Chapter 13: The BDSM Studio

Lunch is not what Piggy expects. Nadia enters with a plastic tray—a scoop of rice, two slices of cold sausage, cucumber scored into ugly half-moons. A bottle of isotonic sports drink stands next to the plate, label peeled and in Cyrillic. Nadia stands over her, a silent warden, and waits for her to eat every bite. She does. She knows better now.

Her body is a raw, treacherous mass. The skin of her ass puckers, abrasions fusing into damp ridges, and her cunt and anus are both chafed, leaking shame onto the cheap cotton of the bedsheets. Her hands do not respond at first—nerves still tingling from the cuffs—and it takes three tries to hold the fork steady. Nadia doesn’t help; she watches, arms folded, eyes levelled with a kindergarten teacher’s patience.

When Piggy finishes, Nadia tosses a terrycloth robe at her. “Put on. Meeting downstairs.”

Piggy doesn’t ask questions. The robe is pink and smells of vinegar. She shuffles into it, clutching the belt, and waits. Nadia produces a pair of slide sandals—the hospital kind, blue with black numbers stencilled across the strap. Piggy slides her feet in and follows Nadia to the hallway, which is bare except for a line of hooks, each with an identical nylon coat. Nadia grabs one, an oversized navy parka, and drapes it over Piggy’s shoulders, hood up, zip pulled all the way to the chin.

They descend four flights in the elevator, each floor a pulse of institutional odour—wet cement, antiseptic, fried onions from a neighbouring kitchen. Nadia says nothing. The building is dead silent except for the groan of the elevator and the tick of a security camera, its motor following their progress.

In the basement, there is a single car: a black Volkswagen van, windows tinted and rimmed in yellow pollen dust. The door slides open, and Kareem is already waiting inside, arms crossed, face hidden behind cheap wraparound sunglasses. He doesn’t acknowledge Piggy; instead, he gestures with his chin for her to sit in the bucket seat.

Nadia forces Piggy down, quick hands buckling a seat belt across her hips. Then comes the blindfold—a thick, felt-lined mask that smells of old sweat and chemicals. The world becomes sensation: her pulse, the vibration of the van’s engine, the tight, rough-edged restraint on her face.

The drive is longer than she expects. Every so often, the van hits a pothole or swerves, and Piggy’s shoulder knocks against the seat or the window. She tries to count time in increments, but the blindfold disorients, turns seconds into syrup. Kareem and Nadia talk in low voices up front, the words filtered through the partition, but nothing makes sense except the static of her own humiliation.

Eventually, the van stops. She hears doors open, feet crunching on gravel. Hands seize her under the armpits and lift her out. She wobbles, nearly falls, but Kareem’s grip is iron. She’s walked across a cold, pitted surface—a parking lot, maybe, or a loading bay—then indoors, where the temperature rises and the air thickens with disinfectant.

Up a staircase. Each step is announced with a nudge or a shove. The coat is too big, the sleeves flop over her hands. She’s a child in someone else’s winter gear, dragged along to a destiny she can’t see.

At the top, someone unlocks a door with a heavy, metallic clatter. The interior is muffled: no echo, no reverb, just the hush of carpet and closed spaces. Then the blindfold is yanked off.

Piggy blinks, vision blurring from sudden light. The room is a corridor painted in matte black, walls lined with enormous photo prints: anonymous bodies trussed and suspended, cocks and cunts and asses presented like raw meat. There are red LED strips running along the baseboards, giving everything a hellish undertone.

Kareem pulls the coat off her in one motion, and she stands, shivering, in the pink robe and sandals. Nadia gives her a flat look, then opens a door at the end of the hall.

The next room is a waiting area, maybe twenty meters square, filled with racks of gear: latex, leather, gags and hoods, shelves of dildos and implements, some familiar from the internet and some medieval. There is a steel table in the centre, topped with a digital scale and a clipboard. There is a scent here—plastic, rubber, but also a note of something sickly sweet, like fake strawberries.

Yaseen stands behind the table, hands gloved, wearing a black tracksuit with the sleeves zipped to the wrists. He is grinning, but the eyes are bored. “Piggy. You arrived on time.”

He gestures at the table. “Strip. We must weigh and document. New rules.”

Piggy doesn’t hesitate, just shrugs off the robe, feels the room’s coldness close in. She is aware of every flaw: the lacerations on her thighs, the purple swelling at her left breast, the sticky smear on her inner thigh. She steps on the scale and hears a beep. Nadia writes the number on a clipboard.

“Eighty-six point eight,” Nadia says.

Yaseen nods. “Fat, but not so much as to break. This is good.”

He motions for her to stand with her arms up. Nadia circles, taking photos with a phone—front, side, back, then a close-up of her bruised mouth and, finally, her cunt, still leaking. Kareem snorts but says nothing.

“You are ready for the first session?” Yaseen asks, but he doesn’t wait for a reply. “Piggy needs real training now. Not just sex, but obedience, discipline, service. Do you understand?”

Piggy nods, her jaw trembling.

“Say, ‘Yes, Master Yaseen.’”

She says it. Her voice is papery, but she does not flinch.

He smiles. “Better. You see, Nadia will assist. Kareem and Jonas will document. There is no shame now, only improvement.”

Nadia gestures for Piggy to follow. They lead her down another black corridor, then through a door painted with a red and black diamond—industrial and ominous. Inside is a dungeon, the kind only imagined in sick corners of the internet: steel cages, frames, crosses bolted to the floor. There are chains and cuffs anchored everywhere, padded benches, a cabinet of speculum and gynaecological tools. The room is colder, the lights a sharp, surgical white.

Yaseen enters last, closes the door with a click. “Here is where you learn to be perfect,” he says.

Nadia sets down the clipboard, pulls out a case of thick leather cuffs, and gestures for Piggy to hold out her hands. She does. The cuffs go on, the buckles tight enough to pinch. Another set goes on her ankles, then a collar, then a short leash.

Kareem sets up a tripod, checks the battery on the camera. He looks at Piggy with something like pride, or maybe just curiosity.

Yaseen stands in front of her, face close, voice low. “Piggy, what is your job here?”

She remembers the script. “To obey.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Obey who?”

“Obey you, Master Yaseen.” The words burn.

He grins. “Very good. We start easy. Only demonstration. After, you sleep a bit, then will be hard.”

He tugs the leash, and Nadia walks her to the centre of the room, to a steel X fixed to the far wall. The St Andrews cross, she remembers, from a long-ago Wikipedia rabbit hole. Her arms are pulled up and wide, legs spread and cuffed to the base. Her body is splayed open, the flesh of her stomach and breasts flattened by the stretch.

Yaseen steps back and gestures to the others. “Now you see, Piggy, you are in a new place. You must learn from the beginning.”

Piggy’s chin trembles. The words want to come, but she forces them back.

Nadia fixes her hair, brushing it off her face with gentle fingers. The touch is almost kind, but not enough to register as comfort. “Relax,” Nadia says, very quietly. “It will hurt, but you will live.”

She closes her eyes. She can smell the latex gloves, the faint plastic tang of the cuffs. The cross is cold against her back. Every breath is hard, and every joint in her arms aches.

Kareem switches on the camera. There is a red tally light, blinking.

Yaseen walks a slow circle around her. “Welcome, Piggy. Now, you begin.”

Piggy opens her eyes, just for a moment, and sees herself reflected in a polished black mirror across the room. The effect is grotesque—her own body, doughy and battered, reduced to a geometry of helplessness and shame. She stares at the reflection, at the droop of her tits and the mottled redness of her thighs, at the belly that slouches over her cunt. She wonders if this is what they see, what everyone has always seen.

She closes her eyes again.