The command hung in the air, a depraved symphony of impossibility. We moved to the bed, a well-trained unit of desperate flesh and plastic. I got on my hands and knees, presenting myself, the cool air hitting my freshly-spanked skin. Rohan moved behind me, his hands rough on my hips. Aryan stood to the side, phone raised, his breathing shallow as he prepared to record.
“Do it,” Master’s voice urged from the speaker. “Try to fuck him, Rohan. Make your caged cock fit.”
Rohan spat into his palm, slicking the smooth, pink plastic of his cage. He pressed the blunt, unyielding device against my entrance. I pushed back, trying to help, but it was a futile, maddening exercise. The hard plastic pressed and slipped, a cruel parody of the real thing.
“Fuck, it won’t go,” Rohan grunted, his voice strained with frustration. He pushed harder, the pressure a dull, unsatisfying ache. “My dick is so fucking hard inside this thing, Dhruv. It’s pounding, trying to get to your hole. I can feel every vein throbbing against this fucking plastic prison. I want to be inside you so bad, I want to feel your tight ass gripping me, you filthy little bitch.”
“Try harder!” Master barked. “Make it work. Aryan, get a close-up. I want to see the plastic stretching his hole.”
Aryan knelt, angling the phone. The cool lens nearly touched my skin. “It’s… it’s not going in, Master,” he reported, his voice a mix of awe and arousal. “It’s just pressing. Dhruv’s hole is clenching, trying to take it, but it can’t. It looks so… desperate.”
“Please, Rohan,” I begged, the words torn from me. “Please, just get it in. I need to feel you, even like this. I need you to fuck me with your useless, caged cock. Make it work for Master. Please.”
Rohan adjusted his angle, grinding the smooth surface against me. The friction was all wrong, a teasing, frustrating pressure that made my own caged dick weep with pre-cum. “I’m trying, you desperate slut. Your ass is begging for it, isn’t it? It’s sucking at the air, wanting my real dick. But all you get is this. All you get is my fucking cage.”
“That’s it,” Master moaned, and I could hear the slick sound of his own stroking on the other end of the line. “You’re both so fucking pathetic. So beautifully useless. Now switch. Aryan. Your turn. Try to fuck Dhruv’s ass.”
Rohan pulled away with a sound of disgusted need. Aryan took his place, his hands trembling as he positioned himself. His pink cage was identical, a humiliating badge of membership. He pressed against me, the lace of his panties brushing against my skin.
“Oh god,” Aryan whispered, the sensation clearly overwhelming him. “It’s so… it’s so soft. And hot. My cock is screaming in this cage, Dhruv. It feels like it’s going to break the plastic. I want to be so deep inside you.”
“Then do it!” I cried, pushing back against him. “Fuck me with your pretty pink cage, Aryan. Show Master what a good sissy fucker you are. Use me.”
He thrust his hips in a shallow, awkward motion. The effect was the same—a maddening, unsatisfying pressure that only highlighted our shared deprivation. The room filled with the sound of our ragged breathing and the soft, slick sounds of plastic sliding against skin.
“Enough,” Master’s voice cut through, sharp and sudden. Our phones all chimed in unison with a video call request. We froze for a second before scrambling to answer, fumbling to position the devices so he could see all of us.
His face filled the screens, his eyes dark with lust, a predatory smile playing on his lips. “Look at my three little failures. Couldn’t even fuck each other properly. Pathetic. But I have a new task. A dance of submission. On your feet. All of you. Now.”
We stood, a naked, caged, and panty-clad trio, confused and exposed.
“You will dance for me. A synchronized dance of devotion. And for every move you get wrong, for every beat you miss, you will be punished. Rohan, hold the hairbrush. You are my enforcer.”
Rohan grabbed the hairbrush, his expression shifting to one of fierce pride at the assigned role.
“The dance is simple. You will turn in a circle, slowly. Then you will drop to your knees and bow your head to the floor. Then you will stand. That is the sequence. You will do it together, as one. Begin.”
We started, turning in a clumsy circle. Aryan was a half-second behind. “Stop,” Master snapped. “Aryan was late. Rohan. Punish him. One strike. On his ass.”
Rohan didn’t hesitate. The hairbrush came down on Aryan’s lace-clad ass with a sharp crack. Aryan cried out, his body jolting forward, a red mark instantly blooming through the black fabric.
“Again,” Master commanded.
We turned. This time, we were in sync. We dropped to our knees and bowed. We stood.
“Better. Now, faster.”
We repeated the sequence, our movements becoming more frantic. Turn, drop, bow, stand. Turn, drop, bow, stand. The sound of our breathing, the slap of our knees on the floor, the rustle of Aryan’s lace—it was a bizarre, erotic rhythm.
“Rohan, describe it,” Master ordered, his voice husky. “Describe what you see.”
“I see your pets, Master,” Rohan panted, never breaking the rhythm of the dance. “I see Dhruv’s smooth, hairless body moving, his caged cock bouncing. I see Aryan, your pretty sissy, his lace riding up, the red mark on his ass from where I hit him. We look like a fucking dirty ballet, Master. We look like your personal fucking toys.”
“Now, while you dance, you will beg. All of you, together. You will beg for the one thing you cannot have. You will beg for my creampie.”
The words unlocked a new level of desperation in us. As we turned and dropped and bowed, our voices rose in a ragged, synchronized chant.
“Please, Master, we need your creampie!”
“We need to feel you pump your load deep inside!”
“Fill our filthy holes!”
“Mark us from the inside!”
“We’re begging for it!”
“Please, gift us your cum!”
The chant became a mantra, fueling the frantic dance. We were a blur of moving bodies and desperate pleas, our world narrowed to his command, his voice, his withheld reward.
“Rohan, you’re not bowing low enough! Punish Dhruv!”
The hairbrush connected with my ass cheek, a bright flash of pain that made me cry out but only made my begging more desperate.
“Aryan, your turn was slow! Punish him again, Rohan!”
Crack. Another strike landed on Aryan.
We were falling apart, our dance descending into a beautiful, chaotic mess of motion and punishment and raw, unadulterated need. The hairbrush was a constant punctuation to our rhythm, our begs, our absolute surrender.
“You were born for this!” Master roared over our pleas, his own climax evident in his strained voice. “You were born to be my begging, dancing sluts! Now don’t you fucking stop! I want to see you break! I want to hear you beg until your voices are gone!”
Our movements became jerky, our voices hoarse, but we didn’t stop. We couldn’t. We were his.
