Chapter 3: The Livestream
The polished steel of the stirrups was cold against the backs of her calves. Amy lay back on the thin vinyl pad of the gynecological chair, the reality of its shape conforming to her body with a dreadfully clinical intimacy. The basement air, once just cool, now felt surgical.
Vinny moved with a methodical calm she hadn’t seen before. He picked up the first strap, a wide band of black leather with a heavy chrome buckle. “Lift your hips,” he said, his voice devoid of its earlier roughness. It was just instruction.
She obeyed, muscles tense, and he slid the strap beneath her. He drew it tight across her abdomen, just above her pelvis, fastening it with a series of purposeful clicks. The pressure was firm, unyielding. He did the same across her chest, just below her collarbones, cinching it until her breathing became a shallower thing. Each strap pinned her to the chair, a human butterfly under lexan.
Then he picked up a narrower strap, about two inches wide. He fed it behind her back, under the first chest strap. He drew it forward, laying it directly across the swell of her breasts, the leather bisecting them. He pulled it tighter, and tighter still, until the soft flesh bulged noticeably above and below the band. The edge of the strap dug into the tender space beneath her breasts. He threaded the end through the buckle.
“This one seems a bit… redundant,” Amy said, her voice tighter than the straps. She tried to keep it light, analytical. “You’ll probably be playing with them soon anyway. Is it really necessary?”
He gave the strap a final, cinching tug. Her nipples, already hardened by the cold and the exposure, were squeezed into even more prominent, tight peaks, pressed flat and angry against the leather. A shocking bolt of sensation—not quite pain, not quite pleasure—shot through her. She sucked in a sharp breath.
“You’ll see,” he said simply, his fingers brushing against the trapped flesh as he checked the buckle. The casual contact sent another jolt through her system.
He moved down her body. He fastened her wrists to the armrests with padded cuffs. He secured her ankles into the stirrups with similar cuffs, pulling her legs apart and locking them into a wide, vulnerable V. She was spread open, utterly immobilized.
From a shelf, he retrieved a plain white towel. He folded it lengthwise into a thick pad. “Lift,” he said again, tapping her hip. She raised her hips, and he slid the towel beneath her, the bulk of it positioned right under her pelvis. Then he unfolded another section of the same towel and draped it over her lower belly and pubis, a flimsy square of cotton that did nothing to alleviate her exposure. It was a mockery of modesty.
Finally, he picked up the mask. It wasn't the ski mask from before. It was a delicate, black lace masquerade mask, with velvet ties. He leaned over her, his body blocking the harsh light for a moment. “For your secret identity,” he murmured, almost kindly, as he positioned it over her eyes and nose. The world went pixelated, fragmented through the intricate pattern. He tied it securely at the back of her head, the velvet soft against her hairline. Through the lace, she saw him step back, looking at his work.
He walked out of her limited field of vision. She heard the squeaky rumble of wheels on concrete. He pushed a large flat-screen television on a metal stand into her line of sight, angling it so she could see the screen clearly. Beside it, on a tripod, was a professional-looking camera with a red recording light. He connected a few cables.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice adopting a matter-of-fact tone as he fiddled with the camera lens. “Might as well help me make some money. You’ve got bills. I’ve got bills. This is just… modern entrepreneurship.”
From under the chair, he pulled out a black ski mask and pulled it over his head, adjusting the eye holes. He was now anonymous, a generic figure of menace. He moved behind the camera, pressed a button. The red light glowed steadily.
He picked up a remote and pointed it at the TV. The screen flickered to life.
For a second, it showed a pristine, high-definition image of her own body, strapped to the chair, from the camera’s perspective. The composition was jarringly professional. The white towel over her pelvis was a stark contrast to the dark leather straps and her own tan skin. The lace mask made her look like a captured doll. Her bound breasts, squeezed by the strap, were the focal point.
Then a graphic overlay appeared. On one side, a scrolling chat box filled with lines of text. On the other, a vertical bar labeled “DONATIONS” with hash marks and numbers. $0/$500. The numbers were currently at $47.
The chat was already moving.
>User_44: nice set
>Kraken_1: how far u gonna go bro?
>Spectre: tighten that chest strap more
>Anonymous_User: whats the safeword?
Amy’s breath hitched. Her own body was a live spectacle, being commented on by strangers. The clinical detachment she’d been clinging to evaporated. This was exposure of a different, galactic scale.
Vinny’s voice, slightly muffled by the ski mask, came from behind the camera. It was calm, clear, a streamer’s patter. “Alright, welcome in, everyone. Thanks for the early donations. You see the product. High-quality. Uncooperative.” He walked into frame, his gloved hand landing on the strap across her breasts. He gave it a little shake, making her whole body jiggle. A collective of ‘hell yeahs’ scrolled through the chat. The donation ticker jumped: $78.
“Here’s how this works,” Vinny continued, his hand resting possessively on the leather between her breasts. “See the donation bar? We’re starting low. Every time we hit a milestone, the game progresses. First milestone is five hundred. We hit that, we move past the opening act.”
He walked away from the camera and reappeared holding a sleek, black device shaped like a pen. A faint blue LED light glowed at its tip. The chat scrolled faster.
>User_Ronin: ZAPPP TIME
>Ghost: start low bro
Vinny stood beside her, his masked face looking from the prod to her exposed abdomen above the white towel. “Let’s check our equipment,” he said. He touched the tip lightly to the skin just below her ribcage.
A sharp, sudden buzz cracked the air. Amy gasped, her whole body flinching against the restraints. A prickling, stinging heat spread from the point of contact. It wasn’t agony. It was… strange. A jolting vibration that made her muscles jump.
“OW! What the hell!” she yelped, but a startled giggle escaped right after. The sensation was less pain and more a violent, invasive tickle. The tingling aftershock made her stomach muscles quiver.
He pressed the prod to the same spot again. Bzzzt.
“HA!”
Another spot, an inch lower. Bzzzt.
“HAHA—oh god!”
He began moving the tip in a slow, deliberate line down the center of her stomach, punctuating each inch with a half-second zap. The sensation was a relentless, shocking poke that bypassed pain and went straight to her nervous system.
“Stop—HAHAHA—Vinny, please—AHAHA! NO!” Laughter tore out of her, uncontrolled and frantic. Her body bucked and twisted against the straps, a helpless reflex. Tears streamed from under the lace mask, blurring the neon lights above. “IT’S TOO MUCH! PLEASE!”
The chat was a frenzy. The donation counter whirred upward: $210… $340… $475. The zaps kept coming, a cruel percussion under the soundtrack of her own hysterical screams-laughter. Her abs burned from the strain of convulsing.
“Mercy—HAHA—for the love of—AHAHAHAHA—I CAN’T BREATHE!”
A melodic ding sounded from the television. The bar was full. $500/$500. The chat exploded with emojis and demands.
Vinny pulled the prod away instantly. Amy lay heaving, sweat plastering strands of hair to her temples, her stomach a map of angry red dots. She couldn’t stop the occasional involuntary laugh-sob from hiccuping out of her.
He moved to the strap across her chest, his hands working the buckle. The leather slithered free with a hiss.
The pressure released with a wave of intense relief followed by a flood of sensitivity. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, the pale imprints of the strap stark against her skin. The cool basement air felt like a balm and a brand on the over-stimulated flesh. She instinctively tried to bring her arms down to cover herself, but the wrist cuffs held her fast.
Her eyes flicked to the TV screen. The camera angle showed her in high definition. The chat raced by.
>Kraken_1: fuck yeah payday
>Spectre: perfect. now the real show
>User_44: zap those nipples dude
>Anonymous_User: make her cry
Amy’s breath caught. This was the audience Vinny had mentioned. Real people, watching her be dismantled. A fresh, cold terror slicked down her spine. Yet, a treacherous heat pulsed low in her belly, a dark echo of the electricity.
Vinny raised the prod again. Its blue LED reflected in his masked eyes as he aimed not for her stomach, but for the tightened peak of her left breast. He held it a millimeter away, letting her see it hover.
“No,” Amy whispered, shaking her head, a frantic little motion. “Don’t. Please. Anything but there. It’ll—HAHAHAHA!”
The zap was brighter, sharper. It wasn’t ticklish anymore. It was a concentrated bolt of stunning energy that locked her ribcage and shattered into a thousand pinpricks of insane sensation. It wasn’t pain. It was worse. It was unbearable violation that translated into shrieking laughter.
“NOT THERE! OH GOD, PLEASE! HAHAHAHA! STOP IT! I BEG YOU!” She writhed, her back arching off the vinyl pad. He touched the prod to her other nipple.
“AH! NO NO NO HAHAHAHA! VINNY! PLEASE!”
He alternated, a cruel rhythm. Zap. Screaming laughter. Zap. Gasping pleas mixed with hysterical cackles. Each jolt felt like it was rewiring her brain, fusing humiliation and overstimulation into one unbearable feedback loop. The donation counter climbed: $620… $780… $900.
Her nipples were swollen, painfully erect, and glowing a hot pink. Her pleas became a slurred chant. “No more no more no more hahaha please no more hahaha I can’t I can’t—”
Another cheerful ding. $1000/$1000.
He lowered the prod. Amy shuddered through the aftershocks, her chest heaving. Her laughter had dissolved into choked, wet gasps. Vinny leaned over her, his gloved hand taking hold of the white towel draped over her pelvis.
In that suspended second, she knew true, vertical fear. It was a cold spike driven from her hammering heart down to the soles of her feet. This was the final barrier, the last shred of theatrical modesty. Her eyes, wide behind the lace, locked onto his masked face. She shook her head frantically, a silent, desperate plea.
He pulled the towel away.
The air hit her, a shocking finality. She was utterly exposed, spread open under the lights for the camera, for the chat, for him. The terror was absolute, a freezing river in her veins. Yet, beneath it, undeniable and deep, a thread of molten arousal pulled taut. Her own wetness betrayed her.
He brought the prod down, not to her core, but to the skin of her lower abdomen, just above the thatch of dark hair. Bzzzt.
A jump, a fractured giggle that was mostly a sob. “Please…”
He dragged the tip slowly downward, tracing a fiery line. He stopped, zapped. Bzzzt.
“HA! No… don’t…”
Another inch lower. Another zap. Each was a spark that fed the terrified fire in her belly. She was shaking her head, back and forth on the headrest, laughing and crying in equal measure. “You can’t… you can’t go there… haha… please… I’m begging…”
The tip came to rest at the very top of her pubic mound. He paused. The LED hovered, a tiny blue star against her skin.
Then he moved it lower, past the crease of her thigh. The cool, rounded plastic of the prod’s tip came to rest directly on her clitoris.
Amy froze. Every muscle in her body locked. Her breath stopped. The chaotic noise in her head silenced into a single, piercing whine of anticipation. She could feel the precise, cool circle of pressure. She could see, in her periphery, his thumb resting beside the activation button.
Her world narrowed to that point of contact, to the promised violence of the current waiting to flood a nerve center already raw and buzzing. She was a bowstring pulled past its limit. The chat, the camera, the basement—all of it faded into a blur.
He didn’t press the button.
He held it there, letting the terrible possibility saturate the moment. Letting her feel the shape of the device against her most sensitive flesh. Her hips gave a minute, involuntary twitch, a movement that was both an attempt to escape and a seeking of pressure.
She heard his breath, a slow inhale through the ski mask. Her own was a ragged, forgotten thing.
His thumb moved. It was just a shift of position.
Then he leaned his weight into it.
The plastic pressed down firmly, a deliberate, crushing promise. Amy whimpered, a high, thin sound.
He held it there, a silent question hanging in the electrified air.
And then he pressed the button.
The current erupted.
A blinding, white-hot buzz detonated at the very core of her. It wasn’t pain. The signal shattered into a cascade of vibrating, electric pleasure so intense it blurred into agony. Every nerve below her waist lit up like a circuit board overloading.
Her back arched violently against the restraints, a taut bow of shock. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat—not a scream, but a deep, stunned moan that vibrated the chair. The sensation was a relentless, buzzing flood, dissolving thought, dissolving fear, dissolving everything but the shocking reality of the feeling.
It didn’t hurt. It tickled, yet it felt oh so very good, a moan escaping Amy’s lips as her back arches. The current was a live wire dropped into a pool of gasoline inside her, igniting a pleasure so sharp it was indistinguishable from pain. Her hips jerked against the cuffs in frantic, helpless circles, seeking more of the devastating contact.
She hardly has time to process it as the melodic ding from the television cuts through the electric hum in her ears. The donation bar flashes: $1500/$1500. The chat is a blizzard of symbols and demands she can’t comprehend.
Vincent puts the prod down on the small metal tray with a definitive clink. The vibration severs, leaving her clitoris throbbing with a phantom, buzzing echo. She collapsed onto the pad, drenched in sweat and trembling, her body singing with aftershocks.
He walked off behind her, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. She heard the clatter of metal, the sound of a drawer opening. Her chest heaved. She tried to turn her head, to see, but the restraints and the mask limited her view to the screen, to the frozen image of her own ruined, ecstatic expression.
Her mind was white noise. The laughter, the terror, the humiliating exposure—all of it had fused into this raw, humming overload.
The laughter, the terror, the humiliating exposure—all of it had fused into this raw, humming overload. Amy floated in the aftermath, her senses reduced to the sweat cooling on her skin and the deep, phantom pulse between her legs. The camera’s red light was a distant, blinking star.
Vinny moved back into her narrow field of vision. He was carrying something bulky and white, connected by clear tubes to a small, silent machine on wheels. It looked like a piece of medical equipment, sterile and out of place in the rust-edged dungeon.
“What is that?” Amy asked, her voice shredded and thin. Her mind, still scrambled from the prod, tried to categorize it. A blood pressure cuff? Some new kind of restraint?
He didn’t answer. He set the machine down beside the chair with a soft click of plastic on concrete. He picked up one of the white objects. It was a cup, a breast pump shield, but to Amy’s overloaded brain it was just an unfamiliar, hollow dome.
“Vinny, what are you doing?” Confusion prickled through the haze. This wasn’t on any ledger of expected depravity she’d subconsciously prepared for.
He leaned over her, his masked face unreadable. Gently, almost clinically, he placed the cool plastic flange over her left breast, centering her swollen, oversensitive nipple inside it. The sensation was strange, a firm pressure that was neither painful nor pleasant, just odd. She flinched at the touch.
“Just a little upgrade,” he said, his voice modulated by the mask into something calm and instructional. “The audience donated for a spectacle. We’re giving them one.”
He attached the second shield to her other breast with the same deliberate care. Amy stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing to a dead end. She felt a soft seal form as he adjusted the positioning. The chat on the screen beside her was a blur of moving text she couldn’t parse.
He reached down to the machine and flipped a switch.
A soft, mechanical whir filled the silence. A low, rhythmic suction engaged. The pull was immediate and profound, a deep, drawing sensation that originated in her very core. It wasn’t painful. It was a strange, hollow tug, a pressure that seemed to reach deep into her chest.
Then, a faint, eerie green light emanated from within the clear plastic shields, a brief phosphorescent glow that illuminated the curve of her breast from within. It lasted only a second, but it was undeniably, scientifically bizarre. Amy felt a weird, internal shifting, a deep ache that bloomed into a sudden, surprising fullness.
“What’s happening?” she whispered, a new kind of alarm cutting through her stupor. The pulling sensation continued, rhythmic and insistent.
She strained to lift her head, to look down past the lace mask at her own body. The clear tubes leading from the shields to the machine were empty. Then, as she watched, a single, fat, white droplet formed at the tip of her nipple inside the plastic dome. It clung, shimmering under the basement lights.
Another joined it. Then a thin, perfect stream began to flow, tracing a path through the tube towards the collection bottle.
A cold, impossible understanding washed over her. Her breath stopped. Her eyes widened behind the lace.
“No,” she breathed.
But it was undeniable. The white stream grew steadier, richer. Milk. Her milk. It flowed from her, pulled by the gentle, relentless pump. A hot wave of mortification, so profound it felt like a physical blow, crashed over her. This was a violation that reached into her biology, rewriting her body’s purpose in front of a live audience.
Yet, alongside the shock, a deep, pervasive feeling of relief spread through her chest. The painful fullness she hadn’t even fully registered began to ebb, replaced by a warm, draining release. The rhythmic pull was oddly soothing, a counterpoint to the earlier electric chaos. It felt… good. A low, helpless moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, confused sensation.
On the screen, the chat erupted.
>Kraken_1: HOLY SHIT
>User_Ronin: no way lol
>Spectre: impressive. don’t stop.
The donation counter began to climb again, numbers spinning upward with frantic speed. Vinny watched the bottles slowly filling, his head tilting as he observed the process with a detached curiosity.
“Looks like you needed that,” he said, his casual tone the most terrifying thing of all.