Start begging

You keep working, refusing to give up. Still, exhaustion is nibbling at the corners of your mind like an indomitable mouse. You can't help thinking this would be easier with more cocks.

Wait! Is that the point? You have just earned your expert beggar badge; maybe it's time to put those skills to use. "Please, I need more," you tentatively whimper to the cum splattered walls.

All you hear is the fleshy sounds of your hands sliding up and down the particularly thick Uckerna shaft behind your back. The moment lasts just long enough to make you feel like an idiot. After which that familiar mechanical voice asks "more what?"

Excitement, passion and desperation all churning inside you, you scream "cocks to jam down my throat!" A line of three shafts spring from the wall in front of your face. Not hesitating, you deep-throat them one after the other. You gurgle and cough, only letting yourself breathe when your mouth slops to the next cock. Your inner slut is reinvigorated and has a job to do.

The previous exhaustion feels like a distant memory after the cocks have exploded down your throat. Sextoys readily fill your pit to be satisfied by your cumdump body. Many times, you beg over zealously and have to get creatively to please all the sextoys. For example, while you finger a human vag, stroke an Oo'lick dick and slide your anus around a Gabber shaft, a Varrus cock appear above you. It was too high for you to get your lips around without abandoning something else, but stretched out, you were able to rub your face on the shaft while tonguing the balls.

Frequently slurping down Trikod semen keeps you hydrated. Usually, you make the water-fountain dildos cum with a blowjob to better slurp the reinvigorating fluids. At one point, however, an encroaching orgasm meant you greedy pussy would not leave the Gas Bag dildo protruding from the floor unattended, so when a Trikod penis popped out only a few inches up the nearby wall, you had to try something different. You stretch your cum decorated legs up the equally decorated wall to free your to grab the wibbly water-hose Still grinding your clit against the chode, you squeeze your breasts around the long shaft until a cum fountain blossomed into your thirsty mouth.

Whatever the mechanism that decides what sextoy is next, it takes your pleas for specific genitals as no more than suggestions, except when it's for Gas Bag dick. You need only saying something like "this whore's fuck-hole needs master's cock" to get a thick knob for said fuck-hole.

Despite only being able to sate your lust with the Gas Bag dicks, you do enjoy yourself. It's an enthralling challenge to satisfy the gangbang of dildos, and you take pride in your success. Plus, jerking, sucking and ass fucking in a cum-filling pit makes you feel like a cheap whore; an idea that pleases you far more now than it would have a week ago.

Though tired, you're strangely disappointed when the training voice informs you "The exercise is completed. Your performance is satisfactory." You feel around in the thick jizz (which is now over a foot deep) just in case you missed one.

Upon discovering none, you call out "wait, I mean, please, this cumdump needs more. Can we keep going?"

As the lights dim, the voice says "Your training will continue shortly. Remain here."

Where could I go?

You wait in your half-full cum tank for the next order, occasionally shifting around as much as your cuffs let you.

You thought it would be horrible to sit in the darkness with nothing but the smell, feel and taste of cum. But its not so bad. Idly, you scoop up some of your days earnings and play with it. The stringy mess tumbles along your fingers, making you smile. You suck the goo off your fingers in an attempt to guess what species made its particular mix.

Gods, you hope you're not becoming a cumslut. Not that you have anything against them; some of your favorite people are jism addicts. It's just that Irk's limited sperm pellets could never be enough for a true cumslut.

Maybe a half hour later, the monotone training voice speaks up. "We regret to inform you that a higher than predicted activity means no dungeons are available," it informs you with no hint of regret. "You will remain here for until more space is available." At least, your eyes are adjusting to the darkness. You to just barely see the depraved pit you'll staying in.

Small beams of light make it through the slats above you. As does sound. Straining your ears, you can hear hints of the sounds other patrons in the **** box make. Whimpers, whips cracks and winch clicks make it through whatever soundproofing the Syndicate uses. It's soothing, in a spine chilling way. The cuffs are still on, but you mange to get comfortable, leaning against the wall and resting your head on your knee. After a while you get hungry, so you snack on some of the cum the **** box was gracious enough to leave in the cell.

You're not sure if you dozed off, but if you did, it's the sound of combat boots above that wakes you. There is a electric whine as well. The dungeon above you is being adjusted; maybe a **** is being pushed, tumbled or otherwise delivered.

There is splash of water some of which drips through the slits above you. It appears you are in the drain for this dungeon. A gasp and shocked panting tells you some poor **** just got a wet and cold wake up.

"Morning," a crude female voice chides above you. "Let's see if my ash tray has improved. Assume the position." After a jingling of shackles, she adds "tongue out more." You hear what sounds like a drag from a cigarette. "Now hold this and don't spill." Ice clinks against glass.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The rhythmic drumming on tender flesh starts so suddenly it makes you jump. Although equally surprised, the **** above you bravely takes her vicious whipping, letting out only the quietest of squeals until the punishment stops as abruptly as it started. It is immediately replaced by devious buzzing that elicits a soft moan for its victim.

As the endurance trial continues, you strain your ears trying to understand the torments being inflicted on the ****. Clicking clamps, sliding ropes and sparking prods describe an extensive gauntlet. It is clear from the subs mewling that her mouth is open the whole time.

Eventually there is a shattering sound and an unknown liquid drips into your pit. "Better, but you can still improve" is the domme's only response.

The drifting sounds of discipline are without question arousing. You doubt the **** box is still monitoring you, but just in case you ask "may this slut touch her cunt."

There is no electronic response, but the heavy boots walk onto the slits above you. Their owner chuckles for a moment upon discovering you. You hear the squeak of leather as she crouches for a closer look. Staring up at the thin gaps between the metal drain, you think you can see dark brown curls and soft olive skin. "Yes" she answers, deciding your question was for her. Exhausted hands tenderly touch your well used pussy as you get started pleasing one more set of genitals to the blissful sounds of **** training.