The slave that was once Stevie has been in the pod for 24 hours. Twelve of those hours were spent forcibly walking, jogging and running. It’s now sitting on the floor of the pod, sobbing uncontrollably, shivering from exhaustion, sitting in a puddle of piss having just lost control of its bladder, again. Too tired even to touch its now rampant, 7-inch, Viagra-induced hard-on. All it wants to do is sleep.
The odour inside the pod is intense. There’s a thick oily film all over the slave’s body, reeking of boi-funk. The body aroma mixed with the stale piss, is intoxicating and shows how comprehensively the slave has suffered over the last 24 hours.
Its balls are bruised from perpetually slamming into the heavy padlock hanging behind its genitalia. Deprived of sleep and totally depleted, it should now be completely compliant and easy to instruct. At least until it starts to recover.
I know from experience that the new acquisition will pass out from fatigue in short order. As soon as that happens, I’ll drag it from the pod and get it cleaned up, ready for Stage 2.