Chapter 7: Conzi's Lunchtime Tease
The fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped insects. Chris stared at his computer screen, the lines of code blurring into a grey, meaningless swarm. His body felt both heavy and hollow, a vessel still vibrating from the brutal symphony of Noa’s morning call. Every movement in the office—a chair rolling, a colleague laughing—felt like an assault on his ragged nerves. The persistent, dull ache between his legs was a compass needle, pointing only toward his own humiliation.
His phone, face-down on the desk, shuddered again.
Not a call. A video request. The caller ID: Conzi.
A new kind of tension, cold and sharp, cut through the fog. Conzi was different. Not a wild spirit like Noa. She was a strategist. He’d met her once, her handshake firm, her eyes behind stylish glasses assessing him with a quiet, unnerving judgment. Samantha called her a ‘pragmatic feminist.’ Chris remembered the way she’d looked at his hands, as if estimating their utility, or their capacity for harm.
He grabbed his wireless earbuds, fumbling them in, and accepted the call. He angled the phone screen so it was mostly shielded by his monitor.
Conzi’s face appeared. She was in a bright, modern kitchen. Her short blonde hair was tousled, as if she’d been running her hands through it. She wore thick-framed glasses and, as the camera panned down momentarily, a simple, clean apron tied at her neck and waist. Nothing else. The swell of her breasts, the dark shadow of nipples against the white fabric, was clearly visible.
“Chris,” she said. Her voice was calm, lower than he remembered. Not teasing. Observational. “I’m making lunch. A salad. But my mind keeps wandering. To a certain problem. A persistent, masculine problem.”
She turned, picking up a tomato from a wooden cutting board. As she bent to place it in a bowl on a low counter, the apron gaped, giving him a full, unflinching view of her bare breasts hanging down, then the firm, rounded curve of her ass as she bent over. The view was deliberate, surgical in its exposure.
She straightened, facing the camera again, a paring knife in her hand. “Samantha says you’re being trained. That your… biology… is a test of commitment. I find the concept fascinating. The idea of such a primal, stupid function being denied. Show me the problem. Right now.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an instruction from a lab director.
His mouth was dry. He glanced around. The cubicle walls felt paper-thin. He slowly slid his chair back, the wheels squeaking, and cupped the phone under the desk. With his other hand, he unzipped his slacks. The relief of pressure was instantaneous and agonizing. His cock sprang free, thick and violently erect, the purple head gleaming wet in the sterile office light. He angled the camera.
Conzi leaned closer to her screen. She was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crisp snick of the knife as she began slicing the tomato. “Hmm,” she finally murmured. “It does look… burdensome. Impressive, in a primitive way. Like a dog that’s too big for the apartment. All that potential energy, with no outlet.” She crunched into a slice of tomato. “You must be in discomfort.”
“Yes,” Chris whispered.
“Do you want to touch it?”
He hesitated. “Samantha said…”
“I’m asking what you want,” Conzi interrupted, her tone sharpening. “Strip away the obedience for a second. The biological imperative. Do you want to wrap your fist around that pathetic thing and jerk it until it screams?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Of course you do. It’s what you’re built for. Short, selfish bursts of pleasure. Prove it. Show me how badly you want it. Get right to the edge. Don’t you dare finish.”
Her command, delivered in that cool, analytical tone, was more devastating than Noa’s playful filth. He wrapped his hand around his shaft. The skin was fever-hot, hypersensitive. He began to stroke, a slow, tight rhythm he knew too well. His eyes squeezed shut, but he forced them open, watching her watch him. She ate another tomato slice, her gaze fixed on the small screen, her expression one of detached curiosity.
The climb was shockingly fast. His body, brutalized and starved, grabbed at the sensation like a dying man at water. His breath came in short, sharp hitches. The printer in the distance whirred to life, a mechanical counterpoint to his silent struggle. The coil in his groin wound tighter, a spring compressing to its absolute limit.
“I can see it,” Conzi said. “Your jaw is tight. Your pupils are huge. You’re there, aren’t you? Hold it.”
He froze, his whole body locking. A pained gasp escaped his lips. The orgasm vibrated through him, a seismic event with no release, tearing through his nerves and leaving them frayed and sparking. He trembled violently, his knuckles white on the desk edge.
Conzi nodded, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. “Fascinating. The physiological response without the culmination. A perfect little frustrated feedback loop. Do it again.”
“Conzi, I can’t, I…”
“You can,” she stated simply. “You will. I want to see what breaks first. Your body or your mind. Stroke.”
Her cold authority left no room for pleading. He obeyed, his hand moving again, the motion now rougher, more desperate. The sensation was a blade—sharp, bright pain mixed with unsustainable pleasure. He was so close, so perpetually close, that a single full stroke would have sent him over. He hovered there, in that exquisite hell, for what felt like minutes, his every muscle corded with the effort of stillness.
Conzi put down her knife. She untied the apron at her neck, let it fall forward. She wasn’t playing. She was conducting an experiment. Her hands went to her breasts, squeezing them, her thumbs brushing over her nipples. “This is what you’ll never have,” she said, her voice gaining a slight, breathy edge. “This cunt is mine. And men like you, with your dumb, begging cocks, don’t get access. You get to sit in your little box and stroke yourself like a animal for my amusement. Now edge. Give me that pathetic little shudder.”
The second rupture was quieter, deeper. A internal detonation that blurred his vision. A tear, hot and shameful, traced a path down his temple into his hairline. A small, choked sound, almost a sob, escaped him. He went limp in his chair, utterly spent, yet his cock remained, a rigid, throbbing monument to its own futility.
Conzi watched him crumble. She inhaled sharply. “Good,” she whispered, her own composure finally cracking, revealing a glint of something dark and hungry beneath. “That was very good.”
She pulled her apron back on, retying it with efficient tugs. She looked into the camera, her gaze piercing through the lens. “Don’t you dare cum, loser. Not unless she says you can. Remember that. You’re a thing. A useful, frustrating thing.”
The call ended.
Chris sat in the humming silence. Slowly, mechanically, he tucked himself away, zipping his slacks over the unbearable pressure. He placed his phone back on the desk, screen down. He put his hands flat on the keyboard, but they shook too badly to type.
The workday stretched before him, an endless desert. He was a ghost in the machine, a shell of a man holding a secret torment in his pants, the taste of tomato and Conzi’s cold, intellectual contempt forever spliced into the memory of his own unraveling. The problem, as she had called it, remained. Unsolved. Throbbing. His.