ClaireDeChantilly
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- Joined
- Feb 24, 2026
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The relief was finally here. After three years of relentless work and the exhaustion of final exams, the news arrived: I’ve been accepted into the Master’s program for the Art Market. It was supposed to be the perfect ending to my undergraduate years—the moment where all my discipline finally paid off.
I was ready to savor this victory. But while I was securing my future, I discovered that Josh had been spending his time betraying my trust in the most vulgar way possible.
He clearly thought I was too absorbed in my law books and art history research to see through his games. A fatal mistake. Studying the art market teaches you one thing very quickly: how to identify—and discard—worthless fakes.
Since he chose to shatter the perfection of my success, I decided to give him a closing ceremony he will never forget. Here is the record of his final lesson.
*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
You’ve noticed, haven’t you? The curated perfection of my feed has been... interrupted. A necessary purge. Some stains are just too vulgar to remain alongside my art history notes and legal textbooks. And Josh? Josh was a stain that required professional removal.
While I was at the Sorbonne, analyzing the finer points of civil liability, he was busy creating the sordid evidence that now sits secured on my phone. That frame on my dresser, the one with the violent red 'X' over his smiling face? Consider it a mere statement of intent. Digital erasure is too easy for people like us. My family taught me that true vulgarity requires tangible retribution.
You're asking where he is. You’re asking about the sudden silence in this vast apartment.
Follow me.
I open the door to the guest suite. The air inside is different here—heavier, warmer, smelling faintly of his fear.
And there he is. My beautiful, deceitful mistake.
He is displayed on the antique wooden bed, stripped bare to the waist. His skin is already slick with a cold sweat, gleaming in the afternoon light. A thick, White blindfold is wrapped tightly around his head, stripping him of any sight of me or his surroundings. Above the crude cloth gag cutting sharply across his face, his breathing is ragged, panicked. He tries to plead, but only a pathetic, muffled whimpering escapes into the silence.
I’ve placed those large, noise-canceling headphones on his ears. I want him isolated inside his own head, left alone with his anticipation, unable to even hear the sound of my approach on the parquet floor.
He strains against the bed, but it’s useless. Thick, dark leather straps bind his biceps tightly to the heavy wooden frame, rendering those arms he was so proud of completely inert. But the true centerpiece of his captivity is at the foot of the bed.
Look at them. His bare feet, usually so quick to run to others, are now firmly secured in that dark oak stock—that pilori—I had specially commissioned. Locked tight in solid wood. He is perfectly immobile. A statue of regret carved from flesh and fear, waiting for my final judgment.
I move closer, the soft click of my boots on the wood the only sound he can’t hear. At the side of the bed, I grip the cold iron handle of the winch I’ve rigged up. With a few deliberate turns, the gears groan, and the chains crossing his chest and securing his wrists tighten, pulling his arms taut against the mattress, just like a piece of canvas being stretched for painting. His muscles tense, straining against the unyielding metal.
He has no idea where he is. He has no idea I’m even here, standing right over him.
I start at the furthest point. My manicured nails, sharp and painted a blood-red that matches the 'X' on his photo, lightly trace the soles of his large, size 43 feet locked in the stock. He flinches violently, a full-body jolt of surprise at the sudden, sharp touch he couldn't anticipate.
I let my hand glide slowly up his shin, over the hard curve of his knee, and along the dense muscle of his thigh. It’s a body I know better than my own textbooks. So beautiful. So sculpted. A perfect exterior hiding such a cheap interior.
My hand travels higher, over his flat stomach, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his breath. I reach his head and, in one swift motion, pull the noise-canceling headphones from his ears. The sudden influx of sound—his own ragged breathing, the faint street noise of Paris—must be overwhelming.
I lean in close, my voice a soft, chilling whisper against his ear. "Bonjour, Josh. You didn't really think I wouldn't find out, did you? That I was just some naive little girl studying art, while you were out there making a fool of me?"
He writhes, a desperate, muffled sound caught in his throat behind the gag. He's trying to speak, to beg, to lie. It's pathetic.
I continue my slow, deliberate caress across his chest, my fingertips dancing over his skin. "How many of them did you hold like this, Josh? How many of them did you whisper those same sweet nothings to?"
He thrashes wildly against the heavy leather straps, the chains rattling as he lets out a frantic, muffled groan through the cloth gag.
I smile, trailing a single, sharp nail down his sternum. "Way too many, yes. I completely agree with you."
And then, I strike. My fingers find that one spot on his ribs, right under his arm. I don't just touch it; I tease it, scratching lightly, efficiently.
His reaction is instantaneous. His entire body bucks against the restraints, a strangled cry of pure, involuntary torture escaping the gag.
"And how many of them knew just how... sensitive you are right here?" I finish, my voice dripping with mock sweetness.
I don't stop. My fingers become a torment, gliding and scratching, exploiting every ticklish nerve ending on his torso. He’s squirming helplessly, his breath coming in short, high-pitched gasps.
I look directly into the camera lens, addressing my audience. "Look at this, everyone. All these muscles, this body like carved marble... and yet, he's so incredibly ticklish. He always hated losing control, always had to be the man in charge, didn't you, Josh?"
As I speak, my hand finds another one of his unbearable spots, lower on his side. He jerks violently, a fresh wave of involuntary spasms wracking his frame as he fights a battle he can't possibly win.
I don't relent. This torso, which must have made so many others dream in those dark nightclubs, holds absolutely no secrets from me. I lean down, my hair falling over his heaving chest, and press a slow, deeply sensual kiss right over his racing heart. A brand. A visual reminder to my followers, and to him, that despite his wanderings, this body belongs to me right now. I own it.
He groans into the gag, violently throwing his weight against the rusted chains crossing his chest, his biceps bulging against the dark leather straps as he desperately tries to free his arms.
I chuckle softly, running a sharp nail over the cold iron links holding him down. "It's completely vain, Josh. Stop exhausting yourself. It’s absolutely crazy what you can find in the cellars of old French châteaux these days, isn't it? Authentic 18th-century restraint. Built to hold fast."
I slowly stand up from the edge of the bed. The sharp clack, clack of my leather boots on the parquet floor echoes loudly in the silent room. Because of the blindfold, my footsteps are his only radar. I walk deliberately, slowly, tracing a path down the length of the bed towards the heavy oak stock at the foot.
I can see his chest rising and falling even faster now. He's anticipating. He's agonizing in the dark, wondering where the next strike will land.
I stop at the foot of the bed. I bend at the waist, positioning my face just inches from his trapped, size 43 feet. I let out a slow exhale, allowing my warm breath to ghost directly over his bare soles.
He shivers instantly. He knows exactly what is about to happen. His large toes curl tightly inward, a pathetic, instinctive defense mechanism trying to hide the vulnerable arches of his feet from me.
"Would you happen to be scared, Josh?" I tease, my voice a soft, mocking purr meant for the camera as much as for him. "Could it be that you are ticklish down here, too?"
I lean in just a fraction more and press a soft, mocking kiss to his big toe. Then, before he can even process the humiliation, I drag the tips of my long, sharp nails directly into the soft, unprotected hollow of his sole.
His reaction is explosive. He bucks wildly, the heavy stock rattling slightly against the bedframe. It’s intoxicating, really, discovering just how helplessly sensitive he is down here. For a guy who prides himself on his tough exterior, his large feet are shockingly delicate. There's barely a callus to be found—the privilege of a life spent in expensive loafers and soft, tailored socks.
It leaves so much unblemished, hyper-sensitive skin for me to play with.
I trace the high arch of his foot, dragging my nails down to his heel, then back up to flutter rapidly just beneath his tightly curled toes. I'm openly laughing now, completely amused as he giggles—an actual, desperate, muffled giggle tearing through the cloth gag as he writhes in the heavy oak constraints.
"As much as I'm enjoying this live exhibition," I say, glancing at the delicate gold watch on my wrist, "my Pilates instructor is incredibly strict about punctuality. I really have to go."
His muffled groans instantly change pitch, taking on a more frantic, pleading rhythm as he hears my footsteps backing away.
"Shh, don't worry," I soothe, my tone dripping with false sympathy. "I wouldn't leave you completely alone. I have just the thing to keep you company."
I step out of the bedroom for just a moment. The silence stretches, thick and terrifying for him, before I step back inside.
Meow.
Josh goes completely rigid on the bed. The chains rattle softly as he tries to pull back, pure panic setting in. He knows that sound. Sam and Christie, my two beautiful, very affectionate cats. He absolutely despises them. And more importantly... he is terribly allergic.
"Before our breakup is finalized, my two little loves wanted to say goodbye and keep you company one last time," I explain sweetly to his blindfolded face.
I walk back to the foot of the bed, producing a small porcelain bowl and a fine little brush. The liquid inside sloshes gently. I dip the brush in and generously paint the sensitive, raw soles of his size 43 feet with cold, sweet milk. He shivers violently at the wet, bristly contact, thrashing blindly in the stock.
I lift Sam and Christie onto the mattress, right near the foot of the bed. It doesn't take long. Sam approaches first, sniffing the air, before his rough, sandpaper-like tongue drags directly across the center of Josh's right sole.
Josh convulses, a fresh, muffled shriek of ticklish agony escaping him. Then Christie joins in, her rough little tongue lapping at the milk on his left foot. The sensation of those raspy tongues on his most sensitive skin, combined with the sheer terror of his impending allergic reaction, sends him into a complete frenzy.
I turn the phone's camera back to myself, offering my followers one last, perfect smile.
"Well, I think he's in excellent company," I whisper. I look back at Josh, who is helplessly squirming and giggling into his gag as the cats relentlessly bathe his feet.
"Have a lovely afternoon, Josh. Enjoy the company."
I walk out, the click of my heels fading away, and pull the heavy double doors firmly shut behind me.
(The video cuts. When it resumes, the lighting in the room has shifted to the warm, golden hues of early evening. I step back into the guest suite, camera in hand.)
Several hours have passed.
The air in the room is thick. Josh is completely drenched in sweat. His chest heaves rapidly beneath the rusted chains, exhausted from hours of fighting restraints that simply won't yield.
I walk to the foot of the bed and inspect my handiwork. I am deeply satisfied with the result. The milk is long gone. Instead, the soles of his feet are flushed a bright, angry red from the constant, abrasive friction of two feline tongues, now slick with nothing but cat saliva.
"Well," I say smoothly, stepping up to his side. "It seems you had quite a bit of 'fun' while I was gone."
I reach down and finally pull the heavy cloth gag from his mouth, followed by the white blindfold. He blinks rapidly against the dimming light, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and bloodshot from a mixture of panic, exhaustion, and probably a mild allergic reaction.
"Please, babe," he rasps immediately, his voice hoarse. "Claire, please, stop. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Just let me go. I can explain everything, I swear."
I look down at him, my expression perfectly blank. "But you cheated on me, Josh. Again and again."
"Claire, just listen to me—" he tries to speak, to offer some pathetic excuse, but I hold up a finger to silence him.
"There is nothing left to explain," I say coldly. "There is absolutely nothing else to add."
"I'm a generous person," I continue. "So, I'm going to offer you a choice. You can either accept my final breakup gift... or you can spend the entire night locked in this bed, with my two precious treasures."
Right on cue, Christie jumps onto the mattress, letting out a sharp, demanding meow.
Josh flinches away from the sound, his eyes darting frantically toward the foot of the bed. I can see the hesitation in his eyes; he senses a trap. He knows me too well. But the thought of spending twelve more hours with the cats licking his raw, ticklish soles while he fights an allergic reaction is simply too much. His resolve shatters.
"The gift," he chokes out, his voice barely a whisper. "I accept the gift. Please, just... get them away from me."
"Excellent choice," I smile. "You are going to absolutely adore my present."
I shoo the cats out of the room and walk over to the antique vanity. Sitting on top of it is a beautiful, finely crafted wooden box. The name Josh is elegantly engraved on the lid. I pick it up, bring it over to the edge of the bed, and hold it so the camera can clearly see.
I open the latch.
Inside, resting on black velvet, is a heavy, gleaming stainless steel chastity cage. It's a brutalist piece of hardware—a thick base ring leading to a curved, vented metal cage, complete with a small, highly secure cylinder padlock and a single, tiny key.
Josh stares at it. The realization slowly drains what little color is left in his face.
"No," he gasps, shaking his head frantically against the mattress, the chains rattling as true panic sets in. "No, Claire, please! I beg you, not that! I'll do anything. I'll take the cats, I'll stay locked in this bed, just please don't do that to me!"
"You made your choice, Josh," I say softly, my voice completely devoid of any sympathy.
I set the camera down on a tripod, keeping the framing tight on the lower half of his body. I step closer to him. My manicured hand gently traces the line of his left thigh, moving slowly, deliberately upwards. I reach the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. With methodical precision, I slip them down his muscular legs and pull them off completely.
He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away in pure, absolute humiliation.
I look down at his exposed anatomy. "Look at this," I narrate softly to my audience, running a single, cold nail lightly over his vulnerable skin. He shivers violently under the touch. "Usually so proud, so eager to perform and impress whoever gave him a second glance at the club. And now... it's just soft, defenseless, and shrinking under the cold reality of consequence. The very tool of his betrayal, finally neutralized. It's almost poetic."
"Claire, stop, please..." he whimpers, his hips instinctively trying to pull away, but the heavy oak stock and the iron chains hold him hopelessly pinned.
Meticulously, taking my time to draw out his agony, I begin to apply the device. First, I take the heavy, lower stainless steel base ring and slide it carefully behind his testicles. The freezing metal shocks his warm, sweaty skin, and he lets out a sharp, pathetic gasp. Next, I guide his flaccid length directly into the curved, vented steel tube. I make absolutely sure every piece of him is perfectly contained, trapped within the unforgiving metal bars. The fit is absolute, inescapable, and undeniably permanent.
I align the hinges, slide the solid metal pin through the locking mechanism, and press the small padlock closed.
Click. The sound is incredibly loud, echoing with grim finality in the quiet room. I pull the tiny key out of the lock and hold it up to the light.
"There," I whisper, admiring how flawlessly and securely he is trapped. "Beautiful. You know, Josh, maybe you can call one of those brunettes from the VIP lounge to come help you. Who knows? Perhaps one of your many recent conquests magically possesses the key to unlock you." I let out a soft, mocking laugh. "If not... well, with a little bit of luck, and a whole lot of humiliating explaining, you might eventually find a locksmith capable of cutting this open."
"Claire, don't do this! Claire!" he screams, thrashing wildly against the unyielding chains. His voice cracks with genuine terror and desperation as I turn my back on him. "Please don't leave me like this!"
I don't look back as I walk out of the room, shutting the heavy double doors firmly behind me, cutting off his panicked pleas.
(The camera cuts one final time. It's twilight now. The wind is whipping my hair. Behind me, the dark waters of the Seine reflect the city lights. I am standing on the Pont des Arts.)
"In Paris, lovers come to this bridge to lock their love together forever," I say to the camera, holding up a heavy, solid brass padlock. Neatly engraved on the metal is one word: Josh.
"But I study art history," I continue, stepping up to the metal railing, already weighed down by thousands of other locks. "I know that every era eventually comes to an end. Every exhibition closes."
I find an empty spot on the grate. I snap the heavy padlock onto the bridge. It locks with a satisfying, final click.
But I don't throw the key into the river. That would be too cliché.
Instead, I take the tiny, delicate key—the exact same key that opens the metal cage currently locked around my cheating ex-boyfriend's groin—and I slide it perfectly into the keyhole of the padlock on the bridge. I leave it right there. Sticking out, glinting in the Parisian streetlights, completely visible but inextricably attached to the architecture of the city.
I seal my breakup definitively.
"Au revoir, Josh," I whisper to the camera.
(The video ends).
I was ready to savor this victory. But while I was securing my future, I discovered that Josh had been spending his time betraying my trust in the most vulgar way possible.
He clearly thought I was too absorbed in my law books and art history research to see through his games. A fatal mistake. Studying the art market teaches you one thing very quickly: how to identify—and discard—worthless fakes.
Since he chose to shatter the perfection of my success, I decided to give him a closing ceremony he will never forget. Here is the record of his final lesson.
*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
You’ve noticed, haven’t you? The curated perfection of my feed has been... interrupted. A necessary purge. Some stains are just too vulgar to remain alongside my art history notes and legal textbooks. And Josh? Josh was a stain that required professional removal.
While I was at the Sorbonne, analyzing the finer points of civil liability, he was busy creating the sordid evidence that now sits secured on my phone. That frame on my dresser, the one with the violent red 'X' over his smiling face? Consider it a mere statement of intent. Digital erasure is too easy for people like us. My family taught me that true vulgarity requires tangible retribution.
You're asking where he is. You’re asking about the sudden silence in this vast apartment.
Follow me.
I open the door to the guest suite. The air inside is different here—heavier, warmer, smelling faintly of his fear.
And there he is. My beautiful, deceitful mistake.
He is displayed on the antique wooden bed, stripped bare to the waist. His skin is already slick with a cold sweat, gleaming in the afternoon light. A thick, White blindfold is wrapped tightly around his head, stripping him of any sight of me or his surroundings. Above the crude cloth gag cutting sharply across his face, his breathing is ragged, panicked. He tries to plead, but only a pathetic, muffled whimpering escapes into the silence.
I’ve placed those large, noise-canceling headphones on his ears. I want him isolated inside his own head, left alone with his anticipation, unable to even hear the sound of my approach on the parquet floor.
He strains against the bed, but it’s useless. Thick, dark leather straps bind his biceps tightly to the heavy wooden frame, rendering those arms he was so proud of completely inert. But the true centerpiece of his captivity is at the foot of the bed.
Look at them. His bare feet, usually so quick to run to others, are now firmly secured in that dark oak stock—that pilori—I had specially commissioned. Locked tight in solid wood. He is perfectly immobile. A statue of regret carved from flesh and fear, waiting for my final judgment.
I move closer, the soft click of my boots on the wood the only sound he can’t hear. At the side of the bed, I grip the cold iron handle of the winch I’ve rigged up. With a few deliberate turns, the gears groan, and the chains crossing his chest and securing his wrists tighten, pulling his arms taut against the mattress, just like a piece of canvas being stretched for painting. His muscles tense, straining against the unyielding metal.
He has no idea where he is. He has no idea I’m even here, standing right over him.
I start at the furthest point. My manicured nails, sharp and painted a blood-red that matches the 'X' on his photo, lightly trace the soles of his large, size 43 feet locked in the stock. He flinches violently, a full-body jolt of surprise at the sudden, sharp touch he couldn't anticipate.
I let my hand glide slowly up his shin, over the hard curve of his knee, and along the dense muscle of his thigh. It’s a body I know better than my own textbooks. So beautiful. So sculpted. A perfect exterior hiding such a cheap interior.
My hand travels higher, over his flat stomach, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his breath. I reach his head and, in one swift motion, pull the noise-canceling headphones from his ears. The sudden influx of sound—his own ragged breathing, the faint street noise of Paris—must be overwhelming.
I lean in close, my voice a soft, chilling whisper against his ear. "Bonjour, Josh. You didn't really think I wouldn't find out, did you? That I was just some naive little girl studying art, while you were out there making a fool of me?"
He writhes, a desperate, muffled sound caught in his throat behind the gag. He's trying to speak, to beg, to lie. It's pathetic.
I continue my slow, deliberate caress across his chest, my fingertips dancing over his skin. "How many of them did you hold like this, Josh? How many of them did you whisper those same sweet nothings to?"
He thrashes wildly against the heavy leather straps, the chains rattling as he lets out a frantic, muffled groan through the cloth gag.
I smile, trailing a single, sharp nail down his sternum. "Way too many, yes. I completely agree with you."
And then, I strike. My fingers find that one spot on his ribs, right under his arm. I don't just touch it; I tease it, scratching lightly, efficiently.
His reaction is instantaneous. His entire body bucks against the restraints, a strangled cry of pure, involuntary torture escaping the gag.
"And how many of them knew just how... sensitive you are right here?" I finish, my voice dripping with mock sweetness.
I don't stop. My fingers become a torment, gliding and scratching, exploiting every ticklish nerve ending on his torso. He’s squirming helplessly, his breath coming in short, high-pitched gasps.
I look directly into the camera lens, addressing my audience. "Look at this, everyone. All these muscles, this body like carved marble... and yet, he's so incredibly ticklish. He always hated losing control, always had to be the man in charge, didn't you, Josh?"
As I speak, my hand finds another one of his unbearable spots, lower on his side. He jerks violently, a fresh wave of involuntary spasms wracking his frame as he fights a battle he can't possibly win.
I don't relent. This torso, which must have made so many others dream in those dark nightclubs, holds absolutely no secrets from me. I lean down, my hair falling over his heaving chest, and press a slow, deeply sensual kiss right over his racing heart. A brand. A visual reminder to my followers, and to him, that despite his wanderings, this body belongs to me right now. I own it.
He groans into the gag, violently throwing his weight against the rusted chains crossing his chest, his biceps bulging against the dark leather straps as he desperately tries to free his arms.
I chuckle softly, running a sharp nail over the cold iron links holding him down. "It's completely vain, Josh. Stop exhausting yourself. It’s absolutely crazy what you can find in the cellars of old French châteaux these days, isn't it? Authentic 18th-century restraint. Built to hold fast."
I slowly stand up from the edge of the bed. The sharp clack, clack of my leather boots on the parquet floor echoes loudly in the silent room. Because of the blindfold, my footsteps are his only radar. I walk deliberately, slowly, tracing a path down the length of the bed towards the heavy oak stock at the foot.
I can see his chest rising and falling even faster now. He's anticipating. He's agonizing in the dark, wondering where the next strike will land.
I stop at the foot of the bed. I bend at the waist, positioning my face just inches from his trapped, size 43 feet. I let out a slow exhale, allowing my warm breath to ghost directly over his bare soles.
He shivers instantly. He knows exactly what is about to happen. His large toes curl tightly inward, a pathetic, instinctive defense mechanism trying to hide the vulnerable arches of his feet from me.
"Would you happen to be scared, Josh?" I tease, my voice a soft, mocking purr meant for the camera as much as for him. "Could it be that you are ticklish down here, too?"
I lean in just a fraction more and press a soft, mocking kiss to his big toe. Then, before he can even process the humiliation, I drag the tips of my long, sharp nails directly into the soft, unprotected hollow of his sole.
His reaction is explosive. He bucks wildly, the heavy stock rattling slightly against the bedframe. It’s intoxicating, really, discovering just how helplessly sensitive he is down here. For a guy who prides himself on his tough exterior, his large feet are shockingly delicate. There's barely a callus to be found—the privilege of a life spent in expensive loafers and soft, tailored socks.
It leaves so much unblemished, hyper-sensitive skin for me to play with.
I trace the high arch of his foot, dragging my nails down to his heel, then back up to flutter rapidly just beneath his tightly curled toes. I'm openly laughing now, completely amused as he giggles—an actual, desperate, muffled giggle tearing through the cloth gag as he writhes in the heavy oak constraints.
"As much as I'm enjoying this live exhibition," I say, glancing at the delicate gold watch on my wrist, "my Pilates instructor is incredibly strict about punctuality. I really have to go."
His muffled groans instantly change pitch, taking on a more frantic, pleading rhythm as he hears my footsteps backing away.
"Shh, don't worry," I soothe, my tone dripping with false sympathy. "I wouldn't leave you completely alone. I have just the thing to keep you company."
I step out of the bedroom for just a moment. The silence stretches, thick and terrifying for him, before I step back inside.
Meow.
Josh goes completely rigid on the bed. The chains rattle softly as he tries to pull back, pure panic setting in. He knows that sound. Sam and Christie, my two beautiful, very affectionate cats. He absolutely despises them. And more importantly... he is terribly allergic.
"Before our breakup is finalized, my two little loves wanted to say goodbye and keep you company one last time," I explain sweetly to his blindfolded face.
I walk back to the foot of the bed, producing a small porcelain bowl and a fine little brush. The liquid inside sloshes gently. I dip the brush in and generously paint the sensitive, raw soles of his size 43 feet with cold, sweet milk. He shivers violently at the wet, bristly contact, thrashing blindly in the stock.
I lift Sam and Christie onto the mattress, right near the foot of the bed. It doesn't take long. Sam approaches first, sniffing the air, before his rough, sandpaper-like tongue drags directly across the center of Josh's right sole.
Josh convulses, a fresh, muffled shriek of ticklish agony escaping him. Then Christie joins in, her rough little tongue lapping at the milk on his left foot. The sensation of those raspy tongues on his most sensitive skin, combined with the sheer terror of his impending allergic reaction, sends him into a complete frenzy.
I turn the phone's camera back to myself, offering my followers one last, perfect smile.
"Well, I think he's in excellent company," I whisper. I look back at Josh, who is helplessly squirming and giggling into his gag as the cats relentlessly bathe his feet.
"Have a lovely afternoon, Josh. Enjoy the company."
I walk out, the click of my heels fading away, and pull the heavy double doors firmly shut behind me.
(The video cuts. When it resumes, the lighting in the room has shifted to the warm, golden hues of early evening. I step back into the guest suite, camera in hand.)
Several hours have passed.
The air in the room is thick. Josh is completely drenched in sweat. His chest heaves rapidly beneath the rusted chains, exhausted from hours of fighting restraints that simply won't yield.
I walk to the foot of the bed and inspect my handiwork. I am deeply satisfied with the result. The milk is long gone. Instead, the soles of his feet are flushed a bright, angry red from the constant, abrasive friction of two feline tongues, now slick with nothing but cat saliva.
"Well," I say smoothly, stepping up to his side. "It seems you had quite a bit of 'fun' while I was gone."
I reach down and finally pull the heavy cloth gag from his mouth, followed by the white blindfold. He blinks rapidly against the dimming light, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and bloodshot from a mixture of panic, exhaustion, and probably a mild allergic reaction.
"Please, babe," he rasps immediately, his voice hoarse. "Claire, please, stop. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Just let me go. I can explain everything, I swear."
I look down at him, my expression perfectly blank. "But you cheated on me, Josh. Again and again."
"Claire, just listen to me—" he tries to speak, to offer some pathetic excuse, but I hold up a finger to silence him.
"There is nothing left to explain," I say coldly. "There is absolutely nothing else to add."
"I'm a generous person," I continue. "So, I'm going to offer you a choice. You can either accept my final breakup gift... or you can spend the entire night locked in this bed, with my two precious treasures."
Right on cue, Christie jumps onto the mattress, letting out a sharp, demanding meow.
Josh flinches away from the sound, his eyes darting frantically toward the foot of the bed. I can see the hesitation in his eyes; he senses a trap. He knows me too well. But the thought of spending twelve more hours with the cats licking his raw, ticklish soles while he fights an allergic reaction is simply too much. His resolve shatters.
"The gift," he chokes out, his voice barely a whisper. "I accept the gift. Please, just... get them away from me."
"Excellent choice," I smile. "You are going to absolutely adore my present."
I shoo the cats out of the room and walk over to the antique vanity. Sitting on top of it is a beautiful, finely crafted wooden box. The name Josh is elegantly engraved on the lid. I pick it up, bring it over to the edge of the bed, and hold it so the camera can clearly see.
I open the latch.
Inside, resting on black velvet, is a heavy, gleaming stainless steel chastity cage. It's a brutalist piece of hardware—a thick base ring leading to a curved, vented metal cage, complete with a small, highly secure cylinder padlock and a single, tiny key.
Josh stares at it. The realization slowly drains what little color is left in his face.
"No," he gasps, shaking his head frantically against the mattress, the chains rattling as true panic sets in. "No, Claire, please! I beg you, not that! I'll do anything. I'll take the cats, I'll stay locked in this bed, just please don't do that to me!"
"You made your choice, Josh," I say softly, my voice completely devoid of any sympathy.
I set the camera down on a tripod, keeping the framing tight on the lower half of his body. I step closer to him. My manicured hand gently traces the line of his left thigh, moving slowly, deliberately upwards. I reach the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. With methodical precision, I slip them down his muscular legs and pull them off completely.
He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away in pure, absolute humiliation.
I look down at his exposed anatomy. "Look at this," I narrate softly to my audience, running a single, cold nail lightly over his vulnerable skin. He shivers violently under the touch. "Usually so proud, so eager to perform and impress whoever gave him a second glance at the club. And now... it's just soft, defenseless, and shrinking under the cold reality of consequence. The very tool of his betrayal, finally neutralized. It's almost poetic."
"Claire, stop, please..." he whimpers, his hips instinctively trying to pull away, but the heavy oak stock and the iron chains hold him hopelessly pinned.
Meticulously, taking my time to draw out his agony, I begin to apply the device. First, I take the heavy, lower stainless steel base ring and slide it carefully behind his testicles. The freezing metal shocks his warm, sweaty skin, and he lets out a sharp, pathetic gasp. Next, I guide his flaccid length directly into the curved, vented steel tube. I make absolutely sure every piece of him is perfectly contained, trapped within the unforgiving metal bars. The fit is absolute, inescapable, and undeniably permanent.
I align the hinges, slide the solid metal pin through the locking mechanism, and press the small padlock closed.
Click. The sound is incredibly loud, echoing with grim finality in the quiet room. I pull the tiny key out of the lock and hold it up to the light.
"There," I whisper, admiring how flawlessly and securely he is trapped. "Beautiful. You know, Josh, maybe you can call one of those brunettes from the VIP lounge to come help you. Who knows? Perhaps one of your many recent conquests magically possesses the key to unlock you." I let out a soft, mocking laugh. "If not... well, with a little bit of luck, and a whole lot of humiliating explaining, you might eventually find a locksmith capable of cutting this open."
"Claire, don't do this! Claire!" he screams, thrashing wildly against the unyielding chains. His voice cracks with genuine terror and desperation as I turn my back on him. "Please don't leave me like this!"
I don't look back as I walk out of the room, shutting the heavy double doors firmly behind me, cutting off his panicked pleas.
(The camera cuts one final time. It's twilight now. The wind is whipping my hair. Behind me, the dark waters of the Seine reflect the city lights. I am standing on the Pont des Arts.)
"In Paris, lovers come to this bridge to lock their love together forever," I say to the camera, holding up a heavy, solid brass padlock. Neatly engraved on the metal is one word: Josh.
"But I study art history," I continue, stepping up to the metal railing, already weighed down by thousands of other locks. "I know that every era eventually comes to an end. Every exhibition closes."
I find an empty spot on the grate. I snap the heavy padlock onto the bridge. It locks with a satisfying, final click.
But I don't throw the key into the river. That would be too cliché.
Instead, I take the tiny, delicate key—the exact same key that opens the metal cage currently locked around my cheating ex-boyfriend's groin—and I slide it perfectly into the keyhole of the padlock on the bridge. I leave it right there. Sticking out, glinting in the Parisian streetlights, completely visible but inextricably attached to the architecture of the city.
I seal my breakup definitively.
"Au revoir, Josh," I whisper to the camera.
(The video ends).
