Wait for sentencing

I sit on the edge of my lower bunk, the cold metal frame biting into my thighs. I can't sleep—the anxiety from my predicament twists in my gut, layered over the relentless edging that leaves me throbbing and ****. The cell's unrelenting lights beat down on me like a judgmental gaze, stripping away any illusion of privacy.

Around me, the other women settle for the night. The domme murmurs something low to Hao'oli, who kneels with such composed grace, her eyes half-lidded in deep submission. The three tourists huddle in a corner, whispering fragmented stories of their misadventures, their voices a distant buzz that barely cuts through the haze clouding my mind. One of them glances my way, her expression a mix of pity and detachment, but no one approaches. I'm alone in this, even surrounded.

The edging device—that insidious, hollow laminate intruder—has no mercy. It started as a tease back in the Wardrobe Machine, a playful punishment for my hubris, but now, in these stagnant hours of waiting, it's become a tormentor with a will of its own. It hums to life again, the vibration starting low, a subtle thrum that coils deep through my core. I shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only presses it deeper, the hollow core shifting against my most sensitive walls—an open, mocking invitation that taunts my inability to fill it, to chase the release it dangles forever out of reach. My breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as the intensity builds: slow at first, then insistent, waves of pleasure rippling outward, tightening my nipples against the suit's loose fabric, making my hips twitch involuntarily.

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, fighting the urge to let my hand drift downward. Don't touch, I remind myself fiercely—the domme's warning echoes in my skull like a curse. The suit is watching, ready to spring if I edge too close to the precipice. The device knows me now, after hours of this cruel cycle; it ramps up precisely when my resolve wavers, vibrating in patterns that mimic an imaginary lover's touch—firm pulses that grind against that perfect spot inside me, then feather-light flutters that tease my entrance, the hollow begging for something, anything, to push me over. My thighs press together instinctively, seeking any friction, but the suit's material slicks smoothly against itself, denying even that small mercy.

Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down to pool at the base of my neck, somehow absorbed into the laminate hanging loose off my body. The pleasure crests higher, a tidal wave building in my core, my muscles tensing as stars dance behind my eyelids. Just give in, a treacherous voice whispers in my mind—the same hubris that led me to toy with the Wardrobe Machine, to sneak out craving the surrender of control. My hand twitches toward my lap, fingers brushing the translucent barrier over my mound, feeling the device's outline throb beneath. One rub, one press, and maybe... But no. I yank my hand back, heart pounding, as the memory of that girl on the bunk flashes vivid—the flutter of laminate sealing her face, the vacuum sucking her into stillness, ruining everything in a gasp of denial.

The device senses my retreat and dials back, the vibration ebbing to a maddening simmer, leaving me aching, empty, my clit throbbing with unmet need. I curl forward, forehead pressing against my knees, trying to breathe through it, but the reprieve is always brief. Minutes later—or is it hours?

Father’s morning briefing, 08:00 sharp. If I’m not there, the staff will notice. If they notice, the ambassador notices...

The thought ricochets through me. The edger answers with a slow, deliberate swell, stretching me open just enough to remind me it’s still there, still counting. Ninety hours left? Eighty? I don't know anymore.

I shift on the bunk and the translucent laminate brushes my nipples like a stranger’s breath—teasing, intimate, unwanted yet craved. Every cellmate can see the black panties clinging to me and the exposed hole between my legs, the faint tremor in my thighs. All but the domme kindly pretend not to notice.

I press my forehead to the cool metal rail, counting heartbeats instead of hours. The device syncs to them, learning me better with every pulse. Every spike of panic feeds it; every fleeting fantasy of rescue sharpens the edge it refuses to let me cross.

Then I feel a tickle at the back of my neck. I bat it away, expecting some insect, but there's nothing there. My cellmates stir around me, all swatting at the backs of their necks. I look at them and notice the transparent, thin laminate creeping up their necks. I feel it on mine too—cool, insistent, inevitable. Quickly, it wraps around all of our heads, sealing us fully into our suits. I instinctively grasp at it, but it's slippery; my fingers slide uselessly as it surrounds my face. As I breathe in, the thin laminate is drawn tight against my lips, molding to every contour.

Before panic can fully take hold, a loud hiss erupts from my suit. The air inside—and I can see it happening in everyone else's—begins to darken as the suits emanate a purple gas, filling the sealed space around me. I try to hold my breath, but I can't forever. I have **** but to inhale it. It smells... nice. Sweet, almost intoxicating, like forbidden nectar.

Dizziness washes over me in warm waves. I steady myself on the bunk, gripping the edge as the world softens.

I hear a crumpling noise as my cellmates collapse into sleep around me, their bodies relaxing into surrender.

The panic fades, dissolving like mist.

All I want now is to sleep.

I lay down.

I close my eyes.