is what you wanted a better look at, isn’t it? When I was talking about sitting on your face?” She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her thong and pulled it down her thighs with a deliberate slowness. The fabric snagged, then released, revealing the full, pale moons of her cheeks and the dark, wet glimpse of her cunt between them.
She bent forward, placing her hands on her bed frame, and arched her back. The view was explicit, obscene, and mesmerizing. Her pussy lips, puffy and glistening, were parted. A thin sheen of arousal coated her inner folds.
“Look at that,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. “Getting wet just thinking about ruining you. Put your hands down. Start stroking. Use your precum. Make it messy.”
Chris’s arms fell, numb. His right hand wrapped around his cock, and a shudder of electric relief-pain shot through him. The slick head slid through his fist. He began a slow, tight rhythm.
“Faster,” Cookie ordered, her head still turned to watch him on her screen. She began to grind her hips slowly against nothing, the powerful muscles of her ass clenching and relaxing. “Imagine this is your face. I’m just lowering myself onto it. You can’t breathe. All you can taste is me. My ass is smushing your nose, my pussy is dripping all over your chin.”
Chris groaned, his strokes becoming jerky. The visual was too potent. Her massive, gorgeous ass dominating his screen, her wet cunt on display, her filthy narration—it short-circuited his higher brain. Pleasure, hot and urgent, began to coil tightly at the base of his spine.
“I can hear you,” she taunted. “You sound like a dying animal. You want to cum so bad. Get right to the edge. I want you to feel your balls climb up and then just stop.”
He obeyed, driving himself ruthlessly. His thighs trembled. His breath came in sharp gasps. The feeling built, a tsunami contained within skin. He was there, poised on the precipice, the world narrowing to the sensation in his fist and the image on the screen.
“Stop!” Cookie barked.
He froze, his whole body locking. A pained whine escaped his clenched teeth. The orgasm receded, leaving a throbbing, agonizing void.
Cookie straightened up and turned around, settling back into her chair. She wasn’t pretending to be aroused anymore. She looked calm, scientific. She propped her feet up on her desk, her bare pussy still exposed, a casual display of power.
“Again,” she said, sipping from a water bottle. “Do it again.”
Tears of frustration welled in Chris’s eyes. He began stroking his over-sensitized cock again. Each pass was a fresh torture. The second edge built quicker, a jagged spike of need.
“Stop.”
He choked, doubling over, his free hand slapping the floor for balance.
“You’re disgusting,” Cookie observed, her tone flat. “Look at you. Dripping like a broken faucet and begging with your whole body. One more time. The last one. Make it good.”
Shaking violently, Chris took himself in hand. The skin felt raw. His cock was a rigid, purple-thickened instrument of pure agony. He stroked, sobbing openly now, the sounds ugly and raw. He teetered on the brink for a solid ten seconds, his body convulsing with the effort of containment.
Cookie watched, her chin in her hand. She let him hang there, his eyes pleading silently.
“Stop,” she said, finally, no inflection in her voice.
This time, the denial was a physical blow. He dry-heaved, collapsing onto his side, curling around his aching groin. His cock twitched, spitting a final, pathetic dribble of clear fluid onto the floor—not cum, just the exhausted seepage of a ruined system.
Cookie leaned forward, peering at the damp spot on his floor. A slow, cruel smile spread across her face. “Look at that pathetic drip. That’s all you’ve got? After all that?” She shook her head, pulling her thong back up with a snap. “No wonder Samantha keeps you in a cage. You’re just a leaky piece of meat.”
She reached for her mouse.
“I’ll tell the committee you performed okay. Maybe Nat will want her turn next. She seemed really interested.”
She ended the call.
The silence in Chris’s apartment was absolute, broken only by his ragged, broken breaths. The blue light from his laptop screen cast his crumpled form into sharp relief—a knight felled not in battle, but in obedient, degrading sacrifice. The scent of his own sweat and desperation filled the air. He did not move. He simply lay there, hollowed out, the vivid, hungry ghost of Cookie’s ass burned permanently onto the backs of his eyelids.