Learning to beg

After your sludgey meal and a few extra pussy shocks (because you apparently licked the ultra sensitive spot too roughly, although you suspect they were as much for the sake of ****), the wimpy penis shrinks into the floor. Arms appear and remove the cuffs that **** you into an ass out crawl. You stretch, enjoying your moment of freedom.

"Bad ****," says the emotionless voice, "sit still." You obey, freezing mid-stretch to kneel patiently. A panel slides in the black wall of your prison, revealing hole the size and depth of a ration-box. "Place your tits in the receptacle."

The ceiling is too low for you to stand, so you crawl to the hole, like a good ****. Nervously, you squeeze your tender globes into the rectangular opening. Your caution is justified as a cruel device clamps onto your nipples.

Your breasts are pushed out of the hole by a panel that becomes flush with the wall, removing any trace there ever was a blemish on your onyx prison. Wincing in pain, you look down at your pinched nubs. A hinged, narrow rectangle has attached itself to them.

The device serves as a punishment implement while the dull voice instructs you on the nuances of begging and kneeling. Irk's thick stump appears on the wall, serving as a reference. Whenever you don't stick your tits out far enough, close your legs too much, fail to look hungrily at his cock, or make any other mistake, the nipple grabber bends in the middle, twisting your nips and squeezing your breasts together. The clips that attach the agony tool can also rotate in their sockets, allowing for **** nipple twisting. This was learned when you spent too much time gritting your teeth in pain and not enough time mewling for masters cock.

After the voice is satisfied with your ability to grovel and debase yourself, the hinged device permanently jackknives, pulling your boobs together by their sore nipples. While the torment persists, you're instructed on how to wince and pout while being punished.

Even after the tit-puller is removed, you are told to keep begging. This time, it's for a bowl of **** chow. It takes five minutes of telling the bleak walls of your prison that its more than you deserve, but you're eventually given all the tasteless pebbles you could ever want and a dick-shaped water bottle.

After eating and some more pleading, you are given the use of the washroom and a pillow to sleep with. You regret asking for the later when a body pillow modelled after a Gas Bag is dispensed. Sleeping on the cold metal is more appealing but, a good **** would be happy to snuggle with her master. So begrudgingly, you wrap yourself around the ugly pillow. In the darkness, it's more comfortable than you imagined and sleep quickly finds you.

You are woken up by lesbian moaning intermingled with kissing and slapping. Unfortunately, an excited scan of your empty chamber reveals it's only a recording (still one of the better alarms you've heard). Irk's pillow is pulled into the wall, and the pinpricks of light slowly start to illuminate your little box. It is serene until the voice speaks.

"You will be happy to know your master..." there is a pause as the **** box prepares to quote Irk. "My name is Irk," Irk's recorded voice states, proving he can fuck up the simplest of tasks. "...has checked up on your progress and was pleased, reaching sexual gratification one times." That's an image you could have gone without. "He was quite proud and requested a sharable copy of the footage. He has asked we put extra focus on teaching you to beg. You will be expected to beg for all necessities from now on." So it only took a few days for the lazy lunk to stop by and apply his preferences.

Advanced begging lessons begin at breakfast. With a tube pressing into your throat and clamps ready to bite your breasts if you repeat yourself, you express how much of an honor it would be to have the cunt flavored smoothy pumped down your throat. It's not as difficult as it sounds. Sure there are only so many ways to say "please fill this lowly ****'s belly," but having a feeding tube brush against your uvula can make useless whore sound like "yoolah fore" or "offlef ware." Only three pairs of clamps are pinching your tits by the time you are allowed to swallow. As you expected the Syndicate gets the vagina flavor right, giving you a craving for the real thing.

Breakfast is followed with some maid training. You are given a pigtail ribbons, a teeney apron, the necessary headband, and an enema (this is the Syndicate after all). Your cell's ceiling cycles to a 2D display that shows a man dressed extremely formally. Looking down at you, he dictates his demands for a proper maid while a gallon of water is pumped up your backdoor. It might just be the kinky nature of your predicament, but his strict mannerisms turn you on. "A maid will be seen and not heard," he informs you while a large plug seals the larger amount of water in you. "A maid will not speak until this plug is removed." Knotted flogger strands dangle from your silencing buttplug.

You exit your cell through a tunnel so small your nipples kiss the ground as you crawl into the adjacent room. A bucket of water and skimpy pair of panties are provided to clean the floor with.

The enema adds a new dimension of degradation to scrubbing the floor. As you slide your body, grinding the sexy panties across stains, cramps shoot up your body, and the knots of your nine-tails slap your thighs. If you ever slow (and sometimes just for fun), a motor inside the plug spins, making it vibrate and snapping those strands across your legs and ass. Staying on all-fours to reduce the pressure of the water sloshing inside you, you slowly work your way through several dungeons and cells, cleaning up cum, scented lubricants, wax, sweat and even chocolate.

Only one chamber is occupied. A slender brunette hangs in it by wrist and ankle cuffs. Her arms are pulled high above her, and a bar strapped behind her legs forces her to maintain the splits. Perhaps to lessen to her discomfort, but most likely to add to it, a robotic arm extends from the wall in front of her; tipped with a feather, it continuously taps and flicks her dripping cunt. The poor slaves long hair is the kind of messy that only comes from several hours of wild sex; a sheen of sweat adorns her flat chest; drool glistens in the corner of her mouth, and her eyes stare blankly up.

It takes her a few seconds to notice you, but when her eyes finally loll down to focus on you, she immediately starts begging. "Thank the goddess," she gasps, "they haven't let me cum for five sessions. And now this... I'm close, mhhhe, so close... for so long." Her whimpered pleas devolve into a frustrated groans. "Please!" she cries with desperation, "help me cum!" Her sweat and arousal is thick in your nostrils, but you ignore her, not wanting to risk the wrath of whoever did this. While you clean her puddle up, the victim persists, offering her banking password, insisting it would only take a few licks and promising to return the favor however you want. Its very tempting especially when a drop of her arousal splats onto your hair, but you know better and leave the whimpering **** to her miserable fate.

You clean one more room in which cum and whipped cream were splattered on the floor, outlining a fine-figured **** that had been spread across it. When the floor has returned to its menacing black, your bucket and improvised rag are taken away. In the next cell, after an excessive amount of silent begging (an art form to be sure), you are allowed to eat a cum-topped cupcake and release your enema.

It would be wrong to not have anal sex after an enema, so the plug is replaced by a vibrating cock. You are allowed to take the discarded toy in your mouth and flog your breasts with its tails. Your hair whips around your head as you tease your tits with the dancing strands while the machine briefly critiques your maid skills. The toys are taken away soon after, and you're instructed to kneel in silence. The foreplay wasn't enough to make you cum, but in a strange way, you feel compliant and satisfied. Sitting on your heels, head bowed and wrists crossed, you contemplate your future.

Actually, all you can really think of is the nasty, kinky, dirty, sex acts that made those messes you were **** to clean. You would have liked to have been there watching and waiting for whatever role was required. The scenes are vivid in your mind. A good ****, suspended, her master drizzling warm syrup on her tits while she sucked his cock and worked a dildo into her sopping cunt, or a naughty one arms and a leg tied above her head each strike from a lash making her moan into a thick ballgag. Would you be left to watch? ordered to participate? or make you suffer your own torments? The scenes make your pussy flow.

Was the **** box changing you? Or had you always been this much of a bdsm nympho? As a bounty hunter, you had done many things in many dungeons and enjoyed a surprising amount of it. More so, you had accepted the risk that one day a beautiful and powerful deviant might permanently take you to a rim world pleasure palace, drag you across the galaxy as their own tongue bitch, or loan you around to Terrador's scummiest. Maybe a life in servitude to Irk wouldn't be so bad. What am I thinking? Yes it would; he lacks any form of ambition or creativity. That potato-brained notion that your pod came from a brothel was the only reason he grabbed you. Ughhhh. Is that going to be my master? The sentient responsible for my pleasure? No, it's going to take more than this **** box to make me want Irk, you tell yourself, hoping it's true.

Your meditations are broken by the training voice saying "your master has expressed a preference for strappado and provided an appropriate position for you to sleep in tonight." A quad of cuffs lock your wrists and ankles behind your back. You're raised up by these shackles and smack tits first into the unsympathetic floor. Eventually, only your cheek rests on the floor as you hang; though, the nipples of your swaying tits occasionally brush the cool metal. Suspended with limbs stretched behind you, there is some tugging in your shoulders like a strappado, but most of the strain is in your thighs. It's really more of a suspension position, but you know better than to correct your master. The lights dim and you wonder what kind of training the next day will bring.