No-LIMIT-Rooms 01 English

Just in time, I suppressed the impulse to shake my aching head, and answered hoarsely, "No, thank you."

"Do you know who I am?"

Yes, slowly the memory came back. " You are Rebecca. My...," What actually?

"That's right, Rebecca, your business partner. You are the Star, and I'll get you out of here. As soon as you're fit again."

Was that a reference to bad TV actors, or just a lame attempt at joking? Confused, I looked at her, "Business partner? Had I signed anything yet?"

"Not signed, but the last words before your ... mishap."

The hesitation in trying to find the right words struck me despite the headache. Adrenaline coursed through my body. What had happened?

"... were, and I quote, 'Show me my workplace.' By doing so, we effectively made a verbal contract, and you became eligible for our company's free health care. Fortunately, because as we discovered, your health insurance coverage had expired."

Theater, or the screening wasn't so thorough after all, it flashed through my mind.

"Your lease, too." She glared at me. "You're broke." She set her purse aside, glanced around and, pulling up a chair. "Do you want to tell me what happened? We were a little taken aback, because according to your sales, it shouldn't be. You don't maintain an extravagant lifestyle, no drugs - we double-checked that here, of course. You're not pregnant either, by the way, as you'll probably be happy to hear!"

I tilted my head and looked at her. My scowl instantly turned into a face contorted in pain. Ouch.

"Your purse." Explained Rebecca, as if it was the most self-explanatory thing in the world. "I was looking for your health card, and I found the test. You must realize that pregnancy and working here are mutually exclusive. We had to make sure."

I opened my mouth to explain to her that it hadn't been my test. Just in time, I bit my tongue. Damn headache and lightheadedness. I had to pay more attention. "How long?"

"Oh, it's Saturday noon, you've been lying here since yesterday now."

Damn, yesterday afternoon I should have met with my landlord. Surely he had put my clothes outside the door now.

"I took the liberty of having your things picked up and brought to your apartment. The one you liked so much. You can start working in a week at the latest. So why are you broke?"

Without thinking, I gave the explanation prepared for such a question, "Kevin, my ex, got me in deep shit!" Close enough to the real truth to be brought across believably, too.

She looked at me for a moment, then nodded, "I see. Very well. You'll work hard with us, make a lot of money, and be out of your problems in no time."

I seriously doubted that.

She stood up. "See you soon. Cure yourself well, you'll need the rest!"

That already sounded almost like a threat to me. And it was still echoing in my ears when Rebecca was long gone.

4 Deuce

Two days later I was discharged from the clinic, a private clinic, very exclusive, very expensive. As a private patient, I got the bill right away upon discharge, along with a small box of naturally expensive, billed pain pills. The company came to pick me up. In my mind I now only called them "the company". I wondered if there was also a basement studio on the Grand Caimans. Or was it only the explosive, secret files that were stored there?

At the reception I handed over the bill to Rebecca's hands, after all Rebecca had said that the company would take it over. In return, I was given a key card. My apartment was number 417.

Barefoot, I entered the elevator to the top, holding my shoes in my hand. The heel of one of my Manolo imitations had broken off. Damn China merchandise. This, of course, explained my accident and Rebecca's hesitation at the word "mishap."

The apartment faced west, which suited me fine; I hated the morning sun. My clothes were surprisingly complete and hanging neatly cleaned and ironed in the closet. My Toys were neatly tucked away in the drawers, as was my underwear. I didn't doubt for a moment that I would be billed meticulously for everything. Money desperately needed to come back in. I fired up my laptop and checked the account balance. Damn. Broke was still a nice way to put it. Poker dogs and Kevin. Asshole, asshole, asshole... I noticed tears running down my face. Asshole has a hole now..., I started laughing hysterically, then cried again.

No, I don't have a drug problem, but right now I wish I did. It took me longer than usual to get ready. Jenny Pain would be putting on her show again, the toys were ready, tonight it would hurt, more than usual, but that was all too welcome to me. I wanted the pain. Not for pleasure, not today.

Just as I started the cam there was a knock, at the door stood Rebecca. Her Manolos were real and the clack of her heels sounded dominant on the parquet of my apartment as she strutted in wordlessly. She glanced at my toys, knowing, appraising, then at me, examining, scrutinizing, evaluating. She nodded with satisfaction. "You're ready to work, that's good. Here's your written contract," a stack of papers stapled together by an extra large metal clip.

"What is this, the loose leaf collection of War and Peace?"

She scowled at me. "Just sign it. Is better for you!"

I fished the contract off the table and sat down, legs crossed, on my bed. Right in between my toys. Then I started to read. Absorbed, I scratched the back of my left hand. I had probably caught a mosquito in the hospital.

"Contract between Rheingau-Immobilien and Johanna Blauert for use of apartment 417... service, utilities, lease term, notice periods, defaults, blah, blah, blah." "This is not an employment contract," I exclaimed.

"Didn't say it was."

"And I can't afford the apartment at all as a mere camgirl."

"Hard, but not impossible," Rebecca agreed.

"And what about corporate employee, as a star?"

Rebecca started laughing at the top of her lungs. "Are you seriously expecting a written contract about the 'basement'?"

I could actually hear the quotation marks the way Rebecca pronounced basement.

"You sign the lease now, backdated to the day of your accident, then pack your toys in a bag, throw on a robe, and report to Studio 11 with your employment contract tucked into the back of your left hand. At the hospital, we gave you the house chip right there, which you can use to open doors here. Initial commission five percent, as is generally customary as a model. You can go through the script again with the producer in the studio. Nothing wild: some whippings, clamps, bondage. Suggestions and improvement requests you can make on the spot. Limit rules, that is, the customers are allowed to intervene and buy torture in a limited way. So it is allowed to improvise a little bit. No VIP customers are expected, but do a good show and you will get a trailer. If it goes well, you get six percent the next time. If you do your own show, you start with ten, health care is free, restorative cosmetic surgery, if required by the work, is also free. Tax-free, cash on the hand. From now on you have a contract as a performer with No-LIMIT-Rooms Germany. And you even get in as a model right away. Congratulations!"

I sucked in the air. Had she just said all that out loud? My heart leapt for joy. I was in!

"Pen." Demandingly, I raised my left hand. Damn that itch.

Rebecca had rushed out as quickly as she had breezed in. The clack of her heels sounded somehow triumphant as she did so. Stupidly, in my excitement, I hadn't asked about the secret door. I had only been downstairs with her once. She hadn't shown me anything directly or explained to me exactly how I could get through. And on top of that, I had received a blow to the head in the meantime. The cam was dismantled in no time, the SD card removed and hidden. My good old cam, with the defective recording indicator light. Also Kevin's merit.

Less than 30 minutes later, I was standing in the laundry room in front of the janitor's coat, desperately trying to open the door. I pressed every possible spot on the wall. Where the hell was the sensor sitting? Footsteps sounded behind me. I glanced around the corner. A brunette girl in casual leisure wear and laundry basket. Either there were several of them walking around here, or this was... Damn.

"Hi." I called out tentatively.

She hadn't heard me. No mean feat with buttons in my ear. I called louder, "Hello!"

This time she looked up in wonder. She quickly took the headphones out of her ears, looked around, and exaggeratedly went, "Shhh."

I waved her on.

She shook her head.

Same game again.

So I left my corner and walked toward her. Like a shield, she held her laundry basket protectively in front of her. Did she think I was going to attack her with a sword? Her gaze fell on my right hand, and when I looked down, I saw there the riding crop on the loop of dangling from my wrist. It hadn't fit in the gym bag, but in this house I hadn't expected anyone to be bothered by it. Smiling sheepishly, I hid my hand behind my back, her suspicious gaze remaining.

"Hi."

She remained silent.

"I'm Jenny P..., uh, I mean Johanna."

Nothing.

"Apartment 417."

A brightening passed over her face. Relief. "You're the fresh meat?"

Yes thank you. The sheep for the slaughter... "We had met last week, on my tour. You had dropped the laundry basket."

As if on cue, it slipped from her again. She had gone pale. "I didn't say anything! I told Rebecca I didn't tell you anything. Nothing at all."

"Uh, yes you did."

"No."

Was the woman paranoid, or had I ended up with the company after all?

"All right. I need to know how to get to the basement, though."

"You're standing in the basement."

"No."

"Uh, yes."

"I don't mean this basement."

"Which one then?"

Oh, Lord, rain brains from heaven, this woman is ... the only one in the entire house who is officially unaware of the basement's existence. I could slap myself. "The, uh, bike basement."

"Why didn't you say so? That way, third door on the right."

"Thanks. Uh..."

"Frederike. You can call me Rike. Rebecca calls me Fredi, but I don't like that name anymore." Only now did she seem to notice that her basket was on the floor. Fortunately without any laundry having fallen out. She picked it up. "Apartment 116, I have to go upstairs, work calls." With a final, somewhat odd look at my riding crop and toward the bike basement door, she disappeared into the elevator.

Not 20 seconds after closing the elevator door, a whistle sounded behind me. In front of the alcove stood a woman, dressed up like Gretel on the cover of my old fairy tale book in my childhood: cute as a button, with blond braids and red apple cheeks. Only her age didn't fit at all, the woman had to be in her mid-30s or older.

"You're the new girl?"

"Jenny Pain, or Johanna."

Anyway, hurry up, we're behind schedule. I'm telling you, I'll beat your ass green and blue if the show starts late because of you."

Off she went. The day was getting more and more interesting. I grabbed my bag and hurried through Open 'Sesame open you' to the elevator door.

Gretel was waiting impatiently. As soon as I was inside, she held her hand in front of the sensor panel and pressed the "minus one" button on the display.

"Nice," I said.

"Didn't you know that?"

"Uh, yeah."

"No!"

Before I could think about irony, gods of puns, and corny jokes, Gretel grabbed my left hand and held it in front of the sensor panel. It lit up. Gretel breathed a sigh of relief.

"I don't know you that well yet, you know. And it makes me quite embarrassed, since we haven't been formally introduced. Can I have my hand back, Gretel?"

Her expression abruptly darkened, obviously she didn't like the name Gretel. Well, that was her problem. And moreover, she shouldn't dress like that either if she didn't want to be called that.

I smiled kindly.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know your name. But you really look like the fairy tale character from Hansel and Gretel out. At least as she was once depicted on the cover of the book."

"Don't ever call me Gretel again!" she growled threateningly before the elevator door opened. "Never again, you hear me?"

I suspect she would have loved to beat my ass green and blue right then and there.

When we entered the studio, the rest of the team was already waiting for us.

"So, the new girl is here, albeit late. She's going to get spanked by me later anyway, so I'll save it for now. Let's get started."

Actually, I felt that was a bit unfair, after all, we had made it to the studio on time. But getting spanked didn't scare me. The main thing was that it was fun or made me money. Preferably both.

Studio 11 consisted of several rooms, opposite the entrance door was a large double door with emergency exit signs, the main point was the small stage, about 30 square meters in size, surrounded by spotlights and recording equipment, in a room about twice that size. The height of about 4 meters was unusually high for a basement, but almost too low for filming. The sound alarms and lighting needed space, but in any case should not appear in the picture. In front of the stage was the camera area, in one corner table, three chairs and a mini kitchen. For smoking there was a small booth that reminded me of a phone booth. Outside of it, smoking was strictly prohibited, which was just fine with me. Opposite the stage was a washroom with a shower, a rather cramped dressing room with a dressing table, large mirror and lockers, and a rest room with a lounger and first aid equipment. Almost needless to mention that neither toilets nor showers had doors or there were separate changing rooms or cubicles for changing. Instead, surveillance cameras were really everywhere, the wet dream of every voyeur.

The recordings were sent directly to the control room, which had its room somewhere else, probably on the 5th floor. I immediately associated this with the film "The 13th Floor", which immediately became the name of the control room for me.

The team consisted of the cameraman Thomas, the sound engineer Edward, the producer Gretel alias Brianna, whose real name was Jelena, a little redhead named Alice, whose room name was Red Siren and me. I didn't have a room name yet, it was to be given to me by the audience at the end of the show. This brought in extra money, because the name suggestions were auctioned off American style. Each vote for a name brought me 25 €. At that time, I could not imagine that anyone was willing to pay that much money just for a vote. Even more so when I was told that often some viewers cast their vote several times to get their name suggestion accepted. Unfortunately there were then also sometimes really stupid names, with which the actresses had to live then. But the regie sorted out already with the suggestions the worst ones. With some they also asked for the reason of the suggestion, or the meaning of the name, if it was foreign.

The winning name, however, also earned the suggesting customer a prize, namely VIP access for a year, with the option of renewal. Since VIP access was rare and normally only awarded on referrals, this was a strong incentive, provided one could afford to bid.

The pitch was done quickly, nothing exciting or particularly fancy. Instructions and explanations were given by "Charly" in German, with an American accent from a small intercom, I almost got a laughing fit. You nown 'three angels for charlie'?

Our story today: dominating lesbian, played by Gretel, forces her will on unwilling playmate. Pseudo medieval torture session: rack, whip, hot wax and chains. Money for whip strokes, wax drops, stretching, just everything that hurt. Gretel as top had a hidden button in her ear, for the stage directions, well hidden under the blond wig.

I was allowed to look at "my face" on a screen, which was really fascinating. I made faces and saw my facial expressions on a completely foreign, but absolutely real-looking face. The similarities were there, but more like siblings and basically my fake face was even prettier than me, that gave me a little sting. What had I put makeup on for anyway?

At other times I would have enjoyed the session, but as a subplot I was just standing on the sidelines, naked and beaten in iron, by Gretel briefly but skillfully, with the cat o' nine tails. Gretel, whose real name was Jelena, hated everything and all Germans. Why and why she then stayed in the country, I was to learn much later, at the moment it was enough for me to feel her anger. She did not hold back and she did me good. It was a pain such as I had not felt for some time, not to be compared with my self-mortifications, sharp, hard blows, fully drawn out, left no room in my mind for doubt, guilt or remorse. It was glistening, pure pain that made me ecstatic without exciting me this time. I screamed my lungs out in genuine pain and was happy at the same time.

Suddenly, it was over. Just like that. The star of the evening was Alice, a delicate British girl with a snub nose and freckles who literally melted with hot wax on her buds. It didn't take much more of Jelena's efforts to put her over the top and test the stretching bench's endurance. Alice had strength and she enjoyed the chains that held her down and at the same time released her lust. Jelena in turn enjoyed Alice, only I stood bleeding on the sidelines. Damn, I was really frustrated.

"Hey Gretel, I'm still here too." Did I mention that Jelena hates everything German, especially the name Gretel? "Is that all you got, Gretel? I don't feel anything, Gretel. Gretel, you should practice that again." My spells didn't stop. The relieving swoon came quickly, too quickly for my taste.

5 Kumiho

Clap, clap, clap.

Hands clapped together. Tired, I opened my eyes. I was lying on my stomach, on a hospital couch. My whole back was burning like fire. Someone was tampering with it, doctoring it. Why had I fainted? It wasn't that bad, was it? I don't faint easily, certainly not from a few lashes. Lifting my head seemed too laborious, I could guess from the manolos in my field of vision who was standing next to me, and had probably clapped her hands so ostentatiously. In fact, I didn't have to wait long to get confirmation.

A, distantly familiar, male voice announced, "The wounds look worse than they are. They'll be healed in a few days. But you should talk to Jelena, Rebecca. This has gone too far." That was my lovable Doc Meier. I wouldn't necessarily push him off the edge of the bed, well, another day:

"Thanks Doc!" I mumbled still dazed, but was either overheard or ignored.

"Thanks Reiner, yes I will. Now we have to get Johanna here in front of the camera again. After all, we don't want the customers to get the impression that we force or torture our stars to death here. We're not a snuff site." Obviously turning to me, Rebecca asked, "do you need a painkiller, or is this okay?"

Groaning in pain, I straightened up and looked her in the eye. "What knocked me out? I don't pass out from a few blows. I can take a lot more."

Her eyes looked at me unfathomably. A motion of her head, and my favorite doctor disappeared wordlessly through the door.

"I know that very well. But it wasn't necessary here. Not for the base members. You had a few thousand viewers, but they're all paying peanuts. We won't risk your health for that. Save your strength for the VIP. After all, you'll already get your trailer now. Again, can you get up, or do we have to drag the body double out of bed in Moscow, and do a deep deepfake?"

Moscow? It popped into my head. Figures. Where else? New York for sure. "What was it?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Something relatively harmless that works quickly, and can be neutralized fairly quickly. It hasn't been 30 minutes since your 'fainting spell'. The aftershow isn't over yet. Turn around."