In the control room, the ironically named 'Director' (it was tattooed on his back; why needlessly deface a chair?) jumped as both his headset and chrome anal plug sparked to life with electricity. Their simultaneous activation meant one thing: 'creative input' from the show runner, watching with the suits from one of the studio's hospitality suites.

"You idiot, get a commercial on! There's a difference between a tension-raising dramatic pause and dead air, you know, and right now they're all just staring at each other! The Instatron is showing great ratings, but if we lose them I'll be flayed in the boardroom next month, and if that happens, YOU'LL be offered a short guest-starring role on 'The Carrion Channel!'"

The plug sparked again at a much higher setting as the headphones went silent. He'd tensed himself for it; the bastard ALWAYS did that.

Careful not to snag any unwanted faders or buttons with the cuff chain, he keyed the five-seconds tone in the host's monitor and queued up the spot for PeroxiBleach Concentrated Slave Wash. The way the chained-up blonde danced when the spray hit her at :17 into the spot used to make his chastity tight, but repeated viewings had dulled the effect.... "Commercials, who would I have to kill to get to make commercials," he thought.

As the sponsor logo filled the screen and the voiceover began the breathless litany of side-effects disclaimers to weasel out of property damage claims for blindness and the like, he gave the host another five-seconds warning, selected Camera 2-LIVE, and rolled the lead-in.