Surprised Awakening
Chapter one, Surprise, surprise
You blink awake to the scent of stale sweat and rubber, the heavy silence broken only by the low hum of the vibrator inside you and the sharp buzz that snaps through your cock cage every ninety seconds like clockwork. Your right hand, trembling slightly against the short chain linking your wrist to the leather collar choking your throat, still grips your phone—its cracked screen the only light in the pitch-black room. "Fuck," you rasp, the word muffled by the tight gimp mask sealing your mouth, tasting of latex and desperation. Each shallow breath makes the collar bite deeper; each shock from the wires makes your caged dick throb against cold metal. You try to move your legs, spread wide and shackled to the bedposts, but the chains just rattle, useless. The phone glows—a single notification. Unknown number. It reads: Enjoying the view?
Your fingers fumble against the phone's cracked screen, the chain from your wrist to your collar pulling taut as you tilt your head down. The notification expands into a full message: Enjoying the view? Below it, a grainy live feed loads—a fisheye lens perspective from above the bed, showing your bound body, the vibrator's outline visible sticking out from your ass, the cage gleaming under the phone's glow. No release button appears. Instead, three dots pulse as the sender types again: Your left thigh. Look closer. You strain against the chains, twisting your neck painfully, and spot a faint red LED blinking rhythmically just above your knee—a subcutaneous tracker embedded in your flesh, unknown and humming with silent purpose. The screen flashes once more: Good boy.
You suck in a ragged breath, the rubber mask sealing your lips as you try to shout—but what emerges is a choked, guttural wheeze, muffled into near-silence by the thick latex. The collar bites into your throat with every strained attempt, the chain to your wrist rattling uselessly. Outside the heavy door, the distant thump of bass from a neighboring apartment continues uninterrupted; no footsteps approach, no curious neighbor pauses. The vibrator inside you pulses relentlessly, its rhythm syncing with the electric shocks from your cage, as if mocking your helplessness. The phone screen flickers—Shhh. Only I hear you.—before dimming to black.
Your trembling fingers lose grip on the phone as you deliberately slacken them, the device clattering onto the mattress beside your hip—its screen now dark and useless. You immediately twist your chained right wrist, the leather collar digging into your windpipe as you strain toward the padlock securing your wrist-chain to the collar's D-ring. Your fingertips brush cold metal, but the angle is all wrong; the short chain gives barely an inch of play, and the padlock's keyhole faces away from your desperate probing. Each frantic tug only rattles the links and sends fresh jolts of pain through your neck, while the tracker LED on your thigh blinks impassively in the gloom. The vibrator shifts inside you as you writhe, its relentless buzz syncing with another cruel shock from the cage—a mocking rhythm to your futile struggle.
A guttural yelp tears through the suffocating rubber mask as the vibrations intensify into a brutal, jackhammer rhythm—deep and unrelenting. At the same moment, the shock collar around your cock pulses. The raw cry shreds through the latex gag, a ragged sound swallowed by the suffocating dark. Pain and pleasure collide violently—the shocks from the cage biting like electric teeth while the vibrator drills deeper, pushing you toward an agonizing climax. Your body arches involuntarily against the chains, muscles locking as the orgasm tears through you, trapped and useless inside the chastity cage. It's a brutal, shuddering release with no relief, only the cage's metal teeth digging into tender flesh as the vibrator mercilessly prolongs the torture. Sweat stings your eyes beneath the mask, and the tracker on your thigh pulses faster, a silent witness to your unraveling. The phone remains dark and silent where it fell—no taunting message, no reprieve. A counter on the wall switches from '0' to '1'
You rock your hips slowly at first, testing—the chains rattle against the bedposts as you grind downward, seeking friction against the mattress. The vibrator responds immediately, its low hum shifting into a higher, insistent frequency that drills deeper into your prostate. Each thrust synchronizes perfectly with the cage's timed shocks, turning movement into exquisite torture: the vibrations intensify when you arch forward but fade slightly when you slump back, creating a cruel rhythm you can't escape. Sweat slicks the rubber mask as you realize this control is an illusion—the device's patterns change randomly after three cycles, spiking without warning to make your caged erection throb against unyielding metal. The tracker's red LED blinks faster, mirroring your pulse. The pleasure becomes unbearable again, building toward another trapped climax you can't avoid. You cum violently inside the cage, a shuddering wave of agony as the shocks redouble—the counter on the wall clicks to '2'.
You clamp your jaw with desperate force, teeth sinking into the thick rubber lining of the gimp mask. The material yields slightly at first—a faint give that tastes of chemical bitterness—but as you grind your molars deeper, it becomes clear this isn't thin latex meant to tear; it's reinforced industrial-grade rubber, layered like tire tread. Your incisors ache from the pressure, your gums screaming as you bite harder, but the mask holds firm, absorbing every shred of violence you pour into it. All you achieve is a muffled crunching sound trapped against your own ears and the coppery tang of blood where your canine pierced your inner cheek. The collar chain jerks taut against your throat with each straining motion, choking your ragged breaths into shallow gasps while the vibrator continues its relentless assault, syncing perfectly with the cage's shock that now spikes with every failed bite. The tracker on your thigh pulses crimson in the gloom—steady, unmoved. The phone buzzes again, this time a womans voice calls your name: "Emcha, you know not to resist, there is no escape." . You recognize the voice of Miss Vera, a gameshow host and dominatrix you've met some time ago.
A wet sob escapes you as you finally relent, jaw trembling from the exertion. Blood pools under your tongue, metallic and warm. The vibrator shifts inside you, its rotation grinding deeper as if punishing your defiance, while the cage delivers another timed shock that arches your spine against the mattress. Chains rattle uselessly. You glance down—the phone's screen has lit up again, displaying Miss Vera's smirking face in a prerecorded video. "Poor little rabbit," she coos, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Did you think biting through military-grade polymer would save you? How... predictable." Behind her, the counter on the wall glows faintly—'2' now pulses in soft red light. "The people who vote, can control your pleasure and your pain. You just have to reach the number of configured orgasms.", Miss Vera taunts. "I wonder if you will get a reward?" she adds with a smile.
You throw your weight sideways with a frantic heave, muscles straining as you try to roll your hips and shoulders against the unforgiving steel chains. The bedframe groans under the sudden violence of your movement, but the shackles hold fast—their thick links biting into your ankles and wrist with bruising force. Your momentum only succeeds in tangling the collar-chain tighter around your throat, cutting off your air for a choking second as the mattress shifts beneath you. The sudden jolt sends the vibrator into a frenzied spiral deep in your bowels, its rotation grinding against your prostate while the cage discharges a brutal shock that locks your body rigid. Miss Vera's laughter crackles from the phone's speaker—low and merciless—as the wall counter flickers to '3'. "Struggling only feeds the audience, rabbit," her voice purrs. "Every convulsion is a donation."
Your body goes slack against the sweat-slicked sheets, every muscle surrendering to the inevitable rhythm. The chains cease their rattling as you stop fighting, allowing the shocks and vibrations to wash over you like a cruel tide. Miss Vera's prerecorded laughter softens into a hum of approval through the phone speaker as the vibrator settles into a low, consistent thrum—no longer punishing, but still inescapable. The cage's shocks come at measured intervals now, each pulse a sharp reminder of your submission, while the tracker on your thigh glows steady crimson. You feel the next climax build slowly this time, a deep ache rather than a violent surge, cresting with agonizing precision until the counter clicks to '4'. Blood from your bitten cheek mixes with saliva, pooling hot beneath the mask where you taste iron and salt. The phone screen flickers—not with Vera's face, but with a single emoji: 🐇❤️.
"Better," Vera's voice murmurs, suddenly live, intimate in your ear as if leaning close. The phone's microphone must be active. "The audience appreciates compliance, Emcha. They've unlocked your first reward." As she speaks, the vibrator shifts—not in intensity, but in angle, rotating to press firmly against your prostate in a way that draws a ragged moan from you. The shocks pause entirely. For three blissful seconds, only the deep, resonant pleasure remains, a relief so profound it borders on torment. Then the cage reactivates with a gentle buzz, more tease than punishment. "Count to ten with me," Vera commands softly. "Out loud. Let them hear your voice."
Your voice cracks through the rubber gag as you begin counting, "One", the word thick with blood and submission. Miss Vera's breath hitches audibly through the phone's speaker as you reach "Four," each number drawing ragged moans that sync with the vibrator's deliberate rotation against your prostate. By "Seven" the cage's shocks remain mercifully dormant, replaced only by its low idle hum, letting pure sensation build without punishment. When you gasp "Ten" the phone screen flares—a cascade of animated hearts—while the tracker on your thigh pulses three times in rapid succession. Vera purrs, "Good rabbit," as the wall counter snaps to '5' with a soft click. The vibrator abruptly shifts to a teasing flutter, gentle waves that keep you hovering on the edge without release.
You lean into the sensation, hips subtly shifting to match the vibrator's fluttering rhythm—not fighting it, not chasing release, just riding the edge like Vera commanded. The chains hang slack as your muscles relax, surrendering to the teasing pulses that dance along your nerves without tipping into agony. Miss Vera's soft chuckle echoes through the phone speaker. "Clever rabbit," she murmurs, the words warm and approving. "Feel how the audience rewards obedience?" The cage remains dormant, no shocks interrupting the delicate balance, while the tracker's red glow steadies into a slow, calm pulse. The vibrator responds to your stillness with softer undulations, a hypnotic thrum that keeps you suspended in that sweet, aching limbo where every breath feels like both torture and gift. Sweat cools on your skin beneath the rubber mask, the taste of blood fading as your jaw unclenches. Distantly, the wall counter ticks to '6'—silent this time, almost gentle.
The words "Thank you Miss Vera" emerge as a wet, muffled rasp against the rubber gag—barely audible even to your own ears, thickened by blood and exhaustion. Yet Vera hears it. The phone vibrates instantly against your hip, screen lighting up with her sharp grin. "Louder, rabbit," she commands, her voice a velvet whip. "Let the microphone taste your gratitude." You try again, forcing the syllables through clenched teeth, louder this time—a raw, broken sound that makes the collar dig deeper. The vibrator responds with a sudden upward twist, pressing hard against your prostate as the cage delivers a single sharp shock that steals your breath. "Better," she purrs. The wall counter ticks to '7', its soft red glow reflecting in the tracker's rhythmic pulse on your thigh. For five seconds, the vibrations soften to a gentle hum, almost soothing. A reward for obedience.
Your shout tears through the rubber mask—"THANK YOU MISS VERA!"—raw and guttural, vibrating against the gag with desperate force. The collar-chain snaps taut against your windpipe, choking the last syllable into a strangled gasp as blood-flecked spit coats the mask's interior. Instantly, the phone screen erupts with pulsing gold emojis (🏆✨💫) while Vera's live laughter crackles through the speaker, rich with dark approval. "Such a polite rabbit," she coos, her voice intimate in the silence that follows. The vibrator responds with deep, rolling waves rather than sharp pulses—a luxurious massage that makes your hips shudder involuntarily against the sheets—while the cage remains utterly dormant, its wires humming with latent power. Across the room, the counter ticks decisively to '8', its glow warming from red to amber.
Exhaustion drags you under like a lead weight—eight forced, shuddering climaxes have hollowed you out, leaving your muscles trembling jelly and your thoughts frayed at the edges. The vibrator's relentless hum and the cage's dormant threat blur into a distant drone as your eyelids grow impossibly heavy beneath the rubber mask. Your last conscious sensation is the tracker's steady crimson pulse against your thigh, syncing with your slowing heartbeat, while Miss Vera's murmured praise ("Sleep now, little rabbit...") dissolves into static through the phone speaker. The chains feel colder against your skin as you sink into oblivion, your body finally going limp against the sweat-drenched sheets. The wall counter glows '8' in unwavering amber—a silent sentinel over your surrender.
You jerk awake to the clank of metal—not chains rattling, but the heavy slide of iron bars locking into place around your neck and wrists. The rubber mask is gone, replaced by rough wood biting into your throat as you stare down at your own naked body through the pillory's central hole. Your legs are free but uselessly splayed on cold concrete, while the milking machine's suction cups clamp onto your now freed cock with a pneumatic hiss. Its rhythmic pulls are gentle at first, almost clinical, but the vibration starts immediately—deep and resonant, syncing with the tracker's persistent blink on your thigh. Miss Vera's voice drifts from a speaker above: "Good morning, rabbit. The audience voted for efficiency." The machine cycles faster, relentless tugs dragging involuntary whimpers from you as pleasure builds against the cage's unyielding grip. No shocks yet—just the slow, mechanical demand for what you can't give.
The milking machine ramps up its rhythm, its suction cups clamping tighter as it pulses with mechanical precision—each pull dragging a ragged gasp from your raw throat. Even after your cock empties nothing but thin, aching dribbles, the machine doesn't stop. It keeps tugging, relentless, while the vibrator inside you shifts to a brutal jackhammer tempo, drilling against your oversensitive prostate. Post-orgasm torture ignites—every nerve screaming as phantom pleasure curdles into agony. Your scream echoes against the pillory's wood, a raw, animal sound that bounces off concrete walls as the tracker on your thigh flares crimson. Miss Vera's laugh crackles through the speaker above, sharp as shattered glass: "They love your voice, rabbit. Sing louder." The machine's cycle intensifies, suction turning vicious, vibrating deep enough to make your teeth rattle—a cruel, endless extraction with no release in sight.
Your vision blurs at the edges, the pillory's wood grain swimming as the machine's rhythm syncs with the tracker's pulsing light. Every tug feels like it's peeling skin, the vibrator's assault leaving your hips jerking uncontrollably against the pillory's unforgiving hold. "P-please," you choke out, the word scraping your throat raw. Vera's voice drips with mock sympathy: "Begging already? But the audience just donated for double speed." Instantly, the machine's tempo doubles—a frantic, bruising pace that wrenches another shattered scream from you. The vibrator follows suit, hammering into your prostate until your legs buckle, knees scraping concrete as you sag against the restraints. Distantly, the counter on the wall clicks to '9', then '10' and then '11' its amber glow flickering like a dying ember. Blood pounds in your ears, drowning out everything but the machine's hiss and Vera's soft, satisfied sigh.
The torment crests into something beyond pain—a white-hot void where sensation overloads into numbness. Your screams dissolve into wet, broken sobs, saliva dripping from your lips onto the concrete below. The machine finally stops, suction cups releasing with a sickening pop that makes you flinch. For three seconds, blessed silence hangs heavy. Then Vera's voice cuts through, crisp and businesslike: "Audience choice round, rabbit. Option one: shocks resume at maximum. Option two..." A new vibration starts—not in your ass, but around your cock base, thin wires tightening like a venomous embrace. "...electro-stimulation. Cast your votes now!" A timer flashes on the wall: 10...9...8... The tracker pulses faster, crimson light reflecting in the milking machine's glass reservoir, now half-filled with your spendings.
"That's interesting," Miss Vera suddenly laughs, "a third, hidden, option is selected: the rabbit hunt in the wild". The pillory's locks click open with a sharp metallic snap. You collapse forward onto the cold concrete, limbs trembling as the milking machine detaches completely. "Run, little rabbit," Vera purrs, her voice shifting to a predatory whisper through the speakers. "The forest outside this room is vast. But remember—the tracker stays. And we always find our prey." Heavy steel doors grind open at the far end of the room, revealing moonlit trees swaying in a cold wind. The pillory clatters away on unseen mechanisms. You are naked, bleeding from raw wrists, the butt plug still vibrating faintly inside you. Freedom is a tangible scent—pine and damp earth. But the tracker on your thigh pulses like a targeting laser.