Chapter 1: The Pink Glow Protocol
The screen on the wall was the size of a coffin lid, and it showed everything.
Anya watched her own reflection in high definition as Xorgon worked two slick fingers into her from behind, her knees spread wide on the padded bench, her palms flat against the cold metal surface. The angle was unforgiving. It caught the tremble in her thighs, the sweat beading along her spine, the way her mouth fell open when his knuckles pressed deeper.
"You're tight tonight," Xorgon observed, his voice carrying that dry amusement she'd come to recognize. "Nervous?"
She shook her head, though her breath hitched when he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with something larger, blunter. Cold metal kissed her rim, and she clenched instinctively.
"Relax," he said, not unkindly. "Or don't. The counting plug doesn't care either way."
The plug was a wicked piece of engineering—smooth, tapered, deceptively heavy. It seated itself inside her with a wet click that echoed in the small room. Anya's fingers curled against the bench, her nails leaving faint crescents in the metal.
The screen in front of her flickered. A number appeared in the corner: 0.
"Every time you clench," Xorgon explained, moving around to face her, "it logs a tally. Think of it as a gratitude journal. By the time we're finished, I want to see how thankful you really are."
"You're a sick man," she managed.
"Alien," he corrected. "And you're the one who signed the waiver."
He was tall and lean, his skin the color of burnished copper, his eyes too large and too dark to be human. He wore no shirt. The tentacle devices—three of them—unfurled from the harness strapped across his chest, sleek and black, each tipped with a different attachment. They moved with a fluid intelligence, like serpents tasting the air.
The first one found her left nipple. It was the lapping tip—soft, textured, relentless. The second mirrored it on the right, and Anya's jaw tightened as the suction began. The third slithered lower, winding between her legs, and her hips jerked when the tip made contact with her clit.
"Don't fight it," Xorgon said, settling into a chair across from her, close enough to watch her face, far enough that she couldn't reach him. "You paid for the full experience."
She had. That was the strange part. She'd found him through channels she didn't fully understand, paid a sum she didn't fully remember, and signed documents that had made her laugh at the time. But now, pinned between the bench and his machines, the reality of it pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
The tentacles worked in concert. The two at her nipples pulled and twisted, the suction alternating between gentle and cruel. The one between her legs traced lazy circles, then pressed flat and vibrated. Anya's breath came in short gasps. Her thighs shook.
The plug inside her shifted when she clenched, and the screen flickered again.
"Three already," Xorgon noted. "You're practically devotional."
"Shut up," she breathed.
He laughed—a low, genuine sound. "I like you. Most of them cry by now."
The tentacle at her clit dipped lower, found her entrance where the plug sat flush, and prodded at the stretched rim. Anya's spine arched. Her vision blurred at the edges. The plug was big, bigger than she'd anticipated, and every clench sent a spike of pressure deep into her gut.
The screen read 7.
"Breathe," Xorgon instructed.
She tried. The air came out as a moan.
The tentacles coordinated with mechanical precision. The one at her left nipple released, slithered down her belly, and joined its brother between her legs. It pressed against her clit while the other continued its work at her entrance, and the dual stimulation made her see white.
"Not yet," Xorgon said, watching her face. "You don't come until I say."
"Bastard."
"That's not very grateful."
He leaned forward and pressed a button on the armrest of his chair. The plug inside her began to vibrate. Anya screamed—a short, sharp sound that echoed off the walls.
The screen read 12.
"Better," he said. "Now let's see how many more you can give me."
The tentacles withdrew. Anya sagged against the bench, her body trembling, her skin slick with sweat. Before she could catch her breath, Xorgon was behind her again, his hands on her wrists, pulling them behind her back.
"No," she said, but it wasn't a protest. It was anticipation.
He bound her wrists with something soft—silk, maybe, or a synthetic that mimicked it—and attached the binding to a hook on the wall above her head. She was forced to lean forward, her chest pressed to the bench, her ass raised and vulnerable.
"Comfortable?"
"Go to hell."
"I've been there. The cuisine is terrible."
He moved to her ankles next, spreading her legs wide and securing each to opposite corners of the bench's base. She was open, exposed, completely at his mercy. The screen repositioned itself, floating on a mechanical arm, so she could see everything he was about to do.
He approached her from behind, and she felt his fingers trace the curve of her ass. He lingered on the sit spots—the sensitive patch where thigh meets cheek—and pressed hard.
"I'm going to whip you now," he said. "Five implements. Each one worse than the last. Your job is to hold still. Every time you move, we start over."
She nodded, her throat dry.
"I need words, Anya."
"Yes."
"Say, 'Yes, Xorgon.'"
"Yes, Xorgon."
The first implement was a broad, flat paddle that glowed faintly at the edges. Plasma tawse, he'd called it once before. It weighed nothing in his hand, but when it landed across both sit spots, the impact was something else entirely—a concentrated burst of heat that made her gasp.
The screen flickered. She hadn't even realized she'd clenched.
"You're at fifteen," Xorgon said. "Let's aim for fifty."
The second implement was a flogger made of knotted gel-beads. It whistled through the air and landed with a wet thud, striking a different pattern—one strand catching her right cheek, another curling around her thigh. Anya's hips twitched.
"Sixteen."
The third was a crop with a tip that buzzed. When it struck, the vibration amplified the sting, sending shockwaves through her cunt. She bit down on her lip and tasted copper.
"Eighteen."
The fourth was a paddle made of something cold and heavy. Mercury, he'd called it, though she knew that couldn't be right. It landed with a crack that made her ears ring.
"Twenty-two."
The fifth was a strap that hummed as it moved. Sonic, he'd said. When it struck, the sound seemed to penetrate her skin, jangling her bones. She screamed—a real one this time, long and loud.
The screen read 31.
"You're moving," Xorgon observed.
Her body was shaking. Her ass was on fire. The plug inside her felt massive, every clench a fresh cruelty.
"I didn't mean to."
"I know. But rules are rules."
He started over.
By the third round, Anya was sobbing. Not from pain alone—though there was plenty of that—but from the relentless pressure of the plug, the way every strike made her clench, the way the screen counted higher and higher. She was at sixty-seven. Then seventy-two. Then eighty-four.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
She couldn't answer. Her mind had gone blank, white-hot, empty of everything except the hum of the strap and the click of the plug and the number growing on the screen.
When the first orgasm hit her, it was so sudden that Xorgon himself seemed surprised. She convulsed against the bench, her wrists straining against their bonds, her cunt flooding around the plug, and the screen flickered so fast the numbers blurred.
When it stopped, the screen read 127.
Xorgon was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed.
"Well," he said. "That's a record."
Anya couldn't speak. She could barely breathe. Her body was a ruin, her mind a blank slate, and the only thing she could feel was the steady pulse of the plug inside her, counting still, logging every clench like a prayer.
Xorgon moved to stand in front of her. His cock was hard, thick and alien, ridged in ways that she couldn't quite comprehend. He stroked it slowly, watching her face.
"You've earned something," he said. "But I haven't decided what yet."
She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her lips parted.
"Please," she said again, and this time she meant it.
He smiled—cruel, patient, delighted.
"Let's see how grateful you really are."