Chapter 4: Livestream Humiliation
The leash stayed on. For three days, Ben felt its phantom pressure against his throat in class, in the dining hall, in the shower. It was a loop of pure dread. Patricia hadn’t summoned him. She’d just texted a single photo each morning: the locker screen shot from the gym, the one of her on his back in the quad, the close-up of her foot on his face in her dorm room. No words. Just the evidence, ticking like a clock.
When the summons finally came, it was a location pin and a time: 9 PM. Her room.
He stood outside her door at 8:59, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He could hear music inside, something bass-heavy. He knocked.
The door swung open. Sarah was there, holding a phone on a small gimbal. “He’s here!” she called over her shoulder, grinning.
Patricia’s room was different. The desk lamp was angled for dramatic lighting, casting long shadows. Her laptop was open on her desk, screen tilted away. She stood in the center of the cleared floor, wearing sleek black leggings and a cropped athletic top. Her hair was down, a blonde cascade. She looked like she was hosting a podcast.
“Right on time,” she said, her voice bright and performative. “Come in, Ben. Don’t be shy.”
He stepped in. The door shut behind him with a soft click. Maya was perched on the bed, sipping from a can of seltzer.
“We’re going live in two,” Sarah said, looking at her own phone. “You ready, Pat?”
“Born ready.” Patricia’s eyes locked onto Ben. There was no mischief in them now, just a flat, polished intensity. “You remember the rules, Ben. Immediate obedience. We’re adding a new one tonight: enthusiasm. Or the video of you licking my feet gets emailed to the alumni association your dad’s so proud of.”
Ben felt cold. “What are you doing?”
“Broadcasting,” she said simply. She gestured to a small, silken bundle of lavender fabric on the floor. “Put those on. Over your head.”
He stared. They were her panties, crumpled, unmistakable.
“Now, Ben.”
His feet were lead. The room was too warm. Sarah’s phone light was a blinding eye. Maya’s gaze was a physical weight. He bent down, fingers trembling, and picked them up. The fabric was soft, holding the faint, intimate scent of her. A wave of nausea hit him.
“All the way,” Patricia instructed, her voice smooth for the microphone she must be wearing. “Like a ski mask. Eyes and mouth through the leg holes. It’s a good look for you.”
He pulled the garment over his head. The world narrowed to a blur of lavender light and the overwhelming, perfume-and-musk scent enveloping his nose and mouth. He could breathe, but every breath was her.
“Perfect!” Patricia clapped her hands once, a sharp, loud sound. She walked over to him, adjusted the fabric, tucking a strand of his hair inside. Her fingers were clinical. “Audience is loving it already. Say hi, Ben.”
He shook his head behind the fabric.
“Ben,” she said, the warning clear.
“…hi,” he muffled into the silk.
“Louder! And bark. Let them know what you are.”
He couldn’t. The word stuck in his throat, a solid lump of shame.
Patricia sighed, a sound picked up and amplified. She turned to Sarah’s phone. “Folks, he’s a little shy. First time on stream and all. Let’s encourage him.” She paused, reading a chat only she could see on her laptop. “See? They’re asking for it. They’re saying ‘bark or we share the pony-ride clip.’ You know the one.”
He knew. His vision swam. He made a sound, a choked cough.
“That wasn’t a bark. That was a sick gerbil. Try again.” She leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear, lethal and sweet. “Do it, or I start naming names. I’ll tag your brother. I’ll tag Professor Clay in the poli-sci department. Your choice.”
A low, ragged sound tore from him. “Woof.”
“Again! Let’s hear it! Good boy!”
“Woof! Woof!” The barks were too loud, desperate, echoing in the fabric mask. Hot tears welled in his eyes, absorbed by the silk.
The chat, invisible to him, must have exploded. Patricia’s face lit up with genuine delight. “They love it! Okay, pet. Down on all fours. The leash is a little passé for this. We’re going au naturel.”
He got down. The carpet was rough against his knees and palms.
“Crawl to me.”
He did, the lavender world bobbing with each movement.
“Now circle. Circle your master.” He crawled in a tight circle around her standing form. She narrated calmly. “As you can see, the training is ongoing. Positive reinforcement is key. He gets to keep his dignity intact… well, relatively… as long as he performs.” She stopped him with a foot on his back. “Sit. Up. Beg.”
He shuffled back onto his knees, raising his hands in a parody of a begging dog. The mask was damp with his breath and tears.
“Roll over.”
He lay down and rolled, the world tilting sickeningly.
“Good! Now, fetch.” She pulled a pen from her desk and tossed it lightly across the room. “Go on.”
He crawled after it, the absurdity a sharp pain in his chest. He retrieved the pen in his teeth, the plastic taste alien. He brought it back, dropping it at her feet.
“Excellent! See, everyone? With consistent discipline, even the most stubborn rivals can learn new tricks.” She picked up the pen and placed it on her desk. “Now, for our finale. Ben, I want you to crawl to the door and back. But I want you to bark the whole way. A happy, energetic bark. Let’s hear your spirit.”
He turned toward the door. It seemed a mile away. He took a breath, the scent filling his lungs, and let out a strangled “Woof.” He crawled. Another “woof.” Each one was a piece of his selfhood chipped away and broadcast to an anonymous, laughing void. He reached the door, touched it with his nose as instructed, and turned back. The return journey was a blur of sound and scent and blinding light.
When he reached her feet again, he was hollow. Empty.
Patricia smiled down at him, a beautiful, terrible smile. She addressed the stream. “That’s all for tonight, folks. A big thank you for joining the training session. Remember to like and subscribe. Until next time.” She made a cutting motion to Sarah.
The phone light died.
The room was suddenly, profoundly quiet. The only sound was Ben’s ragged breathing through the fabric.
Patricia reached down and pulled the soaked panties from his head in one swift motion. The cooler air hit his wet face like a slap. He blinked up at her, his expression raw and broken.
She studied him, tilting her head. Then she crumpled the fabric and tucked it into the pocket of her leggings.
“Not a word to anyone, obviously,” she said, her voice now casual, post-show. “The stream was anonymous. No faces shown but mine. Just a fun, kinky bit. But we know.” She crouched in front of him. “And you know what the best part is?”
He just stared, empty.
“The best part,” she whispered, “is that you’ll come back tomorrow. Because you’re thinking right now that it can’t get worse. That you’ve hit bottom.” She stood up, stretching. “But we both know I’m creative. And you’re curious. You want to see how far this goes. You need to know what happens next.”
She turned her back on him, walking to her laptop to end the stream. “You can go now, Ben. I’ll text you.”
He didn’t move for a long minute. Then, slowly, using the bed frame to pull himself up, he stood. His knees ached. His mouth was dry. He walked to the door, his gait unsteady.
As he reached for the knob, Patricia’s voice, light and friendly, stopped him.
“Oh, and Ben? Good boy.”
He didn’t look back. He stepped into the hallway, and the door shut behind him, sealing him into the silent, ordinary world. He stood there, leaning against the cool cinderblock wall, trying to remember how to breathe like a person.
Down the hall, a door opened and someone laughed. He flinched, pushing himself upright, and began the long walk back to his own room, each step feeling less real than the crawl he’d just performed.
She was right. He already dreaded her text. But more than that, he dreaded the part of himself that was waiting for it.