"No, I'm Not Doing That"

You have to draw the line somewhere. Maybe it's stupid. Maybe they'll get what they want from you anyway. But you can't go along with this. You just can't. "No," you say. "I won't."

The collar goes off. It's a high setting, and it has you on the ground in an instant. It's as if the collar had leaked powerful acid onto your neck. You can't help but claw at the thing to try to get it off, but it has no elasticity at all, and when you just barely manage to wedge a finger between your neck and your skin, you find yourself ripping it away. "There are more nerves on your fingertips than your neck," the soldier says. "You're not going to make it better by putting your fingers up against the collar's inside." He walks over to you and pins you on the floor. The other soldiers rush to assist him. Their strength weighs on you as they press against your naked body. One has your arms. One has your legs. The nothian speaker has one hand on your torso. He looks over at the camerawoman. "Duch zhork reskit prab khorm vrin kartin?"

"Mot," she responds. "Moguch dlap kartin."

"Alright, then," the soldier says. "Looks like I'll have to do it for you."

"What?"

He grabs your cock. You struggle, but the soldiers have no trouble keeping you down. "This is pretty small," he says. "Hopefully, you're a grower."

With the padded palm of his armor, the nothian speaker strokes you, up and down, up and down. You feel like your blood has been replaced with sewage. "Please stop," you say. "Please. Please, I'll do it."

"Too late," he says. "I'll get it done faster."

You stare straight up, hoping something on the ceiling might distract you, but the image is too blurry. You can't shut out their quiet giggling or the sickly sweet tingling in your cock. The nerves that are meant to activate for a lover, to tell you that their attentions are as they should be, are betraying you. Lying to you. The soldier's strokes are long and slow. There's some technique to them, like he's done this before. With everything you have, you try to **** your captors off your arms and legs, but there's no telling if they even notice. You're utterly powerless against the subtle touch of his palm. At first, his hand too big. It holds your whole cock, though not tightly. However, as his attentions go on, as your heart rate climbs, as your treacherous body, the same one that lured him to you, fills your cock with its blood, your cock grows, stretching to the height of his hand, then higher. "Good," he says. "You are a grower." You take soft, deep breaths. "This would be easier if you let yourself enjoy it. I could even finish you off, once we have our picture."

"Rot in hell!"

"I thought you worshiped the nine, like us. We don't believe in hell."

As you thrash and jerk and growl, your legs just barely leave the ground, before a reassertion of **** pushes them back down. This incident fills you with a fresh spark of hope, but it's short lived. You're unable to replicate that feat, and as that rekindled spark of hope is doused, you sob. Despite them, despite the camera, you sob. Your shaft continues to thicken. Soon it's long, tall and proud, its head swollen. He has it as hard as you've ever seen it. It's awfully photogenic. If you were Imperial scum, you might buy it. And someone will. Someone fucking will.

"Kogdoth," the camerawoman says. The soldier pulls his hand off your cock. He moves it to your thigh, which he squeezes, even as he uses it to hold you down. The camera goes off. "Kogdoth," she says again. The soldiers get off of you, and what do you do with your newfound lack of restraint? You curl up in a ball and cry some more. You expect another shock, for the nothian speaker do demand you stand up, but he does not. The four of them just wait, as if even they had it in themselves to allow you this one moment of pure sadness. You've been violated, and you've been violated for the purpose of persuading someone else to violate you again. What else do they need a picture of your erect cock for? It's because they're trying to get some horny noble to buy you. To add you to their harem. The lady needs to see what's going to be filling her up. Or a male buyer needs to see what it is he'll get to play with when you're turned on.

"Get up," the soldier says. You keep crying. A shock hits you, but it's back down to setting one. Just a kick in the neck. You'd wondered before why they go up to twenty. Whether it was a matter of simple cruelty, but it's not. It's because they know that now that you've felt a higher setting, setting one feels more like a gentle reminder than a punishment. "We have something to cover you with," he says.

With some effort, you struggle to your feet. You're given a towel to wrap around yourself. You're led into the school's showers, just across the hall. {if Escape Attempts=1}Everyone else was processed before you, even the other guy who ran,{else}Your processing apparently took long enough for the last person to finish,{endif} so you have the communal showers to yourself. You have accumulated something of a smell over the course of the day, what with all the panicked running from Imperial troop after Imperial troop until one of them finally spotted and caught you. You turn one on. The warm water, the used bar of soap, and pump of shampoo you're provided with make just a tiny dent in the sickening feeling that permeates your body, but when you're done, you still feel about as bad as you have since the invasion began.

You dry off, and you're given your uniform. It consists of long pants and a t-shirt, both orange, but covered in a grid of bright blue squares. You would die of hypothermia if you tried to go outside in this, which is presumably why it's what you're being dressed in. You don't care. What matters is that your body is out of sight now, safe from those godsdamned leering eyes and that fucking hand.