No-LIMIT-Rooms 01 English

"Hard, but not impossible," Rebecca admitted. "You're popular, pretty, have fancy tastes, and know how to market yourself. With our service, there's something left for you."

She paused for a moment and looked me urgently in the eyes.

"But of course, no more than you're already earning. That's why you'll hardly want to move here. Although, we do have tenants who don't do shows in the basement, they just work upstairs. You just ran into one."

"The brunette?"

"Yes, Fredi," Rebecca confirmed. "She can actually make a living, enjoys the all-around service of our house, but also works up to 16 hours a day."

"You don't do laundry, though?" it escaped me.

Rebecca laughed.

"Even that we offer, but every service costs. Laundry is extra."

I looked around uncomfortably at the bare basement room with its white-painted concrete walls. I waved my right hand around. "Why are we discussing this here, why not settle everything else upstairs in the cozy office? The whole thing seems so... to me."

"Threatening?", Rebecca helped me up.

"No, unserious, I meant to say! As if I should conclude a front-door business with a pusher.

Completely dumbfounded, she looked at me before starting to laugh heartily again.

"No one has ever told me that before, Johanna!" she began when she had caught herself again. But abruptly she became serious again.

"To answer your question from earlier: No, it is not usual for me to take over the house tour here and open up the possibility for interested applicants to perform in the rooms. Normally the applicants know beforehand that we are the Rooms! And I really have a lot to do. So I want a decision from you here and now if you want to pursue a contract."

"For the No-LIMIT-Rooms?", I asked cautiously.

"We just call them basements internally, or basement studios!" she explained to me, nodding. Waiting, she leaned back.

"How does this work?"

"You're shown the studios and get explained how the shows work. Then you get on the list of possible models for the shoots. A lease in one of our apartments is not mandatory, but desirable. You can prove yourself in an audition show. If you are a hit with the viewers, you can earn a lot of money here with us. A lot of money! That's why you're here, isn't it?"

She paused for effect, glanced at the placement contract in front of her, resolutely slid it over to me and smiled inscrutably at me, "Or do you choose this, forget this once-in-a-lifetime offer and go back? Make up your mind, now!"

I swallowed nervously. She was right, this was exactly why I was officially here. For a few seconds I glanced at the mediation contract, skimming over the legal gobbledygook. Basically, however, it was complete nonsense and only gave an not interested party the opportunity to say no now. I resolutely pushed it back to her.

"Well, off to the cellar! Cards on the table, I want see!"

Rebecca stood up, gathered the papers from the table with a smile on her face and stowed them in her folder. "Now the fact that you play poker really surprised me. It wasn't in your dossier."

There was a dossier on me? Holger had been right with his paranoia about my CV. There was clearly more to this than the Rooms. Almost too late, I answered Rebecca's remark.

"I don't. I watch movies!"

"Ah, of course." She opened the door and beckoned me to follow her. Without hesitation, she walked down the hall to another basement area. She stopped in front of a wall in a small alcove and turned to face me. There were hooks on the wall, and a dusty janitor's coat hung on one. "Step closer to me!" she ordered me.

I stepped into the alcove. A tiny green LED lit up above the hook. Rebecca extended her left arm and held the back of her hand in front of the wall. With a soft whir, the concrete wall in front of us swung away, revealing a hallway that led to another elevator, a fire door to its right. We entered the elevator, the buttons indicated levels 5, first floor and 0. Next to it was a sensor panel. Rebecca held the back of her hand in front of the sensor plate, suddenly more buttons lit up on a small TFT. She pressed -1. The elevator door closed.

"RFID chip," she explained briefly, "you can't get in anywhere down here without proper authorization." She nodded upward, to the corner opposite the elevator door. "And, of course, everything here is under camera surveillance."

Sure enough, I could see a small lens in the corner.

"If you want to please the security people, you walk around the building in your work clothes, otherwise you carry your stuff in a bag and throw on a coat. Surveillance cameras in the apartments are forbidden by law, this is also checked by the police. Officially, we have door cameras at the entrances and in the parking garage, of course. The 5th floor is the office level, everything is monitored there. However, normally only the house staff have anything to do there. My office is also located there. This is the express elevator that can go up to my office. But for you, it only goes from this level to the lower basement levels. From the top, you can only go directly down with special authorization."

Again a queasy feeling rose in me, at the same time I was more curious than I had been in a long time. The door opened with a "pling." The hallway in front of us was about 10 feet wide and high and brightly lit, the walls made of whitewashed concrete. Ventilation pipes and cable bridges ran along the ceiling. The flooring was some smooth plastic.

"Industrial flooring, cleans up easily and thoroughly no matter what drips on it," Rebecca explained.

To the left and right, numbered doors of different colors came off at regular intervals. Red or green lights shone above each one. "These are the studios: white doors Clinic, black Medieval, brown Nazi, gray Modern, and blue Future." She pointed in the other direction, "That's the trove back there. All sorts of outfits and props are available, mainly for guests and helpers. We expect stars and riggers to bring their own outfits and toys. These studios are only for online sessions with a maximum of two or three helpers. You will do your normal camshow as usual in your apartment, the studios down here are mainly reserved for the Rooms.

As a producer of your own shows you can book the studios for your own shows by the hour. Financially it makes a difference if you are a simple model, star of a show, or a producer. But even experienced producers and directors are not free to broadcast what they like. Your show has to fit the Rooms. Every script is checked and approved by us beforehand. Usually the girls join the show as helpers or extras. For bigger shows many hands needed. However, there are no commissions for this, only good hourly wages. As soon as it is clear how the hare runs here, you appear as a model. You get percentages of the turnover, the better you are, the more. Models who are especially sought after by clients are also called stars. They get the highest commissions, on a par with the producers. Whereas, of course, on the small shows, star and producer are usually personal unions."

I interjected with a question that popped into my head, "Do I perform down here under my camgirl name?"

"No!" the answer from Rebecca came firmly.

Every model that steps in front of the camera gets her own alias for the Rooms, the Roomname. This may not be used outside of the rooms. We have the exclusive right to it. Conversely, none of your normal cam activities may be associated with the Rooms!"

"How is that supposed to work? Surely my customers can recognize me when they see me in the Rooms!"

"Completely out of the question: The recordings are deepfake, your face is imperceptibly alienated in real time. Our software works on the principle of reverse facial recognition software, you determine what your face looks like, or you wear a mask. Real tattoos are more of a problem if they're too big. Clients want to see skin."

I interrupted her, "What can I make here?"

Rebecca turned to me and looked me in the eye. "A lot! Our clients pay well, but in return they expect real emotion, interaction, blood, sweat and tears. Your real rent upstairs will be less the more you work down here. But you're supposed to keep working upstairs, too, for the IRS. This down here will be your tax-free extra income."

Dozens of other questions popped into my head.

"What about the doctors? Who pays them?"

Rebecca just shook her head, turned and continued down the hall. "Let's discuss further details briefly in the break room, it's more comfortable."

Hesitantly, I followed her. We reached a green door without a number, Rebecca knocked, waited a moment, and then opened the door. A large, relatively comfortably furnished room spread out before us. The walls were neatly plastered and painted mauve. Instead of simple fluorescent lights, indirect lighting was predominant. A remote kitchen, fully furnished, and two more doors with WC signs were visible.

Windows, of course, the room had none. Ventilation grilles in the suspended ceiling provided heat and fresh air. Right next to the door was an open closet with bath towels and robes in various sizes. The armchairs and sofa were obviously covered in genuine leather and looked comfortable.

"There are rules for this room, too, as there are for everything in this house," Rebecca opened as she headed for a corner with two armchairs facing each other. "Here we speak softly, knock before entering, and if you are unclothed or in fetish wear, you put on a robe. There are also showers in the rooms next door. Used towels and robes go in the laundry elevator, which I'll show you later."

Dumbfounded, I sat down. "How many people work and live here?"

"Total?" Rebecca shrugged. "About 400, and you haven't seen the other side of the building yet. Across the street are the medical offices and stores. But if you mean tenants, we have just under 70 occupied apartments."

"That many? And the tenants all work down here?"

Rebecca looked at me dumbfounded for a moment, then laughed. "Not all the tenants work down here, I told you that already. A few tenants are call girls who just live here and have nothing to do with the shows. That's why there's a strict rule that prostitution is prohibited in the building. The high number of employees is made up of helpers, guest stars, recording technicians, the producers, the directors and other staff, such as IT specialists, cleaning personnel and security together. I count them all together, even those who only work here on an hourly basis. We have two permanent electricians alone, who have nothing to do but maintain the studio electrics or install the lighting."

I waved my arms. "And where are they all? They can hardly all fit in this basement I just saw here?"

Rebecca raised her hands placatingly. "You'll learn all about it, and you'll get to know it, too." She glanced at her watch. "Studio 11 should be ready in a minute, the one with the black door right by the elevator."

I repeated my question emphatically, "Own doctors for what?"

Rebecca slumped back in the chair. "You've seen movies and pictures of us."

That was a statement, not a question.

"Bloodplay and needleplay you've practiced yourself."

Again, an observation.

"Your session at Club Hydra was extremely intense."

I sucked in a breath. "How did..."

"We know EVERYTHING about you! You're a real masochist! You don't act, although of course you can. And you enjoy pain! And at least once you've gone too far, too."

Unexpectedly, she grabbed my left arm, pushed back my blouse sleeve with a quick movement, and pointed at the surgical scar.

"We have our own doctors here for cases like that. Sometimes they really are accidents in the regular shows, sometimes just... NO LIMIT! The shows where the customers vote online and pay for what gets done to you!"

Startled, I pulled my arm back and slid my blouse back over the scar. "So these are real torture shows, the NO LIMIT? Not fake?"

I remembered the one scene where a girl got branded. That had been on the No-LIMIT site. I shuddered. Upset, I objected, "No limit does not exist by choice. No limit is human trafficking, not bdsm, not save, sane and consensual!" I lapsed into the English of the website.

Rebecca leaned back and tilted her head. "Everything has a price, it says on our website, but, unlike the crack girls who will let anything be done to them for the next fix, the forced prostitutes or 24/7 lifetime slaves, with us the performers have free choice. You determine what can be done, you determine the price. Drug junkies are not tolerated here. Therefore, there is no coercion through fundraising, well, at least not excessively. Everything happens voluntarily, within the framework of the respective contract. No-LIMIT shows are for special, wealthy clients. VIP's who appreciate our service. This has its price. One whip is to be had there already for one euro, the second cost however already two, the third three euro. And everyone has to bid. The customers want 100 hard, bloody lashes on your tits? Then they pay a small fortune for it! No different than in camchat: You set the price. The more dangerous it gets for you, the more expensive. In the price your recovery costs are fully included, but of course there can be accidents. And we have doctors on hand who don't ask questions, who are good, and who are paid by us."

I gulped. "What do I effectively have left of the euro, for the bloody welt on my chest?"

Rebecca waved her hand. "That was an example. But yeah, let's stick with it. From the Euro you get five cents - to start with! That's another thing we determine before a session."

Out loud I laughed. "You're not serious, are you? Five cents?"

"We have a minimum of 50 spectators at a session, everyone pays. That will be €2.50 for the first blow, €5 for the second and so on," Rebecca explained. You've already given yourself a hundred strokes for less than 100€ profit."

I thought and calculated for a moment. "What if it doesn't end after a hundred blows? If the customer or customers keep bidding? Up to a thousand? Ten thousand?"Rebecca smiled. "That doesn't happen. You can't go below the minimum number of 50 bidders. The more expensive it gets, the more drop out. Fifty millionaires who want to collectively watch your tits get shredded live under the whip? Very unlikely. Besides, it's over when you pass out at the latest, that's the biological limit. For everything. Especially with breath play, then the helpers jump in and the session is over. A doctor looks after you, you are nursed back to health and then you go back to the Q&A session with your clients. You can block customers who overdo it. No one knows you, no one knows where you live, plus we have in-house security here."

"What can I realistically make here?"

Rebecca's smile grew very wide. "No limit!"

"Seriously, I want to hear buzz!"

Rebecca looked straight at me with her gray, unfathomable eyes. "100,000 € per session we already had. But after that, you're sure to be in the hospital for some time and need a longer break before you can get back in front of the camera! But the health costs will be covered by the company in this case, of course."

I had to digest that at first. That couldn't be true, could it?

Unexpectedly, Rebecca rose from her chair. "The room should be free now. I suppose it will be to your liking."

But suddenly she paused.

"But where are my manners? There I am showing you around the house for hours and not even offering a drink to a highly esteemed future business partner. What would you like, champagne, wine...?"

I was still lost in thought and completely caught off guard. Somewhat confused, I replied, "Just a glass of water, thank you!" smiling gratefully.

"Sit tight, I'll get us something," Rebecca replied, heading for the kitchen. I heard cabinet doors rattle and glasses clink. "Carbonated or non-carbonated?"

"Without.", I croaked, then repeated more clearly, "Without, please."

"Coming right up."

Already she arrived with two glasses of water, placed them on the table in front of me and sat down again. I drank the refreshing, cool water, and at the same time tried to sort out all that I had experienced in the last few minutes. My head was spinning.

Surprised, I looked at the empty glass in my hand.

"Anything else?" inquired Rebecca.

I waved it off. "No, thanks. Later, maybe."

"All right, then show me my place of work," I nodded to her and rose from the chair.

Immediately Rebecca was on her feet as well. She grabbed the glasses and took them back to the kitchen. I waited at the door in the meantime. She opened it for me and I stepped into my new future.

3 The fall

I stood, upright, bound. Arms stretched painfully sideways high above my head. Legs wide apart. My head was somehow packed in absorbent cotton. Again and again I tugged in vain at the shackles. No leather cuffs, it slowly penetrated my consciousness. Harder, more unyielding. No chains clanked when I tried to free myself. No swinging of ropes. Rigid clamps, as if screwed tight. Around my middle I felt a firm pressure that kept me upright, prevented me from slumping. Like a steel clamp. A light draft of air penetrated my skin. Was I naked? Bright light blinded me as I slowly opened my eyes. I was apparently in a steel chamber. I felt a sting at my neck. Blackness...

~...~

I jerked my eyes open and looked around in confusion. I was sitting in a leather chair, my head aching. In front of me stood a black-haired woman, in an elegant dress and extremely high-heeled shoes, leaning slightly forward toward me and looking into my face. Concern resonated in her voice. "Johanna, Johanna, are you okay, how are you?"

Who was Johanna?

Another voice sounded beside me, darker, male. "Give her some time, Rebecca. She hit her head when she fell."

My head throbbed. "What happened? W--, where am I?"

The woman replied. "In the recreation room. You suddenly tripped on your way out and hit your head. I immediately called Doctor Meier. You must have a concussion. Stay seated, they'll bring a stretcher in a minute, and we'll take you to the clinic."

"N., not ... clinic," I managed to get out. I groped at my skull and felt something moist and sticky. Dazed, I looked at my red fingers. I heard more voices coming closer, a rolling sound. Hands grabbed me and I was lifted up, placed on something soft. With half-opened eyes, I watched the lamps make their orbits above me. Throbbing in the skull. Murmuring of voices, elevator door, steel chamber, steel clamp ...

"NO!" suddenly I sat upright in bed. Bright sunlight fell on a white sheet. Typical hospital bedding, in a typical hospital bed. I was wearing a patient's gown. So I guess it was a hospital room, too.

A throbbing in my skull explained the reason for my confusion. After-effects of anesthetics I knew. My hand felt a bandage on my head when I tried to scratch it because it itched. Why did I have a head bandage? Slowly I let myself sink back, only to get up again more quickly, which my head immediately punished with a renewed increase in pain. My arm! In the sunlight, the red line on the inside of the forearm glowed. Ugly, healed, old. No, that wasn't why I was here. The screws were long out. A beam of light hit a bare metal piece on the bed and blinded me. The memory came back abruptly.

"Johanna! How nice, you're awake."

Blinking, I looked toward the door of the room. Cautiously, the black-haired woman stepped closer. "How are you today? We were worried about you." A glass and a water bottle were on the nightstand. I clumsily reached for it, but the woman was faster. "Let me help you. She poured some water, and handed me the glass. Something made me hesitate. Stubbornly, something lurked in my memory. My thirst won out. Gulping, I drank the entire glass and handed the empty glass back. "Anything else?" She looked at me anxiously.