"Just a little further, Ben," Alisha murmured, her voice honey-smooth in the damp stone corridor. His bare feet stumbled on uneven flagstones, wrists bound tight behind his back with coarse rope. The blindfold chafed. He could smell mildew and something metallic—iron, maybe. Her hand guided his elbow, firm but not unkind. "Mistress Susan selects only the most promising ones. You should feel honored."
They stopped. A heavy door groaned open on rusted hinges, revealing a chamber lit by flickering wall sconces. Cold air prickled Ben’s skin. Alisha’s fingers brushed his hip as she undid the rope. "The apparatus awaits," she whispered, almost tenderly. He didn’t resist when she nudged him forward onto a raised metal platform. Straps snaked around his ankles and wrists, cold and unyielding. The gag came next—leather, bitter-tasting. Then her touch returned, feather-light along his inner thigh. He shuddered.
The machine hummed to life beneath him. Cool, articulated digits—smooth as polished bone—traced the curve of his hip, then dipped lower. One teased the tight furl of his entrance, circling, pressing just enough to make him arch. Another found his nipple, pinching with calibrated pressure. He gasped against the gag. Precise, relentless. Fingertips danced over his shaft, never quite closing, never granting friction—just maddening, skimming strokes that drew a bead of wetness from his tip. Electrodes prickled against his sac. A low thrum vibrated through the platform, buzzing in his bones.
Alisha watched the monitor above his station. Red lines spiked—heart rate, arousal—then flatlined as the sensors registered near-climax. The machine adjusted instantly. Stimulation ceased. Cool air blew across his damp skin. His choked groan echoed in the chamber. She noted the thin stream of precum dripping into the collection tube. Pathetic, she thought, not unkindly. Mistress liked them desperate. She tapped the screen, reactivating the lower-intensity cycle. Fingers resumed their torment, slower now, almost tender. A glob of milky fluid welled, then fell. The tube swallowed it.
She turned away, heels clicking on stone. Mistress Susan’s throne room lay deep within the castle’s heart. Alisha smoothed her black uniform, the fabric crisp against her skin. The air thickened here, warm and cloying with the scent of beeswax and something darker—ozone and salt. Dozens of screens glowed along the walls, each displaying a writhing form. Ben’s feed flickered in the corner: muscles taut, back arched against restraints, gag muffling his whimpers.
Mistress Susan sat enthroned on obsidian stone, her gown pooling like spilled ink. She didn’t glance up as Alisha approached, her eyes fixed on the central monitor. A crystal jar pulsed softly on the dais, connected by thin, translucent tubes snaking to each dungeon cell. Milky rivulets trickled inside—drops of denied ecstasy from Ben and others. Susan’s finger traced the jar’s curve. "His readings are volatile," she murmured. "Such delicious desperation."
Centuries had honed her obsession. Youth wasn’t found in elixirs or spells, but in the raw, trembling edge of pleasure denied—the moment a soul fractured between agony and rapture. That tension, distilled from writhing bodies like juice squeezed from a ripe orange, held the essence. She dipped a slender finger into the jar, coating it in pearlescent fluid. It shimmered under the throne room’s low light, thick and warm. She brought it to her lips, tongue flicking out to taste salt-sweetness edged with bitter frustration. A sigh escaped her. Then, lifting the jar, she drank deeply, swallowing the collected torment in one smooth draught. Her skin flushed, fine lines vanishing like erased chalk marks.
"Bring me the new bull, Alisha," Susan commanded, her voice resonant with the thrum of the machines. "My cunt demands attention. And route the feed from my coupling to Ben’s monitors. Let him watch. A small token for his sacrifice." Her gaze lingered on Ben’s screen, where his hips bucked futilely against the machine’s teasing digits, a fresh trickle of precum glistening at his tip. "He’s earned the torment."
Alisha nodded, her heels echoing sharply as she vanished into an adjoining chamber. She returned moments later, guiding a massive, nude bull of a man by a thick leather collar. His muscles rippled beneath oiled, obsidian skin, every cord defined. He moved with a predator’s grace, yet his eyes held a drugged haze. His cock stood thick and rigid, flushed dark against his stomach, the head swollen and glistening. Alisha led him to the riding bench—a padded, steel-framed contraption beside the throne. Straps secured his ankles, wrists, and thick neck, forcing his back flush against the bench, his erection jutting toward the vaulted ceiling like a monument to virility.
Mistress Susan rose, her gown slithering to the floor. She stood naked before him, her body a study in preserved perfection: skin like polished alabaster, hips flaring into a waist impossibly narrow, and full, heavy breasts tipped with dusky, hardened nipples. She climbed onto the bench, straddling the bull’s hips. Her fingers traced the thick vein running along his shaft, then guided him to her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, she sank down, her cunt stretching to engulf him inch by slick inch. A low groan tore from the bull’s throat as she seated herself fully, her inner muscles visibly fluttering around his base on the monitor feed. Susan arched her back, cupping her own breasts, thumbs circling her nipples as she began to rock.
Above Ben’s straining body, the dungeon’s main screen flickered to life. Mistress Susan filled the frame—her sweat-sheened skin, the rhythmic clench of her buttocks, the obscene glide of the bull’s cock in and out of her glistening cunt. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with pleasure, locked onto the camera—onto him. Ben’s muffled scream vibrated against his gag. The apparatus responded instantly; cool digits circled his own aching erection, feather-light, denying him even as the visual feast unfolded. Precum pulsed from him in a continuous, thin stream, pattering into the collection tube beneath the platform. His hips jerked uselessly against the restraints.
The scent of lavender and damp stone preceded her. Alisha’s lips brushed the shell of Ben’s ear, her whisper cutting through his ragged breaths. "This is your purpose now, pretty thing," she murmured, her breath warm against his sweat-damp skin. One slender finger traced the tube carrying his wasted essence toward the throne room. "Your frustration, your need… it feeds us. Keeps Mistress supple. Keeps me hungry." Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "Every drop you spill without release is youth poured down her throat. Beauty siphoned from your suffering."
On the screen above, Mistress Susan rode the bull with slow, grinding intensity, her cunt milking his thick shaft as she threw her head back in silent ecstasy. Ben’s own cock throbbed under the machine’s relentless, feather-light strokes—a cruel mockery of the penetration he witnessed.
Alisha’s hand slid down Ben’s flank, her fingers cool against his fevered skin. "Patience," she whispered, though her tone held no comfort. "Your turn will come. In a way." She tapped a control panel hidden in the stone wall. A panel slid open near Ben’s headrest, revealing a slender copper tube tipped with a soft silicone mouthpiece. Another tube, wider and dull-gleaming, snaked down from the ceiling, connected to a pulsating bladder-like vessel filled with viscous, shimmering gold liquid. "Mistress believes in reciprocity," Alisha explained, her voice detached. She fitted the mouthpiece between Ben’s gagged lips, forcing it past the leather. "You feed her essence. She feeds you… sustenance."
The copper tube hissed. A thick, lukewarm paste flooded Ben’s mouth—oatmeal steeped in something cloyingly sweet and unmistakably salty. Her. The taste of Mistress Susan’s nectar—mixed with the thicker, muskier tang of the bull’s release. He choked against the mouthpiece, the gruel forcing its way down his throat. Above him, the golden bladder pulsed, releasing another viscous dollop. It wasn’t sustenance; it was humiliation liquefied. The machine’s digits resumed their teasing dance along his shaft, a cruel counterpoint to the humiliation flooding his throat. He swallowed convulsively. The monitor above flickered, showing Mistress Susan riding the bull with languid, grinding intensity. Her eyes, locked on Ben’s feed, held a predatory satisfaction.
Alisha watched the golden gruel slide down the tube into Ben’s throat. His gagged whimpers vibrated against the silicone mouthpiece, muffled protests swallowed by each thick, cloying gulp. On the monitor, Mistress Susan’s hips rolled in slow, deliberate circles, her cunt milking the bull’s cock as his groans rumbled through the speakers. Ben’s arousal spiked again—sharp, jagged lines flaring red across his screen. The apparatus responded instantly, withdrawing its teasing fingers. Cool air hissed against his wet, straining flesh. A fresh bead of precum welled at his tip, trembled, then fell in a thin stream to join the others in the collection pipe.
"You see?" Alisha murmured, leaning close enough for Ben to feel the warmth of her breath against his ear. Her fingertip traced the restraint digging into his shoulder. "This is your eternity now. Day after day, feeding Mistress with your desperation while you wither." She gestured toward the screen where Susan’s skin glowed, impossibly smooth under the throne room’s low light. "She’ll stay like that—ageless, radiant—sustained by your denied pleasure. And we maids?" Alisha chuckled softly, a sound like ice cracking. "We earn our youth too. Every recruit we bring buys us another year." Her hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the inside of Ben’s thigh where the machine’s digits had teased him moments before. "I earned a bull today. My bull. Strong. Hungry." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I’ll ride him tonight. And you’ll watch. Every thrust. Every gasp. While you lie here, untouched."
She straightened, her uniform rustling crisply. Ben heard the soft click of her heels retreating, then pausing. The scent of lavender intensified, mixed now with something warmer, muskier—ripe and unmistakably female. Alisha’s hand returned, her fingers suddenly slick and fragrant as she pressed them beneath Ben’s nostrils. He inhaled reflexively—the intimate tang of her arousal, thick and cloying. "Prepared myself while you dripped," she breathed, her voice thick with dark amusement. "My bull likes me wet. Ready." She withdrew her fingers slowly, letting the scent linger. "Enjoy the show."
The thick walls swallowed his whimpers and cries. Mistress Susan’s obsession with eternal youth wasn't a whispered rumor—it was a machine, cold and precise, fueled by the agony of souls like Ben. His desperation, his denied release, became the currency she consumed drop by drop. Others paid with their freedom, their dignity, their very essence, trapped in a cycle where their suffering polished her immortality. Obsession demanded sacrifice, and Ben was just the latest coin dropped into her voracious treasury.
