Day 5: The Cam Studio

You’ve never showered slower in your life.

You check the time. Again. And again.

You try on three different outfits before remembering none of them will last five minutes. You brush your teeth and consider shaving in places you never shave. You stall until the last possible second, then grab your tablet and leave before your nerves trap you in the bathroom for another hour.

The address Kailani sent leads you to a brick building just off campus—low, quiet, anonymous. You’d have walked past it a hundred times without giving it a second glance.

You knock once, heart hammering.

A few seconds pass. Then the door opens a crack. A black-gloved hand gestures you in.

“Come on,” Kailani’s voice says, cool and clear. “Don’t hover.”

The door shuts firmly behind you.

You're not in a home.

You’re in a set.

The room is laid out like a bedroom, but it’s clearly not meant for sleeping. A tall four-poster bed dominates the back wall, but it’s framed with cuffs and carabiners instead of curtains. A set of standing stocks is bolted into the center of the floor. A mounted rack along the side holds implements you recognize—floggers, paddles, crops—as well as a few that look more... creative.

A camera rig on a heavy tripod is already powered on, focused squarely on the stocks. Stage lighting is set at calculated angles. And in the far corner, a sleek computer tower hums quietly beneath a polished desk.

Mounted above it, a massive flatscreen monitor shows her cam channel.

At the top of the screen, a countdown timer is already ticking down.

00:09:12

The chat is alive—dozens of new messages every second. Some users spamming emojis. Others asking when the show starts. A few seem to recognize her just from the silhouette of the set.

The show hasn't even started and over nine hundred people are already waiting. There are even a few comments in foreign languages. Kailani's not just some college girl looking for a few extra bucks - she's international!

You’re about to be filmed having sex for the first time in your life.

And you're debuting to the world.

“Tablet,” she says from immediately behind you.

You turn—and freeze.

Kailani is in full gear. A glossy black bondage outfit—leather corset, high-heeled boots, fingerless gloves. She wears a sleek black half-mask that covers everything from brow to cheekbone but leaves her mouth exposed. Her hair is in braids, something different than how you've seen her before. Her posture is as composed as a professional dancer’s.

You hand her the tablet, hands shaking.

She doesn’t open the camera.

Instead, she opens an app you’ve never noticed.

The player group chat.

You blink at the flood of messages. The other contestants—taunting each other, bragging, generally chatting. There are a few posted blurry thumbnails of “progress shots,” teasing just enough for attention but not enough to give anything away. Some of them have been helping each other with locations, camera angles, even tips on how to make a girl laugh or get her intrigued enough to consider what's being asked.

Your stomach sinks. You've been thinking you're all alone in this crazy erotic hellscape while everyone else was chatting like it was a day trip to the beach!

“Didn’t even know this was here, huh?” she says with a smirk. “Newb.”

She types quickly into the chat:

Kailani (9♣️) here. About to break in your rookie for his BDSM challenge. Wanna hear him scream? Stream’s live in 9. Bids open.

camlink: hellwithheels.xxx/livefeed

You glance back at the monitor, the timer now showing 00:08:27. The viewer count is still climbing.

“Won’t people recognize me?” you ask quietly.

“In the game? Sure. They already know who drew me. But outside it? That’s what this is for.”

She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a half-mask like hers—sleek, black, and molded to conceal everything but your mouth and chin.

“Anonymity is important for any student doing sex work” she adds. “So we wear masks.”

You take it carefully, like it might bite.

“Why don’t they cover our mouths?”

She smiles. "Because the audience wants to hear me talk.”

Then, a beat later:

“And they want to hear you scream clearly.”

You stare at her, fear gripping you. Just what the hell have you signed up for?

“Plus, I always get verbal consent on cam. Keeps it legit for my fans.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Right. Consent. Screaming. Got it.”

“Good,” she says briskly. “Now. Strip.”

She turns toward the camera setup, adjusting angles, tightening dials, flicking switches with the speed of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

You try to undress quickly.

You fail.

Your hands are shaking too much. You fumble your belt. Your shirt catches on your elbow. You nearly drop your pants stepping out of them. When you finally slide out of your briefs, you're mortified to realize you're already half-hard.

She's not even looking at you. She’s testing audio levels and double-checking the framing on the stocks.

“Tablet cam’s syncing… tripod’s locked… chat’s already bidding.”

“Damn. They want blood tonight.”

You’re standing there naked, holding the mask, heart pounding like a war drum. Blood? She has to be joking.

“Put it on,” she says, still without looking. “Then stand behind the stocks.”

You slip the mask over your face. It fits snug, comfortable. It could have been designed specifically for you.

You walk to the center of the room.

The countdown clock reads 00:03:12.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod.

“Good. No safe word yet. Not until we’re live.”

She paces over to the front of the stocks.

“Any final request?”

"Final what??" Did she really say that? After the blood comment too...

She laughs. "Relax, I mean anything you need to put out of bounds before we begin?"

You try to think of anything that might come up, but you're new to this. You've done a bit of spanking play with a girlfriend once, but nothing remotely like this.

Nothing comes out.

She chuckles... and opens the stocks.

“Didn’t think so.”