Chapter 14: The Live Broadcast
The word “interview” hung in the air, a grotesque parody of my old life. It implied preparation, a resume, a discussion of skills and compensation. My skills were now measured in how convincingly I could beg for urine on camera, my compensation the fleeting approval in Raju’s eyes and the digital chime of a payment notification. My resume was a video file on a dark web server.
The days blurred into a grim routine of preparation. Raju was a meticulous director, and I was his star, training for the role of a lifetime.
“Again,” he’d say, his voice flat, as I knelt on the living room floor. “Describe what you are. Not to me. To the mirror.”
I’d stare at my reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror he’d dragged out. I saw a young woman in expensive loungewear, her hair still damp from a shower. But I had to see past that. I had to see the thing underneath.
“I am a set of holes,” I’d recite, my voice monotone at first. “My purpose is to be used. My mouth is for speaking filth and swallowing waste. My cunt is for penetration. My ass is for fucking. I have no will. I have no pride. I am property.”
“Louder. With feeling. You’re trying to sell yourself, remember? This Jaipurwal is a serious client. MasterV vouched for him. He doesn’t want a broken doll. He wants a conscious, willing slave. He wants to see the intelligence in your eyes when you degrade yourself.”
So I’d try again, injecting a tremble of fervent shame into my voice, widening my eyes to show the spark of horrified understanding. “I am a set of holes,” I’d whisper, then force the volume up. “My purpose is to be used!”
It was psychological boot camp. He drilled me on positions, on responses. A slap on the right cheek meant I was to say “Thank you for correcting me, Sir.” A slap on the left meant “Please, may I have another?” A kick to my ribs while I was on the ground meant I was to crawl to him and kiss his shoe. We developed a shorthand, a brutal sign language.
The physical preparations were more intimate, more violating. He decided the plug wasn’t sufficient. “He’ll want to fuck you in the ass. Probably right away. We need you loose. Receptive.”
So after my verbal drills, he would lay me on my stomach on the cold marble. He’d use a cruel, tapered metal dilator from a hidden kit, its surface cold even in the humid Mumbai air. He’d grease it with a clinical slowness, watching my face as he pressed the thick, unyielding tip against my asshole.
“Relax,” he’d command, a useless, sadistic mantra. My body would instinctively clench, a tight, terrified ring of muscle. He’d press harder, the pressure becoming a sharp, invasive burn. “If you fight it, it’ll tear. You want to be bleeding for him? You want to be a bad product?”
Tears of pain and frustration would leak onto the marble. I’d try to force my muscles to obey, to unlock. The dilation was a slow, excruciating process. He’d work the metal in and out, gradually, stretching me open far beyond the girth of the plug. The sensation was one of being un-made, of having a fundamental boundary of my body systematically dismantled. When he was done, I’d feel hollowed out, gaping, a void that ached for hours.
He’d make me walk around afterwards. “Get used to the feeling. It’s your new normal.”
The night before our flight, he didn’t touch me. He sat at my laptop, the blue glow lighting the scar on his eyebrow. “We need capital. For expenses. For demonstrating your… range.” He looked at me. “We’re doing a live stream. Tonight. A paid, private one. Top-tier subscribers only. It’s an audition for the Jaipur trip. A showreel.”
My stomach twisted. The recorded video was one thing. It existed in a void. A live stream was happening now, to people now. There was no editing, no second takes. My humiliation would be instantaneous and interactive.
He set up in the living room again, but the atmosphere was different. More technical. Two cameras this time—one wide shot capturing the whole velvet-sofa area, one tight on my face. He had a tablet to monitor the chat. He fitted me with a wireless lavalier microphone, the small, cold unit tucked between my breasts, the wire a sinister necklace. He collared me, the leather snug and familiar.
“You will do everything the chat says. Instantly. No hesitation. Your only words are ‘Yes, Master’ or ‘Yes, Mistress’ to the commands. Your only function is to obey. Understood?”
I nodded, my throat tight.
“Verbal.”
“Yes, Master.”
He gave me a last, appraising look, then started the stream. A soft chime sounded from the speakers. On the tablet screen, a black chat window began to fill with text. Alien usernames, dripping with symbolic underscores and numbers, popped into view.
MasterV: She looks well-trained.
Kali_Blade: Collar is a nice touch. Let’s see the merchandise. Spit on her.
Raju read it aloud, his voice a calm, detached conduit. “Kneel. Master Kali_Blade commands you to be spat on.”
I knelt on the maroon rug. Raju stood over me. He worked up a thick, phlegmy mass of spit in his mouth and let it fall. It landed with a warm, wet splat on my cheek, sliding slowly towards my chin. I didn’t flinch. I kept my eyes on the wide-angle lens.
Kali_Blade: Good. Now lick it off the floor.
The spit had dripped onto the rug. I lowered my head, my tongue extending. The wool was coarse against my tongue. I licked up the viscous, salty fluid, tasting the dust of the floor along with his saliva. The mic picked up the wet, scratching sound.
Daddy_Dom69: Make her say what she is.
Raju: “Tell the audience what you are.”
I looked into the tight camera, the one capturing every micro-expression. “I am a worthless set of holes. I am property. My only purpose is your entertainment.”
The chat scrolled faster.
Gape_Artist: We saw the piss video. Impressive. Let’s see her take a fist. Cunt first.
A cold terror, sharper than any before, shot through me. A fist. I had never… the dilator was one thing. This was something else. A human hand, knuckles and all, inside me. My eyes flicked to Raju in panic.
He read the message, his expression not changing. “The audience wishes to see your capacity. On your back. Legs spread and up.”
I lay down, the rug scratchy against my bare skin. I pulled my knees to my chest, exposing myself completely to the wide-angle camera. Raju knelt between my legs. He poured a generous amount of clear lubricant onto his right hand, working it over his fingers, his palm, coating his knuckles. The gel was cold. He held his clenched fist up to the camera for a moment, a glistening, brutal tool, then brought it down between my legs.
The broad pressure of his knuckles against my entrance was terrifying. My cunt was slick with fear and the cold lube, but it was not made for this. It was a tight, clutching muscle, designed to grip, not to yawn open.
“Breathe out,” he muttered, not for the chat, but for me. He began to push.
The stretch was astronomical. It was a burning, tearing fullness that went beyond pain into a realm of pure, shocking invasion. My body screamed in protest. I cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that the mic captured perfectly. I could feel every ridge of his knuckles, the hard bones of his hand, as he slowly, relentlessly forced his way inside me. My vision tunneled. The sensation of being packed, of being split open from the inside, was overwhelming. He worked his fist in, past the widest part, until his entire hand was buried inside my cunt, his wrist pressing against my labia.
I was panting, sobbing, my body shuddering around the massive, unmoving intrusion. The chat exploded.
Gape_Artist: HOLY SHIT. Look at that stretch. Tip sent.
MasterV: Quality. She takes it well. Now the other hole. Simultaneously.
Raju read it. He looked at my face, my tear-streaked, desperate face. He gave the tiniest, coldest smile. He lubed his left hand.
“No, please,” I whimpered, the words breaking protocol, but I couldn’t stop them.
The chat loved it.
Daddy_Dom69: She said please! How polite. DO IT.
With his right fist still buried in my cunt, he positioned the fingers of his left hand at my asshole, already loosened from the day’s dilation but nowhere near ready for this. He pushed two fingers in easily, then three, then four, scissoring them. The dual penetration was a mind-breaking overload. I was filled beyond capacity, stretched in two directions at once, a living sheath for his hands. The pain from my cunt and the deeper, more volatile pain from my ass merged into a single, white-hot sheet of agony. I thrashed my head from side to side, incoherent sounds bubbling from my throat.
Then he began to move. Not much. A slight twisting of his right fist, a slow pump of the fingers in my ass. The movements sparked violent, conflicting signals in my nerves. Agony, yes, but buried deep within it, buried under layers of tearing tissue and panic, a treacherous, deep throb of sensation began to wake up. The sheer, obscene fullness was stimulating something primal, something that responded to the absolute violation of my space.
A moan tangled with my sob.
Kali_Blade: She’s liking it! Look at her face!
Raju saw it too. He increased the pace slightly, his fist rotating inside me, his fingers curling in my ass. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. My body was betraying me, responding to the brutal mechanics of the act. The pain began to mutate, to blend with a grotesque, undeniable pleasure. The orgasm that built was not like any before. It was a seismic event born of total physical conquest. It crashed through me with no touch to my clit, a convulsive, devastating wave that clenched violently around the invading hands. I came with a scream that was pure release, my back arching off the rug, my cunt and ass spasming around his embedded fists.
The chat went insane. Tip notifications pinged like machine-gun fire on the tablet.
He slowly, carefully withdrew his hands. The feeling of sudden, gaping emptiness was almost as shocking as the intrusion. I lay there, utterly wrecked, fluid—lube, my own arousal, maybe a trace of blood—seeping onto the rug beneath me. I couldn’t move.
Anonymous_User: Make her drink. From herself.
Raju fetched a clear crystal tumbler from my bar. He held it between my legs, pressing the rim against me, collecting the mingled fluids that dripped from my stretched, well-used holes. He didn’t get much, maybe a shallow centimeter of cloudy, viscous liquid.
He held the glass up to the camera, then brought it to my lips.
“Drink. What you’ve produced.”
I opened my mouth. He tipped the glass. The taste was musky, salty, metallic. I swallowed it, my throat working around the humiliation. The chat applauded.
For an hour, they commanded me. They made me crawl around the apartment fetching objects with my teeth. They made me spank myself with a hairbrush until my ass and thighs were a fiery red. They made Raju slap my cunt, hard, over and over, until I was sobbing and sensitive. They tipped more, demanding combinations, demanding degradations.
Finally, MasterV typed: Enough. She’s ready. Have her thank the audience.
Raju pulled me up to my knees. I was a mess—covered in sweat, tears, lube, my face flushed, my body marked and trembling. He positioned me in front of the tight camera.
“Thank them,” he said.
I looked into the lens, into the faceless void of a hundred privileged perverts. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice raw and broken. “Thank you for using me. Thank you for making me useful.”
The stream ended. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by my ragged breathing. Raju checked the tablet. He let out a low whistle. “Twelve thousand, four hundred dollars. In seventy minutes.” He looked at me with something that might have been respect, or simply the satisfaction of a merchant reviewing a spectacular sale. “Get cleaned up. We have a flight at dawn.”
Jaipur smelled different. Mumbai’s air was a thick soup of salt, exhaust, and humanity. Jaipur’s was drier, dustier, carrying the faint, sandy perfume of the desert and the distant, sugary smell of cooking oil from street vendors. The heat was a blunt, pressing weight, not the clinging wet blanket of home.
We took a taxi from the airport to a hotel, but not a hotel I would have ever chosen. It was in the old city, near the Pink City walls, a place of faded grandeur with intricate, dusty latticework and a sluggish ceiling fan in the lobby. It was discreet. Raju handled the check-in, giving a false name. He’d bought the tickets with cash from the stream earnings. We were ghosts.
Our room was on the top floor, a large suite that was once probably luxurious. The furniture was heavy, dark wood, the upholstery patterned in faded gold and red. A large, canopied bed dominated the space. The bathroom was all yellowing marble and brass fixtures. The windows looked out over a chaotic maze of rooftops, with the stern, majestic rise of Nahargarh Fort in the hazy distance.
Raju threw his small bag on a chair. “The meeting is at seven. At his house. In the Civil Lines.” He looked at me. I was wearing the “something nice” he’d demanded—a simple, elegant cream-colored silk dress that fell to my knees, with a high neck and cap sleeves. It was modest, sophisticated, the kind of thing a young professional might wear to a dinner party. It felt like the cruelest costume. Underneath, I was naked. No underwear. Just the lingering, tender ache from last night’s stretching.
“You will speak when spoken to. You will answer questions honestly. You will demonstrate obedience immediately upon command. Your value is in your willingness, your intelligence, and your total lack of limits. Remember the training.”
I just nodded. The verbal response seemed unnecessary now.
At ten to seven, a black SUV with tinted windows arrived at the hotel’s service entrance. A silent driver nodded at Raju. We got in the back. The interior was chilled, smelling of lemon air freshener and leather. The drive was smooth, taking us out of the old city’s chaos into the broad, tree-lined avenues of Civil Lines. The houses here were immense, set behind high walls and wrought-iron gates, palaces of modern wealth.
We stopped at a particularly imposing gate. A security guard peered in, nodded, and the gate swung open silently. The driveway wound through manicured gardens, lit by subtle ground lamps. The house was a modern interpretation of Rajasthani architecture—sandstone jali work, vaulted arches, but with vast sheets of glass.
A manservant in a crisp white uniform greeted us at the door and led us through a soaring, minimalist foyer into a study. This room was all masculine power. Dark walnut bookcases lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and modern art pieces. A massive desk of polished black wood stood empty. Instead, the man was seated in a low-slung leather chair near a window, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He was older than I expected, perhaps in his late fifties. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored kurta-pajama of raw silk. He had a strong, lined face, a close-cropped beard shot with silver, and eyes that were calm, intelligent, and utterly devoid of warmth. He watched us enter without rising.
“Raju,” the man said, his voice a soft, cultured baritone. “And the product. Sara, is it?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. His gaze swept over me, not with the hungry lechery of the chat users, but with the analytical detachment of a collector assessing a new acquisition. “MasterV’s footage was compelling. The live stream last night was… instructive. It showed range. And marketability.”
“Thank you, sir,” Raju said, his posture subtly deferential. This was a different dynamic. Here, Raju was not the master; he was the handler, the agent presenting his asset.
The man—he hadn’t given a name—gestured with his glass. “Walk to the center of the room, Sara. Turn around.
I walked forward on the cream-colored silk of my dress, the fabric whispering against my thighs. The marble floor was cool through my thin soles. I stopped where the intricate Persian rug began, its patterns a blur in my peripheral vision. I turned slowly, a full rotation, feeling his eyes like physical weights measuring the drape of silk over my hips, the fall of my hair, the contained tremor in my hands.
“The dress is lovely. Remove it.”
His command was casual, conversational. I reached for the hidden zip at the side. My fingers, usually so deft with code, fumbled against the metal tag. The silence in the room was profound, broken only by the faint clink of ice in his glass as he took a sip. The silk sighed as it slid from my shoulders, down my body, to pool at my feet. I stood naked in the center of the room, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin.
“Come closer. Let me see the marks.”
I took five steps forward, stopping just outside the circle of light from his reading lamp. He set his glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His gaze was clinical, tracing the faint yellow remnants of the clamp bruises on my breasts, the deeper red welts from the hairbrush on my ass and thighs, the subtle, lingering puffiness between my legs. He saw everything. He saw the history written on my skin.
“You heal cleanly. Good. The stream last night was… vigorous. Did the fist truly arouse you?”
The question was a scalpel. Raju had coached me on honesty. “Yes, sir.”
“Describe the sensation. The moment it became pleasure, not just pain.”
I swallowed. The memory was a fresh wound. “It was a… a tearing feeling. Like being split. Then it was a fullness. An absolute fullness. My body… it just gave up. It gave in. The signal got confused.” My voice was a dry leaf, crumbling.
He nodded, as if I’d confirmed a hypothesis. “The confusion is the point. The subversion of nerve endings. Of will.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Raju says you are intelligent. A consultant. You understand systems, protocols.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a new system. Your body is the hardware. My will is the operating system. Raju is the… installer.” A faint, cold smile touched his lips. “We are considering a long-term contract. A lease, of sorts. You would reside here. Your duties would be specific. You would service myself and certain vetted business associates. The material would be exclusive, not for public streaming. The compensation to your handler would be significant.”
He was talking about me as if I were a piece of server infrastructure. A private cloud for perversion. The banality of the negotiation was more terrifying than Raju’s violence.
“I require a demonstration. Not of pain tolerance. That is established. I require a demonstration of psychological surrender. Of operational obedience.” He looked past me to Raju. “The bathroom. Through that door. You will find a scenario prepared. She is to enter alone. She is to follow the instructions she finds there. You will wait here with me. We will observe.”
Raju gave a single, sharp nod. He didn’t look at me.
I turned and walked toward the heavy teak door he’d indicated. My bare feet were silent on the marble. Each step felt like a movement toward an abyss I had consented to peer into, but never to enter. I turned the brass handle. The door opened into darkness.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The click of the latch was final.
A soft, sensor-activated light came on. It was a massive, opulent bathroom. Black marble floors, gold fixtures, a sunken tub. But the normalcy ended there. In the center of the floor, on a thick white towel, lay a collection of objects. A professional-grade video camera on a tripod, its red recording light already glowing. A wireless headset. A large, clear enema bag, already filled with warm, amber liquid. A coil of smooth, hemp rope. And a single sheet of cream stationery, weighted down by a heavy crystal ashtray.
I walked to the paper, my heart a frantic bird in a cage of ribs. The handwriting was precise, elegant.
Put on the headset. You will receive audio instructions. Comply. The camera is live-streaming to the study. Your performance is being evaluated. Begin by preparing yourself with the enema. Be thorough. You have ten minutes.
The headset was sleek, black, and padded. I lifted it and placed it over my ears. There was a soft hiss of silence, then a click.
“You can hear me.” It was his voice, the client’s, filtered slightly through the microphone, intimate in my ears. “Proceed.”
My hands were steady as I picked up the enema bag. The tube was tipped with a blunt, plastic nozzle. The liquid inside was warm, tea-colored. I knew what it was. The familiarity of the humiliation was its own kind of horror. I knelt on the towel, my back to the camera, presenting my ass to the lens. My fingers were cold as I guided the nozzle to my asshole, still tender from the night before. I took a breath and pushed.
The sensation was a deep, internal flooding. I held the bag high, letting gravity do its work. The warm liquid filled my colon, a blunt, expanding pressure. I clenched, fighting the immediate, primal urge to expel it. His voice was calm in my ear. “Take it all. You will retain it until instructed.”
I emptied the entire bag. The fullness was profound, a heavy, sloshing weight low in my gut. I withdrew the nozzle and remained on my knees, clenching desperately, my body trembling with the effort of containment.
“Stand. Face the camera.”
I stood, turning awkwardly, one hand pressed against my lower abdomen. The camera’s red eye stared.
“The rope. Tie your ankles together. Leave a foot of slack between them.”
I picked up the coil. The hemp was rough against my skin. I looped it around my ankles, tying a secure knot as Raju had once shown me, my fingers moving with a numb, practiced efficiency. The restraint made me feel off-balance, vulnerable.
“Now your wrists. Behind your back.”
I brought the rope behind me, struggling to tie my own wrists. The position strained my shoulders. The knot was clumsy but held. I was now bound, hobbled, filled with his waste, and on display. The pressure in my bowels was a screaming urgency.
“Good. Now, speak to the camera. Describe what you are feeling. Be precise.”
I looked into the lens. I imagined him in the other room, watching on a screen, sipping his whiskey. “I am… I am full, sir. The enema is inside me. I am fighting to keep it in. The rope is rough on my ankles and wrists. I feel… exposed. I feel like an animal waiting for a procedure.”
“Are you aroused?”
I searched myself. Beneath the cramping discomfort, the shame, the fear, a low, treacherous current hummed. The absolute helplessness was a drug. “Yes, sir. I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no choice. Because my body is not my own. Because you are watching me struggle and it… it means something to you. That transaction arouses me.”
A pause. I could almost hear his approval through the static. “Kneel.”
I lowered myself awkwardly, the bound ankles making the motion ungainly. I settled back on my heels, the movement causing the liquid inside me to shift dangerously.
“Crawl to the bathtub.”
I shuffled forward on my knees, a clumsy, hobbled gait. The marble was unforgiving. Each movement sent waves of pressure through my lower body. I reached the sunken tub. It was empty, clean, white porcelain.
“Stand. Step into the tub.”
This was harder. I had to half-roll, half-lift myself over the lip, falling into the basin with a thud. I lay there for a second, winded, my bound limbs splayed.
“Sit up. Kneel in the center of the tub. Face the camera.”
I managed to get to my knees. The tub was deep. Only my head and shoulders rose above the rim. I was in a white porcelain pit.
“You may now release.”
The permission was a shock. My body, straining for so long, instantly let go. A hot, violent torrent burst from me, flooding the tub beneath me with the tea-colored liquid. The sound was loud, vulgar, a rushing cascade that seemed to go on forever. The relief was physical, immense, but the humiliation was total. I was literally voiding myself in front of a live camera, on command. My face burned, but I kept my eyes on the lens, as instructed.
When the last contractions subsided, I was kneeling in a pool of warm, used fluid. The smell, earthy and sour, rose around me.
“Remain there.” His voice was unchanged. “Raju will now enter. You will service him. You will use only your mouth. Demonstrate your gratitude for this opportunity.”
The bathroom door opened. Raju stepped in, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at the mess in the tub, or at the camera. He walked to the edge, unzipped his trousers, and pulled out his cock. It was already half-hard. He stepped into the tub, his shoes splashing into the liquid I had just expelled.
He stood before me, the soiled water lapping at his ankles. He placed a hand on the back of my head. “Open.”
I did. He fed his cock into my mouth, not with rough passion, but with a deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness. I could taste the salt of his skin, the faint, musky pre-come. He was not fully hard. My task was to get him there. I swirled my tongue, sucked, used every technique I’d learned. The filthy water soaked through the silk of my dress where it was tangled around my knees. The smell was in my nostrils. His cock grew rigid in my mouth.
He began to fuck my face with slow, deep thrusts, holding my head steady. I took it, my throat relaxing, opening for him. The head bumped the back of my throat each time. Gagging, I swallowed around him. The sounds were obscenely wet. He picked up the pace, his hips snapping forward, his grip on my hair tightening. I was a thing, a warm, wet hole being used in a tub of my own waste. The cognitive dissonance was absolute. It shattered me.
With a grunt, he came, pulsing hot jets of semen onto my tongue. I swallowed convulsively, taking every drop. He held himself there for a moment, then withdrew, tucking himself away.
He stepped out of the tub, his shoes leaving wet prints on the black marble. He left without a word.
The client’s voice returned to my ears, soft, satisfied. “Adequate. You may clean yourself. Use the shower. There is a robe. Join us when you are presentable.”
The headset went dead.
I knelt in the cooling, fouled water for another minute, bound and spent. Then, with mechanical movements, I chewed through the rope on my wrists until it loosened. I untied my ankles. I stood on shaky legs and turned on the shower, adjusting it to scalding. I stepped under the spray, letting the water sluice away the physical filth, knowing the other kind was permanent.
I dried with a thick towel and put on the white terrycloth robe hanging on the door. It smelled of lavender. I brushed my wet hair back with my fingers. My reflection in the steamy mirror was a ghost’s.
I walked back into the study. The two men were standing by the window, speaking in low tones. They turned as I entered. The client assessed my clean, robed form. He nodded to Raju.
“The terms are acceptable. A three-month lease. We begin tomorrow. She will be moved to the downstairs suite. You will have the payment transferred by morning.”
Raju’s face showed no triumph, only a businesslike satisfaction. He nodded. “It’s been a pleasure.”
The client finally looked at me, directly. “Your training is good. But we will refine it. You have potential beyond simple physical service. We will explore the mind. The breaking of cognitive pathways. It will be… fascinating.”
He walked to his desk, dismissing us. The meeting was over.
In the car back to the hotel, Raju was silent. The city lights streaked by the tinted windows. Back in our dusty suite, he finally spoke, checking his phone. “The first installment is in my account. A significant sum.” He looked at me. “You did well.”
I said nothing. I walked to the window, looking out at the fort on the hill, its walls lit against the night sky. A cage within a cage. I had been leased. My surrender was now a commercial contract. The silence within me was no longer just obedience; it was the quiet of a deep, interior fracture, a fundamental rewiring of my soul. The client was right. The exploration of that broken terrain would be his fascination.
My training, it seemed, was just beginning.