Ninety-Nine Percent

[edgewriter]

Ninety-Nine Percent
by edgewriter

In the dim light of her hotel room, she finished getting dressed. She had deliberately chosen the lingerie that always got her going: a delicate black lace top and matching panties, paired with simple, sheer black thigh-highs. It wasn't just for her; its power lay in what it would do to *him*. She got aroused just imagining the raw, desperate gaze he'd have if he were there to see it.

She lay back against the propped-up pillows and opened her bag of favorite toys on the nightstand. The thought of his inevitable frustration, building for the last 24 hours, was already making a familiar, delicious tension coil low inside her. She let her fingertips brush lightly over her panties, the thin lace already dampening with her anticipation. The physical touch was secondary; the *real* sensation was the electric thrum in her veins, the craving for his voice, for the sound of his desperation. That was her true arousal, and she was already feeling its parallel frustration. It was time.

She picked up her phone.

---

The sudden ringing of his phone shattered the silence of his dark bedroom. His heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against his ribs. He immediately stiffened inside the sleek, black matte cage she had locked him in 24 hours ago. He was tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, desperate, and completely helpless.

For the past hour, he had been obeying her. His laptop was propped up on the dresser, glowing in the dark, playing the ten-minute film on a loop. On the screen, a man was bound tightly to a bed, unable to move a muscle. A woman, slow and deliberate, was arousing him, bringing him right to the brink of climax... and then just *holding* him there. The man on the screen was desperate, his body straining against the ropes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gave him a shattering release.

Just watching it, locked as he was, would have been enough. Each time the film cycled, he was brought to that same desperate, hard-muscled edge, only to be left stranded and aching.

But he’d been making it so, so much worse for himself.

His fingers, slick with sweat, had started fumbling at the cage, desperately trying to touch himself, to find *any* purchase, *any* relief through the small, restrictive openings. Consciously, he knew it was futile. He knew it would only heighten the frustration, rubbing him raw. But his subconscious had taken over. He couldn't control himself.

He fumbled for the phone, his hand shaking, and answered with a raw croak. "Hello?"

"Hi, baby," her voice cooed, as sweet and warm as if she were in the next room.

"I… Hi…"

"My goodness," she purred. "You sound out of breath... and desperate."

"I am," he gasped, the admission torn from him. "God, I'm so… I'm so needy. I've been watching the..."

"I know what you've been watching," she said. "We'll see what we can do about that. But first… guess what I'm wearing?"

He didn't have to guess. He knew. A jolt of pure, agonizing anticipation shot through him, and he felt himself strain impossibly harder against the metal.

It was a year ago when she had "accidentally" seen his browser history, noticed him watching one short clip over and over. She hadn't said anything, but she’d watched. She noticed the woman's outfit. She started paying attention and saw that so many of the clips he saved had women in similar outfits: simple, sheer black thigh-highs, and delicate black lace.

Then there was the day he came home from work. "I rented a movie, honey!" she’d called out from the other room. He’d walked into the bedroom, and she was standing there, wearing that exact outfit. His jaw dropped. He thought he was in for the night of his life.

He was. Just not the one he’d expected. He was in for *hours* of agonizing frustration.

Ever since, that outfit was the signal. When she took out that outfit, he knew he was going to suffer, that he would be taken to the very edge of his sanity with desperation and need before she would even *think* about granting him that final, shattering climax.

Just her mentioning it over the phone, hundreds of miles away, immediately elevated his need to a new, frantic level.

---

"I know," he breathed, the words tight. "I know exactly what you're wearing."

She smiled, her thumb swiping to the app on her phone. The sleek interface opened, showing the real-time digital readout of his body's involuntary responses. "Eighty-two percent," she murmured to herself, a thrill shooting through her. He was this worked up already, just from the film and her words. But if she was going to have her own fun tonight, he needed to be *much* higher.

She picked up her favorite toy, its low, insistent vibration a familiar, comforting weight in her palm. She pressed it against her, still through the thin lace, as her other fingers moved on the screen. She didn't just turn on a simple vibration; she *set a parameter*. She tapped the control, setting the "constant edge" mode to hold him at a steady 92% of his climax.

He heard it before he felt it—a quiet, high-pitched whirring from the device locked around him. The low thrum started. But it wasn't steady. It was *intelligent*. He could feel it *learning* him, pulsing just enough to push him up, then subtly backing off the instant his body tried to take over. It was designed to hold him suspended in that agonizing state.

She let him squirm for a moment, her own toy now sending tremors through her. "How are you doing over there, baby?"

"I'm... *ghh*... I'm so close," he said, his voice a strained rasp. He was speaking between clenched teeth, his breath held tight in his chest. She could hear him swallow, hard. "God, I'm... I'm right on the edge. I'm about to explode."

She laughed. It was a genuine, sweet sound, and it made her press her toy a little harder, her hips starting to move in a slow, instinctive circle. "Oh, honey. No, you're not. You *feel* like you are, but I'm looking at the app. You're at a *perfect* 92 percent. You're nowhere near close, because the belt won't let you be. You're exactly where I want you. Now... Restart it for me."

He fumbled for the mouse, his hand shaking, and clicked. He heard her do the same over the phone. As the woman on the screen began her slow, deliberate work, she *drove* the setting. She slid the dial on her app, and he felt the belt respond, pushing him past 92%... 95%... 98%... He was whimpering, his body bucking uselessly against the sheets. As the man in the film hit his climax, she pushed the dial all the way. The screen flashed 99%.

But it wasn't a release. The belt was *holding* him there. It was pure, exquisite torture—a state of agonizing bliss. He was screaming into his pillow. The belt was adjusting itself, micro-second by micro-second, sensing his every involuntary clench and backing off just enough to nullify any attempt his body made to tip over the edge.

As the on-screen action faded, she dropped the stimulation. It plummeted, back to a dull, aching 70%.

He was left gasping, a wreck. Over the phone, he heard the faint audio from his own laptop as the movie, on its endless loop, started again from the beginning.

"Mmm," she purred, her own voice thick, her body slick and restless against the lace. "That was fun. Let's do that one more time."

"No... please... I can't..." he whimpered as the movie started again.

"Oh, but you can," she said. Her own voice was deeper now, her breathing short. "And you will."

This time, she was relentless. As the woman on screen began her work, she pushed the dial, not gently, but with a driving, insistent pulse. He wasn't just whimpering; he was *vocal*.

"God... *please*... I'm so close... I can't... I can't take it!" he cried out, his voice breaking.

"Mmm, I hear that," she hissed, her eyes slipping closed. His raw desperation was her fuel. She pressed her toy directly against her, the wet lace offering no barrier to the intense vibration. She could *feel* his desperate sounds, every hitch in his breath, every broken plea, as if he were touching her himself.

His pleas were her rhythm. This was nothing like when he'd been "playing along." His mind was gone. *She* was in control, and the sensation was ten times more intense. His body arched off the bed.

"Oh, are we getting close?" she cooed, as the man in the movie began to strain against his ropes. She pulsed the vibration, bringing him right back to that agonizing 99% and holding him there. He was bucking, helpless, a string of desperate, broken cries tearing from his throat, chasing a release that was no longer his to control.

"Hold on... hold on..." she commanded, her own voice ragged, her body straining. "He's almost there... *are you* almost there? Beg for me. Tell me how desperate you are!"

"I'M BEGGING... PLEASE, I'LL DO ANYTHING... I *NEED* IT... *PLEEEEASE*!"

It was the sound of his absolute, primal need, the shattering of his control, that did it. She could *feel* his desperation across the distance, a resonant vibration that struck her own core. That raw, desperate need was what she craved.

She cried out, a sharp, sudden gasp as her own powerful climax, built on the back of his torment, finally took her, washing over her in hot, shuddering waves.

In the intensely arousing afterglow, her fingers flew across the app. "Now," she commanded.

Just as the man on screen was given his shattering climax, she pressed the release button.

The cage exploded with a full, powerful, insistent pulse. He screamed, a high, thin sound of pure, transcendent release. His mind went white, his body convulsing, completely out of his control. It eclipsed everything, a pleasure so intense it was almost painful, a perfect echo of the suffering she had orchestrated.

The vibration ceased, dropping to a low, barely-there hum. He collapsed back into the damp sheets, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure relief.

The moment the sigh left his lips, the cage *jolted* back to a high-intensity pulse for a single, shocking second.

He yelped, his newly sensitive body seizing.

"See?" she whispered, her voice deep and satisfied. "Aren't you thankful I'm not putting you through any *real* post-orgasm torture?"

The cage went completely silent. He was left panting, his heart hammering.

"Sweet dreams, baby," she murmured. "Or maybe... that's sweet fantasies."

The line clicked.

He lay in the total darkness, the only sound his own ragged breathing. He was exhausted, spent, and grateful.

And then, he felt it.

A vibration. So low, so gentle, it was almost imperceptible. It wasn't enough to do anything now, not after a climax that powerful. But he knew. He knew that as his body recovered, that constant, minimalist touch would begin its work. In a few hours, the need would start to build all over again, and he would be desperate and aching long before she ever came home.

[CagedAnimal]

I'd love to find a cage that powerful and the woman to use it with!

[edgewriter]

Thanks! Wait till you see the one I have in development for the next story…

[aldorax]

Very well-written! Love it!

Now if only such a device existed for real... :)

[Atma]

One of the staple ingredients in my fantasies is tech like this :>

Now if only such a device existed for real... :)

I mean it kinda does! Check out edge-o-matic and similar devices. There is a reddit community whose members made some tweaks to the scripting to get it working an awful lot like the one in this story! There was an amazing testimonial... that seems to have been deleted unfortunately... where a guy was teased to insanity by his gf who caught him using the device while self-bound. Said it "rewrote" his sexual responses!