"Fuck you!"

The electric shock drops you to the floor.

"I see that you need extensive reprogramming," the captain says. "Not a problem. We have methods for that."

Then {if Owner = 1} he turns {endif} {if Owner = 2} she turns {endif} {if Owner = 3} they turn {endif} away and walks off down the hall.

You can't move. Any time you try to get up, you're electrocuted again. Any time you crawl a significant distance from your starting position, you're electrocuted again. All you can do is lie there, which at least gives you a little time to examine your situation.

Aside from the electric shocks, you're not in any serious pain, but you're covered in too many little aches and twinges to even guess at how many things they implanted you with, or where they all are. Your entire body is covered in a thin rubber bodysuit, dulling your sense of touch and preventing you from seeing that they've done. Only your fingers, face and tits, which are much, much larger than you remember them being (almost the size of your head) are free from the rubber. There's also a hole over your cunt, and multiple little tubes and ports all over the suit.

On your right tit is some kind of complicated logo you don't recognise, and on your left, the number 5. Some kind of bulky helmet you can't see is strapped to your head.

Eventually, a robot comes by. It looks a bit like a very small forklift, about the size of a child. On its right side is the same logo as on your right tit, and on its left is the number 3.

It picks you up off the floor. Any attempt to climb off results in another electric shock dropping you and the robot picking you up again, so you have **** but to let it carry you through the ship. It looks cobbled together out of garbage -- incredibly advanced science fiction garbage, but garbage nonetheless. Metal walls and floors meet plastic ones with no rhyme or reason, and the doors are of multiple shapes, designs and functions.

The robot takes you into a small room, or possibly a large closet, lined with five metal lockers of different shapes and sizes. Four of them are locked, but the ones labelled 3 an 5 are ajar. The robot dumps you into locker 5.

As soon as you're inside, the door shuts and locks behind you, blocking out all light. Straps wrap around your wrists, upper arms, ankles, thighs, and under your ribs, pulling you against the back of the locker, and something snaps down to cover your eyes and ears. A robotic voice whispers in your ear:

"Maintenance cycle. Hygiene cycle."

Something connects to the front of your suit, and the pressure in your bladder starts to drain away. Apparently even pissing is outside your control now. You have very little time to reflect on this before something connects to the back of your suit and fluid starts pumping into your ass.

The fluid is uncomfortably cold, which quickly becomes painful inside a place that's supposed to be at body temperature. Fortunately, it's only a small amount, and a few seconds later it drains away, with the computer voice announcing, "Priming cycle draining." But before you can be relieved, fresh fluid is pumped into you, and this time, it's a lot more. You feel decidedly full by the time the pumping stops, and doesn't drain. Your muscles are starting to cramp, but there's nothing that you can do except wait.

And wait.

And wait.

For an eternity.

"Three minute cycle draining."

Three minutes?! That couldn't have been three minutes! In the darkness and silence, time is difficult to measure, but that had to be half an hour at least! You don't have time to think about it, though, because no sooner has the fluid drained away that you start to fill up again.

And this one has the most water of all.

The fluid quickly becomes uncomfortable. Then painful. Your pelvic muscles strain to contain intestines that are full to nearly bursting, try to push the liquid out past whatever's pumping it into your ass, but you can't. You can't do anything but but stay there and suffer, eyeing the distant hope of relief. In the darkness, in the silence, there is nothing to focus on but the fluid inside you. You've almost forgotten what you're waiting for when the voice says, "Thirty minute cycle draining."

It does. Have you ever felt so empty?

"Surface cleaning cycle."

Something hot and cold and stinging and itchy all at the same time oozes its way under your rubber suit. It's not water, but you couldn't begin to guess what it is. It runs down your back and over your breasts, tickling your spine and biting your nipples. It tickles the soles of your feet, makes your eyes burn, and works its way over your labia and around your clit. It's like having your whole body dipped in a mild hot sauce, and you can't help but thrash against your restraints until it's gone.

"Hygiene cycle complete. Initiate recharging and programming cycle."

Some kind of plug forces its way into your mouth, locking around your teeth. An experimental suck reveals that it's to distribute a very thin gruel. This, at least, you have control over: the gruel comes out when you suck on it.

The thing over your eyes lights up, briefly hurting until your eyes adapt. It starts to play short videos showing a crude stick figure doing various domestic tasks on a spaceship -- how to prepare the ship food, how to clean hallways, how to replace air filters. How to serve food, how to stand appropriately when addressed by crew, how to keep out of the way and be easily ignored otherwise. There must be at least a hundred short videos, all playing in apparently random order, so you see some several times and some only once. Presumably, there are more you haven't seen yet.

Then, suddenly, they stop.

"Disciplinary mark registered. Reason: disrespect and noncompliance to captain. Initiate disciplinary cycle."

The fluid starts pumping into your intestines again, and this time, it's much colder. It's immediately painful, and fills you as much as before. But rather than simply leaving you to wait out the discomfort, the voice says, "initiate stage two." The liquid doesn't drain; your abdomen starts to cramp. But at the same time, you feel the vibrator on your clit, the same deep, intense stimulation that the captain demonstrated to you before. Immediately, you're ready to cum. But you can't.

"Initiate stage three."

The plug in your mouth starts to pump liquid of its own accord. It's impossible to spit out; you have **** but to swallow. The pumping is very slow, giving you plenty of time to swallow without drowning, and you have no idea what exactly you're drinking, but it tastes absolutely disgusting, rotten and burned at the same time. You gag several times, but have to **** yourself to get over it and swallow.

"Initiate stage four."

At first, you don't know what stage four is. Then, you feel the electric shock across your tits.

The timing and intensity of the shocks seems completely random. Sometimes both tits, sometimes just one; sometimes strong, sometimes faint. Sometimes, instead of a shock, it's a buzz of pleasurable stimulation. The unpredictability would put you on edge even if it wasn't for everything else going on.

"Disciplinary cycle initiated. Time period set: four hours."

And you wait.