Surprised Awakening
Chapter Three, Stage Three
Inside Stage Three, fluorescent lights bleach everything bone-white - walls, floor, even Lynx's latex catsuit gleams like polished ice. She shoves you face-first against a metal examination table, cold steel biting your bruised ribs as she unsnaps the leash with a sharp tchk. "Arms up, rabbit," she orders, her voice flat. When you hesitate, the hunter with the knife drives his fist into your kidney - a lightning bolt of pain that folds you gasping against the table. Lynx catches your wrists in gloved hands, pulling them high behind your back before looping thick leather straps around your biceps and forearms. Each tug cinches tighter, forcing your wrists together behind your head bound arms arch upward into stiff, unnatural "ears". Below, leather straps secure your ankles tight to your thighs, bending your knees at an angle that leaves you balancing precariously on the balls of your feet.
Lynx steps back, surveying her work with detached satisfaction as Vera's voice echoes from ceiling speakers: "Begin hopping, Emcha. Or shall we activate incentive mode?" The tracker pulses faster - a visible but silent countdown. You try to shift your weight, but the ankle restraints are tight, muscles screaming as you force your body into the first desperate hop. The rabbit tail plug responds instantly - its vibrations spiking into a jackhammer rhythm that punches breath from your lungs. You crash onto your side, choking on pain-hazed laughter as Lynx watches, arms crossed. "Hop, rabbit," she repeats softly. "Or the audience gets bored."
You push upright, trembling against the restraints – muscles screaming, your bound arms helpless -and force another hop. This time, momentum carries you forward onto your toes, before gravity drags you down. The plug's vibrations soften to a low murmur - a fleeting reward - but when you pause hopping to gasp for air, it drills brutally deep again. Sweat stings your eyes beneath the harsh lights as you scramble for rhythm - hop, land, gasp - each impact jarring your spine. "Faster," Lynx murmurs, tapping her boot against the floor in time with the tracker's crimson pulse. "Or the vibrator shifts to teacher mode." You can't speak - breath comes in ragged sobs - but you nod violently, throwing your weight into the next hop. This time, your bound legs propel you forward half a meter before you stumble. The plug rewards you with a gentle flutter - then spikes again as you wobble.
Vera's chuckle crackles overhead: "The audience loves desperation hops, rabbit. So… authentic." Lynx steps closer, her shadow swallowing yours. "Try hopping toward me," she commands, spreading her thighs slightly. "Show them how much you want to please."
Your trembling legs propel you forward in an uneven hop toward Lynx, the plug vibrating violently with each jarring impact against the concrete floor. Sweat drips into your eyes as you close the distance, bound arms straining behind you like broken wings. Lynx watches with predatory stillness, her latex-clad silhouette sharp under the sterile lights. As you land heavily just before her spread boots, the plug shifts to a punishing jackhammer rhythm - forcing a choked gasp from you - but your cock remains rigid, straining toward her. Lynx laughs low in her throat, a sound like tearing velvet. "Pathetic," she murmurs, but her gloved hand drifts to her crotch zipper. The metal teeth part with a sharp hiss, revealing smooth skin beneath - no underwear, just the glistening swell of her slit, already slick. The plug instantly syncs to a deep, resonant thrum, harmonizing with her proximity. "Beg for it," Lynx breathes, stepping close enough for her scent – musky and salty - to flood your senses. When you gasp wordlessly, she slaps your cock hard with her open palm, the sting mingling with the vibrator's assault. Vera's voice slices through the speakers: "Touch her, rabbit. Earn your reward." Lynx leans in, her breath hot on your ear. "Use that desperate little tongue... before I cut it out."
The words tear from your throat like shattered glass - "Please, Lynx - use my tongue" - raw and desperate, muffled only by exhaustion. Her pupils dilate almost imperceptibly, a predator savoring surrender, before her gloved hand snaps forward to fist your sweat-slicked hair. She yanks hard, forcing your head downward with brutal efficiency until your face slams against the cold latex stretched taut over her inner thigh. The scent floods your nostrils - the unmistakable musk of arousal. With her free hand, she slides away the latex to reveal more smooth skin glistening with slick heat mere inches from your mouth. "Worship," she growls, grinding her hips forward until her swollen clit bumps against your trembling lips. The rabbit-tail plug inside you shifts instantly to a deep, resonant thrum, syncing with her proximity as if wired to her pulse. You feel her thighs tense around your ears, trapping you in darkness scented with salt and dominance as Vera's approving hum vibrates through unseen speakers. Lynx releases her grip on your hair only to seize your jaw, forcing it wider with thumb and forefinger - a silent command to open. When you comply, trembling, she presses herself fully against your tongue. The plug rewards your submission with waves of pleasure so intense they blur into agony, each pulse timed to Lynx's shallow thrusts against your mouth.
The climax tears through you like a dull blade - a shuddering, hollow convulsion that wrings nothing from your spent cock but phantom pulses and agony. Your jaw locks around Lynx's clit as the dry orgasm peaks, teeth grazing her sensitive flesh in involuntary reflex. She snarls, yanking your hair backward with brutal force as her hips buck forward, grinding harder against your tongue. "Fucking animal," she hisses, but her voice cracks - a tremor betraying her own climax. Her thighs clamp around your skull like a vice as she rides your face, wetness flooding your mouth: salty, metallic, unmistakable. The plug inside you pulses in sync with her tremors, vibrating against your prostate to prolong the torture. Vera's laughter echoes sharp through the speakers - "Such a messy rabbit" - as Lynx finally shoves you away, your face dripping. You collapse onto cold concrete, ribs heaving, tasting her cum. Lynx wipes herself with a gloved hand, disdain twisting her lips as she watches you tremble. "Pathetic," she spits, but doesn't re-zip her suit, her breathing still ragged. Vera's voice cuts through, cold and commanding: "Enough. Lynx - leash him. Stage Three progresses." Lynx's eyes narrow at the speaker, but she pulls out a micro cock cage and a thin silver chain from her belt. The plug vibrates faintly - a warning pulse - as she kneels beside your prone form locking the cock cage tight around your spent cock.
Lynx clips the silver leash to your new cock cage with a sharp click, the chain pulling taut enough to make you gasp as she yanks you upright. "Hop," she commands, her voice still thick with residual anger from your teeth scraping her clit. You struggle into the painful "hare" position - ankles bound to thighs, arms arched behind your head - and begin hopping toward the glass cage at stage center. Each jolting hop sends fresh shocks through your restrained limbs, the rabbit tail plug vibrating in sync with your strained movements. The glass enclosure is barely large enough for a crouching adult, its floor dominated by a heavy steel ring bolted directly into concrete and a large rigid dildo on a metal rod. Lynx shoves you inside with a boot to your shoulder, the impact rattling your teeth as you collapse onto cold concrete. She loops the leash through the floor ring and locks it with a miniature padlock, leaving you kneeling with the chain pulled tight between your legs—forcing your spine into a cruel arch. Vera's heels click across the stage as she approaches, her silhouette sharp against the sterile white lights. "Stage Three: Spit Roast," she announces into a handheld mic, her voice echoing through unseen speakers. "Rules are simple, rabbit. You'll be rotated." She gestures to Lynx, who produces a rod with a dildo gag. "Every full rotation earns you... consideration." Vera smiles thinly as Lynx kneels before you, forcing your head up and pushing the gag end toward your mouth. "Refuse, and we activate the cage's internal electrodes. Your choice."
"Open wide, rabbit," Lynx snarls, grabbing your jaw with bruising force. You instinctively resist, clamping your teeth shut as she jams the cold gag against your lips. Vera sighs dramatically into the mic. "Electrodes, Lynx." Instantly, white-hot agony erupts from the cage around your cock—a searing pulse that locks your muscles rigid and tears a ragged scream from your throat. Your jaw slackens instinctively. Lynx shoves the gag deep, its curved bar forcing your mouth painfully wide while straps buckle tight behind your head. "Better," Vera purrs as the shocks cease, leaving you trembling while Lynx fixes the gag to the ceiling of the glass cage. Lynx moves behind you now, lubricating the opposite end—the thick, ribbed dildo glistening fixed to the floor - before positioning your aching hole against it. "Brace," she mutters coldly after removing the rabbit tail plug. With one brutal shove, she impales you, the dildo stretching you wide around its ridges. You choke on the gag, tears blurring your vision as Vera leans close to whisper: "Rotate clockwise. Slowly. Or the shocks resume."
You try to shift your hips, grinding feebly against the rod. The ribbed dildo twists inside you—each ridge scraping raw - while the gag grinds against your teeth and palate. Vera taps a remote. "Too slow." Another shock jolts from your cock cage, sharper this time. You shudder violently, forcing yourself into a clumsy quarter-turn. The rod rotates smoothly on its mounting stand, rotating the gag deeper into your throat while the dildo angles upward, finding your prostate. Vibrations awaken instantly - deep, resonant pulses from both ends syncing perfectly. Lynx watches impassively, her fingers tracing the leash chain anchored to your cage. Vera's voice drips over the speakers: "See how the rhythm rewards obedience?" The vibrations intensify subtly as you grind around again, saliva dripping freely onto the stage floor. Another shock bites when you hesitate.
"Sweat's pooling nicely," Lynx notes clinically, wiping your brow with a latex-gloved hand. The audience counter ticks slowly upward - three minutes elapsed. Each rotation pushes the gag deeper, choking off your air until dizziness blurs the stage lights. When you gag reflexively, Vera triggers another shock. "Keep it smooth, rabbit," she warns. "Audience hates stutters." Your hips ache from the unnatural motion, thighs trembling. The vibrations shift suddenly - not punishing, but teasing - as you complete a full rotation. For three seconds, blissful release washes over you as the dildo nestles perfectly against your prostate. Lynx smirks. "Reward for consistency," she murmurs, tightening the leash just enough to make you gasp against the gag. Vera laughs softly: "Proof even meat can learn."
"Focus on her voice, rabbit," Lynx commands, forcing your chin upward toward the speakers. Vera's instructions become rhythmic – “Left hip higher... now arch... hold" - her tone syncing with the rod's vibrations. Ten minutes pass in agonized pulses; the cage shocks whenever your rhythm falters. Sweat trickles down your inner thigh. When you finally sync breath to motion, the rod shifts, angling upward to grind against your sweet spot relentlessly. "Good," Vera purrs. The orgasm counter jumps to "15". Lynx leans close, breath hot: "Imagine the Audience controlling you." She trails a nail down your spine as you shudder through another rotation, the gag muffling your whimper into submission.
The gag muffles your scream into a wet gurgle as the rod grinds against your prostate with brutal precision—dry orgasm after dry orgasm tearing through you like electrical storms with no release. Your mind fractures completely under the onslaught, thoughts dissolving into primal static where only Vera's rhythmic commands ("rotate... hold... arch") penetrate the haze. You obey mechanically, hips moving in jerky circles as muscle memory overrides conscious resistance—chains biting deeper into raw wrists with each rotation while Lynx adjusts the leash tension to punish hesitation. The orgasm counter clicks relentlessly upward: 16…17...18...19... each number flashing amber like a metronome synced to your suffering. Sweat pools in the hollow of your throat above the gag strap, dripping onto the rod's cold metal as vibrations shift from punishment to merciless overstimulation.
Your vision tunnels - stage lights blurring into white voids - and when you slump mid-turn, Vera triggers twin shocks: one from the cock cage searing your nerves, another from electrodes in the gag making your jaw spasm against leather. Lynx's laughter cuts through the static. "Audience says you're slowing down, rabbit." She kicks the rod's base sharply. It rotates violently, slamming the dildo deeper as you convulse against the restraints. Blood streaks the floor where shackles scrape skin raw. Distantly, Vera announces: "Twelve minutes remain. Consistency... or consequences." The counter hits 20.
Pain crystallizes into numbness around minute twenty-five - a hollow, floating sensation where the rod's invasion feels distant, unreal. You rotate like an automaton now, spine arching and hips thrusting in perfect, agonizing synchronicity with Vera's commands. Lynx stops adjusting the leash; no corrections are needed anymore. Your body belongs entirely to the machine, to the audience, shuddering through yet another silent climax that leaves your thighs trembling. Vera's voice softens to a murmur - almost tender - as she counts down the final seconds: "Three... two... one..." The rod halts abruptly, leaving you impaled and shuddering, breaths whistling through the gag. Lynx releases the leash mechanism with a metallic snick. "Thirty minutes," Vera announces as the wall counter snaps to '23' in blinding gold. "And what a performance." For ten seconds, blessed stillness hangs thick - the vibrator idling to a low hum, shocks dormant. Then exhaustion crashes over you like a wave; muscles give out entirely. Your knees buckle, sagging forward against the rod still lodged deep inside you. The gag muffles a whimper - relief, agony, surrender indistinguishable.
Hands grasp your hips - not Lynx's harsh grip, but gentler, almost soothing. Vera herself stands before you, her silk robe brushing your sweat-slicked skin. She unclips the gag's buckle with careful fingers, easing the saliva-slicked rubber from your mouth. Her thumb traces your cracked lips. "Shhhh, my little rabbit," she whispers, pulling the rod free in one fluid motion that makes you gasp. The sensation is sharp, brutal - a final violation - but she catches you as you sag sideways onto the cool concrete floor. Lynx moves silently behind her, unlocking wrist and ankle restraints. Blood rushes back into bruised limbs, a molten ache that steals your breath. Vera presses a water bottle to your lips; you drink greedily, choking slightly as cool liquid soothes your raw throat. The tracker pulses lazily on your thigh - crimson light glinting in the sterile overhead lamps. "Rest now," Vera murmurs, stroking your matted hair. "You've earned it."
The morning light filters through sheer curtains, casting soft stripes across tangled sheets. Vera's fingers trace idle patterns through your sweat-damp hair, her nails scratching lightly against your scalp. Her naked body rests warm against yours beneath the blanket, the tracker on your leg pulsing a lazy, steady red - no shocks, no vibrations, just the silent reminder of ownership. "You were exquisite yesterday," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. "Twenty-three orgasms. The audience hasn't stopped talking about how beautifully you broke." Her hand slides lower, fingertips brushing the fading bruises on your throat before settling possessively over your chest. "What shall we do next month, little rabbit? I'm feeling generous. You may choose."