Chapter 7: Remote Control
The pasta was too rich. The wine tasted like vinegar. Sarah’s laugh, usually a sound that warmed me, felt like it was coming from another room. For two weeks, I moved through my life as a ghost. I cancelled my gym membership. I deleted Stu’s number, though the digits were seared into my memory anyway. I told Sarah work was insane, which was true; staring at spreadsheets felt easier than facing the mirror in our bathroom. My own reflection felt like a lie.
Sleep was the worst. The moment my body relaxed, the memories would flood back with crystalline, humiliating clarity: the hum of the chair, the cold approval in his eyes, the feel of his swallowing throat. I’d wake up hard and aching, furious at my own betrayal. Then the hollowness would follow. Not just emotional, but a physical depletion that made my limbs feel heavy, my workouts at a generic, fluorescent-lit box gym pointless and weak. I missed my old strength. I missed the focused clarity of a hard session. I hated that I missed him.
The package arrived on a Tuesday. A plain, matte black box, no bigger than a shoebox, left on my apartment’s doorstep. No return address. The label was just my name and address printed in a clean, generic font. Inside, nestled in grey foam, was a sleek black silicone sleeve. It was about eight inches long, ribbed internally, with a subtle, tapered shape. It looked like a high-end, discreet sex toy. There were no buttons, no instructions. Just the object, cool and heavy in my hand. At the very bottom of the box, under the foam, was a small, unmarked black charging plug.
My heart stalled. Then it began to pound, a sick, rhythmic thud against my ribs.
I knew. Instantly, in my gut, I knew. The design language was identical to "The Chair"—that same techy, minimalist black aesthetic. This wasn’t from some random online retailer. It was a message. A summons.
For three hours, I left the box on my kitchen counter. I made coffee. I scrolled my phone. I tried to ignore the low-grade hum of terror—and worse, anticipation—building in my blood. Finally, driven by a mix of dread and a furious need to know, I plugged the thing in. A single, tiny LED glowed a faint, breathing blue near what I assumed was the base.
I picked it up. The silicone was supple, cool. I pressed the LED.
It came to life with a deep, familiar thrum. The vibration wasn’t a surface buzz. It was that same profound, resonant frequency I felt in the chair, the one that seemed to originate in my bones and radiate outward. It pulsed once, slow and sonorous, then settled into a low idle.
My breath hitched. My body recognized it before my mind could protest. A throb of answering hunger started low in my abdomen, an automatic, conditioned response. He’d programmed my nerves like a piece of software.
Fingers trembling, I unzipped my jeans. This was stupid. This was walking right back into the trap with my eyes open. I was giving him exactly what he wanted. But the curiosity was a clawing animal inside me. What was the point of this? To mock me? To remind me?
I slid the sleeve over myself. The fit was perfect, snug, almost custom. The cool silicone was a shock, then the internal ridges caressed me as I pushed to the hilt. The device sealed around me with a soft, sucking sound. The LED pulsed blue.
For a second, nothing. Just the deep, idle vibration, a ghost of the room, of him.
Then the program changed.
The vibrations shifted, orchestrating. They danced in a pattern: a long, rolling wave from base to tip, followed by three quick, fluttering pulses right under the head. Exactly the pattern his tongue had used that first, teasing time. A perfect digital memory.
A groan tore out of me. I dropped onto the edge of my bed. My hands flew to the device, trying to pull it off. It wouldn’t budge. It had created a gentle vacuum seal, holding itself firmly in place. I pulled harder, panic rising. It stayed on, the vibrations continuing their cruel, exquisite mimicry.
It began to move.
Not much. A subtle, rhythmic contraction and release, milking me from the inside. Combined with the targeted vibrations, the effect was catastrophic. Pleasure, sharp and brilliant, lanced through me. It was the chair, it was his mouth, but distilled, perfected, and utterly impersonal. There was no Stu to hate, no eyes to meet. Just a machine executing flawless code on my flesh.
“No,” I whispered to the empty room. “Fuck, no.”
My hips bucked, a helpless reflex. The device responded, sensing the movement, and intensified its rhythm. The contractions grew stronger, more insistent. The vibrations focused into a dizzying pinpoint of sensation right where I was most sensitive. It was building me up with terrifying, algorithmic efficiency. I was a test subject. A bioreactor. And it was working.
Sweat beaded on my forehead. My back arched. The climb was too fast, too steep. This wasn’t pleasure anymore; it was a systematic extraction. Within minutes, I was shuddering on the precipice. The coiling tension in my gut was a steel spring, wound to its absolute limit. I was seconds away from exploding into that silent, black silicone tube.
The device stopped.
The vibrations died. The contractions ceased. It went inert, a cold, dead weight locked onto me.
I gasped, strangled, teetering on the agonizing edge of release. The need to finish was a physical scream in every cell. I was painfully, excruciatingly hard, throbbing with denied completion. I tried to thrust into the still air, seeking any friction, but the device held me fast, a cage denying me the final relief.
“Come on,” I begged, my voice broken. I slapped at it, twisted it. The LED remained a steady, mocking blue. It wouldn’t let me finish. And it wouldn’t let me go.
Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. This was worse than anything in the room. This was pure, remote-control torment. He wasn’t even here, and he owned me completely.
My phone, sitting on the nightstand, buzzed. A single, sharp vibration.
With a trembling hand, I reached for it. A text message. From an unknown number. I didn’t need to save it to know.
'Missed our sessions. Thought you might need maintenance.'
A cold, digital chuckle in the void.
The sleeve slid off built me up again, leaving my cock throbbing but wouldn't let me cum. The hollow feeling from the gym was back, but deeper. He’d reached into my apartment, into my most private space, and proven his point. My body was not my own. It was a resource he could access anytime. Compliance was better when the subject understood the parameters.