Thursday evening. Around midday. Indeterminate location.

A large, relatively empty room. Looks as though it might have been an office space or presentation room at some point, but was later cleared out. Smooth, light brown floor. White walls, white ceiling with rectangular lamps built in. All very standard.

People are present. A couple dozen, maybe more. No rhyme or reason to them, all just normal, everyday, random people. The youngest is a teenager while the oldest might be in their fifties or sixties. The majority of them are standing, talking to each other quietly. Apart from them, however, is one man seated in a metal folding chair. Caucasian, dark brown hair cut short. Brown eyes. Clean shaven, save a little stubble. No majorly notable facial features. Grey collared shirt and blue jeans, pair of white sneakers.

He sits there, silently, with a completely empty expression on his face. Hands are folded with interlocked fingers.

Along the back of the room lie a set of collapsable tables placed against the wall. Resting on them are a vast assortment of random objects and tools. Cloth rags, duct tape, an electric razor, markers, makeup, an assortment of random headwear, necklaces made of plastic beads, bottles of water, and much more.

Moments more of the gathering murmuring to each other, and the door in the corner of the room swings open. In steps a bald Caucasian man wearing a white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, and black slacks and leather shoes.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says to the gathering as he steps through them, towards the seated man. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late, we’ll get started right away.”

He takes a stand next to the seated man and faces the crowd. “So, uh,” he begins, “some of you already know the deal here but, just as a refresher course, I’m your host, and this...”

He steps behind the seated man and places his hands on his shoulders.

“Is our volunteer. He is a one-hundred percent consenting individual. For the duration of this session, you are all allowed to do whatever you want to him, barring a few guidelines. One, you can’t kill him. Two, you can’t inflict permanent bodily harm to him, like mutilating him or ripping out his teeth. Three, you can take off everything but his underwear. Four, nothing overly sexual. Kissing’s fine. Five, no pictures or recordings of any sort. Six, you’re allowed to use anything you see on the tables, within the rules. If anyone wants to play music, there’s a stereo system over in the corner. Seven, please be courteous to each other and take turns, don’t drag things on for too long. And lastly, you’re allowed to remain completely anonymous if you so choose. Everything that happens in this room stays here.”

The host gives the volunteer a light smack on the right side of his face as he walks past him, with no reaction from him. “I’ll be outside,” he says, “If anyone needs anything, ask the doorman.” With that, he exits the room, and leaves the group to their devices.

They begin communing again, murmuring their thoughts and intentions to each other. After a moment, a young brunette woman steps towards the volunteer and stands before him for a moment. She then kneels down and wraps her arms around his neck, embracing him in a seemingly sincere hug. She kisses his cheek, and ruffles her fingers through his hair a bit. He gives no reaction at all.

The young woman detaches herself from the volunteer and, without warning, slaps him across the cheek. The volunteer recoils from the slap, but doesn’t verbally express any pain at all. He slowly returns to his original position as the young woman returns to the crowd.

The murmuring continues. The volunteer sits quietly.

The next turn is open.

A woman, aging, grey hair cropped short, stands at the back.

For a moment she is uncertain, but then she watches the other woman, and something tugs at the corner of her lips. She steps toward the table, keen brown eyes skimming across the array of objects, before they fall on a thick, black sharpie. She picks it up.

She approaches the volunteer, sure footed, then carefully, she slips the button at his collar free. Her throat catches as it slips open, revealing the slight bob of his neck as he breathes. More confident, she undoes the rest of the buttons until the shirt hangs, exposing the volunteer's bare chest.

She uncaps the sharpie, and hunches over, her body hiding the drawing from view as she works.

She stands, slips the cap back on with a sharp click, before moving out of the way to reveal a giant, hairy set of balls covering each pec, accompanied by a wrinkled trunk that sits between them and snakes down his belly.

She returns the sharpie to the table, task completed.

"Ja." A voice spoke up from the crowd, as deep and trenchant as an orchestral horn. "Ist gut."

A man stepped forward, as visibly European as his accent. An unnatural shade of orange God did not intend men's skin to turn into, with a fade of blonde hair too short to have been cut any earlier in the week than yesterday. He must have thought this would have been a photographed event.

The blonde man looked both ways -- taking a brief check to see if another had volunteered to go second -- and approached the man on the chair. In an instant, the blonde man's arms shot out, grabbing the volunteer by the shoulder and the crotch. For a brief moment, the room tensed, unsure of whether the blonde man had violated one of the rules, before his body jerked violently, twisting backwards and flinging the volunteer from his seat like a pillow and onto his shoulders. The group of volunteers gave a collective round of "oohs" as the blonde man widened his stance, stretching his grip to the man's neck and hip, and taking a deep squat down.

"Ein," The blonde man said, flexing his fingers and tightening his grip on the volunteer's body. "Zwei, drei," He continued, getting into a slow rhythm. "Vier, fünf," The blonde said through now-gritting teeth, slowing his reps with each return from a squat.

"Sechs, sieben," His legs now shook violently with each lunge upward, and his breathing became thicker in his words. He paused for a moment, finding some inner resolve that had lain dormant, and lunged up once more, outstretching his arms and holding the volunteer up like a prize bass.

"Acht!"

He lowered himself and returned the volunteer to a standing position, now with a clear blob of the blonde man's sweat on his chest, muddling the inky dong that had been drawn previously.