Chapter 15: The Party Begins
The party’s noise was a living thing, a warm, shrieking beast that filled Samantha’s apartment, but in the corner by the fairy-lit window, Chris existed in a bubble of sterile silence. He knelt on a coarse wool rug, his naked skin prickling. The golden lights strung above painted his submission in a soft, mocking glow. He was the exhibit. His huge, already-hard cock, a grotesque tribute to the past week of denial, lay heavy against his thigh. Precum welled sluggishly from the tip, tracing a damp path on his skin.
Samantha perched on the arm of the sofa, a queen observing her court. Her friends were arranged around the room like jewels—Cookie and Noa sharing a bottle of wine on the floor, Conzi and Anna in serious conversation on the loveseat, Julika and Annika giggling by the bookshelf. Nat sat a little apart, her glasses reflecting the laptop screen where Chris’s image was mirrored for those without a direct view. Sophia leaned against the doorframe, a faint, analytical smile on her lips. Bambi knelt at Samantha’s feet, her head resting on her Mistress’s knee.
“Everyone,” Samantha said, and the chatter died. All eyes turned to her, then slid to him. “You’ve all heard the stories. You’ve seen snippets. Tonight, he’s not mine. He’s ours. A toy. A desperate, leaking toy.” She snapped her fingers. “Bambi. Show them how we start.”
Bambi bounced up, her alternative pigtails swaying. She strode over to Chris, her eyes glittering with malicious joy. She placed a chunky boot on the rug between his splayed knees, then slowly lifted it to rest on his shoulder, pushing down until he grunted. “Look at him,” she announced to the room. “Already dripping for us. Pathetic.” She leaned down, her face close to his. “You want to lick my boot clean, slave? Beg for it.”
Chris’s throat was dust. He saw Samantha’s slight, imperious nod. “Please,” he croaked. “Please, let me lick your boot.”
Bambi laughed, a high, tinkling sound. She shoved the toe of her boot against his lips. “Do it. Get it shiny.”
The taste of rubber and street grit coated his tongue. He licked in long, obedient stripes, humiliation burning hotter than any desire. The girls watched, some sipping their drinks, others leaning forward.
“Enough,” Samantha said. “Cookie. You had a taste before. You want the full experience?”
Cookie uncoiled herself from the floor. “Hell yes.” She walked over, her massive ass swaying hypnotically. She stopped before Chris, her back to him, and looked over her shoulder. “Remember this view? You’re going to worship it until I’m bored.” She didn’t bend over. She simply lowered herself, spreading her legs, and sat directly onto his upturned face.
The world vanished into overwhelming, suffocating softness. The immense, perfect weight of her cheeks smothered his nose and mouth. He could feel the heat of her through his skin, the dampness of her thong against his forehead. The musky, sweet scent of her arousal filled his deprived senses. He instinctively tried to turn his head for air.
“Don’t you dare!” Cookie commanded, grinding her hips in a slow, circular motion. “You breathe when I let you. Now, eat me out through my fucking panties.”
He opened his mouth, the fabric of her thong scraping his tongue. He licked and sucked at the wet patch, seeking the shape of her lips beneath. Her moan vibrated through his skull. “Yeah, like that, you desperate fuck-pig.” She rose up slightly, yanking the thong to the side, and dropped back down.
Now his mouth was filled with bare, slick flesh. Her pussy lips met his lips directly. He tasted her, salt and musk, and drove his tongue inside her. The room erupted in cheers and laughter.
“Oh my god, look at his legs shaking!” Annika squealed.
“Get in there, Cookie, smother him!” Noa yelled.
Cookie rode his face with increasing vigor, her hands braced on her own knees. “You’re gonna… fucking… drown in it,” she grunted, each word a punch. He was gagging, starved for air, his tongue working frantically to please her, to earn a gasp of oxygen. She came suddenly, a sharp cry tearing from her throat, her whole body clenching around his mouth. A flood of her release coated his chin. She shoved herself off him, leaving him heaving, dripping with her juices, his vision spotted with black.
“Disgusting,” Conzi said, but she was smiling. She stood up. “My turn. Feminist re-education.” She walked over and stood before him, looking down with cold contempt. “You have a weapon between your legs men have used to dominate for centuries. Tonight, we dominate it.” She nodded to Annika and Noa. “Make him edge. I want to see that weapon spasm uselessly.”
Annika skipped over, her petite frame a contrast to Cookie’s lushness. “I’ll go first!” She knelt, her small, pale hands looking childish as they wrapped around the thick base of his cock. She began to stroke, fast and erratic. “It’s so big and stupid,” she giggled, twisting her hand over the swollen head. “Look at it, throbbing. You wanna cum, don’t you? You wanna wreck my little hands with your giant load?”
The feeling was intolerable. After days of denial, after Cookie’s suffocating ride, the direct friction was blinding. He hissed, his hips twitching.
“Stop,” Conzi said.
Annika released him instantly. Chris groaned, his cock jerking in the air.
Noa took her place. Her technique was slower, more deliberate. She used both hands, slicking him up with his own copious precum, milking him from root to tip with a knowing rhythm. “Remember me, Chris?” she whispered. “Remember how I talked about this while you were locked up? It’s even hotter in person.” She thumbed his slit, spreading the leaking fluid. He was hurtling toward the edge again, a tight, screaming coil about to snap.
“Stop,” Conzi commanded.
Noa let go. A strangled sob broke from Chris’s chest. Tears cut clean tracks through the shine of Cookie’s arousal on his face.
“Again,” Conzi said.
They alternated, a brutal, seamless relay of torment. Annika’s bratty, quick tugs. Noa’s sensual, deep pulls. Each time, the edge drew closer, sharper, more violent. Each time, Conzi’s flat “Stop” yanked him back into a hell of unfinished release. His body was a map of trembling failure. His cock was a dark, veined monument to agony, leaking a constant stream of clear fluid that pooled on the rug beneath him.
“He’s a fountain,” Sophia observed from the doorway, her voice amused.
Nat finally stood, drawn from her quiet corner. She approached, knelt beside his hip, and just stared. She reached out a single finger and touched the underside of his cock, tracing a prominent vein. “It’s… it’s really magnificent,” she said, mostly to herself. A betraying flush crept up her neck. “To have this and never be allowed to use it. It’s perfect.” She looked at Samantha. “Can I?”
“Of course,” Samantha purred. “He’s yours right now.”
Nat’s hands were gentle, scholarly. She explored him, measuring his girth with her fingers, weighing his balls in her palm. Then she formed a tight ring with her thumb and forefinger just below the head and began to stroke with minimal, exquisite pressure. It was the most devastating touch yet. It wasn’t about her pleasure; it was a clinical, fascinated examination of his breaking point. He whimpered, his entire world shrinking to that one constricting ring of flesh.
“Please,” he begged, the word mangled and wet. “Please, I can’t…”
“Stop,” Nat said softly, removing her hand.
He screamed. It was a raw, animal sound of pure structural failure. He collapsed forward onto his hands, his body convulsing with dry heaves, his untouched cock pulsing madly, ejecting another futile string of precum onto the wool.
A collective sigh of satisfaction went through the room. Wine glasses were refilled.
Samantha finally rose. She walked to him, placing a hand on his sweat-slick back. He flinched. “Look at you,” she said, her voice brimming with possessive pride. “Covered in their marks. My beautiful, broken toy.” She addressed her friends. “How did he perform?”
“Adequate,” Conzi said.
“Entertaining,” Sophia added.
“Better than my boyfriend,” Nat murmured, earning a few laughs.
Cookie just smirked, wiping herself with a tissue. “He’s a good breather.”
“Good,” Samantha said. She nudged Chris with her foot. “Crawl to the bathroom. Clean yourself up. You’re not to touch yourself. You’re not to cum. The cage awaits when you get home. This,” she said, gesturing to the room, the watching women, the damp spot on the rug, “this is just what you are now. Our communal thing.”
He moved, a slow, broken crawl across the floor, past the forest of their legs and indifferent eyes. The party’s conversation resumed behind him, a wave of laughter and clinking glasses that washed over his nakedness, sealing his new reality into place. He was no longer just Samantha’s. He was theirs. A fact, an appliance. And the deep, hollow ache in his groin was the only proof he had ever been a man at all.