Beg for mercy

"Please, stop -- "

But your owner isn't interested in anything you have to say. {if Owner = 1} He {endif} {if Owner = 2} She {endif} {if Owner = 3} It {endif} extends a new tentacle and forces it into your mouth. The end is tough, too tough to hurt with your bite, and biting soon becomes impossible anyway, because it expands to **** your mouth painfully wide. There must be holes in it somewhere, because you can still breathe just fine. But what you can't do is breathe around the tentacle, and deal with your ongoing orgasms, and find your feet at the same time. So you quickly find yourself being dragged.

Your owner doesn't let your helpless body drag through the muck and filth of the streets long enough to hurt you, at least not beyond a few bruises. Dozens of tendrils, longer and thinner than the tentacles, shoot out to pick you up. The tentacle in your cunt stops stimulating you long enough for you to partially recover, relax your muscles and get your breath. As soon as your muscles relax, tendrils wrapped around your arms and legs pull you out into a spread eagled position and mount you on your owner's back, facing outward, like a fancy new brooch. The tentacle in your mouth forces your head back until you're staring straight upward, your neck already cramping; the tentacle in your cunt starts to pulsate again, not bringing you to another orgasm but stimulating your cunt and clit to the point where it's just unbearable.

Except you have to bear it. There's nothing you can do.

Your owner wanders around for a while. You can't see anything except the space station roof, but from the sound of it, {if Owner = 1} he {endif} {if Owner = 2} she {endif} {if Owner = 3} it {endif} is shopping. Every now and again, apparently for {if Owner = 1} his {endif} {if Owner = 2} her {endif} {if Owner = 3} its {endif} own amusement, it hits your genitals with a powerful bout of vibration until you cum, then returns to its previous pattern of stimulation.

By the time it throws you to the ground, you're completely exhausted.

No... not the ground. You're inside a room. A spaceship? And you've been thrown down onto a pale pink circular platform, about four metres wide.

You're too exhausted to move as your owner locks a wide pink collar around your neck and attaches it to a two-metre chain in the center of the platform.

"I suggest you sleep, pet. You're going to need your energy for your big debut tomorrow."

Your owner heads off to a complicated-looking control panel over the other side of the room, ignoring you. Down one side of your platform is a crude toilet and a large tub filled with soapy, perfumed water. Down the other end are two bowls, one containing clean water and one containing a chunky, meaty-looking gelatinous substance. There is nothing else on the platform.