Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
He’s lying on the cold concrete, motionless, staring in hopeless silence into the darkness - he lost the strength for sobbing hours ago - and wonders, grimly, how much more time he has. He must be close to death. He hadn’t thought about how important water is, until now, and he’s never felt more empathy for the worms shriveled up on the pavement.
The worms hadn’t even done anything wrong.
Unlike me.
Am I going to go to Hell? Or will I be trapped here forever? He’s not sure which would be worse.
A thud interrupts him.
He blinks, confused.
He got used to the voices and the shadows, but the thud is new.
It sounded different. Louder. Almost real.
Was it real?
He listens desperately, straining his ears for the slightest sounds - and there’s another sound, above him, a faint scraping sound like something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Someone is upstairs. Someone is here.
No one else has a key for his house, so - so it must be her. She came back?
Oh god, she came back!
He can’t even muster the strength to be scared, even though he should be, god he should be terrified, and he should be furious - she’s the one who did this to him! She left him to fucking die, yet all he can feel is this wretched, pathetic relief because she’s back, and she didn’t leave him to die.
In his delirious state, it doesn’t even occur to him that she could have come back only to kill him herself. She came back, and that’s all that matters.
The basement door opens.
After so long in the dark, even the dim glow from the top of the stairs is painful - and then she turns on the basement light, and he recoils with a weak cough-like yelp that burns his throat like acid, burying his face in his arms to hide from the single incandescent lightbulb that feels like the sun, blazing fire through his eyes and frying his brain.
Footsteps descend the stairs at a casual pace, sauntering over to him without a care in the world. God, he can’t even imagine how pathetic he must look - chained and gagged, too weak to even sit up, cowering from the light.
“Please,” he moans into the gag, desperate for mercy despite how much it burns to force words through his ruined throat. “I’m s-so-rry.”
All that comes out through the gag is a broken, low noise, barely recognizable as human.
The unmistakable click of a switchblade snapping open makes him flinch, though in his state it’s barely a twitch - shivering as she reaches down to grab him by the hair, whimpering in pain as she forces his head up and now it’s only the thin red barrier of his eyelids protecting him from the light - the cool edge of the blade touches him on the cheek, and he tries to stay still as she slides the knife under the tape and cuts the gag loose.
He gasps in relief, even though his jaw is so stiff he can barely move it, and his lips are cracked. He trembles as her hand moves from his hair down to his jaw, almost cupping his cheek. She’s so warm. He manages to open his eyes a little - she shifts to the side a little, blocking the light so he can look up at her. “Y-you.. came back…,” he manages to whisper, hoarse and weak.
“Oh, you poor thing.” There’s no sympathy in her voice. He can’t really see her face, with the light behind her forming a blazing halo, but he knows she’s smiling. He knows it’s not a nice smile. “You don’t have much time left. You know you brought this on yourself.”
“I’m s-sorry.” He chokes out again.
“I bet you are. Do you want to live?”
He tries to say yes and all that comes out is a dry rasp, so instead he nods, gazing up at her pleadingly.
She leans closer. “Say please.”
“Please,” he gasps.
A low, throaty chuckle, and her fingernails - sharp, pointy, painful - dig into his face. He winces with a low whine, but with her fingers wrapped tightly around his jaw he can’t pull away. “Mm.. I rather like you like this. Pathetic, whimpering submission looks good on you. Are you going to be a good boy if I let you live?”
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. God I’ll do anything, I don’t want to die.
Humiliated, he nods weakly. “Y.. yes.”
Her grin widens, and she lets go of his face only to grab him by the hair again - he whines in pain as she pulls him up onto his knees. “Call me your master.”
You… my what? He stares at her in helpless disbelief, his vision blurry, head pounding. He’d been so stupid to think this couldn’t possibly get any more humiliating.
It could always get worse.
He swallows. It hurts.
“P-Please,” he whispers, “don’t - don’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“Ah ah. Be a good boy and call me your master, pet.” She purrs, tightening her grip in his hair until his eyes well with tears he hadn’t even known he still had, “or I leave you down here to rot.”
He sobs hoarsely. She would. He knows she would. He doesn’t want to die. He’s so fucking scared. She came back. This is his only chance.
He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to go back in the dark again.
“Master.” He whispers with his eyes closed, cringing in humiliation.
Without warning, pain erupts on the side of his face, knocking him off balance - he falls onto his side on the floor, jaw hitting the ground so hard his teeth rattle. He lays there, whimpering, as red-hot pain radiates out from his throbbing cheekbone and jaw.
“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.” She yanks him up by the hair again. “Try again.”
“I’m sorry!”
“I don’t care. Try again.”
“Please,” he whimpers, forcing his eyes open. Forcing himself to look up at her. “Master, please.”
“Good boy.”
She drops him without warning - he crumples to the ground, bound hands unable to catch himself before his head hits the concrete again with a dull crack. His skull pounds, vision going grey for a few moments as he groans in pain; she walks away - he watches through blurry, burning eyes as she disappears upstairs.
There’s a click, and the lights go out - he convulses, headache forgotten, throwing himself towards the staircase only to be brought up short by the cuffs, a shriek of animal terror tearing out of his throat with the taste of blood, “No! Please, no!”
“Are you scared of the dark?” She laughs.
“Not again, please!” It was all a trick, she’s going to close the door and never come back and leave him in the dark to die, to rot. “Don’t leave me!”
“I’ll only be gone for a moment. The light will come back when I do.”
“Plea- hck!” His voice cracks and, to his horror, finally gives out.
He stares in utter desperation at the glow of the upstairs, the only light that’s left, and silently begs her not to close the door.
To his inexpressible relief, she doesn’t. His eyes are glued to the light, straining against the cuffs to be as close to it as he can be while she’s gone: he whimpers nervously when she’s gone longer than a moment.
He goes limp when the light comes back on. In the back of his mind he feels sick at how pathetic he is, scared of the dark, calling someone his master.
That doesn’t stop him from feeling overwhelming gratitude for the bottle of water in her hand. Between humiliation or death, he’ll take the humiliation.
All he wants to do is gulp it down, but she only lets him take sips, holding it up to his mouth. “You’ll throw up if you drink too fast. Don’t waste it.”
Even sip by sip, the bottle is empty far too soon. His throat feels better, at least. He doesn’t feel like he’s inches from death. A few feet from death now, maybe.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Do you want more?”
“Please.”
She doesn’t move. Why not? He said please. Her expression is neutral, looking down at him in silence with her head cocked slightly to the side: when their eyes meet, she raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Please?” He tries again, a little louder. Her only response is a slow blink, drumming her nails once along the edge of the empty bottle.
What does she want, I - I said please, I know she heard me. What else does she want, I don’t- his thoughts are cut off when her hand winds tightly into his hair again, her pointed claw-like nails scratching his scalp as she forcefully wrenches his head back.
He gasps in pain from the pressure on his spine, instinctive fear at being forced to bare his throat. His fists clench, twisting in the cuffs. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I don’t - I - ”
She interrupts him, purring, “What do you say, pet?”
Pet. Pet. The word rattles around in his head. She called him that earlier, when… he cringes, closing his eyes and choking back a helpless sob. “Please, Master.”
Her death grip on his hair loosens, fingers ruffling back and forth through his hair, like.. like she was petting him. “Good boy.”
He doesn’t open his eyes until she lets go of him and stands up, and even then he can’t manage to look at anything but the floor. Never in his life has he felt so mortified. It’s bad enough that he’s being held captive, but for fuck’s sake, does she have to add insult to injury by treating him like a dog?
But if he doesn’t play along, if he doesn’t do what she wants, she’s going to leave him to die. Cold. Alone. In the dark.
It’s not until she’s halfway up the stairs that he remembers that the light is going to go out. He handles it better the second time - he doesn’t even scream, though he does reflexively jerk against the cuffs again, whining under his breath.
After the second bottle is empty, she reaches out - he can’t help but flinch, after all the times she’s yanked him by the hair. Instead, she just brushes a few strands back from his face, and runs her fingers through his hair a few times. Her fingernails scratch along his scalp again, but gently.
It feels… nice. After being alone for so long, trapped in the cold darkness, any gentle touch would feel good. Without even thinking about it, he leans closer, eyes closed. Tilting his head into her hand because it’s warm and he’s just so cold. Closer and closer, chasing warmth, chasing comfort.
It’s not until she croons, “What a good boy you’re being,” that he wakes up from his daze to find his head in her lap, and that little sick feeling comes back.
Oh god, what am I doing? He gasps, starting to sit up; she digs her claws into his scalp, and he doesn’t even think, he submits immediately with a frightened whimper, dropping his head back into her lap.
I have my head in a serial killer’s lap, he thinks. A serial killer has me chained, half-dead, in my own basement, and now I’m - what? Her.. her pet? What does that even mean? Is she really going to treat me like an… like I’m an animal?
He whimpers again, biting his lip to hold back a sob of raw fear.
“What’s wrong?” She coos, still petting him.
Everything.
“M-Master?” His voice trembles. “What - what are you going to - to do to me?”
“What do you think I’m going to do to you?” Her tone is amused, as though it was a silly question, but low, low and cruel, and it makes him shiver.
“You’re going to torture me,” he whispers, hollow with dread.
Her chuckle only confirms it - he lets out a helpless moan, wishing he could pull away from her but too scared to move. Too weak.
“Would you rather I leave?”
“No,” he sobs.
He’s sitting in the dark again, shivering. She had suddenly gotten this twisted little smile on her face and went upstairs. No explanation. Not a word.
Whatever occurred to her, he knows it’s going to be bad.
She comes back a few minutes later with a backpack. A big black militaristic one, heavy judging by the thud as she set it down on the table. He eyes it warily.
What she removes from it is also black. He only gets a glimpse of it before she hides it behind her back, sauntering over to him with her hips swaying and a playful smile that tells him he’s not going to like this nearly as much as she will.
“Would you like to get out of those cuffs?”
He glances down at his cuffed and duct-taped wrists, tingling half-numb hands, bruised dark purple and flaked with dried blood from struggling too hard.
“YYes?” He looks back up at her apprehensively.
What’s the catch?
“I’ll untie you - I’ll even bring you upstairs and let you get cleaned up for no extra charge - but in exchange,” she smirks, “you have to wear this instead.”
She holds up an ominously thick, wide black strap with a small box near the middle of it. He stares at it for a moment, bewildered, before the glint of steel catches his eye. A D-ring and a buckle.
He feels like he might throw up. “Is… is that a collar?”
“It is. Not just any collar, of course.” From her pocket, she retrieves something metallic grey. “Remember this?”
Electricity sparks, and he jerks away, eyes widening. Oh, he remembers that. He remembers the hell out of that. That was the last thing he saw before he woke up in the dark.
She holds up the collar and pulls a second object from her pocket, a small black rectangle, like a little remote - she presses the button, and the small box on the collar sparks loudly.
He stares up at her in horror. A shock collar?? “Oh god, no.”
“Oh? You’d rather stay chained to the wall for the rest of your life? However long that is… ” She trails off ominously, then sighs in disappointment. “Well, if you insist.”
“I don’t want to be chained up, or - or collared!” His voice cracks.
She wants him to wear a collar. She really does intend to treat him like a dog. He has a terrible feeling this is just the beginning. Oh god, what else does she want to do to him?
But then, what will she do to him if he doesn’t do what she wants? He’s… he’s at her mercy. Fuck, she could force the collar on him anyway, it’s not like he could fight her off.
Why did he have to pick her?
“And I didn’t want to be kidnapped, now did I? One or the other,” her voice lowers warningly. “And the collar is the only way you will ever leave this basement again. Alive or dead.”
He can’t think of anything he wants more than leaving the basement. God, he just wants to be above ground again. See the sky, the sun. Smell fresh air.
Even a false taste of freedom is better than none at all.
And maybe if he’s not locked in the basement, he’ll have a better chance of escaping? Maybe?
He swallows his pride - what little of it remains - and hangs his head in defeat. “The collar. I’ll… I’ll wear the collar, Master.”
