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His new app allowed people to have alerts sent to their phones immediately for any new content, whether it was a new gyno inspection or otherwise. The alerts could be customized so that people could tune in live for whatever X event they wished to never miss, maximizing the live viewership for any humiliating ordeal.
He was going to show her the anatomy site tonight. She knew it was coming, of course, but she had not seen the full effect.
Six weeks so far of this mental conditioning. Soon she would be ready to accept the physical escalations. Already he had started the weekly gangbangs. She was used to those, so he knew that they would not be her breaking point. He had to find a new breaking point, and then ease her past it as well. But first this. Two weeks ago had been her first gangbang in his care, aside from the opening parties. He had opened the invitation to those on the forums who were in the San Francisco area or could get there. He only wanted people who had never gotten a chance to experience her before, who would add to her total number. Hundreds had sent him their applications. He chose 100 of them, and texted each of them an address where it would take place, under threat of excommunication from future participation if they gave it to anyone else. He had to control this at his speed.
A friend had agreed to host it at his house, about a 15 minute drive from Bruce's place. Everyone involved knew this was a one-off location. On Saturday night he had Melody walk upstairs and outside to his car, still naked. They drove with her naked all the way to the other location. She did not know the occasion, but she surely had an idea. It was dark, but a few cars still blew their horns at them as they pulled up beside them at redlights, or pulled out their phones to snap a picture of the naked young woman in the passenger seat of a car on a public street. Bruce forbade her from covering herself.
The 100 new men were already inside, as arranged. She just looked down at the floor in uncertainty when she saw them, unable to meet their eyes. Bruce told her they were all longtime fans of hers from her forums, eager to earn their "crown" on the message board, which would identify them as men who had actually physically consummated their lust with their common object of desire. He told her that which she already knew: that she would please these men however they saw fit, and that she would not leave until her pussy or asshole had drained the cum from every last ballsack in the room.
They drank and took their time. They followed the rules as set out by Bruce: use her how you wish, but be efficient, focus on using your genitals in her as opposed to hands or other implements, and leave when you have cum. When the room was empty she would be done. Record or take pictures if you wish while you're here. Two professional videographers provided the high-quality footage for everyone at home.
He fed her ecstasy, wanting her to build strong physio-conditioned responses to sex with unknown men. She took the drugs stoically, without question. They went three at a time, using her holes as they wanted, each man cycling to make sure he got to use either her ass or cunt. They didn't speak to her, except to give her commands. They finished in her or on her. None of them used condoms. They willing rutted in other men's filth, knowing the conditions of their iniquities. She bore the deluge of humanity with disciplined practice at first, spreading her legs to accept each new man in a way that had become familiar to her, or automatically reaching down and guiding a cock at the proper angle and speed into her rectum, shifting the muscles around her practiced bowels with an expertise that had crept up on her over these few years. But as the night wore on and the room thinned out, as her holes became looser and sloppier and more raw, and her mind more addled by the successive waves of drugs Bruce plied her with, she became more and more drunk off the stench of men, off her own exquisite debasement. As they had seen so often before, she became a willing participant in their game, seeking to be an agent disembodied, a party to the destruction of a whore who was not, could not be her. By the 30th cock she was fucking herself on them, sweating and crying out, grinding her pierced clit down into the furred pubic mounds she sat impaled upon, seeking some final release that ever seemed to elude her, reluctant to let the spent ones vacate her orifices, already reaching out to guide the next one in. She squirted, as she had done that first time in her apartment so long ago, and many times since, the entirety of her loins feeling so overstimulated and tangled up that her bladder or whatever mysterious reservoir it was failed to contain itself each time a cock pulled out of her, coating the chests of dozens of the men in a row in her juices.
He had selected none of them by their looks or backgrounds, and they came in every shape and size and description, as he wanted. All must be equal before her. Some were regular enough guys, plenty were ugly, some were very old. Some looked like they'd never had a woman before, and their quick performance was further testament. They were black, white, asian, hispanic. Their cocks were huge, or tiny, cut and uncut, some bent at odd angles or nearly swallowed up in their bushes of untrimmed pubic hair. Each was welcomed the same into the raw warmth of her insides - a strange, brief pantomime of intimate love. Soon followed by another man who would feel the exact same thing in the exact same place. By the time the room was halfway emptied out she was scooping the cum from her holes between partners to gobble it up, and licked it off the floor when they took her from behind.
At last the sun was rising and everyone was gone but Melody, Bruce, the host, and the two cameramen, who all then took their turn. The host had had her before at a party, but the cameramen had not. It was 102 new men for her tally. 1,470 in life.
When it was over she seemed to be in a delirium, and then when he'd led her out naked to the car and they drove off in the morning light, her hair a mess and her whole body coated in sweat and cum, it seemed to hit her. Then she seemed ashamed, on earth again, humiliated by that dark altar ego they had brought out of her again. He drove and looked at her from time to time, her forehead resting against the window, knowing that she was contemplating the 102 new men who had just, just like that, become one with her, felt that part of her that a few years ago she had only given to one. And now 102, a number she once would have thought of as the lifetime number of a true slut with no self-worth, she had given up in just another night. She couldn't even remember any of their faces, but each knew hers. Knew every part of her like the back of their hand.
When she got home that morning the digital banners that topped the walls in every room of her quarters were updated with her new number: 1,470, for her to see and contemplate in the back of her mind all day every day. A number that could never go down, only up. An inverse evaluation of a woman's worth, to much of society.
The next Saturday, now just a few days ago, the event was repeated in another location, with new men from the forums, but this time the number was 150. It took her to 1,620. He saw it all written on her face when they first walked into the house. The previous week wasn't a one-off event. It would keep repeating. He knew she was probably calculating the numbers in her head, wondering how high he would make her go, wondering how many men could be on those forums. He knew it was in the tens of thousands, and growing every day. He aspired to let them all in, in time.
So now the numbers on the walls read 1,620.
God, he had aspirations for her. By the time he was done with her he'd have her film the best version of content for every fetish he or anyone on the forums could think of. Make her the cream of the crop for everything, so that no matter what kind of porn people were looking for it would always lead them to Melody. In between the tours around the country, giving people far and wide the opportunity to fuck the notorious slut, the filming of all this content would be her full-time job. He'd bring in more live-in assistants to be available to film around the clock. Already he had it set up where people could vote on her next activities. Soon she'd begin. As long as he paced it where she would still find the outside world to be worse than what she experienced inside the house, she was his.
*
Another month passed. Maybe more. The outside world spun on. It was probably late summer now, but Melody wouldn't have known were it not for the walled garden in her quarters where she went out to sunbathe in the nude. She was always nude. She hadn't felt clothes on her skin or even seen any she could wear in the two or three months since Bruce had revealed his MO to her. She had little to measure the passing of time but the steady rise of the number on the boards in every room. 1,950 now. Omnipresent so that she could never forget it, or what it represented.
Bruce had arranged periodic gangbangs for her. None of them surprised her, of course. She knew to expect that and more once those first parties, and the cameras, had been revealed to her. She knew he had her right where he wanted her, and there was nothing she could do about it. He always reminded her she was free to leave at any time, but she also knew that he was right in his warnings: that whatever awaited her outside this house was probably far worse than what she'd experience inside of it.
"You are a whore," he had sympathetically said to her once a few weeks ago, after he had again taken her to some other millionaire's mansion to be fucked by another 100+ deviant strangers from the internet. "Nothing can change this fact now. It is written in history. You are not a whore because I have made you one or am forcing you to be one. You are because you are, now. It can't be undone. At this point what difference does 1,800 or 18,000 dicks inside of you make? Will it make anyone think less of you than they already think?"
She knew he was right. She hated that he was right, but he was right. All of her old friends, her family, anyone who knew her from school or her old jobs or anywhere else had already seen hundreds of men run trains on her, had seen her with wine bottles stretching her pussy to obscene widths, had seen her bulge out her asshole until her rectum prolapsed out, had seen her consume dozens of used condoms. Nothing could redeem her, nothing could make her go lower in their eyes. Whatever the true circumstances of her entering into this situation would never matter. Why shouldn't she lean into it, be unrepentantly the filthy public whore that it still, somewhere deep in her loins, thrilled her to be? Much as she despised that thrill. It was too late.
"Here you have protection," he had continued. "You have the world's best medical care. When the mutual satisfaction that this venture can bring to both of us has run its course, perhaps you'll have a very respectable retirement package coming your way. You can live out your days in peace and luxury, regardless of what the world thinks of you. But you must follow my course until then. That is all."
She resented living at his whim, having to follow his rules, but she couldn't deny that what he offered beat anything else she was likely to find. The next controlling superfan was not likely to be a multimillionaire. He showed her things he had found online, in the seedier parts of the internet that discussed her. Plots to kidnap her, both outlandish fantasies of lone wolves but also much more credible threats from foreign sex trafficking rings that she had attracted the attention of, who wanted nothing more than to turn this blonde American whore into a sex slave taking 10,000 Filipino cocks a year until she died of AIDS, a fitting punishment for her lechery.
So she stayed. She tried to suppress her innate feelings of indignation, her natural demand for basic dignity that all people had.
She endured his monologues and philosophizing. "Most of the pain comes from your resistance. As long as you think there is a chance of escape from all this, a chance of dignity, the pain will continue. Think of it like the cold. There are some who can thrive in coldness where others shiver and barely move. They feel the cold the same, but the stronger one accepts the cold, does not resist it. And the pain goes away."
He reiterated to her that the cameras will be on her at all times, that she would never know where they all are. That she should assume they are everywhere, showing every piece of her at all times to the whole world. That she must completely surrender the concept of privacy. Assume at any given moment that anyone she has ever met has a live view of whatever part of her they want to see.
"And remember it's not just for a live audience. It's being put into the world forever. Tied to your name for good."
He told her that it should occur to her that in all likelihood she had the most thoroughly exposed, disseminated, and widely-viewed naked body in human history. It hit her like a ton of bricks that he was right. That night she brought herself to two consecutive orgasms in bed replaying those words in her head, and then went into the bathroom, got on the counter and spread her legs wide in front of the mirror, which she knew contained cameras, and brought herself to a third moaning, weeping orgasm for the whole world to see, digging two fingers into her G spot until she squirted all over the glass. Then she went back to bed and tried to convince herself that any of this was real. Your own sick brain got you into this, really.
In the morning she crawled over to the dogbowl for her breakfast, carefully avoiding letting the bottoms of her feet touch the ground as she got out of bed. She saw the live comments on the screens pour in as she ate, not really absorbing them now, just letting them become part of that constant background hum of humiliation she was always soaking in.
A new guy came down to do her examination. It was usually the same two or three guys, but she had never seen this one before. He greeted her formally then immediately had his cock out and in her mouth. He then took her from behind as her face was thrust into the bowl camera. She made the porn faces into the camera that she knew they were expecting. When she felt his hot load fill her up and then spill out of her onto the floor she saw the tally bump up to 1,951.
"Get cleaned up, then let's go have a look in you," he said.
She wiped the cum off of and out of herself as best she could with paper towels then went and laid down on the examination bed. She didn't understand the point of making mostly the same exams three times a week, but each time still felt like a new violation, and she assumed that was probably the point. She couldn't wear clothes, but the Internet would get multiple new updates of the inside of her vagina and ass every week.
The guy put her feet up into the stirrups, spreading her legs wide. He began by taking a picture of her crotch untouched, as they usually did, and then had her spread her labia wide with both hands. More pictures, and then he began to lubricate the video-equipped dildo-like apparatus that he would use to document the depths of her interior. She wondered if he had any medical background.
She looked down at her pierced nipples, to the diamond-studded piercing protruding from the top of her clit. Aside from the nail polish, usually bold red, that the dutiful asian beautician applied to her meticulously manicured and pedicured nails a couple times a week, along with makeup when it suited them, she had been naked as the day she was born for months. Bruce had insisted. As she felt the device penetrate her, slowly pushing in and out to record her inner flesh slowly billowing away from its retreat, she remembered his words.
"You should still be made up, even without clothes. Your fans like the subtle reminders of the elegance a woman like you would normally have, would have had, had your life not gone down this path. You don't look like a pornstar, and you're not. You look like a 1950s Hollywood sweetheart. This shouldn't have happened to a girl like you. It's a special thrill to see a woman like you, a classic beauty, turned into such demeaned, irreversibly used goods. And you're the most used goods imaginable."
She could see on the live feed on the wall what everyone else was seeing right now. She still couldn't believe they could capture this kind of detail, or that it was her, or that it was being recorded for public consumption.
"You must come to find it as normal to show someone your cervix as you used to find it to show them your face," he had said. "No part of your body is more private than any other part."
She knew it was true. There was always the instinctive reaction to cover herself, but she was working to suppress it. Not wearing clothes for months certainly helped. She watched the internal video being played on the screen. How absurd it was to have an instinct to cover your breasts when videos like this were being produced multiple times a week. Bruce was right. All of her privacy, her dignity as a woman, was already gone. Resisting it in any way now only added to discomfort over an inescapable situation. Everything was documented forever. Why not embrace what could not be escaped, rather than live in a perpetual state of discomfort?
As the acting physician had her flip over onto her knees, her ass raised in the air so that he could use the device to give her anus the same examination, she thought of who all from back home was watching this right now. Who all had known her in her first life as a proper, unassuming introvert, was now about to watch in detail as a camera studied her sphincter, and then push through and light up places of her body she herself had never even seen outside of this shared experience. Bruce was right. She had to own it. She had to reclaim herself through a surrender to what had once been her own, most private urges. To fail to do so was death.
*
In early October of that year Eric Heinneman sat in the living room of his home in Spokane, Washington, watching as his wife prepared to walk out the door for an evening out with her girlfriends. She grabbed her purse, double checked that her phone, wallet, and everything else she needed was in there, then came over and gave him a kiss.
"Don't have too much fun without me," she said.
"I'll try," Eric said.
He smiled and watched her go out to the garage. When he had heard her garage door open and then close again, he grabbed his laptop and opened a private browser. He typed in the link he had visited so many times before.
It went straight to the live feed. There was Melody, hogtied on her knees, her wrists bound behind her, her upper torso held aloft, keeping her in the receiving position by her ponytail behind her head, which was tied to a rope anchored to the ceiling above her. Her face was in the camera, her big gray-blue eyes wide, almost pleading. It looked like she was staring into his eyes and his eyes alone, not tens of thousands of other viewers as well. She looked ridiculous and obscene. Her mouth was held open wide by a clear plastic dental implement which stretched her lips outward in four directions, preventing them from closing at all, baring her gums and teeth. A metal device arced over her head was inserted in both of her nostrils, pulling them upward so that she looked like a pig. She looked so open and stupid and exploited. Some fat, masked naked guy was fucking her ass from behind while others stood around stroking their cocks. Written on her back in marker were several tally marks, about 35.
