The Living Cargo Bay

The cargo bay's location was clearly marked on the schematic, but Kira found herself hesitating outside the sealed door. This was where he'd kept them - the women he'd trafficked across systems, the ones whose testimonies had fueled her pursuit. She'd seen the files, read the reports, but never actually seen the containment units themselves.

"Might as well," she muttered, taking a final swig of the bitter coffee before placing the empty mug on a nearby ledge.

The door slid open at her approach, revealing a chamber smaller than she'd expected. Clinical lighting illuminated five transparent cylinders arranged in a semicircle, each taller and wider than a human body. They stood empty now, but the sight of them made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

Kira approached the nearest cylinder, professional curiosity overcoming her initial hesitation. The transparent material was flawlessly clear, allowing a perfect view of the interior. A set of articulated restraints hung suspended within - cuffs for wrists, ankles, neck, waist. They were currently retracted into a waiting position, but she could easily imagine how they would deploy to secure a struggling body. Her hand traced the outer surface of the cylinder, finding it warm to the touch.

At the base of the unit, positioned directly below where the subject would hang, was a system that made her face heat with recognition. The same collection apparatus she'd encountered in the bathroom last night, though this version was clearly designed to maintain constant, inescapable contact.

Her thighs clenched involuntarily as she remembered the **** position, the transparent tube, the way she'd been **** to watch herself.

But what truly made her breath catch was the pair of attachments positioned within the confines of that tube, set ready to align perfectly with a captive's most intimate openings - one thick, ridged implement for the front, a smaller but equally deliberate one for behind. Both were connected to complex mechanical systems that disappeared into the base of the cylinder.

The subjects in this device would be kept continuously impaled, unable to close their legs or turn away from watching eyes. Everything they experienced would be on display through the transparent walls.

She stepped back, but found herself unable to look away. Her trained mind catalogued the technical aspects - the breathing apparatus at the top, the feeding tube that would enter through the mouth, the waste collection system that ensured no need for release or rest.

Yet beneath her professional assessment ran a current she refused to acknowledge - the way her pulse had quickened, how her own breathing had grown shallow. She was imagining it despite herself - the inexorable closing of those restraints, the feeling of being suspended, helpless, filled, watched...

She **** herself to turn away from the cylinder, but as she did, for a moment, she caught her own reflection in its surface, as if seeing herself inside it in truth.

As she left the cargo bay, her skin felt too tight, too warm, and her wrists ached for a reason she could not quite articulate.