Alana De Vargas: Ungenerated
Copyright© 2026 by Vinca Marel
Chapter 2: The Real Thing
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2: The Real Thing - 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
11:47 - Before
She’d been in the bathroom for twelve minutes when Tate knocked.
Not long by normal standards, but long enough, after what had happened in the library that morning - the reading table, Professor Girard and his photometer, Suzette telling her to pull her pink thong to her knees and hold it there while a professor of architectural heritage studied the light diffusion through the fabric, the positions she’d been made to take, the whole thong in her mouth when Suzette decided she’d been too chatty, hands behind her head while they discussed technical things around her like she was not there, the way Suzette had finally dismissed her, the librarian’s assistant who had attempted the book delivery three times.
Long enough to sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare at the tiles and replay the specific moment she had walked out of the library completely bare below the waist, on full display, thong fully in her mouth, hands clasped behind her skull, anklet bells marking every step on the old stone floor, face crimson, and think: that was the light check. That was before the Day 1 stream had even started.
‘Alana.’ ‘I’m fine.’ ‘I didn’t ask.’ She heard the door open anyway. Tate came in and sat on the edge of the tub beside her.
‘She enjoyed it,’ Alana just stated.
‘Yes,’ Tate said.
‘The way she handled everything, every instruction, her tone, the ‘tout’ when I tried to argue. Telling me to keep the thong in my mouth all the way back to my room. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I walked out of that library with my hands behind my head and a thong in my mouth and the librarian’s assistant stepped aside for me like I was a... ‘ She stopped.
‘She enjoyed every single second of it.’ ‘She’s very good at her job,’ Tate said.
‘That’s not a defense.’ ‘It’s not a defense. It’s a fact.’ Tate looked at her with those grey-blue eyes. ‘She’s going to do it again today. Different room, different context, same Suzette. You know that.’ ‘I know that.’ ‘And you’re still here, still moving forward.’ Alana looked at the tiles, at her anklet - its double thread of gold, the three bells she’d worn for two years and now, also part of something she’d agreed to, and it was apparently also still agreeing to it.
‘I made the list,’ she said.
‘You made the list, and you flew to Provence, all the way from LA.’ ‘He called me Subject A,’ Alana said, after a pause. ‘Professor Girard. While I was on the table with my legs open.’ ‘Suzette described you as ‘magnifique’ to René. When she thought you couldn’t hear her.’ Alana looked at Tate.
Something shifted in Alana’s face. Nothing was resolved, but something had shifted.
‘The stream is in eleven minutes,’ Tate said.
‘I know.’ ‘Six hundred thousand people approximately.’ ‘I know.’ ‘None of them knows the real thing.’ Tate stood up. ‘You do.’ She looked at Alana on the edge of the bath - the gold anklet, the composure she was rebuilding in real time, the woman who had made the list and flown to Provence and walked out of a library with her hands behind her head. ‘You ready?’ Alana stood up.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’ Tate smiled slightly.
‘Tate,’ Alana said, before she could walk out.
‘Yeah?’ ‘The bell. You said later.’ After a pause, Tate walked out of the bathroom and came back thirty seconds later with the small velvet box.
11:52 - The Bell
Alana sat on the edge of the bed while Tate crouched in front of her, fully focused on what she was doing to Alana’s thick, rough golden septum ring, the one Alana had worn for two years, sitting at the base of her nose. Tate threaded the fine chain through the ring and attached the small gold bell at the end and sat back on her heels.
The bell hung from the septum ring, resting just above Alana’s upper lip.
When she breathed out through her nose it moved.
When she spoke, it moved.
When she tilted her head, it moved.
Ting.
Alana went very still.
‘Every breath,’ Tate said quietly. ‘Every word, every time you move your head.’ She looked at it - at Alana’s face with the small gold bell hanging from the septum ring, swaying gently with the exhalation. ‘They’ll see it from every angle.’ ‘You planned this in Avignon,’ Alana said.
‘I planned this in Avignon,’ Tate confirmed.
Alana looked at the ceiling. The bell swayed with the movement.
Ting.
She looked back down. Something had changed in her face - not acceptance, not surrender, but something else.
‘How bad is it going to look?’ she asked.
Tate smiled again. ‘It’ll look extraordinary.’ She walked to the door, stopped and turned back once.
‘Eleven fifty-seven. Be ready.’ Then she walked out.
Alana sat in the quiet. The bell moved with every breath.
Ting.
Ting.
Ting.
12:00 - The Stream
418,212 people were waiting when it went live.
She stood in the centre of the master bedroom in the white robe, barefoot, the gold bell swaying from her septum with every breath, the anklet bells chiming softly on her left foot when she moved. The cameras were in place, the south window behind her, the lavender fields visible through the panes.
She untied the robe and let it fall.
The bell moved as she exhaled.
Ting.
She was completely bare. Fair skin warm in the afternoon light, the platinum nipple rings shining, the left one heavier than the right, the asymmetry visible. The gold ring at the hood piercing, the anklet with its three bells and the small gold bell hanging from the thick septum ring at her face, moving with every breath.
The chat went from 418,212 to 423,000 in the time it took her to speak.
‘Hello,’ she said, the bell moving with the word. The accent was there - warm, Latin, the kind that makes certain normal words sound magical. ‘Day One.’ She showed them everything - the tongue barbell, the nipple rings and their asymmetry, the navel barbell, the hood barbell and the ring hanging right below it. She described each one slowly and specifically, turning in the afternoon light. She touched the bell at her septum and showed them what happened when she moved her head.
Ting.
‘Someone added this this morning,’ she said. ‘Without asking.’ She looked at the camera. ‘You’ll be seeing a lot of it.’ She reached for the first piece. Dark red - deep, wine-coloured, the specific minimal that is somehow worse than being completely naked. Suzette held it out.
Alana stepped into the bottom and then put the top on. The dark red was specific and imposing against her fair skin.
‘First piece,’ she said. ‘The generators always gave me neutrals. I’m not into neutrals.’ She moved around for twenty-five minutes, talking to the subscribers, taking requests and questions from the chat, performing or answering simply. They asked everything they wanted; she chose what to reply to.
Someone asked about the asymmetry of the nipple rings. She touched both, described the difference - the heavier rougher left, the smoother more recent right. She held both between her fingers and showed how they reflected the light differently.
Someone asked her to turn around and she turned. The dark red thong had disappeared completely between her cheeks. The anklet bells chimed with the movement and the septum bell swayed.
Ting.
Someone else asked her to go up on her toes and she obeyed - the same position Professor Girard had requested in the library that morning, for completely different reasons. The bells went alive with the shift of weight.
Ting. Ting.
A viewer asked her to stick her tongue out and show the barbell. She did it - gold, slightly left of centre, three years old, the ball ends catching the light. She held it out for a long moment, the septum bell swaying and chiming softly as she exhaled through her nose around the extended tongue.
Ting.
‘They never thought of this one,’ she said, pulling her tongue back in. ‘Not once. Four thousand three hundred and twelve videos.’ Another viewer asked if the bell on her face bothered her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You forget it’s there.’ A pause. ‘Until you move.’ Ting.
‘Like that,’ she said.
One person asked her to pull the thong aside and show the hood ring properly. She looked at the camera for a moment, then reached down and pulled the dark red fabric aside - the gold ring and the platinum barbell visible, the hood pulling slightly taut. She held it for ten long seconds during which the chat was not quiet.
Then she let go of the fabric: ‘That’s the real one, the specific one. Not what they generated.’ Another one in the chat asked her to pinch the inside of both her thighs.
Alana looked at the message on the big screen for a moment, then smiled. She stood up straight, legs slightly apart, the dark red thong still snug between her cheeks. She reached down with both hands and started pinching the soft, golden skin of her inner thighs - hard, deliberate pinches all along the sensitive flesh, from just above her knees up toward her pussy.
She winced with each pinch, her breath catching sharply. Small red marks bloomed on her skin, clear and vivid in the bright light. She pinched harder in some spots, her fingers digging in, leaving little red crescents from her nails. Her thighs trembled slightly as she worked her way higher, right up to the edge of the dark red thong.
The chat went wild.
‘Specific,’ she said, voice a little breathy, still pinching. ‘You can’t generate this. The way it hurts ... the way my skin turns red ... the way I wince when I do it hard. None of that.’ She gave one final, hard pinch high on her inner thigh, right next to the thin red fabric of the thong, and let out a small, sharp gasp.
Someone else asked her to pull her ass cheeks apart and show it to the camera.
Alana paused for just a second. Then she turned around, reached back with both hands, and slowly pulled her cheeks wide open. The dark red thong almost drowned between them - the thin string sinking deep into her tight little asshole and the smooth pink folds of her pussy. The gold ring and platinum barbell were fully exposed, glistening in the bright light.
She rose onto her tiptoes and pushed her ass out even more toward the camera. Her long legs flexed, and the anklet bells chimed. She looked back over her shoulder with a naughty, teasing smile, holding the position for fifteen full seconds - cheeks spread, everything on full display.
The chat went absolutely insane.
She finally let go and her cheeks moved to their natural state, the thin string settling back deep between them. ‘That was not on my list,’ she said, to the camera, to René, to whoever. ‘That was on yours.’ Alana then hooked her thumbs into the thin waistband at her hips, slowly and deliberately peeling the dark red thong down her long legs. She bent at the waist as she slid it down her thighs, over her knees, and all the way to her ankles. The anklet bells chimed softly as she lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out of the tiny thong with a graceful, teasing motion.
Completely naked now, she straightened up, hands resting on her hips, standing tall in the bright light for everyone to see.
Suzette was waiting with a zip-lock bag; Alana bent down, picked and dropped the dark red thong she had just removed in it gracefully.
‘Faut reconnaître,’ René said, very quietly, to nobody. ‘Qu’elle sait exactement ce qu’elle fait.’ ‘Depuis le début,’ Tate said, not looking up from the tablet.
Break 1 - Minute 25
Before she went to the bathroom, Suzette stopped her, without any drama. She just stepped into her path with the clipboard and quietly announced a decision that had already been made: ‘Quand tu reviens - à genoux, face à la porte, mains derrière la tête. Le string rouge foncé dans ta bouche, complètement. Tu restes comme ça pour les cinq minutes restantes.’ ‘When I come back,’ Alana said flatly.
‘Oui.’ ‘That’s documentation.’ ‘C’est de la documentation,’ Suzette confirmed pleasantly.
‘For whom? The stream is on break.’ Suzette looked at her with the mildly puzzled expression.
‘Je fais mon travail,’ she said. ‘Tu fais le tien.’ Alana looked at Tate. Tate was checking the shot log on the tablet.
‘Five minutes,’ Alana said.
‘Cinq minutes,’ Suzette agreed.
She went to the bathroom.
The moment the door closed, Suzette turned to the fixed camera and held up five fingers. Then she folded three of them down - two fingers. She pointed at the camera and at pointed at the bedroom, then nodded once.
The chat understood immediately, and the number started climbing.
When Alana came back, her face was composed, the gold bell swaying gently as she walked. She crossed to Suzette who produced the zip-lock bag from the clipboard tray containing the dark red thong she had discarded 5 minutes back.
Alana looked at it - the sealed bag, the dark red fabric inside, the specific clinical care of it. Then Suzette produced the latex gloves and snapped each one into place.
Suzette unsealed the bag and held the dark red thong out with latex-gloved fingers, at arm’s length, the way you hand someone something that requires care.
‘Fully in,’ Suzette said. ‘Not between the teeth. Fully.’ Alana looked at it, then at Suzette, and took it.
She opened her mouth and put the whole thing in - the waistband, the panel, all of it - her cheeks slightly full, the dark red fabric visible between her lips. She was now completely silenced, only the bell swaying as she exhaled through her nose.
Ting.
She went to the centre of the room and knelt, her hands behind her head. She faced the door the way Suzette had told her to, her eyes on the door she thought she would come back through in five minutes.
She was kneeling in what she believed was a private room, while 482,000 people were watching her.
She counted in her head, breathing through her nose. The bell moved with every breath and the thong was warm in her mouth, hands behind her head and eyes on the door.
At three minutes she noticed the monitor light in her peripheral vision and turned her head slowly causing the bell to sway with the movement.
Ting.
Green - the camera light was green. She looked at the number on the big screen - 482,000.
She was very still for a moment, hands still behind her head, the thong still fully in her mouth. Kneeling on the floor of what was apparently a live stream in front of nearly half a million people.
Finally, she took the thong out of her mouth.
‘Suzette.’ she said. Her voice completely level, the bell moving with the word.
Suzette appeared in the doorway with her clipboard, looking taller and in total control, eyes on Alana who was on her knees.
‘The break is five minutes total,’ Alana said. ‘You told me five minutes bathroom and five minutes documentation.’ ‘Non,’ Suzette said pleasantly. ‘I told you five minutes bathroom and water. The documentation is the break. The break is five minutes. It never stopped.’ ‘You told me... ‘ ‘Je t’ai dit ce que j’ai dit,’ Suzette said. ‘Ce n’est pas la même chose.’ ‘There are four hundred and eighty-two thousand people... ‘ ‘Quatre cent quatre-vingt-cinq mille maintenant,’ Suzette said, glancing at the monitor. ‘En hausse.’ Alana looked at the number, which was still rising, then looked at the camera and at the door she had been facing. At the thong in her hand.
Her jaw was tight. Her eyes were bright with the specific fury of someone just realising that she had been outmaneuvered cleanly.
She put the thong back in her mouth, her hands went back behind her head, facing toward the door.
The chat was very quiet for ten seconds. Then it exploded.
She held the position for the remaining ninety seconds. Every second visible on her face - the jaw, the eyes, the precise controlled stillness of someone who’d decided that the only available form of dignity was completion.
When Suzette told her she could get up, she got up without looking at anyone.
Suzette held the zip-lock open in her latex-gloved hand, waiting.
Alana put the thong in, and Suzette sealed it. She removed the latex gloves which went into a second bag. She then produced fresh ones and put them on.
Live Change 1 - Minute 30 - Dark Red to Saffron Yellow
The saffron yellow was the colour of the afternoon sun outside. Like the dark red, it was barely anything, just warmer, almost luminous against her skin.
She changed efficiently in front of the camera. The dark red top came off and she stood completely bare for a moment - the hood ring visible, the anklet bells chiming as she shifted her weight, the septum bell swaying with her breath. Then the saffron bottom went up, followed by the top.
‘Saffron,’ she said, to the camera. ‘They never used this. They always gave me white or black, not knowing my colours.’ She read the chat on the big screen; it was moving fast. Someone had typed: ‘Does the bell make you feel like a cow?’ She looked at it for a moment. The bell swayed as she exhaled.
Ting.
‘Yes,’ she said. Just that. Completely level. ‘That is exactly what it feels like.’ The chat went briefly insane.
Someone typed: ‘Moo.’ Someone else: ‘Best stream of 2027!’ Another subscriber, less helpfully: ‘We own you.’ She looked at that last one for a second, looked at the camera.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t.’ The bell moved with the word. ‘That’s the whole point.’
She moved through the next twenty-five minutes - the saffron doing things the dark red hadn’t, the warmth of the colour in the afternoon light making everything more specific. The chat asked questions, and she answered what she chose to.
Someone asked her to kneel and look up at the camera. She knelt - the anklet bells chiming, the septum bell swaying - and looked up at the lens from below. The chat exploded at the sight of the bell hanging from her septum from that angle.
Ting.
‘I see you all looking at it,’ she said, to the camera from her knees. ‘Yes. It moves when I talk.’ She exaggerated a breath through her nose. The bell swayed wide.
Ting.
‘Every word,’ she said. ‘All day.’ Someone asked her to do a forward fold - just bend over, touch the floor and stay there. She stood up and did it - hands flat on the marble, head down, legs straight, the saffron thong at the back of her completely visible. She held the position and let the chat have its thirty seconds.
Someone asked her to do a squat and hold it.