Chapter 1: Kickdown & Capture
Paul sat on his couch, it was a nice couch. He nursed his third beer, watching his friends. Jeff was arguing about football with someone on his phone. Kevin, perpetually anxious, kept checking his own phone, probably for a message from Mary. Ryan held court in the center of the room, his voice a confident boom over the thumping bass from the speaker.
“The key,” Ryan was saying, “is commitment. You walk into the room like you already own the bed.”
The front door exploded inward.
It didn’t just open. It slammed against the wall with a crack that silenced the music, the arguments, everything. Two figures were framed in the doorway, backlit by the harsh yellow porch light. before he could even move they stepped in.
Amy stepped in first. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the room, dismissing the décor, the mess, the men. Her presence was a physical rewrite of the atmosphere. The stale air suddenly crackled.
Tish flowed in behind her, a mischievous smile already playing on her lips.
“Gentlemen,” Amy said. Her voice was calm, clear, and cut through the silence like a blade. “The party’s here.”
Paul felt his stomach drop. "No, No, No" he started. but as soon as he spoke they both started at him.
"You must be paul." Amy said with a devilish grin. stepping in close her lips brushing his ear. " Cathrine sends her love." "She said we can do anything we want with you." Paul's world was actively shattering. "She just requested that we save your orgasm for her." "sooo..." pulling back she said in a louder voice for the room "I'm going to need everyone to sign these. Basic consent to be filmed and do's and donts. if you say stop we Will stop. its that simple. and with that bullshit out of the way. Iii'm Amy and this is Tiff, and we're here at the behest of the bride to wreck your party! congrats!
Amy Shoved Paul back into the chair Tish had placed there.
The vinyl chair groaned under his weight. The sound was obscene in the sudden quiet. Paul’s hands gripped the sticky arms, his knuckles white. His brain, fogged with beer, scrambled to catch up. This was a joke. It had to be.
Amy didn’t do jokes. She unslung a small black bag from her shoulder and dropped it on the coffee table with a definitive thud. Tish moved behind him. He tried to twist around, but a firm hand on his shoulder pinned him in place.
“Relax, groom,” Tish’s voice was a low purr by his ear. “You’re the guest of honor.”
“What are you doing?” Paul’s voice cracked. He looked to his friends for help. Jeff took a half-step forward, his phone forgotten. Kevin’s face was pale. Ryan just watched, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Setting the stage,” Amy said. She pulled a roll of silver duct tape from the bag. The rip of the tape leaving the roll was deafening. “Hold his arms, Tish.”
“Got him.”
Before Paul could even process the command, Tish’s hands—strong, deliberate—closed around his wrists. She pulled his arms back, securing them to the wooden slats of the chair’s back. The tape circled his flesh, cold and unyielding.
“Hey! Stop! This isn’t funny!” Paul tugged against the bindings. The tape didn’t give. Panic, hot and sour, rose in his throat.
“Who said anything about funny?” Amy knelt in front of him. Her eyes locked onto his. They were fathomless. “Catherine paid for an experience. We deliver experiences.”
From the bag, she produced a webcam, a small, sleek thing on a flexible stalk. With another brutal strip of tape, she secured it to the forehead of the chair, just above his hairline. A tiny red light blinked on. He was now the camera. The center of the lens.
“Wave to your future wife, Paul.” Amy’s smile was all teeth.
A pathetic sound escaped him. He felt the gaze of his friends, of the blinking red eye, of these two terrifying women. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“Now,” Amy said, straightening up. She looked at the group. “The first rule of this party is participation. The second rule is that the groom doesn’t get to come. Everything else?” She shrugged. “Negotiable.”
Ryan laughed, a sharp, excited bark. “I like these rules.”
Amy’s attention swung back to Paul. Her gaze traveled down his body, a clinical, appraising sweep. “He’s overdressed.”
Tish’s fingers, already at his shoulders, slid under the collar of his polo shirt. “Way overdressed.”
“No. Don’t.” Paul’s protest was a weak whisper. The word ‘stop’ was on his tongue, but it stuck there. Catherine had sent them. Catherine wanted this. To refuse felt like refusing her.
The fabric tore. A single, brutal rend from collar to hem. The sound of the material splitting was profoundly violating. Cool air hit his chest. He gasped.
Tish discarded the ruined shirt. Her hands went to his belt buckle. The metallic clink was extraordinarily loud. The belt slithered free. His jeans were next. The button popped. The zipper hissed down.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut. Humiliation burned his face, hotter than any fever. He heard Kevin mutter, “Jesus.” He heard Jeff shift his weight uncomfortably. He heard Ryan’s low, appreciative whistle.
The jeans were peeled down his legs, rough and efficient. He was left in his boxers, taped to the chair, the webcam’s red eye a steady pulse against his temple. The sticky vinyl touched the bare skin of his back and thighs. Every breath felt too loud.
Amy stood over him. She studied her work. Her expression was one of pure, focused assessment. No mockery. No lust. Just evaluation.
“Better,” she said. Her hand, surprisingly cool, brushed his clammy cheek. “Now you look like a participant.”
She turned to the room, to the stunned faces of his friends, to the blinking eye of the camera broadcasting his exposure to a screen somewhere, perhaps to Catherine herself.
“Let’s begin.”