I used to be a force to be reckoned with—a cocky, arrogant top, strutting through life like I owned it. Men admired me, others feared me, and I reveled in the power I held. I was the definition of a player, a big-cum- shooter alpha who took what he wanted. But everything changed the day I was captured by a secret community, stripped of my rank and pride, sentenced to an indefinite stay in their twisted prison. Here, I wasn’t a man anymore. I was something much lower—a human sex toy, a body to be used and controlled.
This community thrives on the art of edging—turning it into a weapon of control, a method of torture, and, for those outside, a tantalizing service. They’ve mastered the art of cum control, using it to break down resistance, stretch out desire, and torment lesser men into submission. Under the master’s watchful eye, the doms are the enforcers, with subs and slaves beneath them. Each is trained, edged, and denied until they’re perfected, ready to be rented out to clients eager for their services.
But me? I wasn’t even deemed worthy of that fate. When I was sentenced to this hell, it was decided that I wasn’t fit for rentals. My cock—the same one that had secured me countless hookups and blowjobs—was deemed defective. Here, the standard was unforgiving. A sub’s cock had to be either proudly erect at a perfect 90-degree angle, or curve upward for the perfect display. My cock, however, pointed slightly down, curving left just enough to make it nearly invisible when viewed head-on, leaving only the shiny head and my slit in full view. My once-admired length, praised in locker rooms and bedrooms alike, was measured at 6.9 inches—just 0.1 inches shy of the 7-inch cutoff for a qualifying stud in this prison.
I was branded with the shame of having the smallest cock in the prison. Stripped of any dignity I had left, I was relegated to the lowest rank—devalued into nothing more than a sex toy for internal use.
Yes, I was for internal use only—a toy, a centerpiece in this world of torment and desire. Everyone had access to me, from the lowest slaves to the most powerful doms. Slaves would take out their frustrations on my body, using me as nothing more than a means to let off steam, teasing me until I was trembling on the edge, only to leave me desperate, untouched, and wanting. Doms and the master would experiment on me, probing how far I could be edged, how much denial my body could take before I broke. I was their project, their plaything.
But no one cared about making me cum. That wasn’t the point. I was there to be studied, edged to the brink, then left stranded in a limbo of agonizing desire. The only one who could allow me to cum was the master. But mercy? That was a word I quickly learned didn’t exist in this place. Every orgasm I had was a betrayal of my body—unauthorized, ruined, and humiliating. When my balls could hold no more, I’d be forced to cum hands-free, every muscle tensing as I tried, in vain, to stop the inevitable. It was never satisfying, never the release I craved. It wasn’t the full, powerful explosion that a real man gets to feel. It was a pathetic dribble, a flow, a frustrated ruin. And with every ruined orgasm, the punishment would be worse—so much worse. The more I came, the harsher the consequences, until I learned to do everything in my power to stop the release, to hold back, even as my body betrayed me.
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Sometimes, they’d hold these parties—celebrations of edging and denial. The subs and slaves, after being denied for a week, would be brought into the space around me. They’d be edged by their doms, teased and tormented until their bodies were shaking. But me? I’d be in the center, blindfolded, gagged, and bound, every muscle immobilized. I’d be forced to listen to the sounds of pleasure all around me through my headpiece, hearing the slaves as they neared the edge, their moans, their ragged breaths.
Then, one by one, I’d feel it—their cum spraying over my torso, warm and slick as they released everything I couldn’t. All the while, I’d be forced to sniff poppers, keeping me maddeningly hard, my nipples and cock teased with the lightest of touches. Gentle, slow, inconsistent strokes that never let me build momentum, never allowed me to reach the edge. I could feel it so close, like a fire burning just beneath my skin, but it was never enough.
Once the last slave came, that’s when the real torture would begin. The crowd would turn their attention to me, all eyes on the toy that had been denied for so long. They’d vote, choosing the cruelest, slowest way to edge me. My senses stripped away—I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I had no idea how many people were watching, how long it would go on. All I knew was that every nerve in my body was on fire, every inch of my skin aching for more.
The strokes would start—slow, excruciating, teasing me to the point of madness. The goal for me was simple: hold it in. Don’t let go. Don’t cum. My body would tremble with the effort, every muscle strained as I fought the overwhelming need to release. But the cruelest part? Even if I did, even if I failed, there’d be no relief. Only more punishment, more denial. And the cycle would begin all over again.
