Rava's features steeled before the camera, a frantic rhythm thrumming against his ribs. The live feed streamed with donations, thrusting him towards the inevitable "special request." He inhaled deeply, deliberately dismissing the coming humiliation.
"Just work," he repeated like a mantra.
Gradually, with calculated slowness, Rava shifted nearer the camera. The softbox spotlight only captured sections of him - his bare thigh, the gentle curvature of his collarbone, and the glistening surface of the object he held. It was a faux tail, silver at its base, sleekly black with a provocative curl. He drew it into view, allowing it to emerge with a wet, audible squelch. The chatroom froze, only to erupt moments later with unrestrained desire. One of the studio's lamps emitted a sudden, crackling pop. Something in the sound evoked a primal essence... the wildling.
Rava held his tongue. His chest rose and fell in protracted, irregular breaths. His fingertips quivered slightly, not entirely from cold, but from the interior war waged inside. Shame and lust clashed in a surging tide. He grasped a cloudy white bottle, shook it, and gently poured it over the plug. The fluid adhered to its contours, slowly trickling downwards, ending in plump drops that splattered on the floor. "Milk," or something approximating it. It gathered in the toy's curvature, the display overtly suggestive. He closed his eyes briefly. Enough time to pretend this wasn't reality. Then, the performance mask fell into place. He leaned in, displaying a subtle, crooked smile, his lips wet and trembling - practiced.
"Thanks for... dinner, loves," he whispered, directing his words towards the mic.
And then he started to clean it with his mouth. Protracted, deliberate licks. Precise movements of his tongue. He kissed the metallic surface as if it held life, circled its tip with accentuated precision, his lips parting in suggestive elegance. It was no longer a plug. It was an extension of a spectator watching.
A person who possessed him.
The donations streamed relentlessly across the screen. He knew precisely the value of each moan. He sucked it, engulfing the frigid metal deeply as a subservient devotee would, hands clenched securely around its shaft.
Twenty minutes stretched on like slow, thick molasses. When it came to exposing what they eagerly desired, he didn't hesitate. He spread his legs. The camera's focus shifted softly.
He lifted the tail slowly, raised it toward the light, and guided it towards his buttocks. One extended breath. And then, he pushed it within. The plug slipped inside, creating a sound that was inherently crude, something that could be edited in afterwards. And out. He turned it. In once again. Repeatedly.
Click. Twist. Slap.
He grunted low in his throat, biting his lip until it became colorless. The strain wasn't a performance - it was real. The shame, the submission, the intense ache of his insides being stretched for the benefit of an audience. He was trembling.
And yet, he performed.
"Do you... appreciate how well I behave?" he murmured, his voice raw. "Then pay."
He rolled onto his side, legs bent, gasping for air. The plug remained firmly inside him. A milky fluid trickled from its base. It glistened. Thick. Sticky. Dripping onto the floor, mirroring the act of releasing semen. He brought two fingers to his mouth. Licked them clean.
"Enjoy your night, you dogs," he whispered.
"At least the coffee in the café was actually pleasant today."
The stream carried on, an unending exhibition of humbling routines. For two hours, Rava resided in a dissociative void, his body mechanically fulfilling demands while his consciousness drifted elsewhere. He crept on all fours, simulating animal gestures, the weight of the device causing aching in his lower back. His tongue was numbed from licking the spills from the cold floor. A sequence of props rapidly came and went, each new one intensifying the chat. Even the insults he hurled were scripted venom that was skillfully intended to arouse.
Ding!
The sudden sound fractured the routine of the stream. Rava flinched so violently he knocked over the microphone. This notification was unfamiliar - sharp, intrusive, akin to an alarm. A notification popped up, covering half the screen:
[COLLABORATION REQUEST: St. Papa (1.2M subscribers)]
Rava's heart quickened intensely. St. Papa - a notorious sadist whose collaborative streams evolved into genuine physical and mental suffering for those he worked with. Sure, millions of depraved subscribers loved him, considering him the best in his field. But here was the thing: Rava and he had never interacted, not even through messages.
"This isn't random..." The idea infiltrated his mind. "He organized this. Certainly arranged it."
Rava envisioned the very person he feared so much sitting in the shadows currently, observing this moment unfold. Possibly sporting his predator-like, cat-like smile, pleased to witness Rava's face losing color. A live collab was one thing. However, what if it was a trap? What if it resulted in an "offline stream"? What if St. Papa commenced suggesting things that would unsettle even Rava's hardened tolerance? And that person would just be present off-screen, directing, whispering how to make it hurt even more... No, undoubtedly, he would wish to partake. His hands shook, suspended over the screen. Rejecting meant trouble - viewers would never overlook missing this chance, and the algorithms would punish him. But accepting... Accepting may unleash pandora's box.
"But he wouldn't allow this without his approval..." The realization struck Rava with the impact of lightning. "Everyone knows whose... property I am." The idea offered a peculiar, bitter comfort.
A sweat-dampened finger pushed the button to accept.
In the split-second preceding the collaborative stream becoming live, Rava caught a glance of his own reflection in the monitor, distorted. Then, instantaneously, a man's attractive visage appeared in the frame, smiling with striking sincerity. Behind him: blurred city lights, foot traffic, the sound of the street.
"Why is he calling me?" Rava's thoughts accelerated.
Then... the stream froze.
"What the -?" He jabbed at the application, then restarted his phone. Nothing. The error was extraordinary. And incredibly timed.
"Perhaps God is actually real."
The ringtone split the silence, deafening in the post-stream emptiness. The displayed number - memorized, never saved, burned into his vision like burning embers. Each numeral vibrated red-hot against his retinas.
His grip on the phone became white-knuckled.
To answer was terrifying. To refuse? Unthinkable. Here, in this call, there was the illusion of space. Of security. It was still preferable to hearing footsteps at his door and preferable to glimpsing a shadow in the peephole.
The phone pressed against his ear as though it were a gun.
"Never agree to invitations without my permission."
The voice purred, almost tender - were it not for the scrape that grated like a broken hinge in an abandoned house. Rava did not answer. His tongue adhered to his palate; his throat shut tight, keeping even breath trapped within.
"Do you understand me?" Silence. Only the unreliable thump of his heart, resonant enough to fracture ribs. That voice—velvety, deep, refined through years - never promised mercy. It could recite poetry and transform each verse into a death order. Whisper "I love you" and burn worse than acid. A heavy exhale crackled through the receiver, as if the man visualized his fingers surrounding Rava's neck instead of the phone.
"You realize I cannot visit you right now. Work problems." A pause. The word "problems" was clearly pronounced. "But do you actually assume I can't force you into a trunk from afar and bring you to me?"
Rava's mind obediently illustrated the script: shadows, the smell of gasoline, jerky motion, cold metal against his cheek. His body shivered like an aspen's leaves, his lungs robbed of air, his chest awash with icy paralysis.
Yes. He could. He could do absolutely anything.
"Reply." The voice hardened into a snarling command, stripped of any pretense.
"I… understand…" Rava was forced to reply. The words emerged raw, strange, as though his voice box was being controlled by an outside source.
Click.
The dial tone assaulted his eardrum. The call concluded as abruptly as it initiated.
The phone clattered to the floor. Rava failed to register. His body folded inward, his knees meeting the floor. Spasms surged from his stomach to his throat-bitter, acid-like, scorching. Everything he had ingested, taken in, now burst upwards, burning his esophagus, leaving bile and defeat upon his tongue.
Tears fell,yetwithout sound,blendingwith spit and vomit. He wasn't sobbing-just cryingsoundlessly, helplessly, like ayoungchildwho wastooinexperiencedto comprehend pain. His fingers scraped uselesslyacrosstheflooring, searching forananchor in a worldthathad been instantaneously overthrown.
Some distant part of him knew he should rise, tidy up, take a shower. But his body refused. It recalled that voice. Recalled promises. Remembered pain.
And now it closed down, a rabbit caught by a python, hoping stillness might preserve i