Samantha and Blake, a love story

The cold toilet seat was a stark contrast to the heat building in the pink silicone encasing him. Blake settled onto it with a soft sigh, the familiar ritual of sitting to pee both mundane and humiliating. He had to old back, letting his release go in light pulses so he would not spray all over the place. It would be easier to just go in the shower, but Samatha forbade that, and said it was disgusting. He finished his unsatisfying urination, the sound of the his pulses dribbling into the toilet water being the only noise in the tiled room. No sigh of relief to be heard from him. As he reached for the handle, sight of latex in the small wicker wastebasket caught his eye.

It was a condom. Used. Full of cum. Knotted at the top.

His body reacted before his mind could fully process it. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through his groin. His penis, confined and stifled in its cage, began to swell in its pink translucent prison, pressing insistently against the unyielding silicone. A dull, throbbing ache began to build, a pressure that was both pain and a desperate, frustrated need. He stared at the thing in the trash, his mind conjuring the image of it being rolled onto a penis large than his, then fulfilling its use inside Samantha, filled up. His own trapped cock twitched with ceaseless pulsing in useless protest against the cage.

He sat, and stared at it. She had put on on him one, a magnum, just before they were about to have sex for the first time. She rolled it down his slender shaft, all the way to the base, and laughed.

"This is WAY too big for you," she said. Then pulled it off with an easy tug. He still had pubic hair then, and the condom took a few pubic hairs with it as it easily slide off that failed to even slightly stretch it. He winced in pain, but there was more pain to come.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I don't have condoms for one this small. I know they are out there," she told him, and got out of bed. She returned with a measuring tape and her lap top. After small measured, she googled up "small condoms," and arrived at MyOne, sizing him to 45c. Their smallest. "You are going to have to order these," she told him. "I am really sorry. I know you thought you were going to have sex."

Blake sighed staring at the condom then stood up and stepped into the shower to rinse the cage, and decide to take a cold shower to give himself some release. The water was cold. He’d turned the knob all the way to cold, raising goosebumps on his skin. He stood under the spray, his teeth clenched, willing the chill to seep through the silicone and quell the rebellion in his loins. He soaped the cage meticulously, his fingers slick and clumsy as they slid over the smooth surface, a mockery of the touch he craved. Each pass was a reminder of what was locked away, what was denied. The cold did its work, eventually. The urgent pressure subsided.

After wrapping in his forest-green silk kimono Samantha got him for his birthday, the cool fabric a gentle whisper against his damp skin, he opened the bathroom door. Samantha emerged from the bedroom at the same moment.

She was freshly showered too. Her damp hair was up in a ponytail. She wore an oversize t-shirt that was miles too big for her petite frame, the hem brushing her mid-thigh. The cotton clung to the faint, promising dampness between her breasts. The shirt’s design was for some band he didn’t recognize and one of many she owned that had once belonged to a "boyfriend," that was really fuck buddy.

“You are gonna want to change the sheets, babe,” she said. Her voice was light, casual, as if she’d just asked him to take out the recycling.

His gaze drifted past her to the rumpled comforter on their bed. "Yeah. I know." He tried to keep his own tone even, neutral. “Who was it?” He had no idea if it was a regular, or someone new.

“Mike,” she replied, without hesitation in her voice. “We made a video for you.”

He deflated. A video. The condom in the trash. Mike, her gym buddy. The image of Mike, tall, muscular, black, and hung, flashed in his mind. Blake just nodded, the silk of his robe suddenly feeling restrictive.

He moved to the kitchen on autopilot, the clean, clinical motions of cooking a temporary distraction. He seared the salmon, tossed the greens, whisked the vinaigrette. They ate at their small table, talking about each others day without mention of the tryst with Mike or what was to come. She went to class and worked out - leg day. He went to class and went to hot yoga, then class again. Samantha scrolled through her phone, then picked up a book. He cleaned the kitchen of the mess from dinner, then changed the bed sheets.

After that, on the couch, they watched Only Murders in the Building. They snuggled, her body a warm, pliant weight against his side. His arm was around her, his fingers stroking the soft cotton t-shirt covering her shoulder. It was a normal, domestic moment on the precipice of a descent into erotic madness.

When the credits rolled, she shifted. “I think it is time,” she murmured, her voice a low thrum that vibrated against his chest.

She reached for her Macbook Air on the coffee table. A few clicks, and the Apple TV screen transitioned from Hulu to AirPlay and the video menu on Samantha's Macbook.

The video was high definition from the tripoded GoPro on their dresser. It started with a close-up. Samantha’s lips, glistening and parted, wrapped around the head of an enormous, dark penis. The silver key on a gold chain around her neck sparkling.

“You are so much bigger than Blake. I can never get over it," she said. Not to Mike, though he as where getting his cock sucked. She said it to Blake, eye fucking the camera as she took a pause from sucking, stroking the monster with both hands.

And it was true. Mike's African spear was over 7 inches long, and as thick as her wrist. Blake's cock was a disappointing 3.5 inches, and barely wider than her thumb, locked in pink silicone.

Her voice was breathy, filled with a wondrous awe that took his breath away just as Mike's massive meat took Samantha's breath away.. On screen, her tongue swirled, her hands stroked the impressive length she couldn’t fully take into her mouth, at least in the position she was in. thick and veined, a monument of male potency.

Blake watched, frozen, as she worked the thick and veiny black organ with a devoted focus he rarely saw from her. She brought him to a full, glistening hardness that looked almost unreal. Then she rose from him, went to her nightstand and zoomed out the camera with the GoPro remote. Then took out a condom. Not one of Blakes MyOne 45cs. A Magnum. She rolled it onto him like she was wrapping Christmas present.

She mounted him. Faciung the camera, reverse cowgirl The angle was perfect, capturing the expression on her face the moment she guided him inside her body. The slow, breathtaking stretch as she impaled herself. Her head fell back, her mouth forming a silent cry of pleasure. She rode him, her body a graceful, rising and falling. Then, with a smile at the camera, she rose and and turned, to take the black pole cowgirl depriving Blake of her expressions as she ground down. Her body quivered and shuddered, her moans and announcement loud. She chased her climax again and again until he finally found his.

"Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. I'm gonna cum. Fuck yeah."

The screen went black.

Silence thundered in the room. Blake couldn’t move. The ache in his cage was no longer a dull hum but a sharp, insistent agony. It felt hot and swollen, a trapped animal desperate for release. A slick, warm dampness leaked from the tip, a mortifying testament to his beta boyhood, watching Samantha fuck a real man.

Samantha set the laptop aside and turned to him. Her eyes were dark, her expression unreadable. She reached out, her fingertips cool as they brushed against the silk covering his thigh and reached in to touch the slickness of his cage, confirming his shame.

"Let's got to bed," she whispered.

Her fingertips traced the damp spot on his green silk robe, a humiliating reminder of the video’s finale. The cold shower had been a feeble defense against the heat of his own pathetic arousal, and now this. Samantha’s touch on his cage had been clinical, a scientist confirming a predicted result.

She led him to the bedroom, a space that still smelled of afternoon sex, and the musk of Mike’s sweat. She peeled off her oversized t-shirt, the cotton swallowing her petite frame, and tossed it into the laundry basket without a glance. She slid under the cool sheets completely naked, her body enticing Blake to further arousal.

Blake hung his kimono on a peg behind the door. The air felt heavy, his breathing labored, the pink silicone cage giving an ache to his loins. He joined her snuggling. For a long moment, they just lay there, side-by-side, the video of her performance with Mike connecting them in silence.

She turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes, studied his face, but her intentions remained a mystery to Blake.

Her hand came up, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. The touch was so soft it was almost unbearable. He flinched, then stilled, his every nerve ending screaming for more.

"Blake," she whispered, her voice a low murmur that vibrated through the stillness.

That was all it took. The dam broke. He turned into her, her mouth finding his in the dark.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. A desperate, hungry claim. Her lips pressed to his with a frantic energy, as if her mouth had not been on another man just hours before. Blake's torment fueled her lust. She fed on his desperation, tasting it, savoring it.

Her tongue met his in fierce exploration, teasing his desires. Fanning his flames. He could taste the mint of her toothpaste, but it did nothing to erase the image of black cock in her mouth. He lost himself in the sensation, his hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her flush against him. The confinement of his cage pressed into her thigh, a frustrating, undeniable barrier.

Se broke the kiss, leaving him gasping for air, her forehead resting against his. His lips traveled down, across the smooth skin of her cheek, along the elegant column of her neck, until his mouth found the tight, peak of her breast.

He took her nipple into his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with increasing pressure, his tongue circling the aroused flesh. A soft, approving sigh escaped her lips. Her back arched, pressing herself more firmly into his mouth. One of her hands came up to cradle the back of his head, holding him there. The other hand wandered down his side, over his hip, and found his captive, straining flesh.

She didn't grab it. Her fingertips merely brushed against the silicone, tracing the outline of his imprisoned, stifled erection. The effect was electric. A sharp, needy hummed from his throat, muffled against her breast.

Her other hand left his head and found his right nipple. She didn't caress it. She pinched. Sharp and precise. A jolt of painful pleasure shot through him, making his whole body tense. She held the pressure, rolling the sensitive nub between her thumb and forefinger.

"Please, Sam," he begged, his voice ragged and tight. "Please, let me cum. I need it. I'm so close."

She released his nipple, her hand sliding down to rest on his cage again, feeling the pathetic tremor within. "I know you are," she said, her tone flat, almost bored. "You're always close. That's the whole problem, isn't it?"

"Please," he whined, pushing his hips against her stationary hand in a pathetic struggle hump that if she let him continue would yield a ruined orgasm in his cage. A not infrequent result.

"Beg harder," she commanded, her voice gaining an edge. "Use your words. Tell me why you deserve it."

He swallowed, shame and desire warring within him. "I-I made you dinner. I cleaned up. I watched your video. I've been so good."

She laughed, a soft, cruel sound. "That's your job. That's baseline. Try again. Tell me what you really are."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm… I'm your boyfriend. I love you."

Her fingers tapped impatiently on the cage. "Wrong answer."

A tear of frustration welled in the corner of his eye. "I'm… I'm your little beta. With my… my little penis. I am your little bitch. I am pathetic, and lucky to get any attention from you at all." The words were bitter in his mouth, but they also sent a fresh wave of dizzying submission through him. His perverse submission making him ache even more

"How little?" she pressed, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"T-Three and a half inches," he choked out.

"Compared to Mike?" The name was a dagger.

"Tiny," he gasped. "Nothing. He's a real man."

"Good boy. You are my little bitch," she cooed. She gave his cage a final, patronizing pat and slid out of bed.

Blake’s eyes flew open. She rolled over to her night stand, her naked form a perfect curves against the faint light.

His heart hammered against his ribs. The possibilities unspooled in his lust fogged mind, each a different flavor of torment and ecstasy. He saw her taking the small silver key from her neck, unlocking him, her fingers rolling the pathetically small MyOne 45c condom onto his eager, dripping cock. She’d push him onto his back and lower herself onto him in the amazon position, her powerful thighs straddling his hips, tell him how she could his insignificant length finger banging her man fucked pussy, and then mock him as he pre jac into the condom in barely a minute.

Or maybe she would ignore the key entirely. His eyes fixed on the drawer as she opened it. He imagined her pulling out the large, veined black cock sheath, that monstrous black silicone form. Then perhaps take out the numbing cream, spreading the cool, viscous gel over his trapped, sensitive head before encasing him in the hollow, intimidating prosthesis. Tucking the restraining strap under his scrotum. Then she’d ride the fake cock, moaning for its massive, unreal girth, while he felt nothing but a distant, muffled pressure, a ghost of the pleasure would feel as if he were a real man with a cock that could give her pleasure.

Another image, sharper, more intimate: the purple Feeldoe. She’d fill her tightness with the pony end of the double-ended, lesbian sex toy. She’d lube the lipstick lez end. Then raise his legs, gentle at first, her hands soothing as she prepared him. She’d enter him, unlock his little penis, coaxing a ‘boigasm’ from her lubed hand pussy. As his little cock spurted, she'd start, hitting his prostate with unerring accuracy, overwhelming his nervous system until he convulsed with a helpless, mind-melting ‘girlgasm,’ his cock, dribbling with each thrust, spurting again.

The darkest fantasy gripped him: she would simply select the black Feeldoe, leave his cage firmly locked, and take his boi pussy with the rigid toy. Calling him her little slut as she thrust into him, the painal blurring all else until he screamed, his orgasm ripped from him while he remained utterly confined, her complete and total property.

He watched, breath held, as her hand disappeared into the drawer. The soft clink of objects moving. Which one? Which one? The suspense was a physical ache, sharper than the pressure in his cage.

Samantha paused, her head tilting as she looked back at him sprawled on the bed, his desire and dread painted clearly on his face. Her expression pondering the choices in her drawer.