Stopper

One of the women on campus had solved the problem of her husband’s uselessness permanently.

She had him sealed inside the wall of her apartment. The construction was clean and deliberate: only his head and his chemically enhanced clitty protruded. His face emerged from a smooth circular opening at roughly waist height, pale and wide-eyed, while a few feet lower his over-sensitized, injected clitty stuck out through a second perfectly fitted hole. Everything else—torso, arms, legs, the rest of his body—was locked away behind plaster and reinforced framing. He existed now only as a decorative, functional feature of the room.

The clitty itself had required extensive work. Originally too small and soft to be of any use, she had pumped it full of thickening agents and extreme sensitivity cocktails until the stubby little thing finally looked almost like a real dick—plump, veined, and constantly on the edge of erection. The price was exquisite. Even the lightest air current or the brush of a fingertip sent it rigid, and every forced erection flooded the hypersensitive nerves with pure, white-hot agony. He screamed every time.

She had handled the noise elegantly. A custom gag instrument filled his mouth, converting every sob, whimper, and full-throated cry into clear musical notes. The harder he suffered, the higher and sweeter the melody became. His pain now served the apartment as ambient sound.

Because only the hard clitty stood between his face and the heavy front door, he had become the perfect living doorstop. When the door swung shut, it rested against the swollen, trembling flesh, held open just enough that the wood never touched his exposed face. The day the chemicals failed and the clitty went soft would be the day the door finally slammed into his skull. He understood this. The knowledge kept him desperately, agonizingly hard.

Feeding was simple and efficient. With no access to his mouth for anything but the musical gag, she administered all nutrition rectally—thick nutrient paste pushed deep into him through a permanent port on the sealed side of the wall. He received nothing by mouth. His existence had been reduced to pain, music, and the constant threat of the door.

Today she was testing its endurance again.

She stood in front of the wall in nothing but heels, one hand lightly stroking the protruding, over-sensitized clitty while the other delivered sharp, measured slaps. Each impact forced a fresh surge of agony through the chemically tortured flesh. The gag-instrument answered instantly with high, clear notes that rang through the apartment. Tears streamed down the face sticking out of the wall. The little cock stayed rigidly erect, pulsing violently against her palm, holding the door’s potential path at bay.

Slap.

A rising trill of notes. Still hard.

Slap.

Higher, sharper music. Still hard. Still protecting his own face by suffering.

That was when I arrived.

I never knock. I gripped the handle and slammed the door open with full force. The heavy wood crashed into the hypersensitive, injected clitty, driving it back against the wall opening. His entire visible body jerked. The instrument erupted in a long, piercing scream of pure high notes that echoed down the hallway as I stepped inside.

I looked down at the swollen, reddened stub still trembling and upright, then at the tear-streaked face just above it, eyes wide with panic and relief that the barrier had held. I toed the throbbing flesh lightly with my shoe, just enough to make the melody spike again, and smiled.

“Still working,” I said.

She nodded, already reaching for the next slap, watching the clitty with calm, erotic interest. “It held. If it ever stops…” Her gaze drifted to the exposed face that would one day take the full force of the door. “…there’s always another whiteboi to seal into the wall.”

I left the door resting against the agonized, rigidly erect clitty as I walked deeper into the apartment. Behind me the instrument continued to sing, and the woman continued her careful, relentless testing—each slap a reminder that his only purpose now was to stay hard enough to protect the very face that could no longer look away.