SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

*****

Part 4…

After Page’s yoga class, my little secret was now known by eight different people: Betty, my best friend, who had started all this and orchestrated every step of my exposure. First came the video call with our friends Kyoko, Page, and Christy, where she made it clear they already knew.

Then came the tattoo—“Tiny” above my babydick—done by Kyoko and Chloe, my sister’s best friend. Chloe had managed to get me to admit I liked it, even making me cum between her fingers while recording it all.

And finally, Page’s yoga class, joined by her younger sister Sandra, my colleague Joey, and our pretty high school teacher, Laura. They had made me cum on camera without a single bit of physical stimulation.

After that, Christy—my crush—asked me to come over to her place.

Christy lived in a cozy apartment downtown, decorated with fairy lights and soft pillows. When she opened the door, her chestnut hair was pulled back, revealing that silver nose ring I always found mesmerizing. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes—cool, distant. “Come in,” she said, gesturing lazily. The air smelled like vanilla and something floral, probably her perfume. My palms were slick with sweat. I tried to hide my trembling hands as I followed her inside.

We settled on her velvet sofa, the silence stretching taut between us. She crossed her legs, the fabric of her skirt rustling softly. “So,” Christy began, her brown eyes fixed on mine, “Betty showed us the yoga class video. And the tattoo session.” Her voice was calm, almost detached, but her gaze held an unnerving intensity. She leaned forward slightly, the silver nose ring catching the dim fairy light. “Eight people saw you come untouched. Eight.” My throat went dry; I couldn’t look away from her.

“What does it feel like,” she asked, tilting her head, “knowing they all watched you lose control like that? Knowing they saw everything?” Her tone wasn’t cruel, just… clinical. Curious. Like I was an experiment. “The humiliation—does it burn? Or is it something else now?” She let the questions hang, her expression unreadable. I felt my face flush hot, the memory of those moments rushing back—Joey’s smirk, Sandra’s giggle, Laura’s quiet smile. The exposed vulnerability was a physical ache.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s… intense.” The admission scraped my throat raw. “Like being flayed open. Everyone seeing what’s… small. Pathetic.” My gaze dropped to my lap. “But when it happened, in the yoga class… it wasn’t just pain. There was this… rush. Like falling.” I didn’t dare say the rest—that the shame had twisted into something terrifyingly electric, a dark current that pulled me under even as I fought it. Christy’s silence pressed down on me.

She studied me, the clinical curiosity in her eyes deepening. Her fingers traced the seam of a velvet cushion. “Interesting,” she murmured. The word hung in the vanilla-scented air. Then, with startling directness, she leaned closer, her voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “And what about now? With me? Knowing I’ve seen the videos too… the tattoo, the way Kyoko made you come…” She paused, letting the images flood back. “Do you want to have sex with me, Liam? Right here?”

The question hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath. My gaze snapped up to hers, searching for mockery, finding only that unnerving intensity. My tiny cock gave a pathetic, involuntary twitch beneath my jeans, a traitorous pulse that felt both humiliating and undeniable. I could smell her perfume more clearly now, mixed with the faint, clean scent of her skin. Desire warred violently with terror – the impossible fantasy colliding with the brutal reality of my exposure. “I…” My voice cracked, useless.

Christy didn’t move, didn’t blink. Her brown eyes held mine prisoner. “It’s a simple question, Liam. Yes or no?” Her tone remained low, almost detached, yet the implication was scalding. She knew everything. The tattoo declaring my size, Kyoko’s fingers forcing pleasure from me, the way I’d come untouched in front of an audience. Asking this now, in her soft-lit sanctuary, felt like the ultimate test – a plunge into the deepest humiliation or… something else entirely. My face burned.

I forced a ragged breath, my throat tight. “Yes,” I whispered, the word tearing out. It felt like surrender, like stepping off a cliff. “God, yes, Christy.” Admitting it was its own exposure, raw and terrifying. My tiny cock throbbed uselessly against denim, a traitorous echo of the fantasy I’d clung to for months. But the reality? Her seeing it, touching it? After everything? The air crackled with the weight of my confession and her quiet power.

A slow, radiant smile spread across Christy’s face, transforming her features from cool observer to something dangerously delighted. It wasn’t warm; it was triumphant, sharp, like she’d just solved a complex puzzle. “Good boy,” she murmured, the words soft but laced with command. “Now, strip. Everything. I want to see what all the fuss is about.” Her gaze, intense and unblinking, pinned me to the velvet cushion. “Fast.”

My hands moved before my mind fully processed it. Fumbling, frantic, I tore at the buttons of my shirt, the fabric ripping slightly in my haste. Jeans were next – belt buckle clattering, zipper rasping down, shoving them off my hips along with my boxers in one desperate, clumsy motion. I kicked the tangled mess aside, standing naked before her, the fairy lights casting shifting shadows across my exposed skin. The cool air of the apartment hit my skin, raising goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the heat flooding my face and the frantic thudding of my heart. My tiny cock is so hard, a pale, insignificant thing beneath the stark black letters of the “Tiny” tattoo. My arms hung uselessly at my sides, trembling.

Christy didn’t look at my cock. Not yet. Her gaze swept over me – the flush creeping down my chest, the tremor in my limbs, the sheer vulnerability of my stance. That sharp, triumphant smile didn’t waver. Without a word, she stood, graceful and deliberate. Her fingers closed around my wrist, cool and firm, pulling me forward. Not roughly, but with undeniable authority. Her touch sent a jolt through me, equal parts terror and dizzying anticipation. She led me past the soft sofa, past the fragrant candles, down a short hallway. My bare feet slapped softly on the polished wood floor, each step echoing my dread and impossible hope.

She pushed open her bedroom door. The air was warmer here, scented faintly with the same vanilla and her skin. Fairy lights draped over the headboard cast a soft glow. And there, sprawled lazily across her rumpled sheets, lay a boy. Naked. Lean, maybe nineteen, with messy dark hair and a soft, flaccid cock resting against his thigh. It wasn’t huge, but it was thick, heavy-looking, and easily twice the length of mine. He glanced up, a lazy, knowing smirk spreading across his face as his eyes traveled down my naked body, lingering pointedly on my straining inch-and-a-half.

Christy released my wrist. “This is Vic,” she said, her voice smooth, almost bored. She walked towards him, her hips swaying deliberately. “He’s going to help me demonstrate something for you, Liam.” She stopped beside the bed, looking down at Vic, then back at me, her brown eyes sharp, analytical. “Because I don’t think you understand sex. Not really. Not what it looks like. Not what it feels like. Not what it does.” She ran a fingertip down Vic’s chest, stopping just above his navel. Vic shifted, his cock twitching visibly, beginning to swell. “You’ve seen snippets. Videos. Moments of forced humiliation. But that’s not sex. Sex is…” she trailed off, her gaze fixed on Vic’s thickening shaft.

She leaned down, placing her lips near Vic’s ear, whispering something I couldn’t hear. He chuckled softly, the sound low and confident. Then Christy straightened up and turned to me fully. Her expression softened slightly, a ghost of concern flickering over her triumph. “Are you okay with that, Liam?” she asked, her voice dropping to a murmur. The question wasn’t gentle; it was testing. Her smile was small, almost pitying, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “Watching Vic and me? Seeing what you can’t have? What you’ll never be?” She tilted her head, her nose ring catching the fairy light. “It might hurt. But truth often does.”

My throat closed. I stood frozen, naked and trembling, the cold air pricking my skin while humiliation burned inside. Vic’s gaze was a physical weight, mocking and assessing my exposed body, my pitiful erection. Christy’s perfume, vanilla and floral, suddenly felt suffocating. I wanted to run. I wanted to cover myself. But her eyes held me, demanding an answer. The memory of Chloe’s fingers, Laura’s smile, the tattoo burning into my hip – it all screamed that resistance was futile. That this exposure was my truth now. My tiny cock throbbed traitorously again. “Yes,” I rasped, the word scraping out like gravel. “I’m okay.” It was a lie coated in desperate surrender.

Christy’s small, pitying smile widened into something colder, sharper. “Good.” She turned back to Vic, her fingers trailing down his abdomen. “See, Liam? Honesty.” Vic’s cock was fully hard now, thick and flushed against his stomach, a stark, mocking contrast to my own insignificance. Christy lowered herself onto the bed beside him, her movements fluid and deliberate. She didn’t look at me again, focusing entirely on Vic. Her hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking slowly, possessively. Vic groaned, low and satisfied, his head tipping back against the pillows. The sound echoed in the quiet room, thick with the scent of vanilla, arousal, and my own cold sweat.

She paused, her fingers still circling Vic’s base. Without turning, her voice cut through the humid air, calm and surgical. “Tell me, Liam.” Her thumb rubbed lazy circles on Vic’s head. “If I took off my clothes right now… if you saw me naked… touching him… would you touch yourself?” The question wasn’t whispered; it was a clinical probe, laid bare under the fairy lights. “Would you jerk that pathetic little cock while you watch?”

My breath hitched. The image slammed into me—Christy’s skin, pale and smooth in this light, curved against Vic’s lean frame, her breasts, her hips… and my hand moving frantically over my own shame. Heat flooded my face. My cock pulsed, straining uselessly against nothing. The truth clawed its way up my throat. “Yes,” I rasped, the word thick with self-loathing. “I would.” Vic chuckled, low and dark, his eyes locked on mine.

Christy didn’t react. She slid off the bed with liquid grace, her skirt whispering against the sheets. She crossed to a sleek black dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small, gleaming device—a chastity cage, cold and intricate under the fairy lights. Her fingers traced its smooth curves as she returned, her gaze softening in a way that felt unnervingly genuine. “You’d touch yourself,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, almost tender, “but frustration hurts deeper, doesn’t it?” She held the cage loosely in one hand. Her eyes met mine—sharp brown, yet softened with something like affection. They slid around his thighs, his hips, cool and slick with a faint, floral oil. Her thumb brushed the cage’s lock. “This,” she whispered, “would keep you aching. Wanting. Empty.” She knelt before me, her gaze level with my trembling cock. “Would you wear it for me, Liam? Let me lock away what humiliates you?” Her smile was small, almost sad. “Let me protect you from yourself?”

My throat tightened. The cage gleamed—cold steel, intricate bars. Shame warred with a terrifying rush of relief. Lock it away. Hide it. Never feel its useless straining again. Never have it exposed. Her words wrapped around me like the tendrils: protection. My voice cracked. “Yes.” It was barely a whisper. “Lock it. Please.”

Christy’s smile widened. Triumphant. Possessive. Her fingers, slick with oil, circled my cock. The touch was clinical, efficient. She pinched the tip, pulling it taut. The cage hovered—cold, waiting. She slid it forward. The opening gaped wide. Wider than anything I possessed. She paused. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her lips—light, mocking, utterly devoid of warmth. “Look at that,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “It’s practically cavernous.” Vic chuckled darkly from the bed. The sound echoed the humiliation burning through me. My tiny shaft looked lost, insignificant, swallowed by the metal before it even touched skin.

She pushed. The cool steel ring settled loosely around the base. My erection strained pathetically within the hollow space, barely grazing the sides. Christy tilted her head, studying it with detached fascination. “Like a pea rattling in a tin can,” she observed, her voice flat. Her fingers tapped the cage lightly. Clink. The sound was absurdly loud. My cheeks flamed. The cage felt heavy, alien, useless. It wasn’t containment; it was a monument to inadequacy.

Christy stood abruptly, dusting her hands. “You wanted truth,” she said, retrieving her phone from the dresser. Her thumb tapped the screen awake. The harsh light illuminated her face, sharpening the clinical detachment in her eyes. “Not like this!” Her gaze flicked to Vic, sprawled on the bed, his cock thick, flushed, straining against his stomach. She tossed the phone onto my lap. The cold plastic burned. “Record it,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “A selfie vlog. Show the world your face. Show them what happens when the truth stares back.” She turned away, walking back towards Vic. “Talk to the camera, Liam. Explain what you’re seeing. What you’re feeling. Why you’re locked like this while he fills me.”

The phone weighed heavy in my trembling hands. The screen flared to life, displaying my own face—pale, tear-streaked, eyes wide with terror and unwanted arousal. Behind my shoulder, Christy’s fingers hooked into the straps of her top. She slid it off shoulders. Smooth skin spilled out. My voice cracked. “I… I’m… recording,” I stammered the room as she pulled the fabric lower. “She’s… she’s undressing.” The camera caught her bare back, the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass beneath thin lace. My breath hitched, audible on the recording. “Her skin looks soft. Warm.” Christy glanced over her shoulder, a smirk playing on her lips. She hooked thumbs into the waistband of her skirt.

My knuckles whitened around the phone. The cage felt like ice against my straining flesh, a hollow mockery. “He’s… hard on the bed,” I choked out, panning the camera jerkily towards Vic. His thick cock pulsed, glistening with anticipation. “And I’m… locked.” The admission tasted like ash. Christy’s skirt pooled at her ankles. She stepped out, utterly bare except for lace-trimmed stockings. The lens captured the dusky curve of her hip, the soft swell of her breast as she turned fully. “She’s perfect,” I whispered, the truth ripped raw from my throat. “And I’m nothing.”

She climbed onto Vic, straddling him. Her back arched, a lean line against his torso. The camera trembled. “He’s touching her now,” I narrated, voice thick. Vic’s hands slid up her thighs, thumbs digging into soft flesh. Christy gasped, head falling back. Her moan vibrated through the room—low, hungry. The phone captured the slick sheen between her legs, the desperate clench of her fingers in Vic’s hair. My cage throbbed, a useless ache against cold steel.

“The cage,” I forced out, swallowing bile. “It’s… loose.” I angled the lens down. My pitiful erection strained within the hollow metal bars, barely touching the sides. “See? No pressure. No pain.” The lie tasted metallic. Vic grunted beneath Christy, hips bucking upward. Her cry sharpened—genuine, ragged. “Physically, it’s nothing,” I whispered into the camera. “Just… emptiness.” Christy rode him harder, faster. The wet slap of skin filled the silence louder than my trembling breath.

I zoomed in. The gap between the cage’s steel and my flesh was stark, undeniable. “Look,” I rasped. “Room to spare.” A bead of sweat traced my jawline, falling onto the phone screen. Behind me, Christy gasped Vic’s name, her voice climbing. The cage felt colder now, heavier. Not confinement, but annihilation. My voice cracked. “It doesn’t hurt. It just… proves how small I am.” The camera shook as Vic’s groan ripped through the room—deep, satisfied. Christy’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back.

My free hand trembled towards the cage. The metal felt slick, foreign. “See?” I choked, brushing my fingertips along the bars. Nothing stirred inside. No contact. Just hollow steel echoing Christy’s sharp cry. “I want to jerk off,” I confessed, the words thick with shame. “But touching this… it’s like touching a cage. Empty.” My fingers traced the cold metal uselessly, a mockery of desire. Vic arched beneath Christy, his roar drowning out my ragged breath.

Christy froze atop him, panting. Her head tilted back against Vic’s shoulder. Sweat glistened on her throat. Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto mine. “Liam,” she commanded, voice husky but clear. “Kneel. Front and center.” She didn’t move, didn’t break her rhythm. Vic’s hands tightened on her hips, possessive. My legs obeyed before my mind could protest. I shuffled forward on bare knees, the wood floor cool against my skin.

She shifted, settling deeper into Vic’s lap, her back flush against his chest. His arms circled her waist, fingers splaying possessively across her stomach. Then, slowly, deliberately, Christy lifted her legs. Her feet, small and perfect, soles pale and smooth, settled heavily onto my bare thighs. The contact burned—warm, intimate, crushing. Her toes flexed slightly, pressing into my flesh. Vic’s cock, slick and flushed, jutted obscenely between her thighs, inches from my face. The scent of them—vanilla, sweat, sex—filled my nostrils.

Christy’s hand drifted down, fingers wrapping around Vic’s thickness. She began stroking him slowly, deliberately, her thumb swirling over the head. Her gaze never left mine. “Watch closely,” she murmured, her voice thick with exertion and something darker. “This is what you ache for, Liam. This thickness.” Her feet pressed harder into my thighs, anchoring me in place as her hand moved faster. Vic groaned, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. The slap of skin, the wet sounds—it echoed in the small room, drowning out my ragged breathing.

She snatched the phone from my trembling hand without breaking rhythm. The lens swung down, capturing my naked chest, the hollow cage, my flushed face. Panic seized me—the angle, her intent—as Vic’s breaths turned sharp and frantic. “Y-you’re going to make him cum on my face,” I realized, the thought a cold knife twisting in my gut. My eyes darted to Vic’s swollen tip, glistening and twitching mere inches away. Christy’s fingers tightened. “S-stop!”

She shook her head slowly, her smile deepening as Vic bucked beneath her. “Why don’t you move?” she murmured, her voice soft silk over steel. Her toes dug into my thighs, pinning me. “If you truly didn’t want this… you’d shove me off.” Her gaze held mine, clinical and unyielding. “Your legs aren’t tied. Your hands are free.” Vic groaned louder, his rhythm frantic now. “So why stay?” The question hung—heavy, accusing—as her thumb flicked faster over his swollen head. “Is the cage really the lock? Or is it your own pathetic need to be seen?” Her feet pressed down harder, trapping me in place as Vic’s cock pulsed violently against her palm.

I froze. Her words struck bone-deep. My hands clenched uselessly at my sides. Why wasn’t I moving? Shoving her away? The answer coiled low and hot—shameful, undeniable. The scent of Vic’s sweat filled my nostrils, mingling with Christy’s vanilla musk. My gaze fixed on Vic’s cock, thick and straining. The cage felt like ice against my straining flesh. A traitorous pulse beat beneath the steel. Christy’s fingers tightened—Vic gasped, his hips lifting off the bed. The lens captured my face—eyes wide, lips parted, utterly transfixed. “Because,” I whispered, the word thick and raw, “I want to watch.” Christy’s triumphant smile flashed—brief, sharp—before Vic’s roar ripped through the room.

Thick ropes of cum splattered hot and sudden across my cheekbone, my eyelid, my lips. Salt and musk flooded my tongue. I flinched violently—instinct screaming—but Christy’s toes pressed harder, pinning me. My traitorous tongue flicked out, tasting him. The camera caught it all: my shudder, the sticky trail glistening on my chin, the utter stillness of my body beneath her feet. Christy watched me swallow, her eyes dark pits of satisfaction.

“Good boy,” she murmured, lowering the phone to capture the mess on my face.

Vic collapsed back, panting, his softening cock resting against Christy’s thigh. She traced a fingertip through the mess on my cheek, then brought it to my lips. “Open.” The command vibrated through me. I obeyed, tongue darting out to clean her finger—shame warring with a dizzying, dark thrill.

Christy withdrew her finger slowly. Her gaze shifted from my mouth to the camera lens. “Smile, Liam,” she commanded softly, her thumb brushing a stray drop of cum from my jaw. “Show them how much you loved it.” My lips parted—not a grimace, not a forced stretch. It was involuntary. A tremor of pure, shattered surrender. The corners lifted, trembling. A raw, fractured curve that felt ripped from somewhere deep. The cage throbbed against emptiness. Vic chuckled, low and exhausted. Christy tilted the phone, capturing my expression—the tear-streaked cheeks, the trembling smile, the sticky proof on my skin. Her own smile mirrored mine—cold, triumphant. “There it is,” she whispered. “No forcing. Just truth.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “You belong here.” The phone clicked—the shutter sound loud in the sudden quiet. Proof frozen. My smile faltered, but didn’t vanish. It lingered—a ghost of acceptance, carved in humiliation.

She shifted her feet higher on my thighs. Her toes flexed, pressing into my skin near the cage. The metal felt cold against her warm sole. She angled the phone downward, focusing the lens squarely on the cage—the hollow steel bars, the gaping emptiness around my trapped flesh. “Look,” she murmured, her voice thick with amusement. The camera captured the stark reality: her pale foot pressing beside the cage, the metal gleaming, my tiny cock straining uselessly within its vast confines. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her—light, mocking, utterly devoid of warmth. “Oh, Liam,” she sighed, shaking her head slowly. Her toe nudged the cage itself. *Clink*. The sound echoed. “Look closer.” She zoomed in—a close-up on the bars near the base. Tiny droplets, almost invisible against the steel, glistened under the fairy lights. Milky. Wet. “Did you even feel it?” she asked, genuine curiosity lacing the mockery. “That pathetic little twitch?” Her foot pressed harder against my thigh. “You came. Right in your cage. While he painted your face.”

The air vanished from my lungs. My gaze snapped down, straining against the angle. There it was—trapped inside the steel prison. A thin, pearlescent film clinging to the inner bars near my trapped tip. Humiliation detonated, white-hot and suffocating. I hadn’t felt it. Not the rush, not the release. Just a hollow throb drowned out by Vic’s groans and Christy’s commands. My body had betrayed me silently, invisibly, adding another layer of crushing inadequacy. My face burned hotter than Vic’s cum drying on my skin. A choked sound escaped my throat—part gasp, part sob.

Christy slid her feet off my thighs, the sudden absence of pressure leaving cold patches on my skin. She tossed the phone onto the rumpled sheets beside Vic’s spent form. “Vic,” she said, her voice brisk, devoid of the earlier huskiness. “Out.” She didn’t look at him, already gathering her discarded clothes. Vic grunted, pushing himself up with lazy indifference. He stretched, his softening cock swinging heavily, before grabbing his jeans from the floor. He dressed quickly, silently, casting one last smirk in my direction—a silent commentary on the mess on my face and the cage—before slipping out the bedroom door. The click of the latch echoed in the sudden quiet.

The air hung thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and drying cum. Christy turned back to me, kneeling naked and trembling on the floor. Her expression shifted. The sharp triumph softened into something detached, almost weary. She didn’t speak. Instead, she reached down, her fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed sticky streaks from my cheekbone and eyelid. Her touch was clinical, efficient. “Come,” she murmured, her voice flat. She grasped my upper arm, pulling me to my feet. My legs wobbled. The cage felt impossibly heavy, a constant, aching reminder. She steered me wordlessly towards the bathroom, her hand firm on my bicep.

Inside the stark white-tiled room, Christy pushed me gently against the counter. Cool porcelain pressed into my thighs. She reached into a drawer, retrieving a small silver key. Without preamble, her fingers—still slick with Vic’s residue—found the lock at the base of the cage. The click was soft, final. She slid the steel contraption off effortlessly. It landed in the sink with a metallic clatter. My freed flesh throbbed, raw and hypersensitive. Christy held the cage up, examining the tiny smear of my dried release inside its bars. A genuine smile, warm and amused, touched her lips. “Well,” she chuckled, her voice losing its clinical edge, “that was unexpectedly fun. Watching you leak silently while covered in him? Delicious irony.”

She tossed the cage onto the counter beside the sink. Her fingers, surprisingly warm now, traced the reddened ring around the base of my cock. “Fun,” she murmured, her voice low and thick with amusement. “Watching you squirm. Seeing that little trapped thing strain.” Her thumb brushed over the tip, making me flinch. “Seeing it weep without you even noticing.” She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Almost as fun as making him mark you.” Her other hand lifted, fingertips grazing the drying streaks on my cheekbone. “You wore both so well, Liam.”

Christy turned the shower faucet. Steam billowed instantly, fogging the mirror. She nudged me beneath the hot spray. “Hands on the wall,” she commanded. Her voice softened, turning singsong. “Good boy.” She squeezed vanilla-scented soap onto a soft washcloth. Gentle circles scrubbed Vic’s drying mess from my cheek. Her fingers moved down my neck, my chest, slower now. “All dirty,” she murmured, almost to herself. The washcloth slid over my belly. “So messy. So silly.” Her touch lingered low, cleaning between my legs with startling tenderness. The warm cloth cupped my balls. “Shhh,” she whispered as I trembled. “Almost done.”

She rinsed me thoroughly, her movements efficient yet unhurried. “Stand still, silly goose,” she ordered softly, turning off the water. She pulled me out onto the cool tile. A fluffy white towel enveloped me. She patted me dry, head to toe, with firm, deliberate strokes. “There,” she announced brightly, rubbing my hair vigorously. “All clean! No more sticky face.” She tilted my chin up with a finger. Her brown eyes, sharp despite the gentle tone, held mine. “Much better. See? Doesn’t that feel nice?”

Christy tossed the damp towel aside. She walked back into the bedroom, leaving me dripping in the bathroom doorway. I watched her pad naked to the rumpled bed. She pulled the stained sheets off in one swift motion, balling them up. She opened a tall mahogany wardrobe, pulling out fresh, crisp white linens. Smoothly, expertly, she remade the bed—tucking corners tight, smoothing wrinkles with her palm. The scent of clean cotton replaced the musk of sex and sweat.

She bent low to tuck the final corner. Her back arched, the smooth curve of her spine dipping down to the perfect swell of her bare ass. Pale skin, flawless. The dimples above her hips. My gaze locked onto it. The heat returned instantly, flooding my groin. My cock, freed and raw, twitched violently against my thigh. It hardened fully, painfully fast—a traitorous, desperate response to her casual display.

Christy straightened slowly. She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes dropped. A soft puff of air escaped her lips—not quite a laugh, more a weary sigh of amused inevitability. She shook her head slowly, a wry smile touching her mouth. “Still?” she murmured, her voice thick with disbelief and a strange, indulgent warmth. “After all that? Liam, you truly are hopeless.” She turned fully, facing me, her gaze lingering on my renewed erection. Her expression wasn’t cruel, just profoundly tired. “Like a pathetic little reflex.”

She padded towards me, stopping inches away. The clean scent of the new sheets clung to her skin. Her fingers, cool and dry now, traced the line of my jaw where Vic’s cum had been scrubbed away. “So,” she breathed, her voice low and strangely intimate in the quiet room. “Define it for me. Your place.” Her thumb brushed my lower lip. “After tonight. After the cage. After wearing him. After leaking like a broken faucet without even knowing.” Her eyes held mine, unblinking, demanding absolute honesty. “Where do you stand?”

I swallowed hard. The heat of the shower still clung to my skin, but humiliation coiled cold in my stomach. My gaze flickered down—her bare feet planted firmly on the floorboards, the discarded cage gleaming dully on the bathroom counter behind her. “Here,” I rasped, the word scraping my throat raw. “On my knees.” The admission hung heavy. Not just physically. It was deeper—the cage, the taste of Vic, the silent orgasm trapped in steel. My erection throbbed, a humiliating counterpoint. “At your feet.” Her fingers tightened slightly on my chin, forcing my eyes back to hers. “Watching.” The final word tasted like ashes, but it was the truest thing I’d spoken all night.

Christy’s thumb traced my lower lip again, slow, contemplative. A ghost of that triumphant smile touched her mouth. “Good,” she murmured. Her other hand drifted to her discarded phone on the freshly made bed. She scooped it up, her thumb tapping the screen awake. The lock screen flashed—a blur of my own tear-streaked face, sticky and smiling. She swiped, opened a messaging app. The group chat icon pulsed—seven other names, Betty, Kyoko, Page, Chloe, Sandra, Joey and Laura. Her gaze lifted, locking onto mine. “It’s a good vlog,” she said casually, her voice devoid of mockery, almost conversational. “Raw. Honest.” Her thumb hovered over the screen. “Can I send it? To them?” The question landed softly, devastatingly. Not a command. An invitation to my own execution. My breath hitched. The silence stretched, thick with the phantom scent of Vic’s release.

My gaze darted from her expectant face to the phone screen—the frozen image of my humiliation, my fractured smile. Shame screamed “no”. But deeper, hotter, came the traitorous pulse beneath my skin, the memory of her feet pinning me as Vic marked me. My throat worked. A single nod. Jerky. Unmistakable. Christy’s smile widened, warm and genuine this time. “Attaboy,” she whispered approvingly. Her thumb tapped—once. The soft “whoosh” echoed louder than Vic’s roar. “Sent.” She tossed the phone back onto the bedspread. “They’ll love it. Especially Kyoko. She loves messy boys.”

She stretched languidly, her spine cracking softly. The movement emphasized the soft curve of her belly, the dip of her navel. “Alright,” she announced, her voice shifting back to brisk command. “Out.” She gestured vaguely towards the bedroom door. “You can leave now.” Her gaze slid past me, dismissing. “Go home.” She paused, turning towards the ensuite bathroom, her bare back facing me. “Oh,” she added casually over her shoulder. “Call Betty. When you get home.” Her tone hardened slightly. “She wants a report. Tell her everything.” The bathroom door clicked shut behind her. The lock slid home with a soft, final sound.

I dressed mechanically. The clean clothes felt alien against my scrubbed skin. The empty space between my legs throbbed, phantom metal biting into tender flesh. Outside Christy’s building, the city air tasted stale, thick with exhaust and distant rain. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows. I leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall, pulling out my phone. My thumb hovered over Betty’s name. The screen blurred. I pressed call. It rang once. Twice.

“Liam?” Betty’s voice sliced through the line—sharp, expectant. Not a greeting. An interrogation. Traffic roared past, drowning my hesitation. “Well? Report. Details. Start with the cage.” Her breath hitched, audible. “Did she lock it tight?”

I swallowed, tasting phantom salt. “It… it was loose,” I rasped, the graffiti-scarred brick cold against my bare shoulder. Neon signs bled onto the wet sidewalk. “Like… a pea rattling inside a tin can.” The words tasted like ash. “She filmed it. The gap. You saw it right? The… vlog? She sent it in the group.”

Betty’s sharp intake of breath hissed down the line. “Oh, I saw,” she breathed, her voice thick with something darkly thrilled. “Kyoko paused it. Zoomed in.” A pause, heavy with shared humiliation. “That pathetic little gap. You looked so… small.” The silence crackled. “Did you leak? Inside it?” Her question was a razor, precise and eager. “Christy mentioned something…”

My knuckles whitened around the phone. Rain misted my face. “Yes.” The admission choked me. “I didn’t feel it. Just… found it later. Trapped.” Betty’s soft, delighted chuckle echoed in my ear—a sound colder than the rain. “Perfect,” she purred. “Utterly perfect.”

She paused. I heard the faint click of a keyboard, the rustle of fabric. “And?” Her voice sharpened, losing its satisfied purr. “Did you see the comments? From the group? Before Christy kicked you out?” Genuine curiosity laced her tone, devoid of mockery for a fleeting second. “Kyoko’s reaction was… vivid.”

My thumb scrolled instinctively, reopening the group chat icon Christy had shown me. Kyoko’s message blazed at the top: “LMAO look at his FACE when it hits! Like a startled kitten dipped in glue! And the CAGE?? Liam, that cavern could swallow my fist and still rattle! Did you even FEEL yourself dribble? Pathetic. Delicious.” Beneath it, Sandra chimed in: “The way Christy’s foot pressed beside that empty cage… iconic. Pure power. Liam’s little whimper when she pointed out his leak? Chef’s kiss.” Laura added simply: “Owned.” The words burned hotter than Vic’s drying cum ever had. “Yeah,” I rasped, the rain plastering hair to my forehead. “I saw.”

Betty’s chuckle was a low hum down the line. “Pathetic little dribble,” she echoed Kyoko’s words, savoring them. “Christy said you didn’t even notice.” A pause, thick with humid night air and exhaust fumes. Then her voice shifted, sharpening with genuine, amused disbelief. “But Liam… seriously. Why?” The question landed like a shove. “Why just kneel there? Let him paint you like some cheap canvas?” Her incredulity vibrated through the speaker. “Did you think closing your eyes would make it stop? Or… did you want his mess on your skin?” The traffic roared, underscoring the absurdity.

I pressed the phone harder against my ear, the plastic biting cold. Rainwater trickled down my neck. The graffiti beneath my shoulder felt slick, obscene. My throat tightened. The truth clawed its way up—ugly, undeniable. “Yes,” I choked out, the word barely audible over a passing bus. “I… wanted it.” Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence from Betty’s end.

Then her voice, a venomous whisper laced with triumph. “Oh, Liam,” she sighed, a sound like silk tearing. “You poor, broken thing.” A pause, thick with the unsaid. “Christy was right. Utterly right.” Another sigh, softer, almost pitying. “Look at you. Filmed leaking in a cage built for a child. Kneeling silent while a boy marked you like territory.” Her chuckle was ice scraping bone. “You don’t just surrender your pride. You erase it. Methodically. Consciously.” The accusation hung, sharp and final. “Every trace of manhood? Wiped clean. By choice.” She paused, letting the indictment settle into the wet city night. “It’s… breathtaking.”

“I didn’t—” I started, the protest weak, automatic. The lie tasted sour. “It wasn’t like that—”

Christy’s giggle cut through the rain-soaked night, sharp and bright as shattering glass. “Oh, Liam,” she cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. “It’s so much funnier when you pretend.” She paused, letting the silence stretch, filled only by the hiss of distant tires on wet asphalt. “Deny it all you want. That vlog doesn’t lie. Your smile? That leak? That’surrender’s sweet. Pure. Delicious.”

Betty’s voice softened, intimate in the receiver. “You whimpered when Christy pressed her foot beside that empty cage,” she murmured, painting the memory with relish. “You trembled when she told you to lick Vic off her finger. And you did it. Eyes wide. Tongue out. Like a good puppy.” A soft sigh escaped her, almost wistful. “Don’t ruin the beauty now by lying. Own it. That dribble? That’s your truth.” The line crackled with her conviction. “You crave being small.”

I squeezed my eyes shut against the rain. “Was that… the last step?” The question scraped raw, desperate for finality. A plea for the humiliation to end.

Betty’s pause stretched, thick with anticipation. Rain hissed on asphalt. Neon bled across wet concrete. “One more,” she breathed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

My knuckles whitened around the phone. Rain plastered my shirt to my chest. “What?”

“One more step,” Betty repeated, her voice a low purr. “To complete your… transformation.” She paused, letting the word hang, thick and oily. “We all agree.” Her breath hitched, excited. “It’s time. To tell her.”

My blood froze. “Tell… who?” The rain felt suddenly colder. She giggled and said “guess it.” She ended the call.

I stood there, dripping. Jodie. My little sister. Eighteen, bright-eyed, still thought I was her protective big brother. She didn’t know about the cage. The tattoo. She thought I trained hard, stayed disciplined. Clean. Untouched. I pictured her face—innish that smile she had when she told me about her date last week. If she saw that video… Saw Chloe making me cum between her fingers? Saw Sandra’s video at Page’s yoga class? Her face would crumple. That bright trust shattered. That was the step? Showing her? Proving how far I’d fallen?

No. Betty couldn’t mean that. She was cruel, not monstrous. My knuckles pressed into the wet brick. She’d meant Kyoko. Or Laura. Someone who already knew. Someone who’d laugh. Not Jodie. Not my sister. I replayed Betty’s words—”tell her.” Her voice had dripped with vicious glee. But Jodie? Impossible. She’d call Mom. Dad. It’d wreck everything. Betty knew that. She wouldn’t. She was my best friend.

I stumbled back to my apartment, the rain soaking through my thin shirt. The key fumbled in the lock. Inside, the silence screamed. I peeled off the wet clothes, leaving them in a heap by the door. Naked, shivering, I grabbed my phone. The screen glowed like an accusation. I opened the group chat. Kyoko’s comment glared back: “Pathetic. Delicious.” Sandra’s: “Iconic.” Laura’s: “Owned.” My thumb hovered over Christy’s vlog thumbnail—my tear-streaked face, sticky with Vic.

I collapsed onto the unmade bed, the sheets smelling faintly of stale loneliness. My free hand drifted down. My cock, raw and sensitive, twitched against my thigh. Betty’s words echoed: “You crave being small.” I tapped the vlog. Play. Christy’s voice filled the dark room: “Show them the cage, Liam. Show them how empty it is.” The screen showed my trembling hand pointing the camera down. The steel gaped, cavernous. A tiny smear of white caught the light. My own leak. Trapped. Unfelt. On screen, Vic groaned. Christy gasped his name.

My thumb scrolled down. Kyoko’s comment burned: “LMAO that dribble in the cage! Did it even register in his pea-brain? Pathetic. Makes me wet thinking how easy it is to break him.” Sandra replied: “The whimper when Christy pointed it out… iconic. Pure owned.” Laura: “He’s not a man. He’s Christy’s leaky pet.” Each word was a spark. My fingers wrapped around my cock. It hardened instantly, painfully. Not triumph. Shame. Hot, liquid shame. I pictured Kyoko reading this. Laughing. Getting wet. Knowing I was reading it. Knowing this. My fist tightened. A low groan tore from my throat.

Page’s new message popped up, a fresh jolt. “LOL Liam! Saw the vid! That cage gap could swallow my pinky toe and still rattle! Bet you didn’t even feel that sad little squirt, huh? Like a sneeze you forgot! So tiny! So pointless! 🤣” Her words, bubbly and vicious, painted the image: her polished toe, the gaping steel, my unseen release. My hips bucked off the thin mattress. My fist pumped faster, slick with pre-cum. Page’s laughter echoed in my skull. Her disbelief at my pathetic, unfelt orgasm. My cock throbbed. The cage was gone, but the emptiness, the ridicule, was its own prison.

Then Chloe’s message sliced through. “Page, please. Don’t be naive.” Her words appeared slowly, deliberate. “Look at the time stamps. Kyoko posted her comment 15 mins ago. Sandra, 12. Laura, 10. Page, just now.” A pause. Another line appeared. “He’s seen them all by now. Every single vicious word.” My breath hitched. My fist tightened. “Bet he’s jerking off right this second,” Chloe typed, the letters burning onto my screen. “Reading them over and over. Getting hard on our disgust. Getting off on being called pathetic.” Her certainty was a brand. “That’s his kink now. Our contempt is his lube. Right, Liam? Are you touching yourself? Right. Now?”

I am. My cock pulsed in my slick fist. Chloe’s accusation wasn’t an accusation. It was permission. A command. My thumb scrolled up, Kyoko’s words blazing: “Pathetic. Delicious.” Down to Page: “So tiny! So pointless!” Back to Chloe: “Getting off on being called pathetic.” Each syllable was a stroke. My hips pistoned. A guttural moan ripped from my throat, raw and ragged in the empty room. The screen blurred. Shame. Need. They fused into one white-hot wire. My back arched off the bed. “Yes!” I gasped, the word tearing free, unheard. “I am! I’m touching myself!” The admission wasn’t for Chloe. It was for them. All of them. Fuel. Proof.

My thumb flew over the screen. I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. The group chat window was open. My fingers trembled, slick with pre-cum and sweat, but the message typed itself. Short. Brutal. Honest. Three words sent into the digital void: “I just cum.” Sent. The notification whooshed. Silence. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. My own release still throbbed through me, hot and sticky on my stomach. The screen glared back, blank. Empty. Had they seen it? Did they believe it? Was it enough?

Then the screen exploded. Kyoko: “LMAO PROOF OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN LIAM!” Sandra: “Video. Now. Show us the pathetic mess.” Page: “Ewwww but also YES FILM IT FILM THE DRIP!” Joey: “Pathetic boy. Document your shame. Show us the aftermath of your… sneeze.” Christy’s icon appeared. She didn’t type. She simply posted a single emoji: 📹. The command was absolute. The camera lens on my phone became an accusing eye. My trembling hand lifted the device. I angled it down. The weak light caught the glistening strands streaked across my belly, the raw, spent flesh below. My breath hitched audibly on the recording. “H-hi girls… h-here.”

Chloe’s reply was instantaneous: “Look at that sad little puddle. Barely a teaspoon. Like a toddler who couldn’t hold it.” Laura chimed in: “And his face. Still flushed. Still desperate.” Kyoko: “He did it reading OUR WORDS. Our contempt got him off faster than Christy’s foot ever could.” Sandra added the final blow: “That’s it then. Confirmed. Our words own his orgasms now. Pathetic.” The notifications kept pinging, dissecting the video frame by frame, each message a fresh brand. My spent cock gave a helpless, aching twitch against my thigh, reacting to their scorn like a puppet on strings. The cage was gone, but the leash was tighter than ever.

I just smiled, gently poking my babydick.

Read Part 5 Here

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