Alana De Vargas: Ungenerated
Copyright© 2026 by Vinca Marel
Chapter 1: In Pursuit of the Light
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: In Pursuit of the Light - Four thousand three hundred and twelve deepfake videos of Alana de Vargas exist online. She never made one of them. At forty, with four Vogue covers and an Academy Award behind her, she answers the only way left: for real. Ten days at the Château de Valéran, ten scenarios, all live-streamed. No recordings, no archives, no second takes. Day One is a library, a professor of architectural heritage, and a photometer.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Celebrity Science Fiction BDSM FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Spanking Analingus Exhibitionism Masturbation Sex Toys Voyeurism Foot Fetish Leg Fetish Infantilization ENF Nudism
Before
Over the last two years, while Alana de Vargas was out there landing one big role after another, walking every red carpet looking impossibly beautiful, winning Academy Awards and Golden Globes, like a true global superstar, people on the dark web were busy generating her.
AI was taking over, just like Sarah Connor had warned it would in The Terminator. The line that had everyone laughing back then didn’t feel quite so funny anymore in 2027. The machines were not coming - they were already here, and among many other things, what they had decided to do with all that power was to generate Alana de Vargas in a bikini, in lingerie, on her knees, tied up, used, degraded, passed around. All the female celebrities were facing the same situation. Alana was amongst the most deep-faked; she alone had four thousand three hundred and twelve deepfake videos online and counting.
The difference between real and fake had become almost impossible to tell. Things no one said out loud but which everyone imagined secretly. Some of those videos and pictures ended up on her mother’s phone, some were sent to her friends and family.
Back in her Los Angeles apartment, Alana had made a decision.
It was going to happen over ten days. Ten different scenarios - all live-streamed, with no recordings, no archives, and no second takes. Just the real thing, done by the real person.
Day 1 would be lingerie, bikinis and nudes. The deepfake catalogue had four thousand three hundred and twelve videos in that category alone. Starting Day 1, the world was going to see the real thing.
09:30 - The Ring
Tate, who was her close friend, confidante and director, had been at the château for a week before Alana’s arrival. During those seven days she had had plenty of time to check the positioning of the cameras, test and measure the light in every room, map the grounds and brief the crew. She had also, on the third day, driven forty minutes to a jeweller in Avignon and come back with a tiny item in a very small bag which she put in the nightstand drawer without mentioning it.
On the morning of Day 1, she took it out. It was a fine gold ring - small, seamless, the diameter of a shirt button. She held it up in the morning light, happy with what she saw.
Alana came in from the bathroom in a short white robe - ending at mid-thigh, with nothing underneath, large gold hoops already on, her delicate anklet already tight around her left ankle - a double thread of fine gold with three tiny bells spaced along it, chiming softly as she moved. She saw what Tate was holding and stopped in the doorway.
‘What is that?’
‘Come sit down.’
‘Tate... ‘
‘Bed. Robe open.’
She looked at Tate standing there in the ridiculous faded blue Daisy Dukes that stopped at the very top of her thighs, white tank top loose at one shoulder, barefoot, and especially those completely calm grey-blue eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the robe open, spreading her legs. Because it was Tate, and she always knew best.
What Tate was looking at was what she had been thinking about for a week: Alana de Vargas, the long sculpted inner thighs open in the morning light, fair skin even fairer at the inner thigh where the skin was softest, the delicate pink of her folds visible beneath the hood, everything flushed slightly warmer than the rest of her in the morning light - and at the centre of all of it the vertical barbell of her hood piercing, fine platinum, the lower ball sitting just above her clit, the hood pulled slightly taut over it, the platinum bright against the pink skin surrounding it. Everything looked clean, intimate and completely immaculate.
Tate looked at it like someone who had been planning this for a long time.
She knelt and crouched between Alana’s open thighs and worked carefully - unscrewing the lower ball of the barbell, threading the fine gold loop onto the post, then screwing the ball back on. A small gold circle now hung from the barbell just above her clit, swaying gently with every breath, warm against her skin.
When she was done, she sat back on her heels and looked at her work with quiet satisfaction.
Alana felt the new weight of it - light and warm just sitting there, swaying with every breath she took in a way that was going to be impossible to ignore. Something pleasant and warm started low in her belly; she refused to acknowledge it at that early hour, with the day barely starting.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
Tate stood up and looked at Alana for a moment - at the ring, at the whole picture of her sitting on the edge of the bed with the robe open and her legs apart and the new gold loop catching the morning light.
‘Later,’ she said, and walked out.
Alana sat on the edge of the bed shifting her weight and felt the ring move with her - the smallest sensation, warm and new and completely unexplained. She was, by any standard, an extraordinary-looking woman at five feet ten: fair skin, 34C, 24, 35. Her breasts were full and real, with the thick platinum rings through her nipples - the left one larger than the right, deliberate, chosen that way, rougher at the entry point from three years of wear, the right one smaller and smoother and more recent, 4.2 centimetres of fair skin between them. The thick rough gold of her septum ring above them and a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril. The gold tongue barbell slightly left of centre, a platinum curved barbell through her navel and the anklet on her left foot - double thread gold, with three tiny bells. And now, hanging from the platinum barbell of her hood piercing, the fine gold loop which Tate had just added, whose purpose she didn’t know yet.
She closed the robe and went to find the pink bikini.
10:00 - The Crew
René was in the corridor with his camera when she came out. Twenty-six, tall and lean and good-looking - dark hair, quick eyes, the confidence of someone who knew the area. He was local, Provençal, had grown up forty minutes from this château, and Tate had found him through a contact in Marseille, offering him the opening he’d been waiting for. He was her assistant now, and he had learned that Tate’s approval was worth working for. The added bonus being that he secretly found Tate extremely hot.
When Alana came out of the master bedroom in the hot pink micro bikini - a thin waistband and a front panel barely covering the new gold ring and nothing on either side, a strip between her perfect round cheeks that disappeared completely - his eyes went to her and then to his camera monitor.
She felt the half-second gaze before he looked away. She was used to being looked at, but this was different - she was standing in a corridor in what was technically her only clothing, and René was trying very hard to be professional about it, which somehow made it worse.
‘Bonjour,’ Alana said.
‘Bonjour,’ he said to the monitor.
Suzette was at the end of the corridor. She was a few inches shorter than Alana and Tate, and the red-soled heels compensated for that. Blonde, sharp features, beautiful in a way that no one had to mention it to her. She was in a fitted white shirt tucked into wide-leg trousers, clipboard in one hand. She looked at Alana in the pink micro bikini with thorough professional focused attention - not the way René had looked.
‘Bonjour,’ she said. ‘On y va?’
Tate appeared with her tablet, assessing Alana from head to toe - the tiny pink bikini, the gold ring clearly visible through the thin fabric pressing against her, the anklet bells on her left ankle.
‘The library first,’ Tate said. ‘Professor Girard is the estate’s light consultant. He needs to see you in there before we go live.’
‘In this,’ Alana said. It wasn’t a question.
Tate was already walking. ‘In this.’
The Library
Professor Girard was at the central reading table when the four of them came in. Late sixties, tall and broad, white hair kept short, strong jaw, the hands of a man who had spent his life handling delicate things. Dark jacket, reading glasses on, two leather-bound notebooks open in front of him. He knew this château better than anyone alive.
He looked up when the group came in, seeing Tate with her tablet, René with his camera, Suzette with her clipboard. Then he looked at Alana in the hot pink micro bikini - the front panel barely covering the new gold ring, the anklet with its three bells on her left ankle - and his reading glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up and wrote something in his notebook.
Alana blushed immediately. She was almost naked in a library in front of a man she had never met, and he was already taking notes about her.
Tate opened the shot log she’d been building all week. The library was first - the tall window at this hour was the best light in the château, she’d confirmed that every morning for five days. Professor Girard had the photometer and eleven years of research that was about to become very useful.
‘On the table,’ Tate said to Alana. ‘The reading table. Standing.’
‘Standing on a...?’
‘It’s a solid piece,’ Professor Girard said, without looking up. ‘Eighteenth century. It’ll hold.’
Alana climbed on the reading table. The anklet bells chimed as she found her footing on the old oak.
‘René,’ Tate said quietly, not looking up from the tablet. ‘Wide first. Full frame. I want the window in shot.’ René adjusted without a word. ‘10:17,’ Tate said to herself, and noted it.
Ting.
‘Bien,’ Suzette said. ‘Now - pull the bottom down to your knees. Stop there and hold.’
‘Pull it...?’
‘To your knees,’ Suzette said. ‘And hold. Don’t step out of it.’
Alana looked at Tate.
Tate was checking the tablet.
‘Tate,’ she said.
‘Go ahead,’ Tate said, without looking up.
Alana looked at her for a moment longer - at the grey-blue eyes that weren’t going to give her anything right now - and then she reached for the waistband and pulled the indecently small pink bottom down slowly until it sat across both knees and the front panel bunched between them. She stopped there and held.
The effect was immediate. The waistband across her knees pulled her legs together - not tightly, but with the insistent gentle restraint of fabric that was designed to stay where it was put. She could not step apart, nor could she move freely. The pink triangle of fabric between her knees swayed slightly with her now heavier than earlier breathing.
And above it - everything. The full fair length of her from hip to knee, the soft inner thighs in the morning light, the gold ring and the platinum barbell above it fully exposed. The thin pink front panel between her knees let the light through, diffusing it against the skin of her inner thighs - somehow more exposed than naked would have been.
She was, standing on that table with the pink bottom around her knees, an extraordinary thing to look at. She knew it just as everyone else in the library did and she wished she didn’t.
Professor Girard was already reaching for his photometer.
He stood at the table’s edge, level with her knees, looking at the gathered pink fabric and everything around it with the genuine interest of a researcher discovering something new worth studying. He didn’t use the photometer immediately, just observing.
‘The light at this hour,’ he said, moving the photometer along the line where fabric ended and skin began, ‘makes fine materials look almost luminous.’ He looked at his readings. ‘Remarkable. I need several minutes here.’
‘Several minutes... ‘ Alana said to the window.
‘The light values change as I move,’ he said. ‘I need the full range.’
He took the gathered pink panel between two fingers and rolled it slowly, twisting the fabric into a thin cord against her skin. He held it there for a moment, studying the effect, then released it and watched it fall back into its original shape.
‘Got it,’ Tate said, from behind the tablet. ‘René - close on the knee position. And the ring above.’ René moved in. Tate made a note: 10:24 - knee restraint, fabric diffusion, gold ring direct. Day 4.
‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘It holds its properties even when compressed.’
He straightened slightly, moving the photometer upward from the fabric toward the gold ring above it.
‘The contrast between the diffused light below and the direct light up here,’ he said. ‘I need to measure it. Several minutes.’