The ride in the back of the car is a blur. You sit next to Mistress, her hand between your thighs as she fingers you lazily. Her eyes are fixed through the window, away from you. You’re just a toy to play with, to pass the time as the car weaves through busy streets, the driver silent, oblivious or accustomed to whatever happens behind him.

She makes you clean her fingers afterward, after edging and teasing you. You seem to know the drill. You can’t come unless she tells you to. It’s a heavy weight in the back of your mind, engraved in your brain.

While you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the urge to let go, you let her handle you like that. Because it’s her right, isn’t it?

Your mind is still hazy, filled with a strange kind of cotton that pushes against any thought of protest, confusion, fear, or shame. Those flicker up occasionally, like fireflies, only to be squashed by something else. The dizzy spell makes your head spin, the throbbing heat in your stomach, the tension in your muscles whenever she touches you.

It doesn’t matter then. It’s only her fingers under your coat, on that little sliver of skin as she guides you through a crowd of people. The warmth of her body next to yours, her dominating presence as she meets strangers and talks to them, smiling, all professional. And you’re just a girl beside her, small and unassuming—or so you think.

The lights are bright as you enter the building. Warm air hits your face, makes you blink. Someone takes your coat. Her hand is around yours as she pulls you along, the sound of your heels echoing through the vast room.

Confusion fights through the fog in your head as you turn your gaze this way and that. Strangely familiar sights appear before your hazy eyes.

You’re in a gallery of some sort, a giant room sectioned off into smaller rooms. High ceilings vanish into darkness, low-hanging lights grow dimmer the further you go. There are large prints on the walls, but you can’t quite make out what they portray yet.

People wearing elegant dresses and expensive-looking suits stand in clusters in front of them, holding champagne flutes, talking amongst themselves. Some turn their heads to you when you pass, a strange expression on their blurry faces.

You follow Mistress, her hand tight around yours. Your heart beats faster. She guides you through various rooms, all filled with large photographs spanning the walls and people in front of them.

It’s when you reach the last room, where the lights are slightly different, that you notice what they show.

It’s you.

Similar motifs to those you’ve found in your roommate’s desk. Pictures of your body, your holes, your glassy eyes. Your lips strained around a gag, hands bound behind your back, skin marked by intricate rope patterns.

You feel the heat rushing into your cheeks, your ears. Your entire head flares up in shame as you realize you’re not just her muse—something for her to take pictures of and enjoy on her own, hidden away in her room. You’re a canvas for every single person in this city and beyond to marvel at.

You feel sick. Your stomach cramps up badly as you squeeze her hand. Your own shock fights to get past the cotton in your head.

This can’t be happening.

Your eyes flicker over the groups of people standing in front of blown-up pictures of your cunt, stuffed with various toys and items. A whole wall full of unflattering close-ups leads into a full-body shot of you tied to a bed—wrists and ankles held by cuffs, arms and legs spread, thin metal chains hanging from the ceiling, attached to little clamps holding your nipples and pussy lips.

You ache just looking at it. Your breasts tense up. Your gaze wanders further, to the next wall, this one dedicated to your ass and various things being shoved into it.

You feel like crying. It gets only worse when you realize there are TV screens mounted between the pictures. While the photos show a moment captured in time, the screens show videos of how those moments came to be.

You see the white-gloved hand, how it moves various objects in and out of your holes—a sickening motion.

In and out.

You notice there’s even sound. Overlapping moans and whines and lewd squelching noises echo from a total of six TVs arranged around the room.

Your stomach drops. Your throat tenses up. You can barely breathe.

The people in the room seem to realize that it’s you who is being portrayed like this. They stare at you—some with neutral looks, some leering and excited, others with disapproving or arrogant scowls.

You press closer to Mistress as she stops in the middle of the room. She looks at you then, a soft smile on her face. You feel like fainting—it’s all too much—but then she reaches her free hand up to caress your warm cheek, and you freeze, staring at her, the panic in your head pausing under the touch.

“What’s the matter, pet?” she whispers. “Don’t be shy now, you’re a star, my dear,” she adds, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear. “They are all here for you. Just for you…”

You frown slightly, trying to focus on her instead of the noises around you—the sounds coming from the TVs, the chatter and laughter and hushed whispers. Your heart is beating in your throat, right against the tight collar. Your muscles clench around the plug and around nothing, your body seemingly adjusting to your surroundings while your mind still fights whatever is going on here.

You cling to the tall woman in front of you. Your eyes plead with her to take you back, take you away, stop this humiliation.

But she only tilts her head. Her thumb moves along your bottom lip. Then she says something that makes you freeze, both in shock and in the strangely familiar urge to please.

On your knees.

And you do as you’re told.

Of course you do.

You go down, perched on the balls of your feet with your heels pressing into your rear. You square your shoulders and fold your arms behind your back, pushing your chest out, looking up at her with your eyes glazing over and your mind going empty.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my dear guests,” Mistress raises her voice, her gaze still fixed on you as she addresses the people around you. “Welcome to another night of sinful sensations, tantalizing touches, unknown urges, and frivolous fun. Please gather around, don’t be shy,” she adds, finally looking away from you and around the room, beckoning the strangers closer, her arms spread wide as she smiles her beautiful smile.

“The show will begin shortly. My assistants will bring you an assortment of objects, and I ask you to choose one each and wait your turn. Oh, and don’t forget to take a pair of gloves—we don’t want to leave any compromising evidence, now do we?”

She laughs. Several people join in.

You kneel before her, focusing on her, trying to ignore the shuffle around you. Your heart thunders in your chest. Your head spins out of control.

Despite the humiliating nature of whatever is happening, you feel your arousal drenching your underwear. A sticky slick rivals the hot tears burning in your eyes. Your chest rises and falls as you breathe rapidly through your nose, your lips pressed into a thin line to keep them from trembling.

The hand on your elbow startles you. But it’s only Mistress as she urges you into a standing position again. She gives you a gentle nod.

You follow on shaking legs as she walks to a strange contraption in the middle of the room—some sort of bench in an X-shape, right in the center. Surrounded by the pictures of you, by the videos of an anonymous hand shoving phallic objects into your holes, the sounds echo from the screens pointed directly at you—a weird garbling of moans and helpless cries, overlapping in a disorienting fashion.

A horrible vertigo grips you as you stumble forward, gently pushed by the woman behind you. Before you know it, you end up lying on your back, a soft cushion beneath you. Your head hangs off the edge while your legs are raised up, your limbs fitted perfectly into the shape of the bench-like thing.

As you look up, you realize there’s a large mirror right above you. You meet your own frightened gaze—eyes wide, pupils dilated, a strange gloss in them that could either be tears or something else entirely.

While your legs are spread and tied at the ankles by a pair of unknown women, your arms are arranged in a T-pose, wrists tied down as well. The rest of your body is secured by a large leather strap spanning over your stomach.

You struggle slightly, testing your restraints. Nothing budges. Though instead of fueling the panic settling in your belly, you feel weirdly relaxed, soothed by the way you cannot move, knowing you can’t escape.

And in the back of your cloudy mind, you also know: you don’t want to anyway.

Your gaze wanders to the tall woman standing next to you, smiling down, a camera in her hands.

“You’re doing great,” she says softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “My good girl.”

Her praise burns through the uneasiness, silences the distress to some extent. Her hand moves around your head, lifting it slightly as her eyes move away from you to something you can’t see from your position.

And you don’t have to. You can feel it.

It’s a gag. As soon as it comes into your view, you feel your heart accelerating. There are two dildos attached to it—one pointing inwards, the other outwards. The mere idea of having that thing in your mouth and down your throat makes you tense up badly.

A whine escapes you. A sigh sounds from beside you. Mistress puts her camera down and steps closer, taking the gag from whoever wanted to shove it into you. She meets your eyes, and even though she’s upside down, you calm a little when you look at her.

“You can do this, pet,” she says as she moves the tip of one dildo against your lips. “You’ve done this before. Many times. You like having things down your throat, remember?”

Her words sink into your muddy mind, burning through the doubts. Even though it feels like an impossible thing to do, you part your lips and allow the object into your mouth.

She smiles at you, slowly pushing the silicone toy deeper. It teases the back of your throat, and to your own surprise, slips right past your gag reflex, stretching your throat, bulging your neck, sitting tight against the collar.

You stare up at her, tears burning in your eyes as she fastens the leather strap around your head, keeping the gag in place.

“Good girl,” she coos, caressing your warm cheeks. “You didn’t even gag. I’m so proud of you.”

A weird warmth settles in your stomach as you watch her. The other dildo attached to the gag slightly obscures your view. Its sight should disturb you, knowing what it is for, but you’re eerily calm, focused on breathing through your nose as the object in your throat just sits there, pressing on your tongue, saliva already dripping past your lips.

The wide leather band of the gag sits loosely against your mouth, allowing you to part your lips and let it drip. You know you’d only make it worse if you panicked now.

And somehow, the image of her riding your face like this gives you a strange kind of comfort. It definitely distracts you enough to ignore whatever happens around you.

Subdued voices echo through the room. It’s eerily quiet, apart from the continuous moans and whines coming from the TVs—sounds you made before, apparently. You realize you won’t be able to make them tonight.

Closing your eyes for a moment, letting the tears press past your lashes, you focus on them. You try to imagine—or remember—the scenarios that caused you to sound like this.

You’ve only seen the pictures. You have no memories of doing any of those things. So you can only assume what it must feel like to be stuffed and used like this.

Your body, however, seems to remember it just fine. Arousal pools in your core, drenching your thong, perking up your nipples that strain against the fabric of your bra and top. Goosebumps ripple over your bare arms.

There’s more shuffling around you, but you don’t want to open your eyes. You can’t. It doesn’t feel real if you keep them closed, not as intimidating. It’s easier to handle—or so you tell yourself.

It’s actually strange just how calm you are, strapped to this weird table-bench with your arms and legs spread and tied to individual parts of it. People stand between them and right next to you. You can feel them, their warmth and presence, anticipation in the air.

Your heart beats faster.

Suddenly you flinch, eyes flying open. A muffled groan escapes you that almost makes you gag around the dildo in your throat. Hands stroke along your arms in an almost sensual way, synchronized left and right.

The touches end when they shove an object into each hand. You don’t dare to turn your head, so you look up at the mirrored ceiling. You realize they’ve put a pair of thick black dildos into your hands.

With how your wrists are tied, you cannot move them. You can only open and close your fingers around the toys.

You frown slightly. Your confusion is answered when Mistress’ velvety voice echoes through the room.

“Ladies, some of you are in for a surprise tonight. There are numbers on the base of your selected toys, and if these range from 1 to 5, you are invited to have a special seat on our special Toy. Yes, only the ladies—sorry, gentlemen, you can still watch. If you grabbed one of the special toys, I ask you to give it to a woman of your choice, if they’re willing, of course. This is a night of sinful sensations, but consent is of utmost importance.”

Her words sit heavy in your stomach. You wonder if you really consented to this as well. You can’t remember. But then again, there’s nothing you can do about it now.

She continues, her voice louder as chatter and shuffling fill the room. “Ladies, if you like, come closer and assume your positions. Dim the lights, please.”

Around you, the bright lights turn down. There are still two spots directed right at the center, illuminating your body and enough of your limbs. But when a bunch of women approach the table, you can barely see their faces.

They are guided to your hands and feet. While the dildos in your clammy hands make sense, you wonder what’s the special seat by your feet. Then you realize they’re probably supposed to sit on the pointy tips of your high heels.

A strange heat crashes through you. It’s one thing to imagine Mistress using you, but complete strangers getting off by humping your shoes of all things and riding the toys you’re holding for them?

But then, nothing seems to surprise you anymore after walking into a gallery filled with pictures of your body, where a willing audience waits for a night of debauchery. And willing and eager they seem with how packed the place is.

You’re still glad when you see a familiar face looking down at you—upside down again—as Mistress approaches your head. She caresses your cheeks and wipes a bit of drool off your chin as she smiles down at you.

Her hand then moves to the dildo attached to your gag. The sudden touch moves the one in your throat, pushing it a little deeper. Tears burn under your lashes, but you force yourself to remain calm, breathe through your nose, ignore the obstructing object stuck in your mouth.

You see her gliding her fist over the phallic toy. The motion is somewhat soothing as you focus on it.

“My dear guests, you came here for a special adventure,” her voice fills the quiet room as she starts talking to the people gathered around the table. You keep your eyes on her as she speaks. “This is art, my friends. Art found in devotion, in submission, in using a canvas of flesh and bones—using it, expanding it, stretching the limits of what’s possible, of what’s right, of what’s conventional. I invite you to explore your own limits tonight, find pleasure in using this devoted pet of mine.”

You blink slowly, mesmerized by her words. But they still poke at the buried confusion and doubts in your mind. That little voice of protest, though, is quickly squashed again by the overwhelming cotton filling your head—a strange sort of excitement mixed with fear and uncertainty, held together by a warm feeling like a caress, a praising word, a soft smile, a gentle touch.

It’s enough to ignore the meaning behind her words, as straightforward as they may be.

“You may use her in any way you want, within the confines of the scene. Use your toys, arrange her however you like—ask for assistance if necessary. This table can be moved, allowing you access to both of her holes. After the first round, we will turn her around, so make use of her perky little breasts while you can. Oh, and if you’d like to cut off her clothes, my assistants will provide you with the necessary tools. But enough instructions. I invite you to enjoy yourself. This is art, my friends,” she repeats, her voice rising. “Use it!”

The air changes around you, allowing those doubts to come back after all. More tears gather in your eyes. You feel strangely heavy, pushed into the soft cushions, your restraints cutting into your skin. The dildo in your throat presses against your airways, making it even harder to breathe.

Panic settles hot in your stomach, while cold sweat covers your skin. And no matter how woozy and dizzy you feel, you can’t completely ignore the fear crashing through you. But it’s not only fear. It’s bated anticipation.

What will happen next? What will these people do to you?

Of course, the pictures and videos all around you give you enough hints. But you felt weirdly disconnected from those. This, however, is real. The gloved hands touching your body are real. The dildos between your fingers are real. The warmth of people standing close but in the shadows is real.

Hushed voices fill the room—so many strangers. You can only hear them, see their hands and the objects they chose in the reflection above you. And some of them make you really anxious.

You want to swallow, but you can’t. Your saliva runs mercilessly past your lips and over your cheeks. With how your head is angled back, it gathers warm and hot in the shell of your ears and in your hairline.

Your fingers twitch around the hard silicone in your grasp. Your hips jerk slightly when you feel hands rubbing along your inner thighs.

You know you should be freaking out, but again, you can’t. You are so calm it scares you, only letting your body react to what’s happening. Your mind has become silent, shut up by whatever is swirling through your system, numbed by whatever was in your water.

You blink slowly, focusing your eyes on the dildo protruding from the gag. You wonder what it will be like to have someone ride this thing when it’s attached to your face like that.

You don’t seem to have to wait long when someone steps up to your head. But before you can take a closer look, you feel something soft being put over your eyes, taking another sense from you. A blindfold.

You’d sigh if you could, both slightly relieved you don’t have to look up a stranger’s crotch as they ride you, but also weirdly disappointed that you cannot look up a stranger’s crotch as they ride you. With the room plunged into darkness, all you can do now is listen. Listen and feel.

For now, they all just seem to explore your body. Hands slide along your sides, up and down your legs, over your clothed chest. Some are tickling you, or trying to, as you find yourself unable to react to those teases in your armpits or against your ribs.

You’re glad you’re too far gone to care. Because you just know it’d be torture otherwise.

It’s almost relaxing, in a way, to be stroked like that, caressed and touched. But as it happens all over your body, all at once, you find yourself quickly overwhelmed by it too. Not being able to see who touches you and where makes it all the more intense.

Breathing harder through your nose, your throat working around the dildo stuck in it, you try to focus on the steady beat of your heart. Slightly erratic, but not as panicked as it should be.

It almost lulls you for a moment, drowning out the hushed voices around you, the noises of past-you being stuffed full and moaning about it. But when you feel something cold dragging between your breasts, you flinch nonetheless, this time straining your neck, triggering your gag reflex.

Your body jerks. Your throat clenches around the toy. Spit and bile shoot up your esophagus, filling your already filled mouth. You gag again, and panic crashes through you as you can’t seem to get rid of all that saliva.

Luckily, you feel a pair of hands on your head, turning it so it can drip past your trembling lips, easing the pressure in your throat. Tears burn in your eyes, soaked up by the blindfold. Something like a wet cloth wipes over your cheek, and you relax slowly.

“Easy, pet, everything’s alright,” you hear Mistress’ soft voice close to you, calming you instantly. “You’re doing great. No need to panic.”

Her hand moves along your neck, teasing the collar, pressing slightly onto the object in your throat. “Just breathe, it’s fine… you can do this. Like you always did, okay? You love this, remember?”

You don’t, but you feel too dizzy to fight that sentiment. Your head feels lighter. Breathing works, but it’s a struggle nonetheless.

It helps to be praised and reassured, though. You focus on the fact that Mistress is right there, looking out for you, making sure you’re doing okay. It’s a warming sensation in your belly—that almost distracts you from the colder sensation of something gliding under your top and bra.

It feels like metal. When you hear a quiet snip-snap sound, you know it’s a pair of scissors, cutting away your clothes to expose you to your surroundings.

As if being strapped to a table and wearing a dildo gag isn’t humiliating enough, you realize you are now naked in front of a bunch of strangers. Their hands don’t miss a beat before they grope at your freed breasts, squeezing and kneading, palms pressing down, fingers pinching your nipples until they hurt.

You let out a muffled whine, squirming against the onslaught of touches. But they keep going, pulling and poking. The squeaky surface of their latex gloves rubs harshly against your skin.

As they do, the scissors move lower. The same snip-snap sound comes to your ears when your panties fall away. At least they leave your garter belt and stockings, giving you the illusion of still wearing something.

But now your cunt is out in the open. The first hands seem very eager to explore it properly.

Suddenly the table beneath you moves. You feel your blood shooting into your head as your hips are lifted while your head is lowered even more. Vertigo grabs you, sending shivers down your limbs, increasing the head-spinning and stomach-clenching.

In this new position, your rear hangs off the edge of the cushion, allowing the bystanders to grab your ass and grope more of your soft flesh. Most of them do, but some go straight to the exposed base of the butt plug, pulling and poking it mercilessly.

You keep squirming. The strap around your stomach holds you down but not enough, allowing you to circle your hips in a grinding motion that seems to entertain the people around you.

While the voices have been hushed before, you can now hear snippets of what they’re saying. And you somehow wished you wouldn’t.

“Look at her, so eager.”

“Can’t wait to be stuffed, huh, little slut?”

“Wonder how many she can take. Did they say there was a limit?”

Your breathing quickens, rapid puffs through your nose. Your chest rises and falls faster against all the hands gripping at you. Your stomach flutters against the tight leather strap. Your thighs tremble slightly, toes curling in your shoes.

Between all the comments, laughter, and other noises, you suddenly hear the faint clicking of a camera. You just know that Mistress is in the midst of producing a new line of degrading pictures of you.

Somehow, you couldn’t care less about that. Being exposed to a room full of strangers, groped and touched and poked at, feels much worse than having aesthetically pleasing pictures taken of your body. Though to have lasting evidence of this experience isn’t too nice either.

But there’s nothing you can do anyway. So you focus back on trying to get enough oxygen into your burning lungs, trying to fight the vertigo making your head swirl, just trying to live through it all.

While your nipples are being pinched, your boobs pulled into two different directions, sending sparks down your body, you feel a gloved hand on your throbbing clit. It pokes and prods, giving enough pressure to make your thighs twitch, but not enough to ease the tension in your lower stomach.

You try to move your hips, find at least a bit of relief. But instead of allowing you the motion, you feel a stinging slap on your mound, then three more in rapid succession. It causes you to gasp and ultimately gag around the dildo in your throat as various pains crash through your body, making it jolt against your restraints.

Your head is being supported again, turned to the side to allow the spit to drain from your mouth. You hear a low voice above you. “Gentlemen, if I may remind you, impact play is not on the agenda until round three. Please be patient.”

You hear hushed voices in response. Shuffling noises grow louder before they disappear. You vehemently ignore her mentioning something about ‘round three’.

A new hand comes to your cunt, much gentler, a soft stroking rhythm of gloved fingers that ease your rapidly beating heart. You relax again, leaning into the hands holding your head before they leave you too.

You hear the shutter of the camera again, much closer. The hand on your center starts parting your labia, slowly rubbing up and down. You can’t help the muffled moans slipping past your gag.

Your hips undulate against the stroking fingers. This time, they allow it, leaning into it, letting you decide how you want to be touched, at least to an extent. Your hands claw at the dildos you’re supposed to hold, the special seats that have yet to be claimed.

You feel your stomach tensing up. The friction of the fingers against your clit is the relief you have been looking for all night.

They move with you now, slipping between your slick, poking at the sensitive bud. You feel your heart accelerating. Your breath sticks in your throat. Your muscles tighten. Your back arches against the leather strap.

You’re so close. So close. And you almost expect to be left hanging again as it drags on and on.

But then…

Finally.

The fingers pinch your clit so hard you can’t even handle all of your body’s reactions.

First, you inhale sharply, on the verge of screaming, tilting your neck in a way that makes you gag. As your stomach jerks, your hips buck up. Your legs kick in their restraints, toes curling painfully. Your muscles contract, clenching hard around nothing and around the plug in your butt.

You come, violently at first, convulsing uncontrollably. Then you’re swept away by a wave of pleasure that crashes through your body gently—a reverberating tingling from the top of your head all the way down to your cramping toes.

“Well done,” coos a voice in your ear. A hand strokes your sweat-slick face. “And congratulations to the lady who was the first to make her come. If you like her to return the favor, you may choose a special seat now.”

Your breaths are still labored through your nose. Barely any oxygen seems to make it into your lungs with how the gag sits in your throat and how your heartbeat throbs in your jugular, right against the collar, further tightening your neck.

Your head is really spinning now. As does the room, seemingly. You’re almost glad you’re bound the way you are.

But despite the warming feeling of your orgasm, there’s something cold sitting deep in your guts.

Did you even have permission to come?

You can’t remember Mistress mentioning anything like that. But then again, she did just praise you for it, didn’t she? It’s a strange fear that overcomes you. It doesn’t really make sense. It’s just a feeling, a distant memory of… pain? Of disappointment and shame?

Whatever it is, it makes you furrow your brows under the blindfold as new tears seep into the fabric.

Suddenly, you feel a pair of hands on your head. Someone unfastens the blindfold. As soon as it’s gone, you blink helplessly into the light projected at you.

Another light flashes next to you. You realize you’ve been photographed. The thought makes it all worse, causing you to really start crying now. A vulnerable moment like this, forever captured and burned onto whatever medium she is using tonight.

You sniffle pathetically. As you do, you realize that your nose starts stuffing up. Your eyes widen, your breaths hectic as panic grips your limbs.

Not good.

You look around, trying to find Mistress. But she’s moved on to stand by your side, focused on the fluttering of your stomach and the way your cunt glistens, her camera clicking away furiously.

You see shadows all around you. White-gloved hands reach for you, still groping your soft flesh wherever they can.

You try to speak through your gag, but not even the muffled noises you create are loud enough to get through the hushed chatter around you. You struggle on the table, trying to get anyone’s attention, while you get dizzier and dizzier. Less and less oxygen makes it through your nose.

Your last resort is to make yourself gag, hoping that someone would notice and help you in your predicament. Lightheaded as you are, you turn your head, try to strain your neck, force the dildo deeper into your constricted throat. But your muscles seem too lax to react, your gag reflex silenced like the rest of your body.

You can barely move. You feel so weak.

Something moves against your twitching fingers—something warm and solid and slightly wet. You see the shape of someone straddling your bound wrist, skin and soft fabric brushing your cold hand that’s tight around the base of the dildo you’re supposed to hold.

You try to move it, but whoever assumes their special seat right now is more focused on their own enjoyment than your growing distress.

Tears burn in your eyes. Saliva coats your cold skin. You feel heavy.

The noises around you grow quieter until everything is just gone. No more lights. No more hands. No more lewd sounds echoing through the room.

Just darkness.

And no air.