The video was done. The money had hit. The app went quiet. But Nick didn't move. He was still face-down on the carpet just outside the bathroom, legs spread, the cucumber deep inside him, and a heat in his chest he couldn't name. He'd meant to get up. Clean up. Pretend it never happened. But his body didn't move like it was supposed to. His breathing slowed. His ass was still raised, instinctively. Shame still pulsed in him… but underneath it, something else. A throb. A spark. His face pressed harder into the carpet fibers, and without even thinking, his hand moved back—hesitant, trembling. He gripped the cucumber, still slick, and gave it a slow pull. His entire body flinched. A gasp tore from his throat, unplanned, raw. He pushed it back in. Deeper. And pulled it out again. A rhythm started, slow at first, then firmer. He fucked himself with it, helplessly, face burning, ass up, moaning into the floor. There were no instructions. No Mistress. No task. Just him, his body, and something he didn't understand but couldn't stop. Pleasure bloomed in places he never thought could feel good. His cock didn't even need touching—it pulsed on its own, rock hard, untouched. And then it happened. His body convulsed. His hips jerked. He came—messy, sudden, deep into the carpet, his moan muffled and broken. The cucumber still halfway inside him. He stayed like that, panting, humiliated, terrified… and slightly high. Not from drugs. From release. From something deeper. Something that scared him more than the task itself. There'd been no order. No payout. He did it on his own. That realization hit harder than anything yet—and he couldn't deny it. Not anymore. Something inside him had started to change. And it wanted more.
