The Futanari Train

Chapter 1

The last car of Train N.13 rattled through the undercity like a tin can kicked down a stairwell.

Amy Rose stood in the middle of it, clutching a duffel bag to her chest, and counted the empty seats. One, two, three, four. All the way down both sides. Forty six seats, zero passengers. The fluorescent lights above her flickered in that particular rhythm she'd come to associate with the ghost line; two quick pulses, one long hold, then a strobe that made the whole car look like a vintage nightclub for half a second.

Good. Empty. Perfect.

She checked her phone. A text from Liz, timestamped nine minutes ago:

Liz: All clear babe. No stops for the next 25. Ghost line is DEAD tonight. Have fun being a freak ????

Amy's thumbs hovered over the screen. She typed three different responses, deleted all of them, and settled on a single emoji. A thumbs up. Then she shoved the phone into the duffel bag's side pocket and stood there, alone, in a rattling subway car somewhere beneath the neon belly of Neo Meridian City.

Her heart was doing something stupid.

Not the romantic kind of stupid. The kind where her pulse sat high in her throat and her palms were slick and her brain kept cycling through the same three thoughts: this is insane, this is so hot, I'm going to throw up. Which, as far as Amy could tell, was the exact cocktail of feelings that preceded every good decision she'd ever made.

She dropped the duffel bag onto the nearest seat. The zipper sang as she pulled it open.

Rope. Two coils, pre measured. Soft black nylon, the kind that left marks if you pulled hard enough but wouldn't cut skin. She'd bought it from a vendor in the arts district who operated out of a converted shipping container and called himself "Knot Steve." Knot Steve had opinions about Amy's technique. Knot Steve could go fuck himself, except he couldn't, because of the chip, which was the whole problem with everything.

The chip.

Every citizen of Neo Meridian got one at eighteen. Mandatory. No exceptions, no delays, no religious exemptions, no "but my body my choice" petitions to the Transit Authority or the Bureau of Civic Health or whoever the hell was actually in charge these days. You turned eighteen, you reported to your district's implantation center, and a woman in surgical scrubs pressed something cold and small against the base of your skull. A click. A hum. A brief sensation like someone had flicked the inside of your brain with a fingernail.

Then you went home, and you never masturbated again.

Amy remembered her implantation day with the kind of clarity usually reserved for car accidents and first kisses. She'd gone in wearing her favorite hoodie, the oversized grey one with the bleach stain on the left cuff, and she'd sat in a plastic chair in a waiting room that had the exact same energy as the DMV. Fluorescent lights. A number dispenser. A man two seats over reading a pamphlet titled Your Chip & You: A Guide to Partnered Pleasure in the Modern Age.

The procedure took eleven seconds.

The pamphlet took longer to read.

The gist of it was the Civic Pleasure Regulation Initiative, or CPRI, was the government's answer to what they called the "self sufficiency crisis." Population rates had been dropping for decades. People were, to put it in the language of the official documentation, "opting for solitary gratification over procreative partnership." People were masturbating instead of fucking. The birth rate cratered. The economy followed. Some genius in a government think tank decided that if you couldn't convince people to have sex with each other, you could at least make it impossible for them to get off alone.

So. The chip.

It sat at the base of your skull, a little disc no bigger than a thumbnail, wired into the neural pathways that governed sexual pleasure. When you touched yourself, anywhere the chip's algorithm classified as a "primary or secondary erogenous zone," the neural blockers kicked in.

The chip didn't block everything. You could still get hard. You could still get wet. Your body still wanted things. It just couldn't finish the job alone.

That was the cruelty of it, really. Not that they took the pleasure away. That they left the wanting.

For most citizens, the workaround was simple enough. Register a release partner. Up to five, rotated monthly if you wanted, logged in the CPRI database. When a registered partner touched you, the chip's blockers disengaged. Skin on skin, pleasure centers open, the full cascade of neurochemical reward available again. You could cum. You could feel everything.

You just needed someone else's hands to get there.

The system had, predictably, created a nightmare.

Power dynamics in relationships shifted overnight. Pleasure workers became the fastest growing industry in the city, licensed and regulated, operating out of neon lit storefronts in the mid city and shadowy backrooms in the undercity. Marriages became transactional in ways they'd never been before. People stayed in terrible relationships because their partner was registered and the monthly switchover wait felt like agony. There were support groups. There were protest movements. There were underground hackers who claimed they could disable the chip for five thousand credits and a blood sample, though half of them were scammers and the other half were liable to fry your nervous system.

And then there were futanari.

Amy pulled the rope coils from the bag and set them on the seat beside her. Beneath them, the restraint cuffs. Heavy. Matte black steel with a digital lock mechanism and a timer display that currently read 00:00:00.

She paused, hands on the cuffs, and stared at nothing.

Futanari. The word had been clinical once, a medical classification for the 0.1% of the population born with both typically female secondary sex characteristics and fully functional male genitalia. Breasts and cock. Curves and balls. The whole messy, beautiful, complicated package.

In Neo Meridian, futanari had it worse than anyone.

The chip affected them the same way it affected everyone else. No self stimulation, pleasure blockers, full dependency on a registered partner. But futanari had a biological wrinkle that the chip's designers had either not anticipated or, more likely, hadn't cared about: they needed to cum. Not wanted. Needed. Something about the hormonal cocktail, the dual system, the way their bodies processed testosterone and estrogen simultaneously. A futanari who went more than twenty four hours without orgasm experienced what the medical community politely called "acute genital congestion" and what Amy called "balls so swollen and painful you can't fucking walk."

Blue balls. Weaponized by the state.

For a regular citizen, the chip was an inconvenience. An infringement on autonomy, sure, a gross overreach of government power, absolutely, but manageable. You registered a partner, you worked something out, you got off.

For a futanari, the chip was a leash.

Amy was a futanari. Amy had one registered release partner. Amy could not, under any circumstances, make herself cum.

She pulled her hoodie over her head.

The car lurched around a bend, and she grabbed the overhead railing to steady herself. The metal was cold under her fingers. She held on for a moment longer than she needed to, looking up at the railing, picturing what was about to happen.

Okay. Okay okay okay.

Underneath the hoodie, she wore a leather corset. Not the practical kind, not the historical kind, not the "structured undergarment for back support" kind. This was the kind that laced up the front with satin ribbon and pushed her tits up so aggressively that they sat like two soft, heavy offerings on a shelf. She'd bought it six months ago from an online shop that catered specifically to futanari; the cut accommodated wider hips and larger chests, and the bottom hem stopped high above the waist, leaving everything below fully exposed.

Everything below.

Amy kicked off her sneakers. Pulled her sweatpants down. Stepped out of them, one foot then the other, and stuffed them into the duffel bag.

The fishnet stockings she wore underneath had a run in the left thigh already. She'd snagged them getting dressed, her fingers shaking with the same jittery energy that was making her heart jackhammer now. They climbed from mid thigh to her hips, held up by garter clips attached to the corset, and the diamond pattern stretched wide across the meat of her thighs, the threads digging shallow impressions into her skin.

She stood there.

In a subway car. In the undercity. In a leather corset and ripped fishnets and nothing else.

Her cock hung between her thighs, soft; well, mostly soft, already thickening, the shaft fat and pale against the dark mesh of the fishnets, her balls heavy underneath. The air in the car was cool. Recycled. It moved across her exposed skin and she twitched, a full body thing, like a horse shaking off a fly.

"Okay," she said out loud. Her voice sounded small in the empty car. "This is fine. This is normal. People do this."

People did not do this.

Or, people did do this, but they did it in sex clubs and at play parties and in the privacy of homes with drawn curtains and locked doors. They did not do it alone on a subway train hurtling through the unlit tunnels of Neo Meridian's undercity at eleven thirty on a Tuesday night.

Amy's self bondage thing had started, like most things in her life, as a forum post.

She'd been lurking on an underground BDSM board called The Tether for two years, posting occasionally under the handle "EdgeCase," mostly reading other people's experiences and saving the ones that made her cock twitch. Which was a lot of them. The chip meant she couldn't do anything about the twitching, of course, but the wanting itself had become a kind of pleasure. A masochistic loop: read something hot, get hard, ache, not be able to touch, ache more, get harder, read more. Repeat until she was so pent up she could barely think, and then text Liz.

Liz. Her roommate. Her best friend. Her registered release partner. The only person on the planet whose hands could make Amy cum.

They'd met two years ago, Amy's first day in the city. She'd been standing on the platform at Vine Street Station with two suitcases and a look on her face that apparently screamed "please take advantage of me," and Liz had leaned out of the conductor's window of Train N.13 and yelled, "You look lost, gorgeous. Need a ride?"

Liz was a night shift conductor on the ghost line, the late route that wound through the undercity's tunnels from ten PM to six AM, servicing the scattered stations that most citizens pretended didn't exist. She was two years older than Amy, sharp featured, short dark hair, a smirk that never quite left her face. Lean and angular where Amy was soft and round. Leather jacket, combat boots, a conductor's cap she wore tilted at an angle that suggested she'd never taken anything seriously in her life.

They'd become friends fast. Roommates faster. And then, three weeks into sharing a tiny studio apartment in the arts district, Liz had walked into the bathroom while Amy was trying and failing to shower without her cock responding to the warm water, and she'd seen the problem.

"Jesus Christ," Liz had said, leaning against the doorframe, not even pretending to look away. "That thing is angry."

Amy's cock had been rock hard, flushed dark pink, standing at attention against her wet stomach. The chip ensured she couldn't do a thing about it. She'd been hard for six hours. Her balls ached. Her eyes were watering.

"I can't... I don't have anyone registered," Amy had stammered, covering herself with both hands, which did nothing because her cock was too big for her hands to hide. Eight inches, thick enough that one hand couldn't close around it, curving up toward her navel with a kind of insistent enthusiasm that bordered on aggressive. "I just moved here. I don't know anyone. My last partner was in my hometown and I transferred the registration but it hasn't processed yet and it takes thirty days and I..."

She'd been crying by then. She was always crying. Her eyes watered when she was embarrassed, when she was horny, when she was frustrated, when someone looked at her too long. The tears came easy and the blushing came easier, her round cheeks going from their usual soft pink to full tomato within seconds.

Liz had looked at her. At her cock. At her face. At the tears.

"Register me," Liz had said.

"What?"

"Register me as your release partner. Right now. We'll do the emergency registration, takes two hours to process."

"I... you'd..."

"I'll jerk you off. Once a day. Keep you functional." Liz had crossed her arms, hip cocked against the doorframe, looking at Amy's throbbing cock like it was an interesting engineering problem. "In exchange, you pay seventy percent of rent."

"Seventy percent?!"

"Your cock, your call. But you've been hard for, what, six hours? How are those balls feeling?"

Amy's balls had been feeling like someone had put them in a hydraulic press. She'd registered Liz within the hour.

That was two years ago.

Since then, they'd fallen into a rhythm. Liz jerked Amy off every evening, usually on the couch while they watched something on the holoscreen, casual as pouring a glass of water. Liz's hands were surprisingly soft; she had an almost religious moisturizer habit, three different creams in a specific order. Those soft hands wrapped around Amy's fat cock every night, working her to orgasm with an efficiency that was either impressive or insulting depending on Amy's mood. Sometimes Liz teased. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she edged Amy to the brink and pulled away just to watch Amy whimper and kick and call her names before finishing her off with a laugh.

Liz was exempt from the chip system. Transit workers had exemptions, a carve out in the CPRI legislation that covered law enforcement, medical professionals, government officials, and, inexplicably, transit workers. Something about "emergency situations" on long haul routes. Liz could touch herself whenever she wanted. The unfairness of this was not lost on Amy.

The arrangement worked, though. Seventy percent of rent was steep, but Amy's graphic design work paid decently, and the alternative was... what? Register a stranger? Pay a licensed pleasure worker? Go to one of the neon lit shops in the mid city and sit in a waiting room while someone with a laminated badge and latex gloves milked her like a cow?

No. Liz was fine. Liz was good. Liz was her friend.

Liz was also, Amy thought as she uncoiled the first length of rope, a sadistic lunatic. But a lovable one.

The self bondage thing. Right.

It had started on The Tether. A thread titled "PUBLIC RESTRAINT EXPERIENCES: Share Yours" with two hundred and forty seven replies, most of them from people describing the rush of being tied up in semi public spaces. Cars. Rooftops. Balconies. Trains.

Trains.

Amy had read those posts with her cock straining against her pajama bottoms and her chip smugly preventing her from doing anything about it. The idea had lodged in her brain like a splinter: what if. What if she could be tied up, exposed, helpless, in a public space, with the thrill of potential exposure but the safety of knowing no one would see. The fantasy was the risk. Not the reality.

She'd brought it up to Liz over takeout, chopsticks halfway to her mouth, trying to sound casual.

"So there's this thing I want to try."

"Kinky thing?" Liz hadn't looked up from her noodles.

"How did you..."

"It's always a kinky thing with you, babe. Spill."

Amy had explained. The self bondage. The public element. The train. Her face had gone so red she could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks.

Liz had listened with that particular expression she got when she was already scheming: chin in hand, eyes narrowed, mouth curled at one corner. When Amy finished, Liz had set down her chopsticks and said, "I can make that happen."

"You can?"

"I drive the ghost line, Amy. I know when cars are empty. I know the schedule. I can lock a section, disable the stops, give you twenty minutes of privacy." She'd paused. Grinned. "You'd be totally alone. Tied up, exposed, nobody for miles. Just you and your big dumb cock and twenty minutes of going out of your mind."

"You make it sound..."

"Hot? Because it is hot. You're a pervert and it's one of my favorite things about you."

Amy had bitten her lip. Liz had reached across the table and flicked her forehead.

"Tuesday," Liz had said. "I'll set it up for Tuesday night. Last car. You'll have the whole thing to yourself."

That was five days ago.

Now it was Tuesday, and Amy was standing in the last car of Train N.13 in a leather corset and fishnets with her cock hanging out, and she was going to tie herself to the overhead railing and sit with her legs spread and be completely, helplessly, beautifully exposed for twenty minutes.

God, her hands were shaking.

She picked up the first coil of rope and knelt on the floor to work on her ankles.

The seat she'd chosen was in the middle of the car. Standard transit bench; metal frame, blue vinyl cushion, low enough that her feet could plant flat on the floor when she sat. The seats on either side of the aisle faced each other, and the gap between them was wide enough that if she sat on the left bench and tied each ankle to the base of the opposite bench legs, her legs would be spread wide. Obscenely wide. No, scratch that; impossibly wide. The kind of spread that left nothing hidden, nothing shielded, everything on display.

She looped the rope around her left ankle first. Over, under, through the gap, pull tight, cinch. Knot Steve would have critiqued her wrap technique, but Knot Steve wasn't here. The rope sat snug against her skin, just above the fishnet, pressing a groove into the softness of her ankle. She tested it. Firm. Not going anywhere.

She ran the tail end of the rope to the base of the seat across the aisle and secured it to the metal support strut. The geometry worked: when she sat down, her left leg would be pulled out to the side, held taut by the rope running diagonally across the aisle floor.

Right ankle. Same process. Loop, wrap, cinch, tie off to the seat leg on the opposite side. When she finished, she had a V of rope stretching from her ankles to the seats across from her, and the only way to bring her legs together would be to untie both sides.

She sat down.

Her legs spread.

Not a little. A lot. The ropes pulled her ankles apart and her knees followed, her thick thighs parting, the fishnets stretching taut across the soft flesh, and her cock. Her cock, which had been thickening steadily since she'd started undressing, now hung heavy between her spread legs with nowhere to hide. Her balls rested against the cool vinyl of the seat beneath her, and she made a sound, a small oh that was half surprise and half something else.

The cool air of the subway car touched her everywhere. The insides of her thighs. The crease where her legs met her hips. The underside of her cock, which twitched when the air hit it like it had been touched.

Amy's cheeks burned.

She was doing this. She was actually doing this.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Arms. Come on."

The cuffs were the centerpiece. Self locking, timer controlled, matte black steel with a digital display on each one. She'd ordered them from a specialty shop in the upper city that shipped in discreet packaging, though "discreet" apparently meant a plain brown box with the words INTIMATE RESTRAINT SYSTEM printed on the shipping label in small but perfectly legible text. Her mail carrier had given her a look. Amy had wanted to die.

The mechanism was straightforward. Each cuff locked around the wrist with a magnetic seal controlled by the timer. Set the countdown, lock the cuffs, and they wouldn't open until the timer hit zero. No override. No manual release. No safeword for an object that didn't speak.

This was the part that scared her. Not the nudity, not the spread legs, not the exposure. The helplessness. The real, actual, no take backs helplessness of having her hands locked above her head with no way to free herself until the timer decided she'd had enough.

She stood up from the seat. Her legs pulled against the ankle ropes but didn't stop her from standing; the ropes had enough slack for that. She reached up and looped a short connector strap around the overhead railing, the horizontal bar that ran the length of the car for standing passengers to grip. The strap dangled at the right height: high enough that her arms would be stretched above her head when she sat back down, low enough that it wouldn't dislocate anything.

She threaded the cuffs through the connector strap's D ring.

Deep breath.

She could still stop. She could untie her ankles, stuff everything back in the duffel bag, pull on her sweatpants, and ride the ghost line home like a normal person. Tell Liz it was too scary. Laugh about it over takeout. Go back to fantasizing on The Tether from the safety of her couch.

Her cock throbbed. A thick, heavy pulse that she felt in her whole body, groin to chest.

She was so turned on she could barely think straight.

"Twenty minutes," she told herself. "Twenty minutes and then you go home and Liz takes care of you and everything is fine."

Liz would take care of her. Liz always took care of her. Those soft, moisturized hands around her cock, steady and sure, working her to a finish while Amy moaned into a couch cushion. It was their routine. It was their deal. She paid the rent and Liz got her off and the world kept spinning.

She sat back down. Legs spread wide by the ropes. She reached up, arms above her head, wrists close together, and pressed her left hand into the first cuff.

Click.

The magnetic seal engaged. The steel closed snug around her wrist, firm but not painful, a circle of cold metal that wouldn't budge no matter how hard she pulled. She tugged once, testing. The cuff held. The connector strap held. The overhead railing held.

One hand locked. One still free.

She used the free hand to set the timer. The tiny buttons were hard to press with her fingers trembling like this. She punched in the time: twenty minutes. The display on both cuffs synced, showing 20:00:00 in small red digits.

Her thumb hovered over the start button.

Her cock was fully hard now. Eight inches of thick, flushed, stupidly eager futa cock standing straight up from between her spread thighs, the head swollen and pink, already leaking a thin strand of pre cum that caught the flickering fluorescent light. Her balls hung low, heavy, resting on the seat, swollen with the day's buildup. She'd been hard on and off since lunchtime, since she'd started thinking about tonight, and the chip had dutifully prevented her from doing a single thing about it.

She stared down at herself. Legs tied open. One wrist cuffed to the railing above. Cock standing at attention with pre cum pooling at the tip and starting a slow, obscene drip toward her stomach.

A bead of it landed on her lower belly. Warm.

Amy bit her lip so hard she tasted something metallic.

She shoved her right wrist into the second cuff.

Click.

Both hands locked. Arms above her head, pulled up and slightly back by the connector strap, her body forming a long, stretched line from raised wrists to spread ankles. The position was... god. It was everything she'd imagined and worse. The corset pushed her tits up and the stretch of her arms pushed them up further, the soft heavy weight of them sitting high on her chest, nipples hard and visible above the corset's low edge. Her waist curved inward, exposed between the corset's hem and the top of her hips. And below that, the full display: thick thighs in torn fishnets pulled apart by rope, her cock standing rigid between them, balls drawn up tight with arousal, the whole arrangement lit by the subway car's stuttering fluorescents like the world's most depraved art installation.

She pulled at the cuffs.

Nothing.

Pulled harder.

The steel bit into her wrists. The railing creaked but held. The connector strap didn't budge.

She tried to close her legs. The ankle ropes went taut and stopped her with six inches of give at most. Her knees could move slightly inward but her ankles were fixed and her legs stayed open.

She was stuck.

She was stuck and naked and tied up and hard and alone in a subway car in the undercity and she couldn't close her legs or lower her arms or cover herself or touch herself and the timer on the cuffs read 20:00:00 and was waiting for her to press start.

Her cock twitched. A full, visible jerk, the shaft bouncing once, a fresh line of pre cum sliding down the underside toward her balls.

Amy made a noise. Something between a laugh and a moan, high pitched and breathy, the sound of a person who was having the time of her life and also possibly losing her mind.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. Start it. Start the timer. Do it."

Her thumb found the button on the right cuff. It was the only part of the mechanism she could reach from this position; the designers had thought of everything.

She pressed it.

The cuffs beeped once, a soft chime that echoed in the empty car, and the display changed.

20:00:00.

Counting.

19:59:59.

19:59:58.

Amy Rose sat in a rattling subway car beneath Neo Meridian City, arms above her head, legs spread wide, cock throbbing, and twenty minutes on the clock.

She grinned.

Then the grin faltered, just for a second, because her cock pulsed again and a thick drop of pre cum rolled down her shaft and the chip hummed at the base of her skull like a purring cat; a reminder. She couldn't touch. She couldn't cum. She could only sit here, open and aching and dripping, and count the seconds until she went home to Liz.

The timer ticked.

19:59:42.

19:59:41.

19:59:40.

The train rattled on through the dark.

Chapter 2

Liz Harper had her boots up on the console.

Not regulation boots. Not even close. The transit authority mandated steel toed black leather with reflective ankle strips for all N.13 operators, but Liz was wearing a pair of knee high platform combat boots she'd found in a thrift store last Tuesday. They were covered in buckles. Fourteen of them, she'd counted. The heels added three inches to her height and made her legs look fantastic, which was the entire point.

The rest of her uniform was equally criminal. White button up shirt, sure, technically correct, except she'd cut the sleeves off at the shoulder with kitchen scissors and left the bottom four buttons undone so the fabric hung open around her stomach. Her conductor's cap sat tilted on her head at an angle that screamed I dare you to write me up. Below the shirt: a plaid skirt that belonged in a punk band's fever dream, not a transit cabin. Black fishnets underneath. The leather jacket was draped over the back of her chair because the cabin was warm and she'd spilled coffee on the sleeve earlier.

Nobody was going to say a word about it. Nobody ever did. The N.13 ghost line ran through the undercity on a graveyard shift that management pretended didn't exist, and Liz was the only driver crazy enough to take it five nights a week. They could have her in a bikini for all they cared, long as the train ran on time.

Liz reached for her coffee mug. It said WORLD'S OKAYEST TRAIN DRIVER in chipped white letters. She took a sip, grimaced, and set it back between a voltage meter from 1987 and a retro cam that was currently recording a red blinking dot into the dark of the cabin.

The cam wasn't pointed at her.

It was pointed at the monitor.

The monitor showed the interior of the last car on Train N.13, captured by the overhead security camera in the corner that Amy Rose had apparently forgotten existed. The feed was grainy; the cameras on this line hadn't been upgraded since the city's founding, and the image had that washed out, greenish quality of old surveillance footage. But it was clear enough. More than clear enough.

On the screen, Amy was pulling her hoodie over her head.

Liz's mouth twitched.

"There she goes," she murmured. Leaned forward. Elbows on her knees.

The hoodie came off and Amy's corset appeared underneath, black leather pushing her tits up into two soft, round, perfect handfuls that the camera captured in surprisingly good detail given the shit resolution. Amy's arms were still tangled in the hoodie's sleeves. She wrestled with it for a second, stumbling slightly on the moving train, and her tits bounced with the motion.

Liz snorted.

"Graceful."

Amy got the hoodie free. Balled it up. Kicked off her sneakers, one foot then the other, each shoe tumbling across the car floor with a thud Liz could hear through the cabin's rear audio feed. Then the sweatpants. Amy hooked her thumbs in the waistband and shoved them down and stepped out of them and Liz got her first full look at tonight's outfit.

The corset. Cinched tight, boned, laced up the front with satin ribbon. It stopped high on Amy's torso. Below it: nothing. Just Amy. Wide hips, soft belly, thick thighs in torn fishnets connected to the corset by garter clips. And between those thighs, already hard, already straining, Amy's cock.

Liz tilted her head. Studied the screen.

Eight inches of stiff, flushed futa cock standing straight up from Amy's body like a flagpole. The head was swollen and pink. Even on the grainy feed, Liz could see it twitch. Could see the thin shine of pre cum already building at the tip.

"Oh, babe." Liz grinned. "You're already leaking? You haven't even sat down yet."

She picked up her coffee. Took another sip. Set it down without looking, eyes locked on the screen.

Amy was sitting on the floor now. Rope in her hands. She wrapped it around her left ankle, working the knot with fingers that were shaking, and Liz noticed that, too. The way Amy's hands trembled. The way she kept glancing up at the car doors like someone might burst in at any second. The way her cock bobbed between her legs every time she shifted position, pre cum dripping in a thin line onto the floor.

"Get those legs nice and wide for me, sweetheart," Liz said to the screen. She crossed her ankles on the console. "Real wide. That's it."

Amy tied her left ankle to the bench leg across the aisle. Then the right. The ropes pulled her legs apart, and on the screen Amy's thighs spread open, the torn fishnets stretching across her skin, and her cock jutted upward between them like it was trying to escape.

Liz bit her bottom lip. Not from arousal, exactly. From anticipation. From the delicious, bubbling, almost childlike glee of watching someone walk into a trap they'd built for themselves.

Because Amy thought she was alone.

Amy thought this was a private thing. A solo adventure. Twenty minutes of delicious self imposed helplessness on an empty train, a taste of danger without any real risk, and then home to Liz for the reward she'd been thinking about all day. That was the deal. That was what Liz had promised when Amy had texted her this afternoon with the plan, the details, the shy little is this okay? at the end of the message.

And Liz had texted back: Of course babe. Car will be empty. I promise.

Which was true.

The car was empty.

For now.

Liz reached under the console and pulled out a clipboard. Clipped to it was a route map for the N.13 ghost line, hand annotated in red pen with Liz's messy handwriting. The standard route ran straight through the undercity tunnels: eleven stops, no transfers, forty minute loop. But on tonight's map, Liz had drawn a detour. A single red line branching off the main track at junction 7B, curving south through a maintenance tunnel, and ending at a platform that didn't appear on any official transit map.

Molest Town.

She'd written the name in block capitals and drawn a little smiley face next to it.

Molest Town. Not its real name, obviously; the platform didn't have a real name because it didn't officially exist. It was an old maintenance stop from the city's first rail expansion, abandoned in the seventies when the undercity tunnels were rerouted. Someone had turned the platform into a gathering spot years ago and the name had stuck. The transit authority knew about it. The cops knew about it. Nobody shut it down because nobody wanted to deal with the paperwork, and besides, it served a purpose.

See, the thing about Neo Meridian City's pleasure chip system was that it created demand. When you couldn't touch yourself and you needed someone else to get you off, you developed a hunger. A constant, low grade need that built and built until you found a registered partner or went crazy. And for some people, especially the ones who lived alone or were too shy to register anyone or had chips that glitched, that hunger turned into desperation. And desperation, in the undercity, turned into Molest Town.

The platform was where the sexually aggressive gathered. Not men; the chip system affected everyone, but the women of Molest Town had turned their hunger into sport. Groups of them waited on the platform during the late night hours, dressed in everything from leather to lace, eyes scanning the trains that passed through the junction. When a train stopped, which it wasn't supposed to but sometimes did because drivers like Liz took bribes, or thought it was funny, the women boarded. And whoever was on that train got the ride of their life.

Whether they'd asked for it or not.

Liz set the clipboard down. Picked up her phone. Scrolled through her messages until she found the group chat labeled Platform Girls and tapped on it.

The last message was from three hours ago. Liz, typing in all caps: TONIGHT. N.13. LAST CAR. YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT I'VE GOT FOR YOU.

Under that: a photo she'd taken of Amy last week, asleep on their couch, wearing nothing but an oversized t shirt that had ridden up to expose one hip and the soft base of her cock resting against her thigh. Amy's face was peaceful. Adorable.

The responses had come fast.

oh she's CUTE

is that the roommate you're always talking about

dibs on her cock

What time?

I'm bringing the crew.

Liz scrolled past those. The last message was from tonight, twenty minutes ago, sent by a contact saved as Emma: We're at the platform. Five of us. Ready when you are.

Five.

Liz locked her phone. Set it face down on the console.

On the monitor, Amy had finished with the ankle ropes and was standing up. Her cock swayed with the motion, heavy and hard, a strand of pre cum stretching from the tip to her thigh before snapping and landing on the floor. She reached up and looped the connector strap around the overhead railing. Threaded the steel cuffs through the D ring. Her hands were still shaking.

"You're so fucking cute when you're nervous," Liz told the screen. She pulled her cap down half an inch. "You know that? Genuinely adorable. Like a puppy about to stick its nose in a beehive."

Amy sat down on the bench. Her legs pulled apart immediately, the ankle ropes going taut, and on the monitor her thighs spread wide and her cock stood up between them like a monument to poor decision making. The corset pushed her tits up. Her nipples were hard, visible above the low edge of the leather. She reached up with both arms.

Left wrist into the first cuff.

Click.

"One down." Liz leaned closer.

Right wrist into the second cuff.

Click.

"And that's two." Liz clapped her hands together, a single sharp slap in the quiet cabin. "Ladies and gentlemen, the bird is in the cage."

On screen, Amy tested the restraints. Pulled at them. Tried to close her legs. The cuffs held. The ropes held. Everything held. Amy's body formed a long stretched line on the bench, arms above her head, legs spread, cock standing rigid and leaking, and even through the shitty security camera Liz could see the grin on Amy's face. That giddy, terrified, turned on grin that Liz knew so well.

Amy's thumb found the start button.

She pressed it.

The timer display on the cuffs changed. 20:00:00. Counting.

Liz's hand moved to the route override panel.

The panel was old. Analog. A series of toggle switches and a dial that controlled the train's junction routing, all of it mechanical because the ghost line predated the city's digital infrastructure. Liz knew every switch by touch. She'd memorized them her first week on the job, back when she'd realized that manual override meant she could send this train anywhere she wanted and nobody in dispatch would notice until morning.

She flipped two toggles. Left, right. The overhead indicators changed from green to amber. Somewhere beneath the train, deep in the track bed, a junction switch moved. Rails shifted. The path ahead forked, and the train, still rattling forward through the tunnel, began to curve south.

Toward Molest Town.

Liz settled back in her chair. Crossed her arms. Watched the timer on Amy's cuffs tick down.

19:58:12.

19:58:11.

"Okay." She rubbed her hands together. "Let's give it another minute. Let her get comfortable. Let her think everything's fine." She paused. Squinted at the screen. Amy's cock was twitching again, a visible pulse running through the shaft, and another bead of pre cum was rolling down toward her balls. "Jesus, look at that thing. She's gonna lose her mind."

Liz picked up the retro cam from the console. It was a beautiful piece of kit; a chrome bodied handheld from the nineties that she'd restored herself, fitted with a modern memory card but keeping the original optics. She angled it at the monitor and hit record. The red light blinked on.

"For posterity," she said to no one.

Amy, on the screen, had stopped testing the restraints. She was just sitting there now. Head tilted back. Chest rising and falling. Cock standing at attention. Waiting.

Liz watched her for another thirty seconds. Then she picked up the intercom handset.

The intercom on the N.13 was ancient. A chrome handset on a coiled cord, mounted next to the route panel, with a broadcast toggle that piped your voice through every speaker on the train. The speakers were old too, and they distorted everything, turning even a normal speaking voice into something grainy and metallic and vaguely threatening. Which Liz loved. She'd practiced her announcements at home in the mirror.

She flipped the broadcast toggle. The speakers throughout the train crackled to life with a low hiss.

On the monitor, Amy's head snapped up.

Liz held the handset to her lips. She could feel the grin spreading across her face, wide and sharp and borderline unhinged.

"Attention, passenger."

Her voice came through the speakers with that gorgeous distortion, tinny and crackling and official sounding except for the fact that she was already starting to laugh.

"This is your conductor speaking. Train N.13 will be making an unscheduled stop. Due to, uh..." She pressed her hand over her mouth. Composed herself. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, we will be arriving at Molest Town in approximately three minutes."

A pause.

"How unfortunate."

On the monitor, Amy went stiff. Her whole body locked. Her head turned toward the speaker on the wall of the car, and even through the grainy feed Liz could see her eyes go wide.

Liz pulled the handset away and doubled over. The laugh ripped out of her, loud and sharp and genuine, the kind of laugh that made her stomach hurt. She slapped her knee. Wheezed. Wiped her eyes.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Her face. Did you see her face?"

Nobody was there to answer. She didn't care.

She brought the handset back up.

"I repeat. Unscheduled stop. Molest Town. Three minutes. The transit authority would like to remind all passengers to remain seated and keep their... belongings... secured." She bit down on another laugh. "Although I have a feeling that won't be an issue for you, will it, Amy?"

On the monitor, Amy was pulling at the cuffs. Hard. Both wrists twisting, arms jerking, the overhead railing shaking with each yank. Her mouth was open. She was saying something. Yelling something. Liz couldn't hear it through the video feed, but she could guess.

Liz toggled the audio feed from the last car. Amy's voice filled the cabin.

"... LIZ! LIZ, YOU ABSOLUTE PSYCHO, LET ME OUT! THE TIMER, LIZ, THE TIMER ISN'T, I CAN'T... LIZ!"

Liz laughed so hard she snorted. A genuine, ugly, pig snort that echoed in the driver's cabin, and she covered her face with both hands and just shook.

"Oh, babe." She picked the handset back up. Toggled it on. "Babe, babe, babe. Relax. Deep breaths. You're going to be fine."

"LIZ, I SWEAR TO GOD..."

"I mean, probably fine. Mostly fine." Liz tilted her cap back and scratched her forehead. "Actually, you know what, I can't promise fine. But you'll survive. Probably. I think." She looked at the cam. Still recording. Good. "Okay, quick PSA for my favorite passenger. The women of Molest Town are, how do I put this... enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. Like, five of them are waiting on that platform right now, and they've seen your photo, and they are excited."

Silence from the last car. Then, quieter: "... my photo?"

"The one from the couch. You know the one. You looked really cute."

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU."

"You can't even reach your own dick right now, sweetie. Let's maybe shelve the murder plans." Liz leaned into the handset. "Two minutes."

On the monitor, Amy's cock was still hard. That was the thing Liz loved the most. Amy was panicking, genuinely panicking, pulling at her restraints and screaming threats and looking like she might actually cry, but her cock was rock solid. If anything, it looked harder. The shaft had a visible pulse. Pre cum was dripping from the tip in a steady stream now, pooling on the vinyl seat between her spread thighs.

Amy's body was a traitor and they both knew it.

"One more thing," Liz said into the intercom. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, okay Liz is insane but at least she'll take care of me after. Right? Like, you come home, I feel bad about the prank, I register my touch, and I finish you off. Happy ending. Am I close?"

Amy didn't answer. On the monitor, she'd stopped struggling. She was staring up at the speaker, chest heaving, arms taut in the cuffs, cock dripping.

"Yeah." Liz smiled. "So wrong. So wrong."

She set the handset down. Picked up the retro cam again. Pointed it at the monitor and zoomed in on Amy's face. The expression was priceless. Wide eyes. Open mouth. Cheeks burning red. The face of a person who had just realized that their best friend and only registered release partner was, as previously advertised, a sadistic lunatic.

"And the best part?" Liz said to the camera. She turned it on herself. Her green eyes sparkled. "She still loves me. She'll call me a bitch for about a week, stomp around the apartment, give me the silent treatment for maybe two days max. And then she'll be right back on this train. Because she gets off on it. She gets off on being scared. She gets off on being helpless. She gets off on me being the one who does this to her." She paused. "I mean, she can't actually get off. That's the whole point. But you know what I mean."

She turned the cam back to the monitor.

The train was slowing.

Amy could feel it too. On the screen, her head turned toward the window. The tunnel walls outside were changing; the rough hewn rock giving way to tiled surfaces, old ceramic squares in faded greens and yellows, the remnants of the original maintenance platform's decor. Neon light began to bleed through the window glass. Pink first, then blue, then purple, the colors of Molest Town's hand rigged lighting system, strung up by the women who'd claimed the platform as their own. The light painted stripes across Amy's body. Across her corset. Her tits. Her stomach. Her cock.

The train decelerated. Brakes hissed. The platform crept into view through the windows of the last car.

Liz leaned forward.

Molest Town's platform was narrow, maybe fifteen feet of cracked concrete between the track edge and the tiled wall. Someone had dragged a few couches down there at some point, mismatched and stained, arranged around a coffee table that was covered in empty glasses and an ashtray. Neon signs hung on the wall, some functional, some just decorative: a pink pair of lips, a blue martini glass, the word TOUCH in flickering purple script. The ceiling was low and the tiles were chipped and the whole place had the look of a basement party that had been running for about ten years.

And standing on the platform, right at the edge, five women.

Liz could see them through the last car's window on the monitor, and through the driver's cabin front viewport as the train eased in. Five of them, arranged in a loose semicircle, watching the train approach.

They were looking at the windows of the last car.

Looking at Amy.

Liz saw Amy see them. On the monitor, Amy's head turned toward the window, and her body went rigid. Not the playful stiffness of before, the ooh this is scary stiffness. This was different. This was real.

Five women. Staring at her through the glass. Every single one of them smiling.

The tall one in the center, dark ponytail, leather corset, stiletto boots that went up past her thighs. She had her arms crossed and she was looking at Amy the way a cat looks at a bird that's already in the cage. Calm. Patient. Sure of what was about to happen.

To her left, a short girl with pigtails and a pleated skirt so tiny it was basically a belt. She was bouncing on her heels. Actually bouncing, like a kid at a candy store, and there was a bell on her collar that Liz could almost hear jingling even from inside the driver's cabin.

Next to her, platinum blonde curls. Pink latex dress that looked painted on, every curve visible from twenty feet away. She had her hands clasped together under her chin and she was beaming. Beaming. The kind of smile that made you wonder what the joke was and whether you were the punchline.

On the right side, a woman in a burgundy leather jacket with auburn hair and tits that had their own gravitational field. DDD at least, probably bigger, straining against a black dress that was fighting a losing battle with cleavage. She had one hand on her hip and she was tilting her head, studying Amy through the glass with the careful interest of a person assessing merchandise.

And at the end, pale as moonlight, covered in tattoos, silver white hair chopped short, piercings catching the neon light. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't bouncing. She was just... looking. Still and quiet and patient in a way that was worse than all the smiles combined.

Five women. Five sets of eyes. All locked on the last car of Train N.13, where Amy Rose sat tied up and spread open and dripping.

On the monitor, Amy mouthed something.

Liz toggled the audio.

"Oh fuck."

Quiet. Barely there. Not a scream. Not a curse. Just two small words breathed into the empty car while five women stared at her through the glass and the train's brakes squealed and the neon light of Molest Town painted her naked skin in pink and blue and purple.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck."

Her cock twitched. A hard, visible jerk. Pre cum spilled down the shaft.

Liz picked up the intercom handset one last time.

"Attention, passenger. We have arrived at Molest Town. Please remain calm and enjoy your stay." She paused. Grinned. "Doors opening in ten seconds."

On the monitor, Amy locked eyes with the tall woman through the window. The tall woman uncrossed her arms. Cracked her knuckles. One hand at a time.

Amy's voice came through the audio feed, small and strangled and desperately, pathetically, hilariously horny.

"I'm doomed."

The five women on the platform smiled.

All of them.

Huge smiles. Wide and bright and hungry and delighted.

Liz reached for the door release.

Sixteen minutes and fifty seconds left. Wrists locked. Ankles tied. Cock standing at rigid, twitching, leaking attention between her spread thighs.

Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

Liz's finger hovered over the button.

On the platform, the girl with the pigtails clapped her hands together and said something to the blonde in the pink dress, who laughed and nodded. The tall one took a step closer to the edge. The tattooed one hadn't moved at all.

The woman with the auburn hair and the impossible tits blew a kiss at the window.

Amy whimpered. Actually whimpered, the sound cutting through the audio feed like a knife, and Liz caught it on the retro cam and her grin split so wide it hurt her face.

"God, I love my job," Liz said.

She pressed the button.

The doors began to open.

Chapter 3

The doors slid open and the platform air rolled in. Warmer than the train. Thicker. Carrying the low thrum of bass from somewhere deeper in the station, a sound Amy could feel in her teeth.

Nobody moved at first.

Amy stared at them through the open doorway. They stared back. Five women arranged along the platform edge like they'd rehearsed their positions, like someone had blocked this scene for maximum impact, and the neon light behind them turned their silhouettes into something out of a fever dream Amy would have been too embarrassed to describe to her therapist.

Then the short one with pigtails squealed.

Not a word. Not a sentence. Just a sound, high pitched and delighted, the kind of noise a person makes when they unwrap something they've wanted for months. She grabbed the arm of the blonde in the pink latex dress and shook it, bouncing on her platform Mary Janes, the little bell on her collar going ting ting ting ting ting.

"Oh my GOD. Oh my god, look at her."

That broke the freeze.

They came through the doors. All five, one after another, filing into the last car of Train N.13 like passengers boarding for a normal commute except none of them looked at the overhead map or checked their phones or stared at the floor the way real passengers do. Every pair of eyes went straight to Amy.

To Amy, and to what was between Amy's legs.

Her cock stood rigid against her stomach, curving up slightly to the left the way it always did when she was this hard, and it was wet. Visibly wet. A line of pre cum had run down the shaft and pooled in the crease where her balls met the vinyl seat, and more was leaking from the tip in a slow, steady drool that caught the fluorescent light overhead.

She couldn't close her legs. The ropes held her ankles to opposite bench legs, forcing her thighs wide open, the fishnet stockings framing everything. She couldn't cover herself. The cuffs bit into her wrists above her head, the chain looped through the overhead railing connector, steel and timer and twenty eight hours of unspent need all converging on this single, terrible, perfect moment.

Amy's first instinct was to say something smart. Something cutting. Something that would make these women turn around and walk back off the train.

"I, um." Her voice cracked. "This isn't. I'm not."

Nailed it.

The tall one came in last. She had to duck slightly, not because the doorway required it but because her boots added four inches to a frame that was already six feet of lean muscle and sharp angles and a ponytail pulled so tight it looked painful. She stepped into the car and stopped. Planted her feet apart. Scanned the setup. Ropes. Cuffs. Timer. Spread legs. Hard cock. Duffel bag on the far seat.

One eyebrow went up.

"Well." Her voice was low. A rasp to it, and something foreign in the vowels. French, maybe. "Someone wrapped herself up very nicely for us."

"She's like a present," the pigtail girl said. She'd already crossed half the car, moving fast on those chunky platform shoes, the bell on her collar ringing with every step. She stopped two feet from Amy's spread knees. Her eyes were huge. Brown, bright, locked onto Amy's cock with the focus of a cat watching a laser pointer. "Like a present someone forgot to put clothes on. Except the, um." She waved one hand at Amy's corset. "The boob thing."

"Corset," the tattooed one said from the back. Flat voice. Zero inflection. She hadn't sat down. She was leaning against the pole by the door, arms crossed, watching the scene the way someone watches a movie they've already read the spoilers for.

"Whatever! The point is, she's naked. And tied up. And her cock is so hard, oh my god, look at it, it's like, twitching."

It was twitching. Amy could feel it, her cock jerking in small, involuntary pulses, each one squeezing out another bead of pre cum. She wanted to die. She wanted to come. She wanted to do both at the same time and she couldn't do either because she was tied to a goddamn subway bench with her ankles roped to opposite sides of the aisle and five women were studying her dick like it was an exhibit at a museum.

"LIZ!" Amy screamed toward the front of the train. "LIZ, I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL MURDER YOU. I WILL SHOVE YOUR CONDUCTOR'S CAP SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU'LL BE COUGHING UP BRASS BUTTONS FOR A WEEK."

The intercom crackled. Liz's laugh came through, tinny and distorted by the old speakers, and she didn't say anything. She just laughed. Then the intercom cut out.

"Fuck." Amy pulled at the cuffs. The chain rattled against the railing. Nothing gave. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Aw." The blonde in the pink dress pressed both hands to her chest. She'd settled onto the bench across the aisle, crossing her legs, and the pink latex of her dress made small squeaking sounds against the vinyl seat when she shifted. Up close she looked like a pinup from 1955. Platinum curls. Bright blue eyes. Lipstick the color of bubblegum. A beauty mark drawn above her lip that might have been fake but committed to the bit so hard it didn't matter. Her tits were large and round and pushed up by the neckline of the dress, and they moved when she breathed, which she seemed to do a lot of.

"She's so cute when she's mad," the blonde said. Her voice was high, breathy, the kind of vocal fry that could sell you something you didn't need. "Like a little kitten with her paws stuck in tape. You know those videos? Where they, like, flop around?"

"I am not," Amy said, teeth clenched, "a kitten."

"You're kinda a kitten right now, babe." This from the woman in the burgundy jacket. She'd taken the seat nearest to Amy's left side, and she was close enough that Amy could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. Warm face. Auburn waves. Deep red lipstick. And tits that defied basic structural engineering, two massive shapes straining against a black dress that had clearly been designed for a woman with less going on up top. The neckline was a war zone. Fabric vs. flesh. Flesh was winning. "You're all tied up, your little cock is dripping everywhere, and you just threatened to shove a hat up someone's ass." She tilted her head. "That's kitten energy."

"My cock is not little."

"Oh, she's right about that," pigtail girl said. She'd crouched down now, face level with Amy's lap, and she was peering at Amy's erection with genuine, academic interest. Her breath was warm on Amy's inner thigh. "It's, like. Big. Like, really big. Can I touch it?"

"NO."

"She's shy!" The blonde clapped her hands together. "That's so adorable."

"I'm not shy, I'm tied up and you're all strangers and this is, this is, like, assault or something, this is not okay, I didn't consent to this, Liz set this up and I swear to god when I get out of these cuffs I'm going to."

"Shhh."

The tall one. She'd crossed the car in three strides, those stiletto boots clicking on the floor, and she crouched in front of Amy with the fluid ease of someone whose body did what she told it to. This close, Amy could see the tattoo sleeve covering her right arm; geometric patterns, black and grey, lines so precise they might have been drawn with a ruler. Smoky eye makeup. Winged eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood. Dark red lips that hadn't smudged once.

She put one gloved finger, leather, matte black, elbow length, against Amy's lips.

"Shhh," she said again. Quieter this time. A sound between a whisper and a purr. "Be a good girl."

Amy's cock jumped. A full, visible jerk, the tip bobbing, and a thick drop of pre cum rolled down the side of the shaft. The pigtail girl gasped.

"Oh my god, she liked that."

Amy's face went red. Not a gradual blush, not a slow warming; her cheeks ignited, hot and instant, the color spreading down her neck and across her chest above the corset. Her eyes were wet. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

"I didn't," she started.

"Your cock says different, pet." The tall woman's lips curled. She kept the finger pressed to Amy's mouth, leather warm against skin. "Twenty eight hours, yes? Liz told us."

"She told you?"

"Everything." The woman stood. Full height. In the boots she was nearly six and a half feet tall, and Amy had to crane her neck to look up at her. "How long it's been since your last orgasm. How badly you need to cum. How your chip won't let you do it yourself. How those pretty balls of yours must be getting very, very full." She paused. Let the words sit. "How one good edge will make you hurt for hours."

Amy's stomach dropped.

"Please don't."

"Introductions first." The tall woman turned to face the others like she was calling a meeting to order. "I'm Emma. And you are the most fun I've seen on this line in months."

The blonde waved from across the aisle, bouncing in her seat, latex squeaking.

"I'm Candy! Like the food. Well, not food. Like the sweet. You know what I mean." She blew Amy a kiss. "You're, like, so pretty. I love your boobs. And your cock. Mostly your cock."

"Hannah." The pigtail girl didn't look up from Amy's lap. She was still crouched there, inches from Amy's shaft, and Amy could feel every breath she took. "But everyone calls me Hannie. With an I-E. Like, cute Hannie, not, like, Hanukkah Hannie. That would be weird."

"Laura." The woman in the burgundy jacket. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way. The movement did something to her cleavage that Amy tried not to watch and failed. Laura caught her looking. Smiled. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You'll get to know these much better soon."

Amy looked at the last one. The pale woman by the door. Silver hair. Piercings. Tattoos covering every visible inch of skin below her jaw. She was wearing a fishnet bodysuit under leather shorts, combat boots, spiked collar. She looked like she'd been assembled from parts found in a Hot Topic dumpster and somehow made it work.

"Violet," she said. Just the name. Nothing else. Then she pulled her phone out and checked the time.

"Great," Amy said. Her voice had gone thin and reedy, stripped down to something that couldn't pretend to be brave. "Wonderful. I know all your names now. Fan-fucking-tastic. Can you please get off the train?"

Emma looked down at her. That same half smile. Patient. Unhurried.

"No."

"I'll pay you."

"With what?" Emma nodded toward the duffel bag on the far seat. "Your bag is over there. Your hands are up here." She tapped one of Amy's bound wrists with a leather fingertip. The cuff chain clinked. "You can't reach anything, pet. You can't close your legs. You can't cover yourself. You can't make us stop." She let that land. "And we're not going to stop."

"For the record," Hannie said from floor level, "your balls look, like, really full? Like they're bigger than normal. Are they normally this big?"

"I'm not answering that."

"They're definitely bigger than normal," Laura said. She leaned forward, and her tits shifted in the dress, heavy and slow. Her eyes tracked down Amy's body to the juncture of her spread thighs. "Poor baby. Twenty eight hours is rough for a futa. I bet you can feel every heartbeat in them right now."

Amy could. She could feel her pulse in her balls, a slow, thick throbbing that had been building all day and was getting worse by the minute. Sitting on the hard bench with her legs pulled wide was putting pressure on them, and every time the train rocked, the vinyl seat shifted against the underside of her sack, and.

She clenched her jaw. Do not react. Do not give them anything.

"Sixteen minutes on the timer," Violet said from the back of the car. She'd been watching the red digits counting down above Amy's wrists. "Give or take."

"Sixteen minutes," Candy repeated. She pouted. Genuine pouting, lower lip pushed out, blue eyes wide. "That's, like, no time. That's nothing. That's barely enough to, like, get started."

Emma's gaze went to the front of the train.

"Liz."

She didn't shout. She didn't need to. Her voice carried, low and clear, bouncing off the metal walls of the car.

The intercom clicked on.

"Yeeeees?" Liz's voice. Sing song. Delighted. The voice of a woman having the best night of her entire career.

"How much time can you give us?"

A pause. Static. Then:

"Well, funny thing. Looks like the train's experiencing a minor, uh." Paper rustling. She was reading from something, or pretending to. "Minor technical malfunction. Gonna be stuck here for about twenty minutes. Maybe longer. These old ghost line trains, you know. They're temperamental."

Amy's head snapped toward the intercom speaker above the door. "LIZ. Don't you DARE."

"Could be twenty minutes," Liz continued. "Could be forty. Hard to say with these things."

"Make it forty." Emma. She said it the way you'd order a drink.

"Forty it is! Sit tight, folks. Well." That laugh again, bright and cruel. "Amy's already sitting pretty tight, so."

The intercom cut out.

Emma turned back to Amy. She reached up. Both hands. Leather gloves and precise fingers and she found the timer mechanism on the steel cuffs above Amy's head. Amy watched her, neck craned back, heart slamming so hard her ribs ached.

"What are you doing?"

"Adjusting your sentence." Emma studied the timer. 15:47 on the display. Her gloved thumbs found the buttons. She pressed. Held. The numbers scrolled. 16:00. 17:00. 20:00. 25:00. 30:00. 35:00.

40:00.

She let go.

The display blinked twice and the countdown resumed. 39:59. 39:58. 39:57.

Forty minutes.

"WHAT?!" Amy yanked the cuffs. Chain rattled. Steel bit into her wrists. The timer didn't care. "No, no no no no, you can't. That's not. I set that for twenty, you can't just."

"I can. I did." Emma stepped back. "Forty minutes. More than enough."

Candy and Hannie cheered. Actual cheering. Candy threw her arms up and kicked her pink heels against the floor, latex dress creaking with the movement, and Hannie jumped up from her crouch and did a little spin, the bell on her collar chiming, her pleated micro skirt flaring high enough to flash the leather harness straps underneath.

"Forty minutes, forty minutes, forty minutes!" Hannie chanted, bouncing from foot to foot. "That's, like, SO many edges. We could do, what, ten? Fifteen?"

"Depends on how fast she breaks," Laura said. She hadn't moved from her seat. Calm. Watching Amy the way you watch something simmer on the stove. "First edge will be fast. Twenty eight hours of buildup? She'll be close in two minutes."

"I bet less than two minutes," Candy said. "Look how hard she is. Her cock is, like, angry."

They were all looking at it now. Five women, five different angles, all of them studying Amy's cock like it was the centerpiece of some gallery opening. And Amy could feel every single gaze. She could feel the weight of their attention on her shaft, on the head where pre cum was drooling in a steady stream, on the thick vein running up the underside, on her balls where they sat heavy and full on the bench. Twenty eight hours since Liz had last jerked her off on the couch. Twenty eight hours of the chip blocking every idle touch, every shower moment, every twitch in her sleep. Twenty eight hours of her balls producing with nowhere for anything to go.

She was so full it hurt. A low, constant ache deep in her sack, the kind that made sitting still feel like punishment, and she'd been planning to go home after this. Take the train, do her bondage thing, ride the thrill, get out at her stop, walk home, text Liz, get jerked off, finally, finally, cum.

That plan was gone now.

"Please." Quieter this time. "Please just leave me alone. I'll do anything. I'll pay you, I'll, I can get you whatever you want, just."

"What we want," Emma said, "is to play with you." She pulled off one leather glove. Then the other. Finger by finger, slow, the kind of deliberate that made Amy's stomach clench. Underneath, her hands were tan. Long fingers. Short nails. She flexed them. "Be a good girl and let us have some fun with that poor cock of yours."

"I can't. You don't understand. If you edge me once, just once, the blueballs... I haven't cum in twenty eight hours and my chip, the, the thing makes it so I can't. If you get me close and stop, the buildup." She was rambling. She knew she was rambling. The words were spilling out of her like the pre cum from her cock, unstoppable and messy. "It'll be bad. It'll be really bad. Please."

"I know exactly how bad it'll be." Emma knelt on the floor between Amy's spread legs. The car's fluorescent lighting hit her from above, casting her face in pale white, and her eyes were dark and focused and locked on Amy's cock from twelve inches away. "I know about the chip. I know about futa physiology. I know what happens when you edge a futanari who hasn't cum in over a day." She placed both bare hands on Amy's knees. Amy flinched. Human contact, skin on fishnet on skin, warm and present and real. "The ache will double. Your balls will swell. You'll feel it in your stomach, in your thighs, in your lower back. It won't go away until you cum, and you can't make yourself cum, and we're not going to let you cum."

She said all of this in the same measured, professional tone someone might use to explain a dental procedure.

"That's the point," she added.

"You're a monster."

"Thank you." Emma's hands slid up Amy's thighs. Slow. Fingertips tracing along the fishnet pattern, dipping into each diamond gap to touch bare skin. Amy's legs tried to close. The ropes caught. Her thigh muscles strained against nothing. "Now. The others and I are going to get comfortable. I'll go first. When I'm ready, I'll start. And you're going to sit there and take it, because you have no other choice."

Amy opened her mouth to say something. Probably another threat. Probably something about Liz and a conductor's cap and anatomically improbable violence.

"Shh." Emma pressed one finger to Amy's lips again. Bare this time. No glove. The skin was softer than Amy expected. "Good girl."

Amy's cock pulsed. Hard. A thick rope of pre cum slid from the slit and dripped onto the vinyl bench between her thighs. The sound it made was small and wet and audible.

Hannie giggled.

Emma stood and turned to the other four. "Give me a few minutes with her. Enjoy yourselves."

What happened next was not something Amy was prepared for.

Candy slid across the aisle to where Laura sat. No preamble, no hesitation, she just moved. Liquid motion, pink latex against black dress, and she put one hand on Laura's jaw and kissed her.

Not a peck. Not a friendly kiss. She kissed her like she was starving for it, mouth open, head tilted, tongue visible for a half second before it disappeared between Laura's deep red lips. Laura made a sound, a low, pleased hum, and her hands found Candy's waist and pulled her closer, the latex squeaking as Candy's body pressed against her.

"Mmm." Candy pulled back an inch. A string of spit connected their mouths. "Your lipstick tastes like cherries."

"Yours tastes like sugar."

"Duh." Candy kissed her again.

Across the car, Hannie had already climbed into Violet's lap. The size difference was absurd. Hannie was five foot two in her platform shoes, pigtails and ribbons and that ridiculous bell collar, and Violet was five nine with tattoos and piercings and an expression that hadn't changed once since boarding the train. Hannie straddled her on the bench, micro skirt riding up to her hips, and grabbed Violet's face with both hands.

"You're so hot," Hannie said. "Like, stupidly hot. It's unfair."

"Okay," Violet said.

Hannie kissed her. Messy. Enthusiastic. All tongue and teeth, Hannie's small body grinding down against Violet's lap, the bell on her collar chiming with every movement. Violet's hands settled on Hannie's hips. She didn't push her away. She didn't pull her closer. She just held her there, steady, while Hannie devoured her mouth with the single minded intensity of a person who treated kissing as a competitive sport.

Amy watched. She couldn't not watch. Four women making out in pairs, three feet from her spread, bound, naked body, and the sounds filled the car. Wet sounds. Fabric on fabric. Hannie's bell. Candy's little moans. Laura's deeper ones. The creak of vinyl as bodies shifted and pressed together.

Candy broke from Laura's mouth and kissed down her neck. Laura tilted her head back against the window, eyes half closed, and Candy's hands moved from her waist to her chest. Small hands on those huge tits, squeezing through the black fabric, and Laura's chest rose into the touch, straining the neckline further, the tops of her breasts swelling over the edge of the dress.

"God," Candy whispered against Laura's throat. "Your tits are, like, insane. They're literally insane. I wanna live in them."

"You can visit," Laura said. Her eyes opened halfway and she looked past Candy's platinum curls. Looked directly at Amy. Smiled. A warm smile. The kind a mother gives a child who's been told they have to wait for dessert. "Our audience is enjoying the show."

Amy's cock throbbed. She tore her gaze away. Looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent tube above her was buzzing faintly, one end of it flickering in a micro stutter she hadn't noticed before. A dead moth was trapped inside the plastic cover. Its shadow was shaped like a tiny question mark.

She noticed this. She noticed this because she was trying with everything she had not to notice Hannie pulling the leather harness strap off one shoulder to reveal a small, pale breast with a pink nipple already stiff, or Violet's tattooed hand cupping it with mechanical precision.

Emma knelt back down between Amy's legs.

"Eyes on me, pet."

Amy looked down.

Emma was sitting cross legged on the subway floor, which was filthy, but she didn't seem to care. Her black corset cinched her waist narrow above her hips, and the stiletto boots folded under her like she'd been designed to sit this way. She reached forward. Both hands. And she wrapped them around Amy's cock.

The contact was... God.

Amy's whole body jolted. Not a twitch, not a small flinch; she jerked in the restraints like someone had run a live wire through the bench. The cuffs rattled above her head. The ankle ropes pulled taut. Her spine went rigid, every vertebra stacking, and a sound came out of her that she'd never heard herself make. Raw. Strangled. A choked off moan that the chip in her skull had nothing to do with because this wasn't her own hands, this was someone else, and the chip couldn't block it.

Emma's fingers were warm. Long. They wrapped around Amy's shaft and didn't quite meet; Amy was thick, properly thick, the kind of girth that required two hands for a proper stroke, and Emma knew this because she was already adjusting. Left hand at the base, fingers snug around the root where shaft met balls. Right hand higher, palm flat against the underside, curling over the top.

She held. Didn't move.

"Twenty eight hours," Emma said. She was looking at Amy's face, not her cock. Studying the reaction. Cataloguing it. "When did you last cum? Yesterday evening?"

"Y... yeah." Amy's voice had gone somewhere high and distant. Her hips were trying to push forward and the ropes wouldn't let them. "Liz. On the, on the couch. She, uh."

"Liz jerked you off."

"Yeah."

"And nothing since."

"The chip. It won't. I can't."

"I know." Emma's right hand moved. One inch. Up, then down. One stroke. Slow. The skin of Amy's shaft dragged with it, tight and hot, and the pre cum that had been pooling at the tip smeared under Emma's palm with a wet sound.

Amy's eyes rolled back.

"Mmmfuck."

"Look at me." Amy looked. Emma's face was calm. Focused. Professional in a way that was its own kind of cruelty. "I want you to understand what's about to happen. I'm going to stroke this cock of yours until you're right at the edge. And then I'm going to stop. And the pain that follows is going to be extraordinary."

"Please."

"I haven't started yet."

"I know, I'm, it's, please, I'm asking you not to."

Emma's left hand squeezed. Just a fraction tighter around the base. Amy's cock lurched in her grip, the tip flushing from pink to a deeper shade, and another thick bead of pre cum welled up from the slit and ran over Emma's knuckles.

"You're so hard," Emma said. Not praise. Observation. "Not just hard. Rigid. Your cock feels like it hasn't been touched in a week, not a day. The chip does this, doesn't it? Every hour you can't cum, the arousal builds. And it has nowhere to go. So it just." She stroked up. Slow. Thumb pressing the thick ridge on the underside. "Accumulates."

Amy bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

Across the aisle, Candy had pulled the top of Laura's dress down. Laura's tits spilled free, heavy and full, the dark nipples stiff, and Candy had her mouth on the left one, sucking with hollowed cheeks, one hand kneading the right breast, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. Laura's head was tipped back and her eyes were closed and one hand was tangled in Candy's platinum curls, holding her in place.

Hannie had Violet's lip between her teeth. She was pulling it gently, playful, and Violet's tongue piercing glinted when their mouths parted briefly. Hannie's hips ground down in Violet's lap in a slow rhythm that matched the rocking of the stationary train.

And Amy was watching all of it. Bound and spread and dripping while Emma's hands held her cock and the sounds of four women kissing and touching and moaning filled the subway car, and it was too much, it was all too much, twenty eight hours of need and now this.

Emma started stroking.

Not fast. Not slow. Something in between, a rhythm, steady and measured and maddening. Both hands now, working in tandem, left hand firm around the base and twisting at the top of each stroke, right hand gliding over the upper half with long pulls, palm slick with pre cum. The sound was obscene. Wet and rhythmic and the subway car's metal walls threw it back louder than it should have been.

"Oh god." Amy's head fell back against the window behind the bench. The glass was cold on her skull. "Oh god, oh fuck, oh."

"There she goes," Emma said. Quiet. To herself, almost.

Amy's hips bucked. Tried to. The ankle ropes kept her locked, thighs spread wide, and all she could manage was a pathetic little thrust, half an inch of movement that pushed her cock through Emma's fist and accomplished nothing except making the sensation sharper.

Emma's right hand moved faster. Not by much. A small increase in tempo that shouldn't have mattered but did, because Amy's cock was so sensitive after twenty eight hours of nothing that the difference between slow and slightly less slow was the difference between agony and worse agony. Pre cum was flowing freely now, running over Emma's fingers, dripping between her knuckles, making the strokes slippery and loud.

The other four had paused their own activities.

Candy lifted her mouth from Laura's breast. A strand of spit connected her bubblegum pink lips to Laura's nipple. She turned her head to watch.

"Oh my god, she's already close."

"Is she?" Laura leaned forward. Her freed tits hung heavy, swaying when she moved, the wet one catching the light. "That fast?"

"Look at her face." Hannie had twisted in Violet's lap to watch, pigtails swinging, the bell going ting. "She's, like, dying. She's literally dying."

"Timer says thirty eight minutes left," Violet said from behind Hannie's shoulder. Still deadpan. "She's close at thirty eight minutes. That's going to be a long night."

They were all watching now. Five women crowding the aisle, leaning in, looking at Amy's cock in Emma's hands and at Amy's face where it was scrunched up and red and wet eyed and fighting a battle she'd already lost.

"Go, Emma!" Candy clapped her hands. "Get her right to the edge!"

"Stroke it faster!" Hannie was bouncing again. Bell chiming. "Make that big cock throb!"

"She can't hold it," Laura said. She'd pulled the top of her dress back up, tucking herself away, and she was watching with her chin resting on one hand. Assessing. "See how her balls are pulling up? She's close. Thirty seconds, maybe less."

Amy didn't want to acknowledge any of this. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want five strangers watching her cock get stroked by a woman in a leather corset on a filthy subway car in the undercity tunnels of Neo Meridian. She didn't want to be this close this fast. But she was. Oh god, she was. The pressure was building low in her gut, a tightening that pulled her balls up toward her body, and the heat was there, the heat was RIGHT there, and Emma's hands were so warm and so wet and so good and.

"She's about to blow," Hannie whispered. Reverent. Like she was watching a sunset.

"Not blow." Emma's voice was steady. Her hands never faltered. "Edge."

Her right hand sped up. One more gear, one more notch, and Amy's whole body went board stiff in the restraints, muscles locked, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut, and the edge was there. Right there. Right there. She could feel her orgasm building at the base of her cock, could feel her balls drawing up, could feel the first clenching spasm starting in her prostate, and she needed one more stroke, just one more, one single stroke and she'd.

Emma let go.

Both hands.

Gone.

Amy's cock bobbed in open air, purple and swollen and slick with pre cum, twitching violently, the shaft clenching, the head flaring, and nothing. Nothing touched it. Nothing was there. Her orgasm crashed into a wall at full speed and shattered, the pleasure slamming to a stop halfway up the runway, and what replaced it was.

Oh.

Oh.

A sound came out of Amy that the others would remember for weeks. Not a moan. Not a scream. Something between the two, a wail, high and broken and desperate, and her hips thrust forward into empty air once, twice, three times, cock searching for friction that wasn't there, slapping against her own stomach and falling away with strings of pre cum connecting it to her skin.

"There it is!" Candy shrieked. She jumped up. Actually jumped, both feet leaving the floor, pink heels clicking when she landed. She turned to Laura and threw up her hand. Laura laughed, deep and warm, and slapped it. High five. Then Hannie was there with her hand up too, and Violet, who gave the flattest, most disinterested high five in human history, and all four of them were grinning at each other like a team that just scored the winning goal.

"First edge! First edge!" Hannie was chanting, doing a little dance in the aisle, skirt flouncing. "We got her first edge! That was, like, less than ninety seconds!"

"Eighty three seconds." Violet. Checking her phone. "I was timing."

"Eighty three seconds!" Candy covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide, delighted. "That's, like, a record. That has to be a record. Is that a record?"

"For a twenty eight hour buildup?" Laura crossed her arms under her breasts. "That's about right. The first one's always fast when they're this full."

"Her cock looks like it's mad," Hannie said. She was staring at Amy's crotch again, crouched down, face level with the still twitching shaft. "Like it's mad at Emma for stopping. Like it wants to yell."

Amy couldn't speak. She was trying. Her mouth was open and her chest was heaving and sounds were coming out, but none of them were words. They were just. Sounds. The kind of sounds a person makes when their brain is trying to process what just happened and failing.

Her balls were on fire.

Not literally. But close. The ache that had been building for twenty eight hours, the low, constant throb she'd been managing, coping with, ignoring, that ache had just quadrupled. It hit her in a wave that started at her testicles and radiated up through her gut and into her lower back and down into her thighs, and she understood in that moment, with a clarity she wished she didn't have, exactly what Emma had warned her about.

One edge. One single denied orgasm. And her body was punishing her for it.

Her balls felt tighter. Heavier. Swollen. She couldn't see them from this angle, couldn't look down past her own hard cock, but she could feel them, full and aching and hot on the vinyl bench, and when the train creaked and the seat shifted a fraction of an inch she whimpered because even that tiny movement was too much, the pressure against them was too much, everything was too much.

"Nngh." She finally managed something close to a word. "F... fuck. Fuck."

"Aw," Candy said. She sat back down on the opposite bench. "She's doing the thing. The little whimpery thing. This is the best Tuesday I've ever had."

Emma stood. She wiped her hands on her leather-clad thighs, slow, deliberate, the pre cum leaving wet streaks on the black material. She looked down at Amy like someone inspecting their own work. Satisfied.

"That's one," she said.

The intercom crackled.

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

Liz's laugh poured through the speakers, loud and unhinged and gleeful. She'd been watching. Of course she'd been watching, she had the security camera feed, she'd seen the whole thing, the stroking and the edging and the denied orgasm and Amy's face when it happened.

"Oh my GOD, Amy, your FACE!" Liz could barely get the words out through the laughter. "I'm watching this back on loop for the rest of my life. That was BEAUTIFUL."

"I hate you," Amy said. Hoarse. Thin.

"Ladies, you're doing AMAZING work. Edge away, okay? The more the better. I want her so fucked up she forgets about getting her revenge on me." Static pop. "I'll check in later. Have fun!"

The intercom went dead.

Amy pulled at the cuffs. Chain. Steel. Thirty seven minutes and forty seconds left on the timer. She could see the red numbers counting down above her head if she craned her neck. Thirty seven minutes and thirty nine seconds. Thirty eight. Thirty seven.

Her cock was still hard. Still leaking. Still twitching with the ghost of the orgasm that hadn't come. Her balls throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull, persistent pain that wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, because the fluid that had been building for twenty eight hours was still in there and her body had just tried to push it out and failed and now it was angry, now it was demanding, now it was every bad thing Emma had promised.

"I can't," Amy whispered. To herself. To no one. To the dead moth in the fluorescent light fixture above her head. "I can't do thirty seven more minutes of this."

Hannie patted her knee. Gentle. Condescending.

"Sure you can." Ting went the bell. "You don't really have a choice, do you?"

Amy's cock throbbed once. Hard. A fresh bead of pre cum rolled from the tip and dripped onto the bench.

Thirty seven minutes and twenty two seconds.

She whimpered.

Chapter 4

The lights above Amy's head buzzed at a frequency that matched the throb in her balls. She'd noticed that sometime in the last thirty seconds. Couldn't un-notice it now. Every flicker of that dying tube synced with a pulse of ache between her legs, and she wondered if this was what going crazy felt like. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just your brain deciding to connect a busted light fixture to your swollen testicles and calling it a pattern.

Laura stood up from the opposite bench.

The four other women had been sitting in a loose semicircle, watching Amy's cock twitch and leak in the aftermath of Emma's edge. Candy had her legs crossed, bouncing one pink heel, grinning like she was watching her favorite reality show. Hannie sat cross legged on the bench, chin in her hands, the little bell on her collar making soft ting sounds every time the train rocked. Violet leaned against the pole by the door, arms folded, grey eyes tracking the timer above Amy's head. Emma had settled into the far seat, legs stretched out, leather pants squeaking on vinyl, looking satisfied with herself.

Laura reached for the buttons of her burgundy leather jacket.

"My turn," she said. Simple. The way someone says my turn when they're picking up a bowling ball.

"No." Amy's voice came out cracked. Thin. "No no no, please, I can't, you don't understand how much it hurts right now, my balls are, they're, I literally feel like I'm going to die."

Laura smiled. She had the kind of face that made you think of kitchen tables and home cooked meals, of someone's mom telling you there's leftovers if you're hungry. Warm brown eyes. Soft laugh lines. Auburn hair falling over her shoulders in waves.

She unzipped the jacket, slow.

"Baby girl."

"Don't call me that."

"Baby girl, you're not going to die. You're going to sit there and let me take care of you. Okay? Just relax."

The jacket came off. Laura folded it once, set it on the bench beside Candy. Underneath she wore a tight black dress, the kind that required engineering to contain what it contained. Her tits were. Well. Amy had seen big tits before. She'd seen her own in the mirror every morning; she was a DD. Laura's were something else. DDD at minimum, heavy and full, the dress fabric straining across them, the neckline cutting low enough to show the crease where they pressed together. When Laura moved her arms, the whole shape shifted, living geography, and Amy's cock, which had been flagging maybe half a percent since Emma stopped, snapped back to full attention.

Laura noticed. Of course she noticed. She looked down at Amy's cock standing rigid between her spread legs, then back up to Amy's face, and gave her the warmest, most maternal smile Amy had ever seen on a woman about to torture her.

"See? You're already feeling better." Laura reached behind her back. Zipper. The dress loosened around her torso. She pulled the top half down to her waist, revealing a black lace bra that was doing structural work. Her tits sat in those cups like they were being presented. Gift wrapped.

"Oh, she's bringing out the big guns," Candy said. Giggled. Slapped Hannie's arm.

"Literally," Hannie said.

Laura stepped between Amy's spread legs. The ropes around Amy's ankles held them apart, tied to the bench legs across the aisle, and Laura stood in that gap like she owned the space. She reached up, one hand, and cupped Amy's chin. Tilted her face up.

Amy's eyes were wet. She couldn't help it. The ache in her balls had not diminished since Emma's edge. If anything it had gotten worse, a deep, bone level soreness that radiated into her hips and lower stomach. Every heartbeat pushed blood into her cock and pushed pain into her testicles and she could feel them, full, swollen, tight, resting on the vinyl bench between her thighs, and Laura's fingers on her chin were soft but firm and she hated how comforting it felt.

"Shhhh." Laura's thumb brushed Amy's cheek. Caught a tear. "Shhhh, baby. We're not mean."

"You ARE mean." Amy's lip quivered. "You're literally sitting on a train with a stranger tied up and you're about to, to, I don't even know what you're about to do."

"We're just having some fun."

Laura let go of Amy's chin. She reached behind her back again, both hands this time, and unhooked her bra. The clasp released with a small plastic sound and the bra fell forward, and Amy watched Laura's tits drop free and she thought of something her physics professor once said about mass and momentum. They were heavy. Full. Bronze skin with large dark nipples, and they hung with a natural weight that defied the gravity of the situation, which was that Amy was handcuffed to a railing being sexually tortured by five strangers on a subway.

One of the fluorescent lights popped. Came back on. The buzzing shifted pitch.

Laura knelt.

She knelt right between Amy's legs, on the grimy floor of the train car, and her face was level with Amy's cock, and Amy could feel Laura's breath on the underside of her shaft and her toes curled inside the fishnets, feet pulling at the ropes.

"Here's what we're going to do," Laura said. Conversational. The tone you'd use to explain a recipe. "I'm going to put your pretty cock right here." She cupped the underside of her left breast, lifted it slightly. "And we're going to take our time. Sound good?"

"It doesn't sound good. It sounds like hell."

"Hell is a strong word, sweetheart."

Laura gripped Amy's shaft at the base. Her fingers were warm. Well moisturized, Amy noticed, which was an insane thing to notice, but her brain was cataloging everything because it had nothing else to do. No escape. No leverage. No way to close her legs or pull her arms down or do anything except sit there and feel.

Laura pressed Amy's cock between her tits.

Not fast. She didn't slam them together. She eased into it, guiding the shaft with one hand, using the other to press her right breast inward, and Amy's cock sank into that channel of warm skin, the head poking out the top of Laura's cleavage, and Amy made a sound she'd never heard herself make. Something between a groan and a whine. A dying animal sound.

"There we go," Laura murmured. She pressed both tits together now, both hands on the outer curve, squeezing them around Amy's shaft. The pressure was soft and firm and warm and Amy's cock fit between them the way a key fits a lock. The head stuck up from the top, flushed deep pink, slick with the pre cum that hadn't stopped dripping since this whole nightmare started. "Doesn't that feel nice?"

It felt too nice.

"That's dry, though," Laura said. She looked down at the shaft trapped between her breasts. "We need, hmm." She gathered spit in her mouth, deliberate, cheeks hollowing, and then let a thick strand of saliva fall from her lips. It landed on Amy's cockhead and ran down the shaft, disappearing into the valley of her cleavage. She did it again. And again. Three ropes of warm spit coating Amy's cock, and when Laura shifted her tits the glide went from friction to slick.

"Oh! Oh, me too!" Candy bounced up from the bench. She stood next to Laura, leaned down, but before she spat she grabbed Laura's face with both hands and kissed her. Full, open mouth, tongue visible between their lips, and they held it for three seconds, four, wet sounds, and when Candy pulled back a string of shared saliva connected their mouths. Candy turned to Amy's cock and spat. Thick. Generous. It hit the shaft where it emerged from Laura's cleavage and ran down.

"My god," Amy whispered.

Emma came next. She stood, crossed the car in two strides, grabbed Laura by the jaw, and kissed her hard. Laura moaned into it, her tits squeezing tighter around Amy's cock, and Amy felt the vibration of that moan through Laura's chest, through her tits, into her shaft. Emma pulled back, looked at Amy, and spat directly on the head of her cock. Precise. The glob sat on Amy's tip before gravity pulled it down into Laura's cleavage.

"Good girl," Emma said. To Laura or Amy. Unclear.

Hannie was already there, small, bouncing on her platform Mary Janes. She grabbed Laura's chin, tilted her head, and planted a messy kiss on her mouth. More tongue than lips. The bell on her collar jingled. She pulled away with a giggle, gathered saliva in her mouth, puffed her cheeks comically, and spat on Amy's cock. Some of it missed and hit Laura's breast. Neither of them seemed to care.

"Oopsie."

Violet was last. She didn't rush. She walked over, stood behind Laura, looked down at Amy's cock nestled in that spit soaked valley of cleavage, and her expression didn't change. Flat. Bored. She gripped Laura's hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her upside down. Laura's throat arched. The kiss lasted longer than the others, five seconds, six, and when Violet pulled away she looked at Amy's cock with the same dispassionate interest someone gives a parking meter. She spat once. Clean. Center of the shaft. Then walked back to her spot by the door.

Amy's cock was drenched. Spit and pre cum pooled in Laura's cleavage, warm and slick, and when Laura started to move her tits the sound was obscene. No. Not that word. The sound was wet. Vulgar. Squelching. The kind of sound that belonged in a porno, not on a subway car, and Amy's brain kept trying to remind her this was real, this was happening, this was her cock and those were a stranger's tits and four other women had just spat on her and she should be horrified, should be disgusted, should be anything other than what she was, which was close to crying because it felt so good and she knew she wouldn't be allowed to finish.

Laura set a rhythm. Slow. She moved her tits up, then down, squeezing them together with both hands, and Amy's shaft slid through that warm channel with each stroke. Up. The head disappeared into the cleavage. Down. It poked back out the top, shining, pink, leaking.

"That's it," Laura cooed. "That's my good girl. Just let it happen."

"Please." Amy's voice broke on the word. "Please, I'm so, I've been hard for so long, please just let me cum, just this once."

"Shhhh." Laura kept stroking. Slow. The wet sounds filled the train car. "I know, baby. I know it hurts. That's okay. You just focus on how good this feels right now."

Amy's hips twitched. She tried to thrust, to push her cock harder through Laura's tits, but the ropes on her ankles and the cuffs on her wrists held her in place. She could move maybe an inch in any direction. Maybe.

"She's trying to fuck your tits," Candy observed from the bench. She'd sat back down, legs crossed, watching like it was theater.

"Mhm." Laura didn't seem bothered. She increased the pressure, squeezed tighter, and her pace picked up just a fraction. Not fast. Not yet. But the stroke got longer, the glide smoother, and Amy could feel the soft, slick skin of Laura's breasts gripping her shaft on each pass and her balls clenched and the ache in them shifted from pain to something adjacent to pleasure and that was worse, that was so much worse, because the pleasure and the pain were in the same zip code now and she couldn't tell which was which.

"You know what I love about tits this big?" Laura said. Casual. Stroking. "You can really get a grip. Some girls, and I don't mean this as shade, some girls just don't have the real estate. But me?" She squeezed. Hard. Amy yelped. "I can wrap all of this up."

Amy's cockhead appeared and disappeared in a rhythm. Out. In. Out. In. Each time it emerged it was wetter, redder, the tip drooling a steady stream of clear fluid that added to the mess between Laura's breasts. A small lake of spit and pre cum had formed in her cleavage, and every stroke pushed some of it up and over the top, running down the curves of her tits and dripping onto the floor.

"How's she looking?" Laura called over her shoulder. She couldn't see Amy's face from her angle, her eyes on her own cleavage, focused on the stroke.

"Red," Hannie said. "Super red. Like, tomato. Like she's holding her breath."

Amy was holding her breath.

"Breathe, baby," Laura said. "Breathe for me."

Amy let the air out in a rush. It came with a sound. Half moan, half sob. Her body was doing things without her permission. Her stomach muscles kept clenching. Her thighs quivered against the rope. The muscles in her arms, stretched above her head, burned, and her fingers had gone numb at some point but she couldn't remember when.

Laura sped up. Still not fast. Call it medium. The strokes grew longer, her hands pressing her tits together with more force, and Amy could feel the friction and the heat and the wet and the soft all at once, a combination that her chip should have been blocking but wasn't, because the chip stopped orgasm, not sensation, and sensation was what was killing her. Sensation was what was building in her balls and climbing up through her shaft and pooling at the base of her spine and she knew this feeling, she knew it intimately, this was the edge, the cliff, the drop.

"I'm." Amy's jaw worked. Her eyes rolled. "Oh god. Oh god, I'm gonna, I'm, please don't stop, please please please."

Laura looked up. Made eye contact.

Those warm brown eyes. That maternal face.

"Oops."

She stood up. Fast. Her tits released Amy's cock and it sprung free and slapped against Amy's stomach with a wet thwack and Amy screamed. Not a word. A sound. Pure frustration and agony compressed into a single note that bounced off the walls of the subway car and Amy's hips jerked, bucked, her cock twitching against her stomach, slapping at the air, searching for something, anything, any friction, any touch, and finding nothing.

"FUCK!" Amy thrashed. The cuffs rattled above her. The ropes creaked. "FUCK, PLEASE, I WAS RIGHT THERE, I WAS RIGHT THERE!"

Laura wiped her chest with the flat of her hand, casual, smearing the mess of spit and pre cum across her skin. She looked down at Amy's cock, still bouncing against Amy's stomach, and tilted her head.

"Almost let you have that, didn't I?"

The bench had four women laughing. Candy clapped her hands together. Hannie fell sideways into Emma, giggling so hard the bell on her collar went wild. Even Violet's lip twitched. The smallest crack in that stone face.

"That was MEAN, Laura," Candy said. She was fanning herself with one hand. "Her cock slapping her own stomach? That sound? I'm going to hear that in my dreams."

"She makes the best face right when you pull off," Emma said. She'd been watching Amy, not Laura. "Did you see it? Her eyes go wide first, then her mouth opens, and then three seconds later the crying starts."

Amy was crying. She didn't want to be. She was.

Hot tears spilling down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw, landing on the corset. Her chest hitching. Her cock aching, throbbing, wet, painted with the saliva of five women and her own pre cum, bouncing with every heartbeat. Her balls were. She didn't have a word. The ache had doubled again. Tripled. She didn't know math could apply to pain but it did, each denied edge compounding the pressure, the fullness, the heat, and she could feel them between her thighs, heavy and swollen and tender, and the vinyl bench under them was warm from her own body heat.

Laura collected her bra from where she'd dropped it. Put it back on, reaching behind her, the hooks clicking into place. She pulled her dress back up over her shoulders, zipped it, and shrugged into the burgundy jacket like she'd just finished a casual conversation at a coffee shop.

"Who's next?" she asked.

Hannie's hand shot up. Both hands. She bounced on the bench, pigtails flying, ribbons fluttering.

"Me me me me me!"

"All yours, Hannie."

Hannie launched off the bench. She covered the distance to Amy in three skipping steps, the platform Mary Janes clunking on the train floor, and she dropped to her knees between Amy's legs so fast her pleated skirt flared up and settled around her like a deflating parachute. Her face was level with Amy's cock, inches away, and she stared at it with the wide eyed fascination of a kid at an aquarium watching a particularly interesting fish.

"Hi," she said. To Amy's cock. Not to Amy.

"Please." Amy's voice was wrecked. "Please, Hannie, please don't."

Hannie tilted her head. The bell rang softly.

"Your balls," she said, and looked down. She reached out with both small hands, cupping them. One palm under each testicle, lifting gently, and the weight of them in her hands made her eyes go wider. "Oh my GOD."

She looked over her shoulder at the others.

"You guys." She hefted Amy's balls like she was weighing fruit at a market. "She's SO full. These are, like. Heavy. Actually heavy."

"Twenty eight hours and two edges will do that," Violet said from the door. Flat. Checking her nails.

"They're like, warm? And, like, tight. They feel swollen. Like water balloons but, not water. Like, you know." Hannie looked at Candy. "Full of cum. So much cum. All backed up."

Amy's head dropped back against the window. The glass was cool on her skull. She could see the tunnel walls rushing past in the darkness, the occasional service light strobing through the car, and she fixed her eyes on nothing and tried to breathe because Hannie's small hands were cradling her balls with a gentleness that should have been comforting and wasn't. It was worse than rough. Rough she could have handled. Gentleness was a promise. Gentleness was a lie.

Hannie leaned forward.

Her tongue. Small, pink, wet. She licked a slow stripe up the underside of Amy's left ball. Bottom to top. One long, flat lick.

Amy's entire body locked up. Her teeth clenched. Her fingers, numb above the cuffs, curled into fists.

"Mmm," Hannie hummed against Amy's skin. She licked again. Same ball. Same path. Then switched to the right one, her tongue tracing the curve, finding the seam between them and following it upward, and Amy's hips twitched because this was different from the edges before, this wasn't her shaft, this was her balls, the most sensitive, most aching, most overfull part of her body, and Hannie's tongue was soft and warm and wet and it was happening.

"Oh," Amy said. Small. Broken.

Hannie took Amy's left testicle into her mouth.

Not all of it. She couldn't. But enough. Her lips closed around the lower half, her tongue working against the skin, rolling and pressing, and Amy's legs tried to close and couldn't because of the ropes and she made a sound like a guitar string snapping.

"NNNgh."

"She's so sensitive down here," Hannie mumbled around the mouthful. Her words were muffled, sloppy. She released it with a wet pop and immediately licked the right one, tongue flat, pressing into the swollen skin, and Amy could feel every tastebud, could feel the texture of Hannie's tongue against her tight, overfull ball.

"Please stop, please stop, please, I can't, you don't understand, they're so sore, they're so full, please."

Hannie ignored her. She had a project. Her mouth worked on Amy's balls, alternating, sucking gently on one while her hand cradled the other, and she found a rhythm of her own, slower than Laura's titfuck, more precise, tongue swirling and lips pressing and it was torture of a different kind because it built differently. Not the direct stimulation of a hand or a mouth on her shaft. This was peripheral. This was stoking the fire from underneath. This was making the ache louder.

Then Hannie's thumb found Amy's frenulum.

That small strip of tissue on the underside of her cockhead. The most sensitive spot on her entire body. The nerve cluster that connected directly to whatever part of her brain controlled begging.

Hannie pressed her thumb against it. Rubbed. Slow circles.

Amy's back arched off the bench. Her shoulder blades dug into the window. Her mouth opened but nothing came out for two full seconds and then everything came out.

"OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK PLEASE, please, oh my god, what are you, how is, oh god, oh GOD."

Hannie giggled. The vibration of her laugh traveled through Amy's balls. She kept her mouth on them, kept sucking, kept licking, while her thumb worked that spot on Amy's cock, rubbing slow, patient circles, and Amy could feel it building again. The edge. Climbing. Not fast like Emma's strokes or Laura's titfuck. Slow. Creeping. Like water rising in a room with no door.

"She's getting close from THAT?" Emma leaned forward on the bench. "Just from ball play and her frenulum? Jesus."

"Twenty eight hours," Violet said again. Same flat tone.

Hannie's thumb rubbed. Her tongue licked. Her lips sucked. Amy's cock twitched above it all, untouched except for that one small point of contact on the underside of the head, and she could feel the orgasm building from her balls upward, could feel the pressure mounting, could feel her body trying to push all that stored up cum through the pipeline and the chip in her skull saying no and her body saying please and Hannie's thumb saying maybe and it was.

"I'm close." Amy's voice was a whisper. A prayer. "Hannie, I'm, I'm close, I'm so close, oh god please don't stop, please, I'm right there, I'm right, I'm."

Hannie pulled her mouth off Amy's balls. Pulled her thumb away from Amy's cock. Sat back on her heels.

"Oops!" She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

Amy wailed. Full voiced, chest deep, the kind of sound that comes from a place beyond embarrassment. Her cock jerked in the air, bobbing, the head purple and leaking, and her hips thrust at nothing and her balls throbbed with a pain that made her vision blur, actually blur, the edges of the train car going soft and she blinked and tears fell and she blinked again and more fell and she realized she couldn't stop.

"Nnnooo." Drawing it out. A child being told no more TV. "No, come back, please come back, please, I was so close, I was right there, you can't, you CAN'T."

Hannie stood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Turned to the other women, beaming.

"Did you see that? I almost made her cum from just her balls and her," she wiggled her thumb, "her little spot. Her special spot."

"That's the cruelest thing I've ever seen," Candy said. "And I once watched someone get edged for six hours at a fetish convention."

"The frenulum play was a nice touch." Emma nodded, arms crossed. "You built it so slow she didn't realize how close she was until she was already there."

"And then you just. Left." Laura put a hand over her chest. "I'm taking notes."

Amy sobbed. Not crying anymore. Sobbing. Chest heaving, snot running, mascara she hadn't been wearing but somehow still felt was running down her face. Three edges. Three denied orgasms in, she craned her neck, the timer said thirty three minutes and twelve seconds. Thirty three more minutes. Thirty three more minutes of this. She couldn't do it. She knew she couldn't do it. She was going to break.

"My balls," she choked out. To no one. To everyone. "They're so swollen. I can feel them. They're bigger. I swear they're bigger."

Hannie looked down between Amy's legs. Tilted her head.

"They do look puffier than before."

"They ARE puffier," Violet said from the door. She hadn't moved from her spot. "Each edge increases testicular pressure. Blood flow to the area spikes and the body produces additional prostatic fluid in anticipation of ejaculation that doesn't occur. It's cumulative."

Silence. Everyone looked at Violet.

"I had a futa roommate," Violet said. Like that explained it.

The intercom crackled.

"Okay so I've been watching this whole time and I just need to say," Liz's voice, bright and amused and not one bit sorry, "Hannie, that was DISGUSTING and I mean that as the highest compliment. Amy, babe, your face when she pulled away? I screenshot it. I'm going to frame it. I'm going to put it on my nightstand and look at it every morning."

"Liz, PLEASE." Amy's voice cracked on the word. "Please tell them to stop. You've had your fun. I'll do anything. I'll, I'll clean the apartment, I'll, I'll owe you five orgasms, ten, whatever you want, please just let me cum."

"Mmmmm." Liz made a thinking sound. Extended it. "Nah."

"LIZ!"

"Ladies, keep up the good work! She's never gonna forgive me for this and honestly? Worth it. Also Amy, just so you know, your cock looks insane right now. Like angry insane. Like it might file a police report. I've never seen it that color before. Is that healthy?"

The intercom cut with a pop of static.

Amy's cock was, in fact, a color she'd never seen on herself. The shaft had darkened, veins standing out along the surface, and the head was somewhere between plum and bruise, so engorged that the skin looked tight, stretched, shining with saliva and pre cum. It twitched. A pulse of clear fluid ran down from the tip and dripped off the underside onto the bench.

Candy stood up.

"My turn!" She clapped her hands once, bounced on her heels, and her platinum blonde curls bounced with her. The pink latex dress reflected the fluorescent light as she moved, catching it in ripples across her chest and hips. She crossed to Amy and knelt, her knees landing on the floor between Amy's spread legs, and she looked up at Amy with bright blue eyes and bubblegum pink lips stretched into a grin.

"This is AMAZING," Candy said. "Look how red your face is! Like, your whole face! And your neck! And your chest! You're, like, one big blush."

"Please." Amy's vocabulary had shrunk. One word left.

"Oh, sweetie." Candy reached out and tapped the tip of Amy's cock with one manicured finger. Amy flinched. The touch was tiny but her sensitivity was through the roof, every nerve ending in her body rerouted to her cock and balls, and a tap felt like a punch. "This is going to be so fun."

Candy wrapped her fingers around Amy's shaft. Her hand was small, couldn't close all the way around, and her pink nails looked ridiculous against the dark, engorged skin. She didn't stroke. She just held. Let Amy feel the warmth of her palm, the softness of her fingers, the potential.

Then she leaned forward, opened her mouth, and took Amy's cockhead between her bubblegum lips.

"Oh," Amy said. Quiet. Like she'd been punched in the chest.

Candy's mouth was hot. Wet. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside of Amy's cockhead, right over the frenulum that Hannie had been torturing minutes ago, and Amy's entire body went taut, every muscle pulling, a bowstring drawn back. Candy didn't bob. Didn't move. She held the head in her mouth and sucked, gently, a steady suction, and her tongue traced slow shapes on the underside.

"Mmmmmmm." Candy hummed around Amy's cock. The vibration traveled down the shaft and into Amy's balls and Amy's teeth ground together.

"Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh, fuck."

Candy pulled back. Not all the way off. Just to the tip. Her lips wrapped around the very end, glossy pink stretched around the swollen head, and she looked up at Amy. Made eye contact. Smiled as much as she could with a cock in her mouth.

Then she sank down. Slow. So slow Amy could count the millimeters. Candy's lips slid down the shaft, wet, warm, tight, her tongue pressing along the underside as she went, and she took Amy deeper and deeper until about half the shaft was in her mouth and then she stopped.

"Fuuuuck." Amy's head dropped back. The glass. Cold.

Candy pulled up. Same pace. Glacial. Her lips dragged along Amy's shaft, gathering spit and pre cum, and when she reached the tip she swirled her tongue around the head once, twice, collecting the fluid that had pooled there, and then sank back down.

The sounds. Amy could hear everything. The wet, slick sound of Candy's mouth moving on her cock. The soft suction. Candy's breathing through her nose, steady, unhurried. The squeak of the bench under Amy's shifting weight. The rattle of the train. The clink of Amy's cuffs as she pulled at them. The ting of Hannie's bell as the girl bounced on the bench.

"Damn, Candy, slow it down any more and we'll be here all night," Emma said.

Candy pulled off with a wet pop. "That's the POINT." She wiped her lip with her thumb. "You can't rush a blowjob. It's like, an art." She went back down, lips wrapping around Amy's cockhead, and resumed her pace.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Slow enough that Amy could feel every inch of the journey. Candy's tongue doing something different on each stroke, flicking the frenulum on the way up, pressing flat on the way down, swirling the head at the top, and it was building. Of course it was building. Everything built. That was the problem. Amy's body was a hair trigger now, three edges deep, and any sustained contact was going to push her toward the cliff.

"She's close," Violet said. Monotone. Reading the signs from across the car.

"Mmhm." Candy didn't stop. She sucked harder. Took Amy deeper on the next stroke, lips stretching, throat working, and Amy could feel Candy's tongue press along the full length of her shaft and she was close, yes, she was close, her balls were drawing up and her stomach was clenching and her cock was throbbing in Candy's mouth and she was.

"Gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, oh fuck, Candy, I'm gonna cum, please, please let me cum, please, I'll do anything, ANYTHING."

The intercom. Pop of static.

"She will NOT do anything, Candy, don't believe her lies. Last time she said that she promised to wash my car and she DIDN'T."

"LIZ, I'M ABOUT TO CUM!"

"Yeah? How's that feel?"

"LIKE I'M ABOUT TO CUM!"

"Candy, pull off."

Candy pulled off.

Amy's cock came free of Candy's mouth, shining, coated in spit, and it bobbed in the air, twitching, pulsing, and Amy screamed through gritted teeth, the sound trapped between her clenched jaw, a muffled full body MMMMNNNGH that went on for five seconds, six, seven, and her hips thrust forward at nothing and her cock slapped against her own stomach again, that same wet thwack, and she felt her balls contract with nowhere to go and the pain hit her like a freight train, a spike of agony right through the center of her, cramp and pressure and heat.

Candy stood. She licked her lips. Smacked them.

"Yummy! But no." She wagged her finger at Amy's cock like it was a misbehaving puppy. "No cummies for you, little lady!"

She turned around. Bent at the waist. Right in Amy's face. Candy's ass in the pink latex dress was six inches from Amy's nose, round and full, and Candy wiggled it side to side.

"I bet you wish you could fuck this right now, huh?" She looked over her shoulder, grinning. "This tight little ass? Just slam right in and cum? I bet you'd sell your soul for one good thrust."

Amy whimpered. Her cock twitched against her stomach.

"You're evil," Amy whispered.

"I'm adorable." Candy wiggled once more, then bounced back to the bench.

The car settled for a moment. Four edges. Four denials. Amy's cock stood rigid between her legs, darker than it had been before Candy started, the head almost purple, leaking a steady, thin stream of pre cum that ran down the shaft and pooled in the creases of her corset. Her balls sat on the bench, heavy, visibly swollen now, tight and tender. She could feel her heartbeat in them.

A tile fell from the ceiling somewhere in the tunnel outside. Amy heard it shatter against the tracks.

Violet pushed off the door.

She walked toward Amy. No bounce. No skip. No sway. She moved like a machine, one foot in front of the other, combat boots on the floor of the car, and the fishnet bodysuit covering her tattooed torso shifted with each step. Her face showed nothing. Grey eyes. Black lips. The tongue piercing clicked against her teeth.

Amy flinched.

She flinched before Violet touched her, before Violet even reached her, because the other four had been warm and bubbly and teasing and Violet was none of those things. Violet was the kid in school who pulled the wings off flies and wrote it up as a science report.

"Don't," Amy said.

Violet knelt. One knee, then the other. Centered between Amy's legs. She looked at Amy's cock the way a mechanic looks at an engine.

"Thirty three minutes left." She glanced up at the timer. "That's a lot of edges."

"Please. I can't take any more."

"You can take a lot more." Violet said this the way someone says the sky is blue. Fact. Not opinion. She reached out and wrapped her right hand around Amy's shaft. Her grip was different from the others. Clinical. Precise. Her fingerless gloves were rough on Amy's skin, the leather worn, and she held Amy's cock with the exact amount of pressure needed and not one ounce more.

"You know," Violet said, and she started stroking. Slow. "I had a futa roommate once."

Amy's jaw clenched. Violet's hand moved up and down her shaft, measured, the kind of stroke that belonged in a medical textbook except for the part where it was happening on a train at midnight to a bound girl with five strangers.

"My last night in the apartment. I was moving out the next morning." Violet's voice didn't change. Same pitch. Same cadence. Same nothing. Her hand kept moving. "She owed me rent from three months back. I figured she owed me entertainment too."

Amy's hips twitched. Violet's grip tightened a fraction. Just enough to pin her in place.

"I edged her for four hours."

Amy's eyes went wide.

"Four hours. In our living room. She was crying by the second hour. Begging by the third. By the fourth she stopped talking, mostly. Just made sounds." Violet's hand moved up to the head. Down to the base. Up. Down. Metronomic. "And then I stopped. Got up. Packed the last box. Left."

"You." Amy's voice was thin. "You let her cum, though. Right? After?"

Violet looked at her.

"No."

"No?"

"She didn't have another registered partner lined up. I was her only one. I'd been meaning to transfer my registration for weeks but." A shrug. One shoulder. Her hand didn't pause. "Slipped my mind."

"What happened to her?"

"Heard she almost ended up in the hospital. Blueballs so bad she couldn't walk for three days. Pain was, apparently, extraordinary." Violet's thumb slid over Amy's cockhead. Rubbed the tip. Amy's teeth clenched. "But she didn't die. The body adapts."

"That's." Amy panted. Violet's hand was doing something. Not fast. Not fancy. Just consistent. Consistent pressure, consistent pace, consistent contact, and Amy's hypersensitive cock, four edges deep, was responding to it like it had been wired directly to Violet's palm. The edge was already climbing. Already there. How was it already there?

"You're close," Violet said.

"I." Amy's neck tendons stood out. "Yes."

Violet stopped.

One second. Amy's body screamed. Her cock pulsed in Violet's still hand.

Violet stroked again. Three strokes. Fast. Hard.

"Oh FUCK."

Stopped.

One second.

Two strokes.

"AH!"

Stopped.

One second. Amy was shaking. Every muscle in her body firing.

Two strokes.

"PLEASE!"

Stop.

"That's five," Violet said. Flat. Bored.

She did it again. Two strokes. Stop. Amy's body jerked like she'd been shocked. Two strokes. Stop. Her vision whited out at the edges. Two strokes. Stop. She'd lost the ability to form words; everything coming out of her mouth was vowels and consonants that didn't connect to anything.

"AaaaAHHH, nnngh, ffff, oh, oh OH."

Two strokes. Stop.

"That's nine."

One more. Two strokes. Hard, fast, the roughness of Violet's fingerless gloves scraping Amy's shaft.

Stop.

"Ten." Violet released Amy's cock. Stood. Her face hadn't changed. Not once. Through all ten rapid edges, through Amy's screaming and thrashing and begging, Violet's expression had remained the same polished stone it had been when she walked over.

"Warm up's over," she said.

Violet walked back to the door.

Amy hung from her cuffs. The chain was the only thing holding her upright; her body had gone slack, boneless, her chin on her chest, her hair fallen over her face in sweat dampened tangles. Her cock stood between her legs, twitching, jumping, leaking a constant stream of pre cum that had turned the bench into a puddle. Her balls were. She could feel every square inch of them. Swollen, aching, hot, the pain no longer a throb but a constant scream, a frequency, a note that wouldn't stop.

She pulled at the cuffs. Her wrists were raw under the steel. She pulled at the ropes. Her ankles burned where the nylon had rubbed the skin above her fishnets. She couldn't close her legs. Couldn't lower her arms. Couldn't touch herself, couldn't cover herself, couldn't do anything except sit there with her cock exposed and aching and her balls swollen and aching and her body shaking, trembling, vibrating with fourteen denied edges and the knowledge that this, according to the five women now settling back into their seats like they'd just finished a coffee break, was only the warm up.

"That's the warm up?" Amy whispered. To the dead moth. To the buzzing light. To no one.

Emma smiled.

"That's the warm up."

Chapter 5

Thirty three minutes on the timer. Amy counted backward from ten in her head. Got to six. Lost it. Started over. Got to eight. Lost it again.

Her cock hurt. Not the good kind. The kind where the blood has been trapped so long it feels like the skin might split. Dark, angry, the veins raised and visible, the head a bruised purple that looked wrong under the subway car's white lighting. Pre cum ran from the tip in a thin, unbroken line that pooled on the bench between her thighs. She could feel it cooling against her skin. Sticky. Getting cold.

Her balls sat heavy and swollen between her spread legs. Each one felt like it had doubled in size. Maybe it had. She couldn't look down long enough to check because every time she moved her chin to her chest the shift in position pulled at her shoulders and the cuffs bit deeper into her raw wrists and she had to stop.

Fourteen edges.

That was the warm up.

Fourteen.

Emma stood up from the bench. Violet stood up at the same time. They didn't look at each other. Didn't speak. Didn't coordinate in any visible way. They just moved together, two people who had done this before, crossing the car in tandem.

Amy watched them come. Her stomach dropped.

"No," she said. "No, no, no, come on, please, I can't, I really can't."

Emma took the left side. Violet took the right. They knelt at the same time, their knees hitting the floor in sync, and that synchronization was somehow the worst part. Like choreography. Like they'd rehearsed.

"How many times have you two done this?" Amy's voice was too high. Cracking in the middle.

Emma glanced at Violet. Violet glanced at Emma.

"Enough," Violet said.

"We had a regular," Emma added. She reached for Amy's cock. Her leather glove was warm. "Tuesday nights. Remember her, Vi?"

"Mmhm."

"She moved to the outer districts." Emma's fingers wrapped around the lower half of Amy's shaft. Firm. Proprietary. "We've been looking for a replacement."

"I don't want to be your replacement."

"That's fine." Violet's bare fingers, the ones poking through her fingerless gloves, wrapped around the upper half. Cool where Emma's were warm. Rough where Emma's were smooth. Two different textures on the same cock at the same time, and Amy's hips jerked before her brain could process why. "You don't have to want it."

They held still for a moment. Just holding. Not moving. Amy could feel both their grips. Could feel where Emma's hand ended and Violet's began, the inch of exposed shaft between them where neither one was touching, and that gap was somehow worse than the contact because her cock throbbed into the empty space and found nothing.

Then they started.

Emma moved first. Upward. Violet followed a half second later. The same direction, the same speed, but offset just enough that Amy's cock was never fully released and never fully gripped. A rolling pressure. Bottom to top, bottom to top, like a wave passing through two sets of fingers. Emma's leather glove squeezed on the way up. Violet's rough fingertips dragged on the way down.

Amy's toes curled inside her boots. Both feet. All ten toes. Stupid detail to notice but she noticed it.

"Fffff."

"Shh." Emma didn't look up. Her eyes were on Violet's hand, tracking the rhythm, matching it. "Let us work."

They found their pace in three strokes. Four. Five. By the sixth stroke they were moving in perfect tandem, two hands milking Amy's cock in a continuous rolling motion that never stopped, never paused, never gave her a single moment without contact. When Emma's hand reached the top of her stroke and slid off the head, Violet's was already at the base pushing up. When Violet crested the tip, Emma was there to catch the shaft on the way back down.

Amy's head fell back against the window. The glass was cold. Her scalp was sweating. The temperature difference made her teeth clench.

"Oh god."

"Not god." Violet's thumb pressed the underside of Amy's shaft on the upstroke. Firm. Targeted. "Just us."

Seven strokes. Eight. The pace wasn't fast. Measured, deliberate, the way you'd wind a clock. But Amy's cock was so raw, so sensitive, so full of blood that had nowhere to go that measured and deliberate was plenty. The edge came screaming up from her balls like a freight elevator.

"I'm close." The words fell out. No control over them. "I'm, fuck, I'm already."

Emma stopped.

Violet stopped.

Same instant. Same microsecond. Hands frozen on Amy's shaft, one at the base, one at the head, both perfectly still while Amy's cock pulsed and jumped between them.

One second.

Amy's whole body locked up. Teeth clenched. Eyes squeezed shut. Her cock throbbed once, twice, three times against their fingers, and she could feel the orgasm right there, right there, a millimeter away, a breath away, and then it receded. Pulled back like a tide going out.

They started again.

"FUCK!"

Same rolling pace. Same tandem motion. Bottom to top, bottom to top, two hands working in relay. Amy's cock responded before the word was out of her mouth. The edge came back. Faster this time. Five strokes. Maybe four.

"Close, close, close."

Stop.

Both hands. Same instant. Frozen.

One second.

Her cock kicked between their fingers. Once. Twice. The orgasm surged and then died. Surged and died.

They started again.

"Oh my GOD, PLEASE."

Three strokes. The edge.

Stop.

Hannie was watching from the bench across the aisle. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, chin resting on her kneecaps. The bell on her collar jingled when she bounced.

"Your cock is literally JUMPING! This is hilarious!"

It was. Amy could see it. Between edges, when both hands went still, her cock lurched and bucked on its own, twitching left and right, the head bobbing, pre cum slinging in tiny arcs. It looked like a fish on a dock. Desperate, flopping, searching for something it couldn't find.

Two strokes. Edge. Stop.

One second.

Two strokes. Edge. Stop.

One second.

Emma and Violet had found something. A groove. A pocket. Amy was so sensitive that two strokes, two full pumps of their combined hands, was enough to bring her right back to the cliff. And one second of nothing was enough to let her slide back. Not far. Just enough. A few inches of distance between her and the orgasm, and then two strokes ate that distance whole and she was right back again.

"How many is that?" Laura called from her seat. She had her dress pulled back up but hadn't bothered with the bra. Her bare breasts sat heavy on her chest.

"Six." Violet didn't look away from Amy's cock. "Seven."

Two strokes. Stop. Amy's jaw opened. No sound. Just air.

"Eight."

Two strokes. Stop. Amy's thighs shook so hard the rope around her ankles hummed.

"Nine. Ten."

Two strokes. Stop. Two strokes. Stop. Two strokes. Stop.

Amy's brain went somewhere. Not out. Not unconscious. But sideways. Like a TV between channels. She could hear Hannie giggling and Laura murmuring something and the distant rattle of the train and the wet sound of her cock in their hands but none of it connected to anything. She was just sensation and denial and the muscle memory of almost.

"Thirteen. Fourteen."

Somewhere in the car, Candy clapped. Short, fast claps. Cheerleader claps.

"Fifteen. Sixteen."

Two strokes. Stop. Two strokes. Stop.

Amy tried to speak. What came out was: "Nnnnnggghhhhuuhhhh."

"Seventeen."

Her cock didn't even soften between edges anymore. It stayed iron hard, purple, jumping. The pre cum was constant now, not beading and dripping but running, a thin stream that coated both their hands and made each two stroke set slicker than the last.

"Eighteen. Nineteen."

Two strokes.

Stop.

"Twenty." Violet lifted her hand. Looked at it. Slick, wet. Wiped it on her leather shorts. "One minute."

"Twenty edges in sixty seconds," Emma said. She was smiling. Not a warm smile. The kind of smile a surgeon might make when a tricky procedure goes exactly right. "Want to try for twenty five?"

Violet looked at Amy's cock. Still twitching. Still leaking. Still so close to orgasm that a stiff breeze might push her over.

"She's sensitive enough."

"I know."

They grabbed her again. Both hands. Same positions. Amy flinched so hard the chain rattled against the overhead rail.

"Don't," Amy said. "Don't don't don't don't don't."

They did.

Faster this time. Not two strokes. One. A single rolling pump of both hands and Amy's cock was at the edge. A half second pause. Another pump. Edge. Pause. Pump. Edge. Pause.

"Ahhh! Ahhh! AHHH!"

Each pump ripped a sound out of Amy's throat. Not moans. Not screams. Something in between, like a hiccup crossed with a sob, a sound she'd never made before today and would hear in her nightmares for the rest of her life.

Pump. Edge. Pause.

Pump. Edge. Pause.

"Five," Violet counted. Flat. Bored. Like she was counting inventory.

Amy's vision had gone fuzzy around the edges. Not dark. Not white. Just... soft. Like Vaseline smeared on a camera lens. The world had lost its sharpness. The only thing in focus was the feeling in her cock, which was sharp enough for everything else.

Pump. Pause. Pump. Pause.

"Ten."

Amy was crying. She'd started somewhere around eight and hadn't noticed until now. Tears running down both cheeks, dripping off her jaw, landing on her corset. Not sobbing. Just leaking. Like her eyes were doing the same thing as her cock. Spilling over because everything was too full and had nowhere to go.

"Awwww," Candy cooed from across the car. She pressed both hands to her chest. "Baby's crying!"

"Poor thing," Laura added. She didn't sound like she meant it. "Come here, mija, let mama see."

Laura crossed the car and knelt next to Amy. Cupped her face. Turned it toward her. Studied the tears with a kind of focused attention, the way someone studies a painting they're thinking about buying.

"Oh, that's real." Laura's thumb wiped a tear away. Another one replaced it. "Those are real tears."

"Fifteen," Violet said.

Pump. Pause.

Amy sobbed into Laura's palm. A real sob this time, chest heaving, snot starting, the ugly kind of crying that comes from exhaustion and desperation and the knowledge that your body is doing something your brain can't stop.

"Shhhh." Laura stroked Amy's hair. Pushed the sweaty tangles off her forehead. "It's okay. You're doing so good."

"P, pl, please."

"Please what, baby girl?"

"Let me cum. Please. Please let me cum. I'll do anything, I'll do, I can, just please."

"Eighteen."

Laura kissed Amy's forehead. Soft. Gentle. Like a mother tucking in a child.

"No."

"Nineteen."

Pump.

Pause.

Amy's whole body seized. Every muscle. Shoulders, stomach, thighs, calves, hands fisted above the cuffs, toes curled, jaw clamped. For one second she was a statue. Frozen at the edge, every cell in her body poised to tip over.

Then the pause stretched to one second. Two.

And the orgasm receded. Again.

"Twenty," Violet said.

Pump. Pause. Pump. Pause. Pump. Pause.

They were going faster now. The pauses had shortened. Half a second. A quarter. Just enough for Amy's body to register not yet before they pushed her back to almost. The line between edge and orgasm had gotten so thin it was theoretical. A concept. A rumor.

"Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three."

Amy had stopped trying to talk. Stopped trying to beg. Her mouth was open, her eyes were shut, tears streaming, and she was making a continuous sound. A keening. High pitched, broken, wavering, the sound a dog makes when it's been left outside in the rain. Not a word. Not even a syllable. Just a frequency.

"Twenty four."

One more pump. One more pause.

"Twenty five." Violet released Amy's cock. Held up her hand. Emma released at the same instant. Same synchronized precision. "One minute."

"Twenty five edges in sixty seconds." Emma stood. She wiped her gloved hands together. "New record?"

"Tied." Violet shrugged. "The girl on Tuesday did twenty five once. But she passed out on twenty three so we had to slap her awake."

"Amy's still conscious."

They both looked at Amy. She hung from her cuffs, chin on her chest, body slack except for the involuntary twitching. Her cock jutted out from between her thighs, bouncing, purple, the tip so dark it was almost blue. Pre cum ran from it in a steady trickle. Her balls had swollen to the point where she could feel them touching the insides of her thighs, hot and tight, and the pain in them had become its own living thing, an animal curled in her pelvis that bit down every time her cock pulsed.

Forty five edges in two minutes.

Hannie counted on her fingers, frowned, counted again, then gave up and pulled out her phone to do the math.

"That's like, almost one every three seconds?"

"Two point six six seconds average." Violet was already back against the door. "Second round was faster."

"Damn." Hannie put her phone away. "That's gotta be, like, a thing. A world record. Can you put that on a resume?"

Amy whimpered.

Laura was still beside her, still stroking her hair, still murmuring soft things in Spanish. The contrast between Laura's gentle touch and what had just happened was worse than the edges themselves. The kindness made Amy's chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her cock.

"You're so brave," Laura whispered. "So strong. Look at you, taking all of that."

Amy shook her head. Tears dripped onto Laura's fingers.

"I'm not. I can't. I can't do this anymore."

"Of course you can." Laura kissed her temple. "You don't have a choice, but you can."

Candy stood up. Smoothed her pink latex dress over her hips. Checked her reflection in the dark window.

"Okay!" She bounced on her heels. "Blowjob time!"

Laura straightened. Released Amy's face. The shift from maternal comfort to predatory interest happened so fast Amy's brain couldn't track it. One second Laura was cooing and petting; the next she was standing, rolling her neck, cracking her knuckles like a boxer before a round.

"Relay rules?" Laura asked.

"Ten each," Emma called from her seat. She had crossed her legs, ankle over knee, looking for all the world like someone watching a live show she'd paid good money for. "Then rotate."

"Who's first?"

"I'll go." Laura stepped between Amy's spread legs. Sank to her knees. The concrete floor of the subway car must have been cold through the fabric of her dress but she didn't flinch. She gathered her auburn hair, twisted it into a rope, tossed it over one shoulder.

Amy's cock bobbed in front of Laura's face. Close enough that Laura's exhale made it twitch.

"Please," Amy said. Reflex. The word had lost all meaning. A sound effect now, a noise her body made when someone got near her cock, like a car alarm going off when you bump the bumper.

Laura opened her mouth. Wide. No hesitation. She took Amy's cock past her lips, past her tongue, and kept going. Her throat opened and Amy's shaft slid in until Laura's nose pressed against Amy's pelvis and her lips kissed the base and Amy's cock was buried to the root in wet, tight, hot.

Amy's shoulders slammed back against the window. Glass rattled.

Laura held there. Throat working around Amy's shaft, swallowing, the muscles contracting in a rolling pulse that squeezed Amy's cock from base to tip inside her. Then she pulled back. Slow. Agonizing. Her tongue pressing flat against the underside, dragging from root to head, leaving a trail of spit and pre cum that connected her lips to Amy's cockhead in a glistening thread when she pulled free.

Then she went back down. Same depth. Same pace. Her tongue swirling this time, circling Amy's shaft on the way down, tracing the ridge where the head met the shaft on the way up. Laura's technique was different from Candy's earlier. Candy had been slow, passive, a warm wet mouth that held still and let Amy's cock soak. Laura was active. Aggressive. She fucked Amy's cock with her mouth, her head moving in long smooth strokes, taking the full length each time, throat opening each time, tongue working each time.

"Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god."

Amy's hips tried to thrust. The ropes held. Her ass lifted off the bench an inch, maybe two, straining against the ankle ties, and Laura rode the motion without breaking rhythm. Down. Up. Down. Tongue swirling. Throat squeezing. Spit pooling at the base of Amy's cock and dripping down her balls.

Three strokes. Four. Five. The edge hit Amy like a punch. Sudden, violent, her cock swelling in Laura's mouth.

"Cumming, I'm cumming, I'm."

Laura pulled off. A wet pop. She sat back on her heels. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Mmm." She licked her lips. "I can feel you pulsing. Not yet, sweetheart."

Amy screamed. Not a word. Just sound. Her cock jumped in the empty air, slapping her own stomach with a wet thwack, and she watched it bob and twitch and leak, so close that the denial felt like a physical wound, like someone had reached inside her and ripped something out.

One.

Laura let five seconds pass. Enough for Amy's body to settle from the peak. Not enough for her to recover. Then Laura opened her mouth and swallowed Amy's cock again.

Same technique. Deep. Full. Tongue swirling on the way down, throat squeezing on the way up. But faster. Two strokes and Amy was at the edge again.

"Pl please, I'm gonna."

Laura pulled off. Pop.

Two.

"You're so easy right now," Laura murmured. She pressed a kiss to Amy's cockhead. Gentle. Almost chaste. Amy's whole body flinched.

Back down. One stroke this time. One single deep throat, Laura's nose hitting Amy's pelvis, her throat clenching around the shaft.

"AHHH."

Off.

Three.

Amy's legs shook so violently the ropes creaked. Her ankles were bleeding under the fishnets. She couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except her cock and the absence of Laura's mouth and the ache in her balls that had grown teeth and was eating her alive.

Laura went back down. One stroke. Edge.

Off.

Four. Five. Six.

By seven, Laura wasn't even giving her full strokes anymore. She'd take Amy's cock into her mouth, close her lips around the shaft, let her tongue press flat, and Amy's body did the rest. The edge came like a reflex, automatic, unstoppable.

Eight. Nine.

On ten, Laura deep throated her and held it for three seconds. Three full seconds of Amy's cock buried in her throat, Laura's throat rippling, Amy's hands fisting above the cuffs, her eyes rolling back, her mouth open in a silent scream, every muscle in her body vibrating.

Laura pulled off.

"That's ten." She stood. "Candy."

"Omigod, finally!" Candy dropped to her knees with a grace that shouldn't have been possible in heels. She grabbed Amy's cock with both small hands, angled it toward her mouth, and paused.

"Hi," she said to Amy's cock. Directly to it. Eye contact with the tip.

Then she closed her bubblegum pink lips around the head and sucked.

Where Laura had been deep and aggressive, Candy was all about the tip. She didn't take more than two inches. Didn't need to. Her lips sealed around the crown of Amy's cock and she sucked. Hard. Cheeks hollowing, jaw working, the suction strong enough that Amy could feel it pulling at the root of her shaft, like Candy was trying to draw the cum out through a straw.

Her tongue flicked against the underside of the head. Quick, targeted, the tip of her tongue finding the most sensitive spot and batting against it in rapid little strokes. Not swirling. Not pressing. Flicking. Like she was testing a lighter.

"Nnn. Nnn. NNN."

Amy's head thrashed side to side. The edge came in eight seconds. Maybe seven.

Candy popped off. Smacked her lips. Made a show of tasting.

"Yummy!"

Back on. Same technique. Lips sealed. Hard suction. Tongue flicking.

Five seconds. Edge.

Off.

"Oh em gee, you are SO close." Candy giggled. Spit connected her bottom lip to Amy's cockhead. "It's like a little button I keep pressing."

Three seconds. Edge. Off.

Amy was making sounds she didn't recognize. Didn't own. They came from somewhere below her diaphragm, from a place she'd never accessed before, and they were ugly, raw, animal. The kind of sounds you'd hear through a wall and not know if they were pain or pleasure or both.

Candy edged her ten times. Each one faster than the last. By the tenth, she was just touching her lips to Amy's cockhead, pressing a kiss against the slit, and Amy's body did the rest, surging toward orgasm from a kiss, a single kiss, a peck.

"That's my ten!" Candy stood. Twirled. Her platinum curls bounced. "Hannie!"

Hannie replaced Candy between Amy's legs. She looked up at Amy with those big brown eyes, pigtails dangling, and giggled.

"Okay. My turn."

Hannie didn't suck. Didn't deep throat. Didn't do anything Laura or Candy had done. She kissed Amy's cock the way you'd kiss a lover's mouth. Slow, soft, open mouthed kisses along the shaft, her lips dragging over the skin, her tongue peeking out to taste, her breath warm against the wet surface. She kissed the base. Kissed up the side. Kissed the ridge beneath the head. Kissed the head itself, her lips parting around it, not taking it in, just surrounding it in warmth and softness.

Amy's cock twitched against Hannie's lips with each kiss. Like it was answering.

"You're so cute," Hannie whispered against Amy's shaft. "Your cock is so cute. It keeps trying to cum and it can't. That's adorable."

She pressed her tongue flat against the underside of Amy's cockhead. Held it there. Didn't move. Just heat and wet and pressure.

Amy's thighs clamped against nothing. She couldn't close her legs. The ropes held. Her body tried anyway, muscles straining, the futile effort making it worse because the struggle burned energy she didn't have.

The edge arrived not like a wave but like a slow sunrise. A brightening. A gradual increase in intensity until everything was too much and Amy's cock was jumping against Hannie's tongue and she was saying words that might have been please or might have been stop or might have been more, she couldn't tell, she couldn't tell.

Hannie lifted her tongue away.

"Oops."

One.

She put her tongue back. Same spot. Same flat, unmoving pressure.

Edge.

Away.

Two.

"This is my favorite part," Hannie said to nobody. To everybody. "When they get so close that doing nothing is doing something. I'm not even licking. I'm just... sitting here. And she's gonna cum from me sitting here." She put her tongue back. "Well. Almost cum."

Three. Four. Five.

Hannie kissed and licked and pressed and breathed on Amy's cock ten times. Each denial was soft, gentle, barely anything, and somehow that was the worst version of it. Laura's had been aggressive, a punch to the gut of denial. Candy's had been sharp, a sudden absence. Hannie's were pillows pressed over Amy's face. Smothering. Sweet. The nicest possible way to ruin someone.

Ten.

"Done!" Hannie popped to her feet. The bell on her collar jingled.

Laura was already sinking back to her knees. "My turn again."

Round two. Same rotation. Laura, Candy, Hannie. Ten edges each.

Amy stopped counting somewhere in Laura's third set. The numbers didn't matter. The names didn't matter. She was a cock and the cock was being edged and that was the entirety of her existence. Her world had collapsed to the six inches of flesh between her legs and the mouths that took turns worshipping it and destroying it and she couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Laura's deep throats grew faster, sloppier. Spit ran down Amy's balls, dripped from Laura's chin, pooled on the bench. The sounds were vulgar, guttural, a wet choking punctuated by the thick suck of Laura pulling off at the last second.

Candy's suction grew harder. Her tongue faster. She took to moaning around Amy's cockhead, the vibrations adding a new layer that made Amy's toes curl so hard her feet cramped.

Hannie developed a new trick. She'd take one of Amy's balls into her mouth while pressing her tongue against the shaft, and the dual sensation, the warm suction on her testicle and the flat pressure on her cock, brought Amy to the edge from a direction she didn't know existed.

"She's crying again!" Hannie announced after her fifth edge. She said it the way someone might say she's awake or she's here. A status update.

Amy was, in fact, crying again. Still. She wasn't sure she'd ever stopped. The tears had become a background process, like breathing, like the beating of her heart, something her body did without her input or consent. Her vision blurred. Her cheeks were wet. Her corset was spotted with dark circles where the drops had landed.

"Awww, baby." Laura cupped Amy's face between her large, warm hands. Drew her thumb through the tracks on Amy's cheek. "Does it hurt?"

"Y, yes."

"Where?"

Amy sobbed. What kind of question was that? Where. Where didn't it hurt. Her cock, her balls, her wrists, her ankles, her stomach where the cramps had started, her lower back where something had been clenching for twenty minutes, her jaw from grinding her teeth.

"Everywhere," Amy managed. "It hurts everywhere."

"Poor mija." Laura kissed her forehead again. Soft. Warm. "I wish I could help."

"You CAN help."

"Mm, no." Laura smiled. "I can't."

"Please." Amy's voice cracked. Split open. The word came out in two pieces, the first half solid, the second half vapor. "Plllease. I'll do anything. I'll, I'll be your Tuesday night girl. I'll come every week. Every day. Whatever you want. Please just let me cum. One time. Once. I'll, I'll."

"Shhh." Laura pressed a finger to Amy's lips.

"But."

"Shhh."

Amy's mouth closed. Tears fell.

Laura returned to her position between Amy's legs and put her mouth back on Amy's cock. Not to comfort. To continue.

The intercom crackled.

"Having fun down there?"

Liz's voice filled the car. Bright, amused, a little breathless.

Amy's head snapped up. "LIZ!"

"Hey, babe. How's it going?"

"HOW'S IT. Liz, you absolute. You fucking. You."

"Use your words, Amy."

"LET ME CUM."

"Can't do that, sweetheart." A pause. Something rustled over the mic. Fabric. "I'm kinda busy up here."

Emma tilted her head. Listening. A slow smile spread across her face.

"Are you touching yourself, Liz?"

More rustling. A short, sharp breath.

"Maybe."

"Oh my god." Amy's voice went shrill. "You're masturbating. You're literally masturbating up there while they're."

"I mean." Liz's laugh was breathy. Different from her usual cackle. Lower. "Can you blame me? I've got the camera feed up and you look. Fuck. You look so good right now, Ames. All tied up. Crying. Your poor cock all swollen and purple and, mmm."

Another sound over the intercom. Wet. Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

"Oh god," Amy whispered.

"Keep going, girls," Liz said. Her voice had gone thick. "Whatever you're doing, keep. Don't stop."

Candy's hand was on Amy's cock before Liz finished the sentence. She held it steady, angled it toward Laura, who was already opening her mouth.

"Wait," Amy said. "Wait, Liz, if you can, if you're going to, then you have to, your chip connects to mine, if you cum then I."

"My chip's off, remember?" Liz's breathing was faster now. Shallow. "Conductor exemption. I can cum whenever I want."

"That's not FAIR."

"No." A soft uhh over the speakers. "It's not."

Laura took Amy's cock back into her mouth. Deep. Full. Amy's body responded the way it had been trained to over the last thirty minutes: instant, desperate, hurtling toward an edge she'd never be allowed to reach.

And over the intercom, Liz moaned.

Not performing. Not acting. Real. The sound a person makes when they're close, when their hand is moving fast and their hips are shifting and their brain has gone quiet except for the one thought: almost, almost, almost.

"Fuck," Liz gasped. "Tell me what she's doing. Someone. Tell me."

"Laura's got her cock down her throat," Emma said. Casual. Like she was reading a menu. "Amy's about three seconds from the edge. Two. One."

Laura pulled off.

Amy screamed.

Over the intercom, Liz moaned louder. "Oh fuck. Oh that's. Keep. Do it again."

Laura went back down.

"She's twitching," Emma narrated. "Her whole body. Her cock's so hard it looks painful. Probably is. Her balls are, god, you should see them, Liz. They're huge. Swollen. She's been making these sounds."

"What sounds." Liz's voice had gone ragged.

"Like she's dying."

"Yesss."

Laura pulled off. Amy wailed. The wail was long and broken and musical in the worst way, and over the intercom Liz's breathing hitched, caught, stuttered.

"Oh. Oh fuck, Amy. Amy, I'm gonna. I'm, ahhh, I."

Liz came.

Over the subway car's intercom system, broadcast through the speakers at full volume, Liz came. It was loud and unrestrained and real, a series of sharp cries followed by a long, low groan, followed by panting, followed by a breathless laugh.

Amy listened to every second of it. Bound, edged, her cock weeping in Laura's hand, her orgasm locked behind a chip in her skull, she listened to her best friend cum from watching her suffer.

"Mmmmm." Liz sighed. Satisfied. Lazy. The sigh of a woman who got exactly what she wanted. "That was. Wow. Thanks, babe."

Amy couldn't speak. Her throat had closed.

"You good?" Liz asked.

"You." Amy swallowed. "You just. While I'm."

"Yeah." A grin in the voice. Amy could hear it. Could picture the exact expression. Liz's eyes half closed, that crooked smirk, her cheeks flushed, her hand still between her legs. "I did. And you didn't. That's kind of the whole thing, right?"

"I hate you."

"Love you too." The intercom clicked. Clicked again. "Okay, I might go for round two. Don't mind me."

"LIZ."

"Mwah!" A kissing sound. The intercom went to standby, Liz's breathing still faintly audible in the background, a soft steady rhythm that told Amy she was still listening. Still watching. Still enjoying.

Laura looked up at Amy from between her legs. Her lips were swollen, red, wet.

"Where were we?"

Chapter 6

It was Candy's idea. Or Laura's. Amy couldn't tell. Someone said something and then both of them were kneeling between her legs, side by side, and Laura was holding her left breast and Candy was holding her right and they were pressing them together around Amy's cock.

Four breasts. Two women. Laura's massive, heavy, bronze skinned DDD's on one side. Candy's firm, high, pale DD's on the other. They sandwiched Amy's shaft between them, the soft weight closing in from both sides, and Amy's cock disappeared into a valley of flesh that seemed to go on forever.

"Oh," Amy said. Small. Broken.

"Oh is right," Candy giggled.

They pressed together. Laura from the left, Candy from the right, their shoulders touching, their bodies angled inward, their combined cleavage forming a channel so deep and so tight that Amy's cockhead barely poked out the top. The skin contact was different from anything else. Soft. Warm. Not the precise grip of fingers or the wet heat of a mouth but something between, something pillowy and smothering and maddening.

Amy's cock throbbed between their breasts. She could feel Laura's heartbeat through her left tit. Could feel Candy's through her right. Two pulses, offset, neither in time with Amy's own hammering heart, three separate rhythms pressing against her shaft from different angles.

They started to move.

Laura led. She shifted her body upward, dragging her breast along Amy's shaft, and Candy followed a beat behind, the two of them establishing a rocking motion that made their combined breasts roll up and down Amy's cock in a continuous wave of soft, warm, slippery flesh. The pre cum that had been running down Amy's shaft all night acted as lubrication; their skin slid against hers with a frictionless ease that made Amy's eyes cross.

"Nnn. Nnn. Oh. Oh no."

"Oh yes," Laura corrected.

They rocked. Up. Down. Laura's heavy breasts dragging low, catching on the base of Amy's shaft, then lifting. Candy's firm breasts squeezing the head, then releasing. The motion was smooth, practiced, the two women reading each other's pace through shoulder contact and matched breathing.

Amy's cock swelled between them. She could feel it expanding against their skin, the blood rushing, the head darkening further, the pre cum flowing faster, making the channel wetter, slicker, the sounds getting louder.

"Close." Amy gritted the word out between clenched teeth. "I'm close I'm close I'm."

Laura and Candy pulled apart.

Amy's cock sprang free, slapping against her own stomach, slick and shining, the head so swollen it looked cartoonish. A thick strand of pre cum stretched from the tip to Laura's breast and snapped.

"Whoopsie!" Candy pressed her knuckle to her lips. Wide eyes. Fake surprise. "Almost!"

Amy thrashed in her restraints. The chain rattled. The cuffs bit. She kicked against the ropes and her boots skidded on the floor and she screamed into the stale subway car air and the scream echoed off the walls and came back to her and it sounded like a stranger and she screamed again.

"Deep breaths," Laura said. She patted Amy's thigh. "Deep breaths, baby girl."

"I HATE YOU."

"Okay," Candy said. She tucked her breasts back into her pink latex dress, adjusted the neckline, and then immediately pulled it back down. "One at a time now. Deep throat contest!"

Laura cracked her neck. "Rules?"

"One deep throat. One. See who gets her to the edge." Candy grinned. "Losers buy drinks."

"She'll edge on anyone's first try right now," Violet said from her spot by the door. She hadn't moved the entire time. Arms crossed. Face blank. "She'd edge on a strong gust of wind."

"That's what makes it fun!" Candy knelt between Amy's legs. "Me first."

She took Amy's cock into her mouth. No buildup. No teasing. Straight down, her throat opening, her chin pressing against Amy's balls, her nose buried in Amy's pelvis. She held it there for two seconds.

Amy's entire body went stiff. Board stiff. Her arms pulled taut against the cuffs, her legs strained against the ropes, every muscle from her jaw to her toes clenched at once.

Candy pulled off.

Amy's cock jumped. Pulsed. The edge crashed through her like a shockwave and then faded, leaving her gasping.

"One deep throat!" Candy held up a finger. Triumphant. "Laura, your turn."

Laura took position. Opened her mouth. Took Amy's cock to the root.

But Amy was further from the edge now; the denial had pushed her back a fraction. Laura pulled off. Amy's cock twitched, leaked, but didn't reach the peak.

"Damn." Laura sat back. "Not quite."

"Ha! My turn." Candy dove back down. One deep throat. Amy seized.

Edge.

Candy pulled off.

"Two for Candy." Hannie was keeping score on her phone. "One for Laura. Well, zero for Laura."

"Shut up." Laura went again. Deep throat. Amy groaned. Close, close, but. Not there.

"Nope." Candy was bouncing on her knees. "My turn my turn my turn."

Deep throat. Edge. Off.

"Three for Candy."

Laura tried again. This time she added tongue, swirling on the way down, pressing on the way up. Amy bucked. Got close. Fell short by a heartbeat.

"Come ON." Laura's competitive streak was showing. Her jaw clenched. She went again. One deep thrust of Amy's cock into her throat.

Edge.

"FINALLY," Laura said, pulling off. "I got one."

"Only because I warmed her up for you!"

"That's how it works."

Back and forth. Candy. Laura. Candy. Laura. Each single deep throat. Each testing whether Amy's body had recovered enough from the last denial to be pushed back to the edge by one, one, just one.

Candy on her first deep throat. Edge.

Laura on her second. Edge.

Candy on her first again. Edge.

Candy on her first. Again.

"This isn't fair," Laura said. She crossed her arms under her massive breasts, pushing them up. "She's not recovering between mine. She edges on Candy's first and then she's too close for mine to push her up."

"Or," Candy said sweetly, "I'm just better."

"You are NOT."

"The scoreboard says different, babe."

Laura's eyes narrowed. She reached out, placed both hands on Candy's shoulders, and physically moved her aside. Candy squeaked, stumbled on her heels, caught herself on a pole.

"My turn," Laura said.

She settled between Amy's legs. Looked up at Amy. Amy looked down at Laura through a curtain of tangled, sweat damp hair. Her cheeks were tracked with tears. Her eyes were red. Her lip was bleeding where she'd bitten through it.

"Sorry about this." Laura said.

She wasn't sorry.

Laura took Amy's cock into her mouth and went down. All the way. Throat opening, lips at the base, and she swallowed. The muscles of her throat clenched around Amy's shaft in a rolling wave.

Amy's spine curved up off the window. Her shoulders dug into the glass.

Edge.

Laura pulled off for exactly one second. Amy's cock bounced, leaked, her body trembling at the precipice.

Back down.

Edge.

One second.

Down.

Edge.

Laura was going fast. Not giving Amy time to slide back from the peak. Each deep throat caught her at the very edge, pushed her into it, held her there, and then Laura pulled off and the orgasm collapsed and one second later Laura's mouth was back and the edge was back and Amy was.

"AH! AH! AHHH! Ah ah ah AH!"

Four. Five. Six. Laura was relentless, machine like, her auburn hair swinging with each bob, spit coating her chin, her neck. She was going deep and coming up and going deep and coming up and each time Amy's body clenched and released and clenched and released and Amy was crying so hard she couldn't see.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

"AAAAAAHHHhhh." Amy's voice gave out. Broke on the high note and dropped to a rasp. Her vocal cords couldn't keep up.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The women watched. Hannie had stopped counting on her phone. She just stared, her mouth slightly open, the bell on her collar silent for once because she'd gone completely still.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Amy had bitten through her lower lip on both sides. Blood mixed with spit at the corners of her mouth. She couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except Laura's throat around her cock and the edge and the denial and the edge and the denial and the.

Sixteen.

Laura's hands gripped Amy's hips. Not gently. Her nails dug into the flesh above Amy's fishnets, leaving little white crescents that would be red later, bruises later, marks that Amy would find in the shower tomorrow and not remember getting.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

"Mmmm." Laura hummed around Amy's cock. The vibration rattled through Amy's shaft, down into her balls, up into her gut. Amy's mouth opened in a silent scream. No sound. The muscles in her throat moved but nothing came out.

Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three.

Amy's cock was so sensitive now that the transition between Laura's mouth and the empty air had become its own form of torture. The cold hit her wet skin like a slap each time Laura pulled off, and the warmth of Laura's mouth each time she went back down felt like being submerged in something she'd die without, and she was drowning on dry land, drowning in one second intervals, drowning and surfacing and drowning and.

Twenty four. Twenty five.

Amy's eyes were open but she couldn't see. Not blind. Just. Gone. The visual input was arriving at her brain and her brain was sending it back, return to sender, no capacity, all resources allocated to the war happening between her cock and her chip.

Twenty six. Twenty seven. Twenty eight.

Laura pulled off. Went back down. Pulled off. Went back down. Mechanical. Efficient. Each deep throat lasting two seconds. Each pause lasting one. A rhythm. A cycle. A punishment.

Twenty nine.

Laura took Amy's cock all the way to the base. Held it. Swallowed twice. Amy's body jackknifed, her hips coming off the bench, her abs crunching, the chain above her jangling, her feet pushing against the ropes.

Then Laura pulled off. Sat back. Wiped her mouth.

"Thirty." Laura's voice was hoarse. Raw from the abuse to her own throat. She cleared it. "Thirty."

Amy hung from her cuffs. Boneless. Her cock stood between her thighs, twitching in the air, and a rope of pre cum a foot long dangled from the tip, swinging, catching what light there was.

The car was quiet for a moment.

Then Liz's voice, breathy and wrecked, came over the intercom.

"Ohhh, fuck. Ohh. Oh that was, ugh, that was so. Uhhhn. Oh god."

Liz came again. Louder this time. The speakers carried every gasp, every moan, every wet shudder. It lasted longer than the first one, a rolling thing that peaked and dipped and peaked again, and Amy listened to every second with her cock jumping in the open air and tears running down her face and she felt something in her chest that she couldn't name because it was too many things at once.

"Good girl," Liz panted over the intercom. Talking to herself. Or to Amy. Or to both. "Fuck. Good girl."

Amy didn't know which one of them Liz meant.

Didn't matter.

Violet pushed off from the door. Checked the timer mounted on the wall above Amy's head.

"Ten minutes left."

The words landed in the car like a stone dropped into a pond. The other women looked up. Candy stopped adjusting her dress. Laura stopped wiping her chin. Hannie's bell jingled once and went silent.

"Ten minutes." Violet looked at Amy. Same flat expression. Same grey, colorless eyes. "Let's see if we can get her to beg a hundred times."

Chapter 7

"Okay, wait." Emma held up one gloved hand. "Wait. How many was that?"

Silence. The five women looked at each other.

"I stopped counting at like, fifty something?" Candy scrunched her nose. Bubblegum pink lips pursed. "Fifty... four? Fifty seven?"

"Fifty was during the relay thing." Violet leaned against the door. Arms crossed. "That was twenty minutes ago."

"I had thirty on my phone but then I stopped recording because Laura went all." Hannie made a gesture with both hands. Fast. Aggressive. Throat-fucking motion. The bell on her collar jingled. "You know."

Laura rubbed her jaw. Still raw from the thirty back to back deep throats. "I lost count after my set. There were the ones before. The warm up. Your ten, Violet. Then the relay ones. Then oral rotation. Then the tit thing. Then the contest." She counted on her fingers. Gave up. "Honestly? No idea."

"It's more than a hundred," Emma said.

"Way more than a hundred," Candy agreed.

"Could be a hundred and fifty. Could be two hundred." Violet checked the timer. Her face didn't change. "Doesn't matter. Point is we lost count after fifty."

Amy heard all of this from very far away. Like they were speaking underwater. Or she was underwater. Hard to tell which. Her cock stood between her legs, so dark it looked like something that belonged to a different body, veins mapping its surface like tributaries on a geography project she'd done in seventh grade. Why was she thinking about seventh grade. Why was she thinking about geography. The pre cum hadn't stopped. It ran from the tip of her cock in a thin, clear line, pooling in the crease where her thigh met her hip, soaking into what was left of her fishnets.

Her balls. God, her balls. They hung heavy and swollen between her spread legs, tight skinned and feverish, and every time the train vibrated over a junction she whimpered. Not on purpose. The sound just came out of her like air from a punctured tire.

"We're not letting her cum, right?" Hannie bounced on her heels. Pigtails swinging. "Like, that's still the plan?"

"Obviously." Emma adjusted a glove. Pulled the leather taut over her knuckles. "We're here to edge, not to finish."

"Awwww." Hannie pouted. Looked at Amy's cock. Addressed it directly. "Sorry, buddy. You heard the lady."

Amy's cock twitched. Hannie giggled.

"Ten minutes," Violet said again. Flat. Patient. Like she was reading train departure times. "Hundred edges. That's ten per minute. One every six seconds."

"Can she even edge that fast?" Laura asked. Genuinely curious. Professional interest.

"She edged from a single deep throat during the contest," Candy pointed out. "A two second deep throat. So yeah."

"Her cock's basically a loaded gun at this point." Emma crouched. Studied Amy's shaft from six inches away. Clinical. Assessing. "One good touch and she's at the cliff. The question isn't whether she can edge that fast. The question is whether we can rotate that fast."

"I can," Violet said.

"Same." Laura cracked her neck. Rolled her shoulders like she was warming up for something athletic.

"Oh my GOD this is gonna be so fun." Candy clapped her hands together. Quick, rapid little claps. Like a child at a birthday party. "A hundred! In ten minutes! That's like, a world record or something!"

Emma stood. Brushed off her knees. Looked at the other four. Something passed between them. Some unspoken agreement. Some shared understanding of what they were about to do to the girl on the bench who couldn't close her legs or lower her arms or do anything at all except sit there and take it.

"Here's the game," Emma said.

Amy's eyes focused. Barely. Through the curtain of sweat damp hair that had fallen across her face.

"You want to cum, Amy?"

A sound came out of Amy. Not a word. Not quite. Something between a moan and a sob and the letter Y.

"I'll take that as a yes." Emma smiled. Not warm. Not cold either. Something worse. Amused. "Here's what happens. You beg us. Each time you beg, one of us edges you. When we hit a hundred begs, we'll think about making you cum."

Amy's brain, what was left of it, tried to process this. Beg. Edge. Hundred. Cum.

"But." Emma held up one finger. "You have to beg us to edge you. Not to make you cum. You beg for the edge. Each time. You ask for it."

"Wh." Amy's voice cracked. Dry. Hoarse. She'd been screaming on and off for half an hour. "What?"

"You beg us to edge you," Emma repeated. Slower. Like explaining directions to a tourist. "You say please edge me. Or something like it. And then one of us does. Then you beg again. Then another one of us does. A hundred times. And if you hit a hundred, maybe we let you finish."

"Maybe," Violet added.

"Maybe," Emma agreed.

The cruelty of it took a second to land. Amy stared. Blinked. The fluorescent tube buzzed.

She had to ask for it. She had to beg them to bring her to the edge and leave her there. A hundred times. She had to volunteer for her own torture. And the only reason she'd do it, the only possible reason, was the slim, pathetic, dangled carrot of maybe, maybe being allowed to cum at the end.

Amy knew they wouldn't let her cum.

She knew this.

She was going to beg anyway.

"Can't." Amy's lips moved. Cracked. Her tongue was dry. "Can't do a hundred."

"Not with that attitude," Hannie chirped.

"The clock's ticking." Violet tapped the wall next to the timer. "Ten minutes. Less now. Nine something. You want to waste time arguing or do you want to start counting?"

Amy looked at the timer. Red numbers. 9:47. Ticking down.

She looked at her cock. Bruise colored. Throbbing. Jumping with her heartbeat. Leaking a steady stream of clear fluid that caught the bad light and made a thin strand between her tip and her thigh.

She looked at the five women. Standing in a loose circle. Waiting.

"The longer you wait," Emma said, "the fewer edges you get. The fewer edges you get, the further you are from a hundred. And if you don't hit a hundred..."

She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

"Please." It came out of Amy small and broken. The word of someone who had nothing left. "Please edge me."

Candy squealed.

"That's one!"

They moved. All five of them. Not to a position Amy expected, not standing in a line waiting their turn, but into a formation. A siege arrangement. Emma knelt between Amy's spread legs. Laura sat on the bench to Amy's left, angled toward her, close enough that her thigh pressed against Amy's. Candy mirrored her on the right. Hannie crouched low, near Amy's knees. Violet stood behind the bench, leaning over Amy's shoulder.

Five women. All within arm's reach of Amy's cock. Surrounding her.

Emma's gloved hand closed around Amy's shaft. One stroke. Firm. Base to tip. Fast. Amy's body locked up. Her teeth clenched. The edge came like a freight train, instant, total, and Emma's hand was gone before Amy's hips even finished jerking forward.

"One," Emma said.

Amy gasped. Choked on it. Her cock bobbed in the air, abandoned, the ghost of Emma's grip still burning along its length.

"Again," Violet said from behind Amy's head. Cool breath against Amy's ear. "Beg."

"P, please." Amy's voice was a ruin. "Please edge me."

Candy's small hand. From the right. She didn't stroke. She squeezed. One pulse of her fingers around the middle of Amy's shaft, tight, and then let go. The pressure alone was enough. Amy's thighs pulled against the ropes. Her stomach muscles bunched. The edge hit and crested and crashed and left nothing behind but the ache.

"Two!" Candy giggled. "Oh my god, she's so easy!"

"Again."

"Please, please edge me, please."

Laura. From the left. She didn't use her hand at all. She leaned in, pressed her mouth to the underside of Amy's cock near the base, and blew a long, slow breath of warm air across the wet skin. That was it. Warm air. Amy's cock jumped like it had been electrocuted. Her spine bowed. Her mouth opened and no sound came out for two full seconds.

"Three." Laura sat back. Licked her lips.

Amy was panting. Three. Three out of a hundred. The timer read 9:31.

"Beg," Hannie sang. Singsong. Like a nursery rhyme.

"Edge me." Amy couldn't manage the please anymore. "Edge me, edge me, edge."

Hannie reached up from her crouch and flicked. One finger. The nail of her index finger, painted cotton candy pink, flicked the underside of Amy's cockhead. A tap. A sting. The kind of touch that on a normal day would make Amy flinch and swear. Today it made her scream. The edge roared up from nowhere and slammed into the chip's wall and bounced back and Amy's vision went white at the periphery.

"Four!" Hannie covered her mouth with both hands. Eyes wide. "Oh em gee, I just FLICKED her!"

"Beg."

Violet's voice. From behind. Amy couldn't see her. Could feel her breath.

"Please, please, I'm, please edge me."

Violet reached over Amy's shoulder. Long, tattooed arm. Fingerless glove. She placed the pad of her thumb on the very tip of Amy's cock. Just the tip. Pressed down. Held for one second. Removed.

"Five."

Amy made a sound like something breaking.

Five. Ninety five to go. 9:22 on the clock. This was going to kill her. Not metaphorically. She was going to die on this bench in a subway car on the ghost line with five women taking turns touching her cock and it was going to kill her and the coroner was going to have to write a very uncomfortable report.

"Beg."

"Edge me."

Emma. Both hands this time. Cupped Amy's balls. One gentle squeeze. Not a stroke. Not friction. Just pressure on her swollen, aching testicles, a compression that sent a shockwave of something, not pleasure, not pain, but the place where those two things overlapped, straight up through her shaft. The edge came from below. From inside. Amy's jaw locked shut and a sound vibrated through her clenched teeth, high and thin.

"Six."

"Again."

"Edge me, edge, please."

Candy bent forward and placed her lips on Amy's frenulum. Didn't suck. Didn't lick. Kissed it. One kiss. Closed mouth. The contact lasted maybe half a second. Amy's hips bucked so hard the bench creaked.

"Seven!"

The rotation was becoming its own kind of rhythm. Beg, touch, deny. Beg, touch, deny. Each touch lasted less than a second. Each one was enough. Amy's cock had become something separate from her, a raw nerve ending that responded to the slightest contact with the full force of an orgasm that would never arrive.

"Edge me."

Laura. Palm flat on Amy's shaft. Didn't move it. Just held it there. Warm skin against hot skin. Three seconds of contact. Amy's toes curled so hard inside her platform shoes that her foot cramped.

"Eight."

"Edge, edge me, please."

Hannie. She breathed on Amy's cock. Mouth two inches from the head. Open mouth. Warm, wet exhale. Nothing touched. Air moved across pre cum slicked skin. Amy whined. High, thin, animal.

"NINE! From BREATHING on it!" Hannie bounced. Bell jingling. "Did you guys SEE that?"

"We saw," Violet said. "Beg."

"Please."

"Full sentence."

"Please. Edge. Me."

Violet's hand came over Amy's shoulder again. This time she used two fingers. Index and middle. Walked them down Amy's shaft like little legs. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Four points of contact. Four tiny impacts. Each one sent a ripple through Amy's cock that built on the last. By the third tap Amy was at the edge. By the fourth she was past it, hanging over the void, and Violet's fingers lifted away and there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Ten."

"That's ten percent!" Candy did math in her head. Scrunched her face. "Wait, yeah! Ten percent! In like, a minute!"

"Fifty four seconds," Violet corrected.

Amy couldn't believe that only fifty four seconds had passed. It felt like fifty four years. Her cock stood in the air between all these hands and mouths and it wept. Not pre cum anymore. Something thicker. Something her body was pushing out in desperation, trying to cum through the chip's block, failing, trying again, failing again.

"Beg."

"Edge me."

Emma pressed a single knuckle into the underside of Amy's shaft. Hard. Held. Released.

Eleven.

"Edge me."

Laura traced a fingernail up the seam of Amy's balls. Bottom to top. One long, light line.

Twelve.

"Please, please edge."

Candy wrapped her lips around just the tip. Sucked once. A single, sharp pull of vacuum. Popped off.

Thirteen.

Something was happening to Amy's brain. The repetition. The rhythm. Beg, touch, deny. Beg, touch, deny. It was becoming a loop. A pattern her body fell into without her permission. Each beg came faster because each one was worse and each one was worse because her cock was more sensitive and her cock was more sensitive because of all the edges and it was a spiral, a feedback loop, a snake eating its own tail.

"Edge me, edge me, fuck, PLEASE edge me."

Hannie pinched the skin of Amy's shaft between thumb and forefinger. Rolled it. Let go.

Fourteen.

"EDGE ME."

Violet. One fingertip. Drew a circle around Amy's cockhead. Slow. Complete circle. Lifted away.

Fifteen.

Amy was crying again. Or still. She'd lost track of when the crying started and stopped. Tears ran down both cheeks and dripped off her jaw and landed on her corset and she didn't care. Couldn't care. Caring required processing power she didn't have.

"Beg, sweetie." Laura's warm voice. Maternal. Kind. Poison.

"Edge me."

Laura kissed the side of Amy's cock. Soft. Brief. Motherly.

Sixteen.

"Again."

"Edge."

Emma rolled her thumb across Amy's slit. Gathered the thick fluid there. Smeared it in a half circle. Removed her thumb.

Seventeen.

The rotation got faster. Amy's begging got faster. The women barely had to prompt her anymore. The words came out of her on their own, a litany, a prayer to five cruel gods who sat on their knees around her and touched her cock for less than a second at a time and watched her fall apart.

"Edge me." Candy. Tongue. Flat. One lick up the shaft. Eighteen.

"Edge me, please." Hannie. Two fingers. Pinched the frenulum. Released. Nineteen.

"Edgemeedgeme." Violet. Palm. Pressed cockhead into Amy's own stomach. Held. Let the head spring back. Twenty.

"Twenty! Two minutes!" Candy was keeping track in her head. Or trying to. "We're totally on pace!"

"Faster," Emma said.

"Edge me."

Laura. Thumb and two fingers. Made a ring around Amy's shaft. Slid it one inch up. One inch. That was all. Amy screamed.

Twenty one.

The scream didn't stop between edges anymore. It just changed pitch. Rose when they touched her. Fell when they didn't. A siren. An alarm. Amy's mouth was open and the sound lived in it and she couldn't close it off.

"Edge me, edgeme, edge, EDGE."

Emma and Candy moved at the same time. Emma's hand on the lower shaft, Candy's lips on the head. Simultaneous. A quarter second of contact. Amy's body jerked like a marionette whose strings had been yanked.

"That's two in one," Violet noted. "Counts as one. Twenty two."

"Edge me! PLEASE! Edge me!"

Hannie pressed her whole palm flat against Amy's balls. Cupped them. Warmth. Weight. The pressure of a small hand against over sensitive skin that was stretched tight. Amy's voice broke into a register that wasn't speech, wasn't a scream, was something between the two that had no name.

Twenty three.

"Edgeme."

Violet reached over. Two fingers. Scissored them along either side of Amy's cockhead. Squeezed once. Let go. Clinical.

Twenty four.

"Edge."

Laura. She leaned in and bit. Gently. Teeth on the side of Amy's shaft, just below the head. Not hard enough to mark. Hard enough to feel. The edge came from a different direction, from the sharp contrast of teeth after all those soft touches, and Amy's ankles strained against the ropes so hard the bench legs scraped the floor.

Twenty five.

A quarter of the way there. Amy was begging before anyone asked now. The words tumbled out of her in a continuous stream, a run on sentence of desperation that didn't pause for breath or grammar or dignity.

"Edgemeedgemeplease edgemeedge pleaseplease edge."

Candy giggled. "She sounds like a broken record!"

"She sounds like a girl who needs to cum," Laura corrected. "Which she does. But won't."

"Not until a hundred," Emma said.

"Maybe not even then," Violet added.

"EDGE ME." Amy's voice cracked on the second word. Raw. Shredded. She'd been screaming for thirty minutes and begging for three and her vocal cords were giving up.

Emma. Gloved hand. Wrapped around the head of Amy's cock. Twisted. Not a stroke. A rotation. Like opening a jar. Amy's shoulders dug into the window behind her. Glass fogged with her sweat.

Twenty six.

The touches were getting shorter. More precise. The women had figured out that Amy didn't need duration anymore. She needed contact. Any contact. A fingertip. A breath. A graze of nail on skin. Her cock was a seismograph registering earthquakes from continents away, and every touch, no matter how light, was a magnitude nine.

Twenty seven. Hannie. Tongue on the tip. One lick. Gone.

Twenty eight. Laura. Thumbnail. Dragged across the slit. Gone.

Twenty nine. Violet. Forefinger. Pressed into the vein on the underside. One second. Gone.

Thirty.

"Three minutes!" Candy bounced.

"We're ahead of schedule," Violet observed. Checked the timer. 6:41 remaining. "Thirty edges in three minutes and change. We can do this in six total if we keep pace."

"Edge me." Amy's voice was a whisper now. The screaming had taken everything. "Edge me. Edge me. Edge me."

She was saying it on repeat. A mantra. A chant. The words had lost their meaning and become pure sound, a vibration in her throat that existed only to trigger the next touch, the next edge, the next razor thin line between almost and nothing.

"You're doing this to yourself now." Violet's mouth twitched. The closest thing to a smile Amy had ever seen on that face. A micro expression. There and gone. "You know that, right? You could stop begging. You could just sit there and run the clock out. Nobody's forcing you."

Amy knew this.

She kept begging.

"Edge me."

Because the alternative was sitting here for six more minutes with her cock this hard and her balls this swollen and no one touching her at all, and that was worse. That was the worst thing she could imagine. At least the edges gave her something. A fraction of a second where her body believed, really believed, that it was about to cum. A fraction of a second of almost relief before the cliff and the fall and the crash. It was like water in a desert. Poisoned water. But water.

"Edge me, please, please edge me."

Emma and Laura worked in tandem. Emma gripped. Laura released. Laura gripped. Emma released. Leapfrogging up Amy's shaft. Two quick pulses of pressure traveling from base to tip. Amy's stomach muscles clenched so hard she folded forward, chin hitting her chest, chain catching her weight.

Thirty one. Thirty two. Two for the price of two.

"Edge me."

Candy kissed the head. Closed mouth. Smack.

Thirty three.

"Edge me."

Hannie placed her index finger on Amy's left testicle. Just. Placed it there. Rested it. The weight of a single finger on a ball so swollen and sensitive that Amy could feel her own heartbeat in it. Hannie held for two seconds. Lifted.

Thirty four. Amy's vision tunneled. Came back.

Thirty five through forty happened fast. Too fast for Amy to track which woman did what. Hands and mouths and fingers blurred together. She begged between each one, or during, or the begging and the touching overlapped and she couldn't tell where one edge ended and the next began. Somebody stroked. Somebody squeezed. Somebody licked. Somebody pinched. Somebody pressed.

By forty her begging had deteriorated from words into sounds. "Ehmee. Ehmee. Ehh. Eh. Puh. Puhlease."

"Does that count?" Hannie asked.

"Close enough," Emma decided. "She's trying."

"Ehm. Mee. Please."

Forty one. Touch. Deny. Forty two. Touch. Deny. The women rotated around Amy's cock like mechanics around an engine, each taking a turn, each using a different angle, a different pressure, a different part of their hand or mouth, and each time Amy's body went through the same horrible cycle: recognition, response, build, peak, block, crash.

The dead moth on the fluorescent tube had shifted position. Amy noticed this. It was facing the other direction now. Had it always been facing that direction? Had the vibration of the train moved it? Was it actually dead or was it just resting and watching this happen to her? She was thinking about a moth while five women edged her toward insanity. This felt important somehow.

"Ehmee."

Forty three. Emma. Knuckle against frenulum. Amy's feet kicked against the ropes. Not on purpose. Reflex. Like a doctor's hammer on a knee.

"Ehmee."

Forty four. Violet. From behind. Two fingers. Down the back of Amy's shaft. One smooth line from head to base. Amy's body rippled.

"Ehmee."

Forty five. Laura. Warm mouth. Side of the shaft. Open mouth. Contact for less than a second. Amy felt the heat of Laura's tongue without the tongue ever touching her and the suggestion alone was enough and she hated her body for this, hated how broken it was, hated that a woman could open her mouth near her cock and not even make contact and she'd edge from the warmth alone.

"Ehmee."

Forty six. Candy. Both hands. Cupped Amy's balls. Gentle lift. Set down. Gone. Amy's eyes rolled back.

"Ehmee."

Forty seven. Hannie. She stuck out her tongue and touched the very tip to the very tip of Amy's cock. Tip to tip. A point of contact smaller than a pencil eraser. Amy's entire body went rigid and then went limp and the chain caught her again.

"That's adorable," Laura murmured.

"I know, right?" Hannie grinned.

"Ehmee. Ehmee. Ehmee." Amy was chanting. Not aware she was chanting. Her mouth moved on a loop. The word had become a reflex, a tic, something her body did to make the next touch come faster because the gap between touches was worse than the touches themselves. The gap was empty. The gap was her cock throbbing in open air, denied, forgotten, alone. The touch was a lie. But the gap was the truth. And the truth was unbearable.

Forty eight. Forty nine.

Fifty.

"HALF WAY!" Candy threw both arms in the air. "Oh my god oh my god HALF WAY!"

"Four minutes in," Violet reported. "Six minutes left on the clock."

"She's gonna make it," Hannie said. Bouncing. "She's TOTALLY gonna make it!"

"The question was never if she'd make it." Emma peeled off one glove. Flexed her bare hand. Put the glove back on. "The question is what's left of her when she does."

Amy heard none of this. She was somewhere else. Somewhere between the bench and the ceiling, between her body and the buzzing light, between the fifty edges she'd endured in the last four minutes and the fifty she had left. Her cock stood between her legs and it belonged to them now, not her, it was their toy, their project, their entertainment, and she was just the girl it was attached to, and she kept saying "ehmee" because that was the only thing she was still good for.

"Ehmee."

Fifty one. Someone touched her cock. She didn't see who. Didn't matter. The edge came. The edge left. Same as all the others.

"Ehmee."

Fifty two. A mouth. Somewhere on her shaft. Hot. Wet. Brief.

"Ehmee."

Fifty three. Fingers. Around the head. Squeezed. Released.

Amy had stopped crying. Not because she felt better. Because her body had run out. No more tears. Her eyes were dry and raw and red and her cheeks were sticky with the salt of everything she'd already cried and she stared straight ahead at nothing and begged.

"Ehmee."

Fifty four through sixty blurred. The women found a groove. A rhythm. Production line efficiency. Amy begged. A hand appeared. Touched. Vanished. Amy begged. A mouth appeared. Touched. Vanished. The subway car had become a factory and Amy's cock was the product and the five women were the assembly line and the output was suffering. Pure, refined, weapons grade suffering.

Sixty.

"That's sixty," Emma announced. "Good pace."

"Ehmee."

Sixty one. Violet. Fingernail. Down the center seam of Amy's balls. Light. Precise. Amy made a sound that wasn't human. Wasn't animal either. Something mechanical. Like a broken machine trying to complete a process it no longer had the parts for.

"Ehmee."

Sixty two. Laura. She pressed both her breasts against Amy's thigh, warm and heavy through the torn fishnets, and the indirect contact, the nearness of soft flesh to Amy's groin without touching her cock at all, made Amy's shaft jump and pulse. Laura didn't touch Amy's cock. Didn't need to. Proximity. That was all it took now.

"Did she just edge from your BOOB on her LEG?" Hannie stared.

"She did."

"OH MY GOD." Hannie covered her mouth with both hands. Bell jingling. Eyes huge. "That doesn't even make SENSE!"

"It makes perfect sense," Violet said. "She's been edged more times in thirty minutes than most people experience in a month. Her cock doesn't know the difference between a hand on her shaft and a breast on her thigh. It's all stimulus. It all leads to the same place."

"But still." Hannie looked at Amy's cock. Shook her head. "That's wild."

"Ehmee," Amy said.

Sixty three. Candy. She blew a kiss at Amy's cock. From a foot away. Pursed her bubblegum lips and made a "mwah" sound in Amy's general direction. No contact at all.

Amy edged.

"FROM A KISS?!" Hannie screamed. "A BLOWN KISS?! IT WASN'T EVEN A REAL KISS!"

"Welcome to edge one sixty three," Emma said. "The laws of physics are optional."

The women dissolved into laughter. Real laughter. Not performative, not for Amy's benefit, not part of the game. Genuine, surprised, can't believe what they were seeing laughter. Candy bent over double, her pink latex dress creaking. Hannie fell back on her ass, bell chiming, feet kicking. Laura pressed her hand over her mouth and her shoulders shook. Even Violet, flat faced, dead eyed Violet, exhaled through her nose in a way that might have been a laugh if you were feeling generous about definitions.

Amy sat in the middle of it all. Cock jumping. Body shaking. Mouth moving.

"Ehmee."

"Oh god." Candy wiped her eyes. Smeared mascara. "Oh god, I can't, she's still BEGGING."

"She can't stop!" Hannie howled. Actual howling. Tears in her eyes. "She literally can't stop begging! It's like a, a, a hiccup! She can't STOP!"

"Ehmee."

"SEE?!"

This set off another round. The five of them laughing so hard that for ten seconds nobody touched Amy's cock at all, and during those ten seconds Amy begged four more times into the empty air, her mouth on autopilot, her voice a ruined rasp, and each unanswered beg made the next one more desperate, and the desperation made the women laugh harder, and the laughter made Amy beg faster, and it was a cycle, a horrible, hilarious, cruel cycle that fed on itself.

"Okay, okay." Emma got herself together. Wiped under her eye with a gloved finger. Perfect eyeliner still intact. "Okay. We're at sixty three. Thirty seven to go. Let's move."

"Ehmee."

Sixty four. Emma. Bare knuckle against the ridge of Amy's cockhead. A brush. Amy's body jerked.

"Ehmee."

Sixty five. Hannie. Tongue on left ball. A stripe. Amy whined.

"Ehmee ehmee."

"One at a time, hon." Laura. Fingers on the shaft. Squeezed. Let go. Sixty six.

"Ehmee."

Violet reached over Amy. Used her index finger to tap the head of Amy's cock. One tap. Like testing if a pan was hot.

Sixty seven.

"Edge me." Amy's voice came back for a second. Clear. Desperate. Almost lucid. "Please. Edge me. I need. I need to get to a hundred. Please. Please edge me."

The lucidity broke something in the car's atmosphere. The women looked at her. Really looked. Past the swollen cock and the ruined fishnets and the smeared makeup and the bitten lips. Looked at Amy. At the girl underneath all of it. The girl who was asking them to torture her because a number on a timer said so and a promise that was probably a lie said she might get to cum if she suffered enough.

Emma's expression didn't change. She knelt. Wrapped her gloved hand around Amy's cock. One slow pump. Base to head. Amy's mouth opened in a silent O. Emma's hand left.

"Sixty eight."

It went faster after that.

"Ehmee." Laura. Mouth. Side of shaft. Quick press. Sixty nine.

"Ehmee." Candy. Fingers. Tip. Twist. Seventy.

"Ehmee." Hannie. Tongue. Frenulum. Flick. Seventy one.

"Ehmee." Violet. Thumb. Slit. Press. Seventy two.

"Ehmee." Emma. Knuckle. Underside. Drag. Seventy three.

The women stopped talking between edges. No more jokes. No more commentary. Something about the approach of a hundred made it serious. The game had become work. Not unpleasant work, not grim work, but focused work, the kind of concentration you see in athletes during the final stretch. Five women. Five different techniques. Rotating around one cock. Fast and efficient and, in its own horrifying way, beautiful. Like watching a pit crew change tires.

Seventy four. Seventy five. Seventy six.

Amy was gone. Not unconscious. Not asleep. Gone. Her eyes were open but unfocused. Her mouth moved but the "ehmee" had become a breath, a whisper, a vibration in her lips that didn't involve her brain or her lungs or her vocal cords. She was a body on a bench with a cock between her legs that five women touched in rotation and she begged because begging was what her body did now, like breathing, like bleeding, like the tears that had dried on her face in white salt tracks.

Seventy seven. Seventy eight.

"Ehmee." Softer now. Barely audible.

Seventy nine. Hannie leaned in. Kissed the head of Amy's cock. Soft. Almost tender. The edge came like a wave in a bathtub. Small. But enough.

Eighty.

"Twenty more," Candy whispered. She wasn't giggling anymore. Her blue eyes were wide and a little glassy and she was staring at Amy's cock like she was watching something rare. Something she'd never see again.

"Ehmee."

Eighty one. Emma. Quick. Efficient.

"Ehmee."

Eighty two. Laura. Gentle. Brief.

"Ehmee."

Eighty three. Violet. Precise. Cold.

"Ehmee."

Eighty four. Candy. Light. Gone.

"Ehmee."

Eighty five. Hannie. Soft. Nothing.

Amy's cock had stopped leaking pre cum in a stream. It came in pulses now. Thick, clear spurts that coincided with each edge, her body pushing fluid out with each denied orgasm, trying to complete a process the chip wouldn't allow. The tip of her cock was so dark it was almost black. The veins stood out like rivers on a map. Her balls had swollen beyond anything the women had seen before, tight and heavy and feverish in their sac, and when Amy shifted, which she did involuntarily with each edge, they pressed against the insides of her thighs and she whimpered from that too.

Eighty six. Eighty seven. Eighty eight.

"Twelve more," Violet said. Flat. Timer reading 5:11.

"Ehmee."

Eighty nine. Touch. Deny.

"Ehmee."

Ninety. Touch. Deny.

Amy's body started doing something new. Between edges, in the one or two seconds of gap, her hips moved. Forward and back. Tiny motions. Fucking the air. Her cock searching for friction that wasn't there, chasing the hand or mouth that had just left, and the five women watched this, watched Amy's hips roll in desperate, aborted thrusts, and Hannie bit her lip and Candy pressed her thighs together and Laura's pupils were blown and Emma's breathing had changed and Violet was Violet.

"Ehmee. Ehmee. Ehmee."

Ninety one. Ninety two. Ninety three.

Three in maybe eight seconds. Amy's begging had accelerated into something frantic. Like she could feel the hundred approaching, like a finish line, like salvation, like the end of something, and her body was racing toward it.

"Ehmee."

Ninety four. Laura. Fingers. Shaft. Amy's neck tendons stood out like cables.

"Ehmee."

Ninety five. Emma. Glove. Head. Amy's abs crunched.

"EHMEE."

Ninety six. Candy. Lips. Tip. Amy bit down on nothing. Jaw working.

"EHMEE!"

Ninety seven. Hannie. Both hands. Balls. Gentle lift and drop. Amy's voice came back from wherever it had gone and she screamed. Throat torn, voice shredded, a scream that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel.

"EHMEE! EHMEE! EHMEE!"

Ninety eight. Violet. Two fingers. Down the length. Amy's whole body pulled against every restraint. Cuffs, rope, chain. Metal bit skin. Rope burned flesh. The bench groaned.

Ninety nine.

Emma looked at Amy. Looked at the other women. Looked at Amy's cock, purple and pulsing and so hard it curved up against her stomach.

"Last one," Emma said.

"Ehmee." Amy. A breath. A plea. The last prayer of a dying woman.

Emma wrapped her gloved hand around Amy's cock. Held it. Didn't stroke. Just held. The warmth of leather. The pressure of five fingers. Nothing moved. Amy's cock throbbed against Emma's palm, once, twice, three times, each throb pushing her further up the edge, and Emma felt the pulse quicken and the shaft swell and the muscles in Amy's thighs lock and she held, held, held, and then.

Let go.

"One hundred."

The sound Amy made wasn't a scream. It wasn't a cry. It wasn't any word in any language. It was a sound from the bottom of her lungs and the back of her throat and the base of her spine, a full body vocalization that used every muscle she had left, and it echoed off the subway car's metal walls and bounced off the dirty windows and rattled the fluorescent tube and made the dead moth vibrate in place.

Five minutes. Forty seven seconds. One hundred edges.

The women sat back. All five of them. Breathing hard. Hands on their knees or at their sides. Candy's lipstick was smeared from where she'd bitten her own lip. Laura's hair had fallen out of its waves. Hannie's collar was crooked, the bell hanging at an angle. Emma flexed and unflexed her gloved fingers. Violet checked the timer.

5:02.

Five minutes remaining.

Amy hung from her cuffs. Her head was down, chin on chest, hair covering her face in damp tangles. Her cock stood in front of her, untouched, ruined, the darkest shade of purple the women had seen on any cock on any person in any session in their collective years of experience. Pre cum oozed from the slit in thick, sluggish pulses that tracked her heartbeat. Her balls hung between her thighs, swollen and tight and visibly distended, and they looked like they hurt. Because they did. Everything hurt. The air hurt. The light hurt. Being alive hurt.

"I." Amy's voice came from somewhere under the hair. "You said. A hundred. You said."

"I said we'd think about it," Emma corrected.

Silence.

"And I've thought about it."

A longer silence.

"No."

Amy didn't react. Not visibly. Something happened behind the curtain of hair, something small in her face that only Amy felt, but from the outside she just hung there. Still. Broken.

"I CAN'T." Her head came up. Eyes red. Swollen. Bloodshot. Tears had carved clean lines through the mess on her face. "PLEASE. I NEED. OH GOD. I CAN'T DO THIS. PLEASE. I NEED TO CUM. I NEED, I CAN'T, PLEASE, OH GOD, OH GOD..."

The words dissolved. Became sounds. Became sobbing. Uncontrollable, full body sobbing that shook her shoulders and made the chain jingle and made her cock bob and made her balls ache worse because the muscles in her abdomen were clenching with every sob and every clench sent a wave of pain through her swollen testicles.

Emma leaned back. Looked at the other women. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"She's BROKEN!" Emma started laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a polite laugh. Full, hard, bent over, tears in her eyes laughter. "Oh my GOD. This is the best day ever!"

Hannie pointed at Amy's cock. It was twitching. Jumping. Pulsing in the air with no one touching it, responding to nothing except its own desperation, the blood trapped in it surging and retreating in waves that made the whole shaft move.

"Her cock is twitching like it's got a mind of its own!" Hannie grabbed Laura's arm. Shook it. "LOOK! Look at it! It's like it's trying to GET somewhere!"

Laura looked. She was laughing too. All of them were. Five women in a subway car at two in the morning, laughing at a girl's cock while the girl sobbed and begged and the timer counted down from five minutes and the fluorescent tube buzzed its one unchanging note and the dead moth sat on top of it, facing a direction it may or may not have always been facing.

Amy's cock twitched again. Hard. A visible spasm from base to tip. More pre cum pulsed from the slit.

"It's like a fish," Candy wheezed. "A fish on a dock. Flopping."

"Stop," Emma gasped. "Stop, I can't breathe."

She couldn't. None of them could. The laughter had taken all of them and they leaned on each other and wiped their eyes and clutched their sides and Amy sat in the center of it all with her head hanging and her cock jumping and her balls aching and five minutes on the clock.

Five minutes.

What could possibly happen in five minutes.

Chapter 8

Amy hung from the overhead bar. Her wrists had gone past bleeding into something else, the skin underneath the steel cuffs raw and wet and a colour she couldn't see and didn't want to. Her head was down. Her hair was a curtain. Behind that curtain, her face did things she wasn't aware of. Small twitches around her mouth. Her left eye blinking faster than her right. A muscle in her jaw firing and releasing, firing and releasing, like a telegraph sending a message no one would receive.

Her cock stood in the air between her spread thighs. Untouched. Unattended. It had gone past purple into something that didn't have a name in the part of Amy's brain that still processed colour. The veins running along the shaft were raised and visible and they pulsed with her heartbeat, which was too fast, which had been too fast for twenty minutes, which her body had stopped trying to correct.

Pre cum ran down the underside in a slow, thick line. It reached her balls and pooled in the crease where her scrotum met her inner thigh. Her balls. God, her balls. They had swollen to something grotesque. Stretched tight. The skin shiny and taut. They hung heavy between her legs and every time the train rocked, they shifted, and every time they shifted, a fresh bolt of sick pain climbed from her groin into her stomach and sat there, throbbing.

4:31.

Laura tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Looked at Amy. Looked at the other women. Bit her bottom lip.

"Okay."

One word. Soft. The maternal voice. The warm voice. The voice that had promised things all night and delivered none of them.

"Okay, baby. I think you've had enough."

Amy didn't move.

"Amy. Sweetheart. Look at me."

Nothing. The hair curtain. The jaw twitching. The cock pulsing.

Laura stood. Crossed the car in three steps. Knelt between Amy's legs. Put her hand, very gently, on Amy's knee.

"Hey. I mean it this time. Look at me."

Amy's head came up. Slowly. Like it weighed more than it should. Her eyes were destroyed. Red rimmed. The brown of her irises looked wrong against all that red. Her cheeks were wet and blotchy and her lips were cracked where she'd bitten through them, twice on the left side and once on the right, and dried blood had mixed with saliva and tears into a paste that clung to her chin.

She looked at Laura. Didn't speak.

"I'm going to let you cum."

Nothing.

"Amy. Did you hear me? I'm going to put my mouth on your cock and I'm going to suck you until you cum. Okay? I promise."

Amy blinked. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"... you're lying."

Laura shook her head. Slowly. Her brown eyes held Amy's and they were warm, Christ, they were warm. The laugh lines around them. The softness. She looked like someone's mother and she looked like she meant it and Amy's lower lip started to tremble.

"I'm not lying. I promise. You've earned it, baby. A hundred and, what, two hundred and twenty edges? More? You've been so good. You've been so, so good."

"She's lying," Amy said to no one. To the ceiling. To the dead moth on the fluorescent tube. "She's, you're lying, you're going to stop, you always stop, every time, every, every..."

"Shhhh." Laura's thumb made circles on Amy's knee. "I know. I know they did. I know I did too. But this is different. This is the last one. And I'm going to let you finish."

Amy's throat made a sound. Not a word. Not a moan. Something from deep in her chest that vibrated her ribs on the way out. Something old. Something from the part of her brain that had been screaming for forty minutes and was now being told the screaming could stop.

Laura looked over her shoulder. Caught Emma's eye. The two of them shared something. A look. Quick. Emma's mouth curved, just at the corners.

"Girls," Laura called. "Come here. Help me send this poor thing home happy."

They came. All four of them. Candy dropped to her knees beside Laura. Hannie sat on the bench next to Amy, her small body warm against Amy's hip, her hand finding Amy's thigh. Emma moved behind Amy and put her gloved hands on Amy's shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the knotted muscles there. Violet leaned against the pole next to Amy's left wrist, looking down, her grey eyes flat and her expression giving away nothing.

"You hear that, Amy?" Candy's voice, high and sweet, her ruined lipstick making her look like she'd been eating berries. "You're gonna cum. Finally!"

"Oh my god, yes." Hannie squeezed Amy's thigh. Her bell jingled. "You SO deserve it."

Amy's cock jerked. Hard. A visible twitch that made the shaft bounce and sent a fresh line of pre cum sliding from the slit. She hadn't been touched. She'd just heard the word cum in combination with the word you and her body, her stupid, desperate, tortured body, had responded like a dog hearing a can opener.

"That's it," Laura murmured. She leaned forward. Her breath hit Amy's cock first and Amy's hips jerked in the restraints, a full body spasm, her ankles pulling at the ropes, her wrists grinding against the cuffs.

Laura's lips made contact.

Just her lips. The bottom one, full and soft and painted dark red, pressed against the very tip of Amy's cock. Against the slit where the pre cum welled up and ran. Laura held there. Didn't move. Just her mouth, warm and soft, kissing the head of Amy's cock like she was greeting it. Like she was apologising.

"Mmm." Laura pulled back a centimetre. "You taste good."

Amy's chest heaved. She couldn't talk. She could feel Laura's breath on her cock and it was warm and it was close and it was the closest to real hope she'd had in forty minutes. Her teeth were chattering. Her teeth were chattering and she wasn't cold. She was chattering because every system in her body was running at maximum and there was nowhere for the energy to go.

Laura opened her mouth.

She took Amy in. Slowly. Her lips slid over the head, stretching around the girth, and Amy felt the wet heat of Laura's mouth close around her and her vision did something. Not white. Not black. Her vision just sort of... hiccupped. Like a screen glitching. Like reality skipped a frame. Because the sensation of a warm, wet mouth after two hundred and nineteen edges was something her nervous system couldn't process at normal speed.

"Ohh. Oh, oh god. Oh god oh god oh god..."

Laura sank lower. Took another inch. Then another. Her tongue worked the underside of Amy's shaft, pressing flat and wide, dragging along the thick vein that ran from base to tip. She knew what she was doing. Every motion was deliberate. Every small adjustment of pressure, of angle, of the way her lips sealed tight and her cheeks hollowed.

Emma's gloved hands tightened on Amy's shoulders.

"There you go, pet. Just let it happen."

"Yeah!" Candy bounced on her knees. She put her hand on the back of Laura's head, not pushing, just resting. "Go Laura! Suck that cock!"

Hannie giggled. But she also leaned in and pressed her lips to Amy's ear. "You're gonna cum so hard," she whispered. "I can feel your leg shaking. You're so close already, aren't you?"

Amy was. She was close. She'd been close for forty minutes. She'd been close for two hundred and nineteen edges. Her body was a loaded spring and Laura's mouth was undoing the latch one millimetre at a time.

Laura pulled up. Slowly. Let Amy's cock slide out until just the head was between her lips, then swirled her tongue around it. A circle. Another. Amy's cock throbbed so hard she could feel the pulse in her ears.

Then Laura sank back down. Deeper this time. Much deeper. She took Amy past the back of her tongue, into her throat, and the tight, constricting heat of Laura's throat wrapped around the top third of Amy's cock and Laura held there, not gagging, not flinching, just holding Amy deep in her throat while her tongue worked the shaft.

"AHHH. AH, FUCK, OH FUCK, OH..."

Amy's voice came back. Raw and shredded and two octaves higher than normal but it came back because this was the first real, sustained, allowed pleasure she'd had in forty minutes and twenty nine hours and her vocal cords remembered what they were for.

Laura bobbed. Found a rhythm. Down, deep, hold. Up, tongue swirl, suction. Down, deeper, throat. Up, suck, flick. Faster. Finding the pace. Her lipstick left red rings on Amy's shaft. One at the halfway point. One near the base. One near the head. Like a measurement. Like she was marking how far she'd gone.

Candy clapped her hands together. "Oh my god, she's so close! Look at her face!"

Amy's face was something. Her mouth was open, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut. Her brow was furrowed and her chin was trembling and tears were running fresh tracks down her already ruined cheeks, but these were different tears. These weren't pain tears. Or they were, but they were also something else. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. The specific kind of crying that happens when someone who has been hurting for a very long time is finally told the hurting is going to stop.

"That's it, baby," Emma purred from behind her. Her gloved fingers found the sides of Amy's neck. Drew lazy patterns. "Let Laura take care of you. Just relax."

"You're doing so good." Hannie's mouth was still at Amy's ear. Her breath warm and her voice a sing song lilt. "Such a good girl. Just let it go. Cum for us."

Laura doubled down. Her head moved faster. The wet sounds filled the train car, sloppy and vulgar, her lips making suction noises every time she pulled up, her throat clicking softly every time she swallowed Amy deep. She brought one hand up and wrapped it around the base of Amy's shaft, the part her mouth couldn't reach, and stroked in time with her bobbing. Her other hand cupped Amy's balls. Gently. So gently. Just holding the swollen, tortured weight of them in her warm palm.

Amy's legs were shaking. Not trembling. Shaking. The ropes at her ankles pulled tight and the bench creaked and her thighs were vibrating and her stomach muscles were clenching in waves and she could feel it. She could feel it building. Not an edge. Not another edge. This was different. This was deeper. This was in her bones and in her blood and in the back of her skull where the chip sat like a coin and it was climbing up and up and up and the peak was right there, she could see it, she could taste it, copper and salt and freedom.

"Gonna, I'm gonna, please, please don't stop, please, I'm so close, I'm right there, please, please, PLEASE..."

Laura sucked harder. Her cheeks caved in. Her hand gripped firmer at the base. Her palm pressed warm against Amy's balls. Everything aligned. Everything converged. The world narrowed to a tunnel and at the end of that tunnel was the orgasm Amy had been denied for twenty nine hours and two hundred and nineteen edges and it was RIGHT THERE.

"CUM!" Candy screamed. "CUM CUM CUM!"

"Do it!" Hannie squealed.

"Now, pet." Emma's voice, low and commanding. "Cum now."

Amy's back left the bench. Her spine curved. Every muscle in her body contracted at once. Her mouth opened and a sound started to form, a sound that was going to be the biggest, longest, most desperate moan of her life, a sound that had been building for forty minutes and was finally, FINALLY going to...

Laura's mouth was gone.

The warmth. The wetness. The suction. The hand at the base. The palm on her balls.

All of it. Gone.

Laura sat back on her heels. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A string of saliva and pre cum connected her lower lip to the tip of Amy's cock for a moment, then broke, then fell.

She smiled.

"Oops." Laura shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. "I lied."

The sound that came out of Amy was not human.

It started somewhere below her diaphragm, in the place where screams are born, and it climbed through her chest and her throat and her mouth and it filled the subway car. It hit the metal walls and the dirty windows and the fluorescent tube. The dead moth vibrated on top of its perch. The windows rattled in their frames. If the train had been above ground, people on the street would have stopped and looked up and tried to figure out what kind of animal made that noise.

It was the scream of someone who had crawled across a desert and found water and put her lips to it and tasted it and had it pulled away.

Emma lost it first. She doubled over behind Amy, her forehead against Amy's shoulder, her body shaking. Then Candy, who fell sideways, her latex dress squeaking against the floor, her laughter so high pitched it was nearly silent. Hannie grabbed the pole next to the bench and slid down it, her bell jangling, her face red, tears streaming. Laura stayed where she was on her knees and laughed with her hand over her mouth, her shoulders bouncing, the red lipstick smeared across her chin like a wound. Even Violet. Even Violet cracked. A smile first, then a laugh that sounded rusty, like machinery that hadn't been used in a long time.

"YOUR FACE!" Hannie howled. She was on the floor now. "OH MY GOD. YOUR FACE. The HOPE. I SAW THE HOPE LEAVE."

Amy screamed again. Wordless. Then words came. Broken ones.

"YOU, YOU FUCKING, YOU SAID, YOU PROMISED, YOU, I WAS, I WAS RIGHT THERE, I WAS..."

Laura pressed her finger to Amy's lips.

"Shh, baby. I know."

Amy bit at her finger. Actually bit. Laura pulled back, still laughing.

"Feisty!" Laura examined her fingertip. Unbroken skin. "See? You've still got fight in you. Means you're fine."

Amy was not fine. Her cock was a rod of agony in front of her, the head so engorged it had gone shiny and taut, the slit still weeping in thick, steady pulses. Her balls ached with a new depth that the denied orgasm had unlocked, a bone level hurt that pulsed outward from her groin in waves, each wave synchronised with her heartbeat, and her heartbeat was still jackhammering from the buildup that had nowhere to go. Her fingers were tingling. Her face was tingling. There were black spots at the edges of her vision that bloomed and faded and bloomed again.

2:42:00

"Okay." Emma straightened up behind Amy. Wiped her eyes. Got her breath back. "Okay. New plan."

She circled around the bench. Came to stand in front of Amy, between her spread legs. Looked down at her cock, still twitching, still leaking, still that color that didn't have a name.

"Girls. Huddle up."

They came. Laura stood. Candy peeled herself off the floor. Hannie pulled herself up the pole. Violet pushed off her lean. Five women formed a semicircle around Amy's lower body. Ten eyes on one cock.

Emma held up both hands. Flexed her fingers in the leather gloves. Then she pointed.

"Hannah. Left side. I'll take the right."

Hannie nodded. Her pigtails bobbed. She stepped between Amy's legs and positioned herself to Amy's left. Emma mirrored her on the right.

"Violet, Candy. Balls."

Candy squeaked and dropped to her knees. Violet knelt beside her. Between the four of them, they were inches from every part of Amy's equipment. Two at the shaft. Two below.

"Laura. You know where you're going."

Laura's mouth was still wet. She licked her lips. Nodded.

"On three." Emma held up three gloved fingers. "Three."

Ten hands and one mouth converged.

Emma's gloved right hand wrapped around the right side of Amy's shaft. Leather, warm from her body heat, the fingers closing firm and sure. Hannie's small hand gripped the left side. Their fingers interlocked along the shaft, the two grips covering Amy from mid shaft to just below the head, a cage of skin and leather around the thickest part of her cock.

Below, Candy's fingers found Amy's right testicle. She cupped it in her palm, the swollen weight of it settling into her hand, heavy and hot and pulsing. Her thumb began to move. Slow circles on the taut skin. Not squeezing. Just pressure. Just friction. Just enough.

Violet mirrored her on the left. Her hands were precise. Clinical. She held Amy's left testicle like she was measuring it, her fingers finding the specific spots where the skin was most sensitive, the underside where the epididymis sat tender and engorged, and she pressed. Rhythmic. Calculated. A massage that was pleasure and pain in equal measure because Amy's balls were so swollen that any touch at all sent conflicting signals screaming up her spinal cord.

And Laura. Laura leaned in and put her mouth on the head of Amy's cock. Just the head. Her lips sealed around the ridge of the corona and her tongue found the slit and she lapped at the pre cum that pooled there, tasting it, drinking it, her tongue working in tight, focused circles over the most sensitive square centimetre of Amy's body.

Five women. One cock. Total coverage.

Amy made a sound. High and thin and continuous, like a teakettle starting to boil, a rising note that didn't break or pause for breath because she wasn't breathing, she'd forgotten how, her lungs had stopped cooperating twenty seconds ago and the only thing keeping her conscious was the adrenaline and the pain and the five pairs of hands and one mouth that were doing things to her that her brain could not adequately catalogue.

Emma and Hannie stroked in sync. Not fast. Slow, firm pulls from mid shaft toward the head, their interlocked fingers creating a spiralling pressure that rotated Amy's shaft slightly with each stroke. Up. Hold. Down. Hold. Up. Hold. The grip never loosened. The rhythm never broke.

Candy and Violet worked Amy's balls in counterpoint. When Candy pressed, Violet released. When Violet rolled, Candy held still. A push pull that kept the sensations shifting, kept Amy's nervous system guessing, kept the pain and the pleasure and the desperate, swollen aching mixed together in a cocktail that her body couldn't parse.

Laura sucked. Steady. Patient. Her tongue circling, circling, circling the head, never stopping, the tip of her tongue finding the frenulum and pressing into it and Amy's whole body jolted in the restraints every time she did, a full body jerk that rattled the chain and made the bench groan and made Laura hum with amusement against Amy's cock.

"Nnn. Nnn. NNN. NNNNN."

Amy's eyes were open. Wide open. She was staring at the ceiling of the train car. At the fluorescent tube. At the dead moth. One of its wings was darker than the other. She could see that from here. One wing was a pale, dusty tan and the other was slightly more grey, like it had spent its last hours leaning to one side, pressing one wing against something that had stained it.

Why was she thinking about the moth.

Why was she thinking about the moth while five women were taking her apart.

"Close," Violet said. Flat. Factual. Like a weather report. "Twenty seconds."

The hands and the mouth kept going. The strokes, the circles, the suction, the massage. Amy's cock throbbed so hard in their grip that they could feel the pulse through their fingers, a steady, rapid drumming that was getting faster, that was accelerating toward something that everyone in the car could feel building because Amy's body had started to lock up, her thighs going rigid, her stomach clenching, her toes curling in the boots she wasn't wearing because she was barefoot because she was wearing nothing but a corset and fishnets and shame.

"Ten seconds."

Amy's mouth opened. A string of sounds that had been words once, in another life, when she was a person who could speak. "Puh. Puh. Pluh. Pleeee."

"Five."

Everything tightened. Everything converged. The peak was there. It was there. She could feel it like a wall she was about to hit at full speed, a concrete wall, and hitting it would feel like dying and like being born and like every orgasm she'd ever had compressed into a single moment.

Every hand pulled away.

Laura's mouth popped off.

All five women stepped back.

Amy's cock stood alone. Pulsing. Lurching in the air, twitching so violently that it swayed from side to side, the head flaring and the shaft rigid and pre cum spilling from the slit in a stream now, not drops, a continuous thread of clear fluid that stretched from her cock toward the floor and caught the fluorescent light.

Hannie pointed at Amy's face and collapsed into giggles so hard no sound came out. Her mouth was open and her body was shaking and she grabbed Candy's arm and Candy looked and Candy started too, the two of them clinging to each other like they'd drown if they let go.

Because Amy's face.

Amy's face was frozen. Mid gasp. Mid hope. The exact expression of someone who had been told the building wasn't on fire, had started walking calmly toward the exit, and then the floor had given out. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was a perfect O. Her eyebrows were up so high they'd nearly left her face. And her lower lip was quivering. Not from cold. Not from pain. From the specific micro muscle failure that happens when a person's brain tries to process a disappointment that exceeds its capacity and all it can do is make the face vibrate.

"Your FACE!" Hannie finally managed, the words coming out in a wheeze. "Oh my god! Oh my GOD!"

Amy didn't scream this time. She just closed her eyes. And her head dropped forward. And her chin hit her chest. And she made a sound like "hhhhhh" which was air leaving her body because she'd given up on using it for anything else.

2:01:00

"Two minutes left, ladies!" Liz's voice crackled from the speaker. Bright. Amused. "Make them COUNT!"

A pause. Liz laughed.

"Oh, and Amy? Babe? I've got you on six different camera angles right now. Your cock looks AMAZING from Camera Three. This is going straight to my group chat. Fuck, maybe I'll post it on The Tether. 'Most Edged Futanari in Neo Meridian: A Documentary.'"

Amy's mouth moved. No sound.

"Love you!" Liz's voice chirped. The speaker popped and went silent.

1:48:00

Emma clapped her hands once. Sharp.

"Alright. One minute challenge. Who thinks we can edge her thirty times before the timer hits zero?"

"No," Amy whispered. First real word in over a minute. "No. No, you can't, please, you can't, I'll die, I'll actually die, please..."

"You won't die." Violet checked the timer. "Probably."

"Come on!" Candy jumped up and down, her latex dress creaking, her enhanced tits bouncing. "Let's DO it! Thirty in sixty!"

"Thirty in sixty!" Hannie chanted. She grabbed Violet's arm. Shook it. Violet allowed this with the patience of someone who has accepted her lot in life.

They moved fast. No choreography this time. No discussion. They'd been working together for forty minutes and they knew each other's rhythms now. They knew Amy's rhythms.

Emma's gloved hand, one stroke, firm and fast up the shaft.

Amy's body slammed rigid. The edge hit.

"ONE!"

Emma's hand was gone before Amy could process it. Candy's fingers, two of them, pinched gently around the frenulum and rolled. Once.

Everything in Amy's pelvis clenched.

"TWO!"

Gone. Laura's tongue, a single wet stripe up the underside, base to tip, three seconds of contact.

"THREE!"

Hannie's mouth, quick, the head of Amy's cock disappearing between her glossy pink lips for one second, suction, gone.

"FOUR!"

Amy was screaming. She was aware of that in a distant, academic way. She was screaming because screaming was the only output her body could produce while this was happening to it. Her voice was broken and hoarse and it cracked and wavered and sometimes cut out entirely, leaving her with her mouth open and nothing coming out, like a TV on mute.

"FIVE!"

Who was that. She didn't know whose hand that was. She didn't know whose mouth. The women were cycling too fast and her eyes were blurred and her brain couldn't, it couldn't, she couldn't...

"SIX!"

"SEVEN!"

"EIGHT!"

"NINE!"

"TEN!"

Ten edges in fifteen seconds. Each one a mountain she was dragged to the top of and thrown off. Each one building on the last because her body never came down. Not fully. She was hovering at ninety percent, ninety five percent, and each touch spiked her to ninety nine and the hands and mouths left and she fell to ninety five and another touch came and she spiked again and she was trapped in a band three percent wide and the band was made of glass and fire and every denied orgasm she'd ever had in her life.

"ELEVEN!"

"TWELVE!"

"HURRY UP!" Amy shrieked. Not at the women. At the timer. She craned her neck, trying to see it. Red numbers. "PLEASE! THE TIME! HURRY, PLEASE, IT HAS TO BE OVER, PLEASE..."

"But this is SO much more fun!" Candy laughed. Her hand was wet with pre cum. She wiped it on her latex dress and dove back in.

"THIRTEEN!"

"FOURTEEN!"

"FIFTEEN!"

Amy stopped making words. Her mouth still moved. Her vocal cords still vibrated. But the sounds that came out weren't language anymore. They were the sounds a body makes when it's pushed so far past its limits that the brain stops translating experience into communication and just broadcasts raw signal. Grunts. Whines. A gurgling, hiccupping noise that was crying and moaning and breathing all tangled together.

"TWENTY!" Someone shouted. Amy had lost count. She'd lost count of the count. There were hands on her and then there weren't and then there were. Her cock was gripped and released and kissed and licked and pumped and abandoned in a cycle so fast that her nervous system couldn't tell the difference between being touched and not being touched anymore. It all felt the same. It all felt like an edge. Everything was an edge. The air was an edge. The light was an edge. Her own heartbeat was an edge.

1:00:00

"Sixty seconds!" Violet called.

They intensified. Amy didn't know how that was possible. The touches came faster, overlapping now. Emma jerking her shaft. Hannie's small mouth on her balls, kissing and licking the swollen skin. Laura pressing her massive tits against Amy's thigh while she leaned in and worked the head with her tongue. Candy reaching between Laura and Emma to touch anywhere, everywhere, her fingers trailing and pinching and rubbing. Violet standing to the side, counting, her raspy voice the metronome that kept the whole machine running.

"TWENTY FIVE!"

"TWENTY SIX!"

"TWENTY SEVEN!"

Amy's cock was jumping with every heartbeat now. Visible, full contractions that moved the entire shaft. Pre cum didn't drip from the slit anymore. It ran. A steady stream that coated Laura's tongue and dripped from Hannie's chin and slicked Emma's gloves and made Candy's fingers glide and it just kept coming because Amy's prostate was in full revolt, pumping fluid it didn't have, preparing for an orgasm it wasn't going to get.

0:30:00

All five women working. Every hand occupied. Every mouth busy. Amy in the center of it, strung up and spread open and being played like an instrument by five musicians who knew every note.

Emma's gloved hand, pumping the shaft. Firm. Fast. No hesitation.

Hannie's mouth sealed around Amy's right ball, tongue working the underside, the heat of her mouth sinking into the swollen flesh.

Laura's tits pressed around the head of Amy's cock from above, the soft, heavy weight of them engulfing the tip while she squeezed them together with her hands.

Candy's tongue finding every exposed inch it could reach. The underside of the shaft between Emma's strokes. The crease between Amy's balls. The inside of her thigh.

Violet leaning close, her lips an inch from Amy's ear, her voice a monotone whisper: "Almost there. Not yet. Almost. Nope. Closer. Not quite. Getting there. Not yet. Almost..."

"TWENTY NINE!"

0:10:00

They stopped.

All of them. At once. Like a power switch had been thrown.

Five women stepped back. Five pairs of hands retracted. Five mouths closed. They formed a loose semicircle around Amy and they watched.

Amy's cock stood straight up. It was the darkest shade of anything any of them had ever seen on a living body. The head was so swollen it looked painful to exist, the skin stretched to its limit, the slit gaping slightly, pre cum still pulsing from it in thick, slow beats. The shaft was rigid. Veins standing out like cables. It twitched. Not from stimulation. From its own blood pressure. From the two hundred and fifty plus edges that had engorged it so far past normal that it had become, in a medical sense, an emergency.

Her balls. Swollen past anything recognisable. Stretched tight and hanging low and the skin had taken on a faint discoloration, a bluish tint that wasn't from the lighting. That was blood. That was stagnant, pooled blood in tissue that needed release and wasn't getting it and was starting, very slowly, to suffer for it.

Amy hung in the restraints. She wasn't screaming anymore. She wasn't begging. She wasn't doing anything. Her chest rose and fell in hitching, irregular bursts. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at a point somewhere beyond the far wall of the train car, somewhere past the tunnel, somewhere past Neo Meridian, somewhere past the planet, somewhere in a void where pain didn't exist because nothing existed.

0:05:00

0:04:00

0:03:00

0:02:00

0:01:00

0:00:00

The timer beeped.

It was a small sound. A single electronic chirp, like a microwave finishing, like a text message arriving, like something completely mundane and completely insignificant. It didn't match the occasion. It should have been louder. It should have been a siren or an explosion or a choir. But it was just a beep.

The steel cuffs around Amy's wrists clicked.

Opened.

Her arms fell. She had no control over them. They dropped from above her head and swung at her sides like dead things, like pendulums, like they belonged to someone else's body. Her hands hit the bench on either side of her thighs with a slap.

The ropes at her ankles loosened. Auto release. Liz had rigged them. Of course she had. Amy's legs came together, slowly, her muscles too wrecked to do anything fast, her thighs closing around her aching balls, which sent a fresh supernova of pain through her pelvis that made her whole body jerk.

She was free.

For the first time in forty minutes and twenty nine hours and two hundred and fifty something edges, Amy was not restrained.

Her right hand moved. Instinct. Pure, animal instinct. Twenty nine hours of denied orgasm and two hundred and fifty edges and the only thing her body wanted, the only thing it had wanted since the very first touch, was release. Her fingers trembled as they reached for her cock. Shaking. Jerking. Each finger moving independently because her fine motor control had been shot to hell, but they were reaching, stretching toward the rigid, aching, dripping shaft that stood between her legs.

Her fingers got within two inches.

The chip fired.

It was like a switch being thrown inside her skull. The thumbnail sized disc at the base of her brain sent a signal down her spinal cord and into every nerve that connected her hand to her cock and the signal said no. Not pain. Not shock. Something worse. The pleasure centres in her brain went dark. Not dimmed. Dark. The arousal was still there. The desperation was still there. Her cock was still hard and her balls still ached and her body still screamed for release. But the connection between her hand and her pleasure was severed. Cauterised. Walled off behind neural concrete.

She could feel her hand. She could feel her cock. But touching one with the other would produce nothing. Less than nothing. It would be like touching her elbow. Skin on skin and zero sexual response.

"No." Amy stared at her hand, still hovering two inches from her cock. "No. No no no. THE CHIP."

She grabbed herself anyway. Wrapped her trembling, raw, bleeding fingers around her shaft and squeezed and pumped once, twice, three times, and felt nothing. Nothing. A hand on a piece of meat. Warm skin on warm skin. Friction without reward. Input without output. She may as well have been stroking a table leg.

"NO! NO, PLEASE, THE CHIP, IT WON'T, I CAN'T, PLEASE..."

Emma tilted her head. Watched Amy's hand pump uselessly at her own cock. Amy's face was something new now. Not pain. Not desperation. Horror. Pure, animal horror. Because she was free and she was holding her own cock and it felt like nothing and the chip was doing exactly what it was designed to do and she was as helpless now, unrestrained, as she had been with her wrists locked to the bar.

"Oh." Emma smiled. The kind of smile that arrives slowly and doesn't rush to fill the whole face. It stopped at her eyes. "You've got the chip. Well, that's unfortunate."

Amy looked up. Her hand still wrapped around herself. Still pumping. Still nothing.

"Hold her."

The words were quiet. Directed at the other four. And they responded instantly.

Laura and Candy moved first. They grabbed Amy's arms, one each, Laura taking the left and Candy taking the right. They pulled Amy's hands away from her cock and pinned them at her sides, pressing Amy's wrists into the bench.

Hannie grabbed Amy's right leg. Violet grabbed the left. They pushed Amy's thighs apart, spreading her wide on the bench the same way the ropes had held her, except now it was four pairs of hands instead of rope and the hands were warm and the hands were strong and Amy could feel fingernails biting into her skin where the women gripped.

Amy's cock stood between her forced open legs. Free and untouched and dripping and aching and so hard that it curved toward her stomach and the head brushed the bottom of her corset.

Emma stepped back.

She reached behind herself. Found the zipper of her leather corset. Pulled it down.

The corset opened. Fell away. Underneath, Emma's body was lean and defined. Small, firm tits with dark nipples. The geometric tattoo sleeve running from her wrist to her shoulder. Flat stomach, the muscles visible beneath olive skin. She kicked off her boots. Peeled down her pants. No underwear. Long, toned legs. A strip of dark hair between them.

Emma stepped between Amy's legs.

She stood over the bench. Over Amy. Looked down at Amy's cock, jutting upward, rigid and waiting and weeping. Then she looked at Amy's face.

"Last one," Emma said. "I promise."

Amy shook her head. Violently. Her hair whipped across her face. "No. Don't. Please don't. I can't. I literally can't. If you stop again I'll, I can't, please, just let me go, please, PLEASE..."

Emma turned around. She faced away from Amy now. Amy could see her back, the muscles of her shoulders, the way her spine created a shallow valley between the lean planes of muscle on either side. She could see the curve of Emma's ass. Firm and round and sitting directly above Amy's cock.

Emma reached down between her own legs. Found Amy's shaft. Wrapped her fingers around it. Angled it.

She lowered herself.

The tip of Amy's cock met Emma's entrance. Warm. Wet. Emma had been turned on for forty minutes, watching, participating, getting off on the power and the cruelty and the sounds Amy made, and her body was ready. The head of Amy's cock pressed against her and Emma's pussy opened for it, slowly, taking the first inch with a slick, gripping heat that was so different from mouths and hands and tits that Amy's brain momentarily forgot how to process it.

"Ohhhh," Emma breathed. She sank lower. Another inch. Another. Amy's shaft disappearing into her, the dark, swollen length of it parting her lips and sliding deep.

"Oh fuck." Candy's eyes were huge. She still had Amy's right wrist pinned. She craned her neck to see. "Emma, that's so hot."

"Does it feel good?" Hannie asked, peering around Laura's shoulder. "Amy! Does Emma's pussy feel good around your cock?"

Amy couldn't answer. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were rolling back. Because it felt. It FELT. This wasn't the chip blocking her. This wasn't her own touch. This was a registered partner's, no, wait, Emma wasn't registered, she wasn't registered, how was this...

The chip didn't care about registration right now. The chip cared about who was providing the stimulation. Amy wasn't touching herself. Someone else was touching her. The chip's algorithm, designed to distinguish between self stimulation and partner stimulation, read Emma's body as external input. Green light. Pleasure centres online.

Emma bottomed out. Her ass sat flush against Amy's hips. Amy was buried to the hilt inside her, eight inches of cock swallowed by the tight, gripping heat of Emma's body. Amy could feel every inch. Every ridge. Every clench. Emma was tight and wet and warm and alive and her inner walls were squeezing Amy's shaft in rhythmic pulses.

"Mmm." Emma rolled her hips. Once. Slowly. A small circle that shifted Amy's cock inside her and Amy's spine curved and the women holding her legs had to grip harder because her whole body tried to buck upward.

"Ride her!" Laura encouraged. She had Amy's left wrist locked down and she was smiling, her lipstick smeared, her mascara running. "Come on, Em! Ride that big cock!"

Emma rose. Two inches. Then sank back down. The wet sound of it filled the car. A slick, sucking noise. She rose again. Three inches. Down. Found a rhythm. Slow. Deliberate. Her ass bouncing gently against Amy's hips. Her back muscles flexing with each lift and drop.

Amy's cock was surrounded. Engulfed. The sensation was, after two hundred and fifty edges and twenty nine hours and nothing but stop start stop start stop start, the sensation of a real pussy around her cock with a full pleasure response was like jumping into water after walking through a desert.

"You like that?" Candy squeezed Amy's wrist. "Huh? You like Emma's pussy? Does it feel good inside her?"

Amy moaned. A real moan. Deep and guttural and torn from her guts. Her hips moved without her permission, pushing upward to meet Emma's downward motion, and the women on her legs pushed back, holding her down, and the struggle created a friction that made everything more intense because Amy was fighting to thrust and being denied even that.

"Ooh, she likes it," Hannie giggled. "Look at her trying to fuck! She's thrusting!"

Emma moved faster. Her rhythm picked up. Each bounce sharper, more forceful, driving Amy deeper into her. She planted her hands on Amy's knees for leverage and used her legs to lift and drop, lift and drop, the muscles in her thighs flexing and releasing.

"She's getting close," Violet announced from her position at Amy's left leg. She could feel it. Amy's thigh was trembling under her hands, the muscles contracting in waves. "Real close."

"Come on, Amy!" Candy bounced. "Cum inside her! Do it!"

"Yeah!" Hannie cheered. "Fill her up! You deserve it!"

Amy was climbing. Fast. Emma's pussy was gripping her and the women were cheering and it was going to happen, it was finally going to happen, after twenty nine hours and two hundred and fifty edges and forty minutes of the worst torture of her life, she was going to cum.

"Please," Amy whispered. To the car. To the women. To god. To the dead moth. "Please. Don't stop. Please."

Emma slammed down. Hard. Amy went deep. The wave crested.

Amy's mouth opened. Her eyes went white. Her toes, her fingers, every extremity curled inward. Her stomach muscles locked so tight she could see them through the corset. Her balls drew up against her body, aching and swollen and so, SO ready, and the orgasm was right there at the gate, right at the threshold, one more thrust, one more second, one more...

Emma lifted off.

Amy's cock slid out of her. Slick and hard and glistening with Emma's wetness. It sprang up and slapped against Amy's stomach. Bobbed. Pulsed.

Empty.

Emma stood. Stepped away. She turned around and looked at Amy and she was flushed and her breathing was quick and she grinned.

The women let go.

All of them. At once. Amy's arms. Amy's legs. Released.

Emma grabbed her corset off the floor. The other women were already moving toward the doors of the train car. Laura picked up her leather jacket, shrugged it on over her bare shoulders. Candy smoothed her latex dress. Hannie adjusted her collar, the bell giving one final, cheerful jingle. Violet just walked, already done, already past it, already somewhere else in her head.

Amy sat on the bench. Legs together now. Cock still standing up between them. Still hard. Still dripping. Still denied. She was sobbing and she was laughing and she didn't know which one was winning. Her face was doing both at the same time and the muscles weren't compatible and the result was a grimace that looked like something painted by an artist who'd given up on sanity.

"You..." Amy's voice was a wreck. Gravel and glass. "You... BITCHES."

Emma paused at the door. Turned. Gave Amy a long look, head to toe. Amy, collapsed on the bench, corset askew, fishnets torn at both knees, wrists raw and bleeding, cock standing at attention like a soldier who hadn't been told the war was over, balls swollen and discolored and visibly aching, face a mess of tears and blood and saliva and snot.

"Same time next week?" Emma said it lightly. A question between friends.

Hannie bounced on her toes in the doorway. "She'll be back." She grinned. "They always come back."

Laura blew Amy a kiss from behind Hannie's shoulder. "Good luck with those blue balls, sweetie. They look PAINFUL."

Amy's cock twitched in response to Laura's voice and Amy groaned, a sound of such complete, full body misery that Laura actually paused and seemed to consider saying something kind. Then she didn't. She turned and stepped through the door.

Candy waved. Both hands. Fingers splayed. Bouncing. "That was ADORABLE! Thank you! Like, seriously, thank you SO much!"

She followed Laura out. The latex of her dress squeaked against the doorframe.

Violet was last. She stopped. Looked back at Amy. Her grey eyes took in the whole picture with the same flat, measured assessment she'd applied to every minute of the last forty.

"Hope you have someone to finish you off." She paused. Let the words settle. "You're going to need it."

She stepped through the door.

It closed behind her. The hydraulic hiss. The click of the lock. The car was empty except for Amy and the fluorescent tube and the dead moth.

Silence.

No. Not silence. The hum of the rails. The buzz of the light. Amy's breathing. Amy's heartbeat, which she could hear, which she could feel in her cock, which was still hard, which was going to be hard for hours, which would ache and drip and throb and demand attention that the chip would not allow her to provide.

The speakers crackled.

"Sooooo." Liz's voice. Amy could hear the grin in it. She could hear the grin like it was a physical object Liz was holding up to the microphone. "How was your ride, babe?"

Amy stared at the speaker.

"Oh, don't be like that. You had fun! I saw your face when Laura was blowing you. That was FUN face. That was the face of a girl having the TIME of her LIFE."

Amy opened her mouth. Her voice came out as a croak.

"When I... get out of this train... I am going to KILL you."

"Aww. That's sweet." Liz paused. Shuffled something. "So listen, babe, I know you're probably thinking about, you know, coming home and asking me to jerk you off. And I just want to set expectations."

Amy's stomach dropped.

"Remember what I said at the start? How you weren't getting off tonight?"

"Liz."

"I meant that."

"LIZ."

"Tomorrow. I'll jerk you off tomorrow evening. After my shift. Around, mmm, seven? Seven thirty?"

"YOU CAN'T! LIZ, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING PSYCHOPATH, YOU CAN'T DO THAT TO ME! I NEED TO CUM! MY BALLS ARE, THEY'RE, LIZ, LOOK AT THEM! LOOK AT THE CAMERA! THEY'RE FUCKED! I NEED, I'M GOING TO HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY, LIZ, THIS ISN'T FUNNY..."

"It's a little funny."

"IT IS NOT! IT IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY! YOU REROUTED THE TRAIN! YOU LET FIVE STRANGERS EDGE ME OVER TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY TIMES! I'VE BEEN TIED UP FOR FORTY MINUTES AND I HAVEN'T CUM IN TWENTY NINE HOURS AND MY COCK LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING EGGPLANT AND YOU'RE TELLING ME I HAVE TO WAIT SEVENTEEN MORE HOURS?!"

"Sixteen hours and forty six minutes, technically."

"FUCK YOU!"

"Love you too, babe."

"FUCK YOU, LIZ! FUCK YOUR STUPID TRAIN AND FUCK YOUR STUPID GROUP CHAT AND FUCK YOUR SIX CAMERA ANGLES AND FUCK, FUCK, FUUUUCK..."

Amy ran out of air. She sat on the bench, gasping, her cock still hard, still aching, still dripping onto the seat between her legs. Her balls pulsed with a low, grinding pain that was going to get worse. Much worse. Every hour that passed was going to add weight to the agony between her legs and there was nothing, not a single thing, she could do about it.

The train lurched. Started moving.

"Next stop, your apartment," Liz announced over the speaker. "Estimated arrival: fourteen minutes. Might want to put some pants on. Although," a laugh, bright and sharp, "honestly? After tonight? I don't think you've got any dignity left to protect."

Amy looked down at herself. The corset, half unlaced. The fishnets, shredded. Her cock, standing proud and defiant and purple and dripping between her thighs. Her duffel bag, six feet away on the floor, containing the clothes she'd taken off a lifetime ago.

She tried to stand.

Her legs didn't work.

She tried again. Got halfway up. Her knees buckled. She sat back down hard and her balls compressed against the bench and she screamed, a genuine scream of pure physical agony, and then she was crying again, sobbing into her hands while her cock throbbed against her stomach and the train rattled through the tunnel.

"FUCK!" She slammed her fist against the bench. "SHIT! GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A, FUCKING, COCK SUCKING, BALL BUSTING, CHIP HAVING, TRAIN RIDING, BLUE BALLED PIECE OF, AAAARGH!"

"Can't hear you, babe!"

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP, LIZ! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOUR FACE AND I HATE YOUR STUPID CHOPPY HAIRCUT AND I HATE YOUR FRECKLES AND I HATE THAT YOU DON'T HAVE A CHIP AND I HATE THAT YOU CAN TOUCH YOURSELF AND I CAN'T AND I HATE, I hate..."

Her voice broke. Cracked down the middle like cheap glass.

"I hate that I'm going to come crawling back to you tomorrow at seven and beg you to touch me and you know it and I know it and we both know there's nothing I can do about it because you're the only person registered on my stupid chip and I need you and I HATE that I need you."

Silence from the speaker, then: "Seven thirty, babe. Don't be early."

"AAAAAGH!"

Amy grabbed the nearest thing she could reach, which was her own shoe and hurled it at the speaker. It hit the wall three feet to the left and clattered to the floor.

"Missed," Liz said.

"CUNT!"

"Now that's just rude." A pause. "See you tomorrow, Amy. Get some sleep. And maybe some ice for those balls. They looked rough on Camera Five."

The speaker popped. Went dead.

The train rattled on.

Amy sat in the empty car. Alone. Her cock still hard. Still leaking. Still denied. The fluorescent tube buzzed above her. The dead moth sat on top of it, one wing slightly darker than the other, facing a direction that may have changed during the night or may not have, there was no way to know, there had never been a way to know, and it didn't matter anyway because the moth was dead and Amy was alive and being alive, right now, in this car, on this train, with this cock and these balls and this chip and this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night behind her and seventeen hours of agony ahead of her, being alive was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

She reached for her cock.

The chip said no.

She let her hand fall.

The train carried her home.