But the timer starts.
And Angie realizes, with a hollow, sinking dread, that no one is going to save her.
"Round 3."
Tyler's fingers strike again, feather-light but relentless, and her body betrays her, her ribs caving, her breath hitching into something bright and broken. "Guys—come on—" The words splinter into a gasp as Jake's fingers dig into her sides. She writhes, her bare heels scraping against the sticky floor.
"Please—oh God, stop—" Her voice cracks, but her traitorous diaphragm seizes, forcing out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. She clamps her lips shut, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her cheek, but it escapes anyway, a high, brittle noise that makes the guys lean in closer.
"I can't—nnngh—I swear, I'll—" Another convulsion of laughter rips through her, her body arching like a bowstring. The ropes bite into her wrists as she yanks against them, her skin slick with sweat.
"Mercy!"
The word finally breaks free, raw and desperate, but the laughter still hums in her throat, a sick echo of the girl she was when the night began.
The penalty is decided without her. Without a word, without a glance in her direction. Hands grab her ankles, yanking them apart, ropes securing them to the railing in a cruel, forced split. The stretch burns through her thighs, her muscles screaming—not from dance, but from violation. She's spread open, exposed, her body a plaything for their amusement.
"No—" The word is a whimper, her voice lost beneath the roar of her own pulse. She twists her wrists against the ropes, her skin raw, but the fibers don’t give. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
The timer starts.
Tyler doesn't bother with the railing this time. He straddles the stair beneath her, his fingers hovering just above her most intimate skin, tracing patterns in the air like a predator toying with prey. Jake kneels in front of her, his touch short, sharp, darting along the insides of her thighs, the tickling not playful, but punishing. Every flick of his fingers sends a jolt through her, her body jerking against the ropes, her laughter high, hysterical, broken.
Her vision blurs, tears spilling over as the sensations overwhelm her, not just the tickling, but the shame, the helplessness, the way their eyes drink in every twitch, every gasp. She tries to clamp her legs shut, but the ropes hold her open, her flexibility now a curse, her body betraying her in the worst way.
"Mercy!" The word rips from her throat, desperate and hollow.
The tickling stops.
Silence.
Angie's chest heaves, her skin slick with sweat and tears, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat choking her. She knows what's coming. She knows it's worse.
And she knows with a sick, sinking certainty that she can't stop it.
Angie's breath comes in ragged gasps, her body still trembling from the last round, when Tyler holds up the baby oil like a prize. The bottle glints under the flickering LEDs, the liquid inside sloshing as the guys whoop and jeer, their voices a distorted chorus of anticipation and cruelty.
"No—" Her voice is a thread, barely audible over the pop of the cap, the slick sound of oil hitting skin. Hands descend—too many hands, slick and relentless, spreading the oil over her arms, her stomach, her breasts, turning her into something glossy, slippery, inhuman. She twists, her muscles coiling in revolt, but every movement only spreads the oil further, makes her more vulnerable, more exposed. The LED lights catch the sheen on her skin, her body gleaming like prey under their hungry stares.
She's crying now, tears mixing with the oil, her sobs lost beneath their laughter. The timer beeps.
Round 5.
Tyler's hands are the first to grope her, his fingers pinching, rolling, her nipples hardening not from desire but from shock and sensitivity. She arches, a broken sound tearing from her throat, but Jake is already between her legs, his touch no longer tickling—just violating. His fingers force their way inside her, rough and unyielding, and her body betrays her, a traitorous rock of her hips that makes her want to scream in shame.
"Please—Jake, stop—" Her plea is a sob, her voice cracking as his rhythm turns brutal, his fingers sawing in and out while the others watch, their breaths heavy, their grins feral.
Then—a new pressure. The guy with the camera steps behind her, his grip on her hips bruising as something thick, intrusive presses against her. She freezes, her entire body locking in terror.
"No! Please—don't—" The word is a wail, raw and desperate, but it's too late. He shoves inside her, the stretch burning, the rhythm relentless as he uses her, her bound body swinging slightly with each thrust, her wrists screaming against the ropes.
She's not Angie anymore.
She's just a toy.
A plaything.
And they're not done with her yet.
Angie's voice is raw from screaming, her body slick with oil and sweat, when the timer hits 09:30.
"Mercy!" she gasps, the word tearing from her throat too soon, too desperate. The guys groan, their frustration palpable. Jake's fingers dig into her thigh, his grip punishing.
"Again?" Tyler snarls, wiping his forearm across his mouth. "You're ruining the fucking game."
She doesn't care. She can't care. Her wrists burn, her thighs ache, her entire body feels like it's been flayed open. "Please—" she whimpers, her voice cracking. "I can't—"
"Shut up."
A hand clamps over her mouth, fingers pressing hard against her cheeks. She muffles a scream, her eyes widening as Tyler yanks something from his pocket—a black ring gag, the silicone glinting under the LEDs. Her breath hitches, her pulse roaring in her ears as he forces it between her teeth, the strap tightening behind her head. The rubber fills her mouth, her jaw aching as she gags, saliva already pooling.
"There," Jake mutters, his voice cold. "Now you can't fucking cheat."
Angie's whimpers through the gag, her body trembling as they wrench her head back. A blindfold follows—rough fabric yanked over her eyes, plunging her into blackness. Her breath comes in short, panicked bursts, the scent of oil and sweat cloying, the sound of their movements too loud, too close.
The timer restarts.
Hands descend.
She can't see. She can't speak. She can only feel Tyler's fingers trailing up her inner thighs, Jake's breath hot against her ear as he whispers, "Let's see how long you last now, princess."
The first touch electrifies her, her body jerking against the ropes. The gag muffles her screams, the blindfold traps her tears. She twists, her muscles coiling, but there's nowhere to go. The tickling isn't tickling anymore; it's torture, fingers digging, pinching, violating every sensitive, oiled inch of her.
She tries to scream.
She tries to beg.
But all that comes out is a broken, wet sound, her body writhing, her mind splintering as the blackness swallows her whole.
The guys laugh.
And Angie realizes, with a sick, sinking dread, that no one is coming to save her.
The hours blur.
The gag aches in her jaw, her saliva dribbling down her chin, her throat raw from choked screams. The blindfold presses into her skin, the fabric damp with tears, her world reduced to touch and sound and the endless, grinding humiliation of their hands.
They take turns.
Tyler's fingers first—oiled, relentless, tracing patterns over her breasts, her stomach, the insides of her thighs until her skin burns, her muscles twitching in exhausted protest. Jake follows, his touch rougher, his laughter darker, as he forces her legs wider, his knuckles grinding against her most sensitive skin until she's sobbing into the gag, her body betraying her with involuntary jerks.
The timer beeps. The cycle repeats.
At some point, the tickling stops. The hands change. Toys replace fingers, vibrating, buzzing, unyielding, pressed against her clit, her nipples, inside her, her body responding despite her horror, her shame. She tries to clench, to resist, but the oil makes everything slippery, the plastic and silicone unaffected by her tears, her pleas.
She loses track of how many times she comes, her body wracked with shudders she doesn't want, her mind splintering under the endless stimulation. The guys laugh, their voices slurring as the beer kicks in, their touches getting clumsier, meaner.
"Look at her go," someone slurs, the words muffled by her ringing ears.
She wants to die.
But the night isn't over.
One by one, the guys drift off—passed out on the couch, the floor, their snores filling the room. The last one flicks a switch on the way out, leaving the vibrator buzzing against her clit, the clamps biting her nipples, the dildo still inside her, thrumming on a low, relentless setting.
The room goes quiet.
Angie hangs there, her arms numb, her legs trembling, her body still responding to the toys even as her mind checks out. The plastic doesn't care if she's crying. The vibrations don't stop because she's broken.
She sways slightly, the ropes creaking, her breath a raspy, wet sound around the gag.
No one hears her.
No one sees her.
The LEDs flicker, casting jagged shadows over her oiled, glistening skin.
And Angie realizes, in the cold, hollow silence, that she's not even a person to them anymore.
She's just a toy.
And toys don't get to stop.
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