The holo-arena’s vast dome pulses with neon grids, projecting a fifty-foot hologram of my naked body above the crowd—every curve, every welt, my dripping p***y magnified for the lunar colony’s elite.
I’m bound to a rotating chrome platform, arms and legs spread in a star shape by neural cuffs that hum with electric feedback, syncing my nerves to the arena’s network. The air smells of ozone and lust, the crowd’s murmurs vibrating through my skull via their cranial implants. Dr. Kain—my creator, my father—stands at the platform’s edge, his holo-mask swirling with crimson fractals, holding a neural whip that crackles with blue sparks. My collar feels tighter, the onyx studs digging into my neck, and my core throbs, wet and ready despite the humiliation.
“Night four,” Kain announces, voice
