By Sang Freud

Note: This is the continuation of a story. To start at the very beginning, click for Part 00.

Tom was utterly dependent on the two orderlies as they led him out of the exam room and into the corridor. His eyes searched in vain for even the smallest bit of light or shadow in the VR helmet, and the straitjacket held his arms tight against his body. Somehow, though, the earplugs were the most terrifying. True to Brian’s word, Tom could hear absolutely nothing, not even his own blood circulating. He tried to ask Joe and Mike where they were taking him, but he didn’t even hear his own voice. Only a warning from the nerve interface told him that he had in fact made any noise at all.

When the helmet allowed his vision and hearing to return, Tom was standing in front of a solid panel of steel with a giant C painted on the door. No food slot, no observation window, not even a handle or a keyhole. Just an LCD timer and a red or green light indicating whether the cell was occupied. Like a bank vault, it was thick, heavy, and lined with an airtight gasket.

Once a man was inside, he was sealed in. For some reason, this caused Tom’s cock to once again press against its carbon-fiber prison. Joe scanned his thumbprint, and the door swung open, revealing an eight-foot square room lit by a single fluorescent tube. The walls and doors were covered in thick white padding, and black rubber flooring sank beneath Tom’s bare feet. The floor sloped downward toward a large circular drain in the center of the room.

“Alright 5962,” Mike said, pointing to the drain. That’s your toilet. It gets flushed once a day, so aim carefully.” The orderly turned Tom to face the right-hand wall. “That thing right there? That’s water. You’ll have to suck pretty hard to get anything out of it, but it’ll be good practice for you later on.” Mike smirked, thinking about 5962 stretching its mouth over the phallic silicone protrusion placed at about waist height.

Joe unwrapped a fat tube with a plunger on one end that was prefilled with a thick pink liquid. “A whole tube by mouth? Damn, DeWitt wants this one fucked up.  Alright, bitch. On your knees and open up.” Mike pressed down on Tom’s shoulders, and Tom had no choice but to kneel on the rubber floor for him. Joe snapped on a new pair of latex gloves and slid his fingers into Tom’s mouth, loosening the jaw with surprisingly little resistance.

The tube slid right in, guided as far back into 5962’s throat as possible. “Nice and easy, down the hatch,” Joe coaxed as he depressed the plunger.  Mike held 5962’s mouth closed around the tube to make sure he swallowed every last drop. “There you go, buddy.” He kept 5962’s lips pursed as Joe withdrew the tube. “Relax and enjoy the ride.” The orderlies left Tom on his knees in the middle of the room. Outside of the cell, Joe sealed the door and set the LCD timer for 72 hours. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly as the green light on Isolation Room C turned to red.

***

Inside the airtight padded cell, Tom struggled to find a more comfortable position. Without the use of his arms, it was difficult to just stand up, so he rolled to his side, looking for a wall. His stomach felt almost distended from the thick paste that had been forced down his throat, and he tried to cough up as much of it as he could. The straitjacket was far too tight to allow anything beyond shallow breathing, however, so all Tom managed to do was give himself a small panic attack. As he struggled to bring his anxiety under control, the earplugs in his ears crackled to life and a synthesized voice filled his helmet.  “5962 complete override protocol. Phase one: assisted induction.” Tom’s field of vision began to pulse oddly, and his ears were flooded with invasive white noise.

Was it the helmet that made straight lines seem wavy and unreliable whenever Tom tried to sit up? Were they altering his vision in the helmet, or was it the drugs he’d been made to suck down? Tom found himself unable to complete even a simple thought, so he just sank back into the rubberized floor. His field of vision began to blur and melt.

It didn’t take long at all for Tom to feel certain he was going mad. He kept trying to discern what was “real” from the helmet and from whatever was in the paste that filled his guts. He thought he could make out a few phrases just underneath the static in his ears, but perhaps it was just his mind trying to fill the sensory deprivation. Tom tossed his head and banged it around on the floor to try to dislodge the helmet or at least separate its virtual reality show from his surroundings. But it was too durable and fitted too precisely to his head–the visor and faceplate stayed firmly in place.

Almost as if on cue, an authoritative but somehow comforting male voice boomed through the static. “Relax, 5962. Relax into reality. There’s nowhere else. There’s no way out.”  Tom’s nerve interface flooded him with pleasure while the whispers at the edge of Tom’s hearing echoed the voice: “Nowhere else! No way out!” Tom realized once again how completely the nerve interface controlled his experience of the world. No matter how much confusion and fear Tom himself may have had about his situation, waves of peace and contentment washed over his body as he picked out words like “slave,” “obey,” “nothing,” and even that number, “5962.”

He still couldn’t decipher the script under the white noise, but the concept was clear: an obedient, empty mind leads to pleasure. Even the plug filling his ass seemed to be part of the euphoria. His cock swelled inside its sheath and for some reason he tensed on the plug to drive it further into him.

Slowly, the whispers and voices converged on repeating a single word: “Suck, suck, suck, suck,” and the vision in his helmet blurred out everything except the protrusion Mike had pointed out earlier. Tom made his way over to it and situated his mouth on the distinctly cock-like silicone. Horrible pain shot through his jaw every time his teeth brushed its surface, so after a bit of trial and error Tom figured out how to rest the dildo on his tongue and suck on it using only his lips. He was rewarded with a stream of cold, clear, slightly sweet liquid.

Even better, though, was the sheer joy that pulsed through him through the nerve interface, especially at his nipples, lips, and ass. His chastity device wouldn’t let his cock get hard, of course, but the full-body ecstasy as the cock filled his mouth and the liquid ran down his throat was like nothing he had ever experienced. The voices in his earplugs echoed, “swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow,” before fading back into whatever barely audible script they had been reading.

***

The next morning, Brian DeWitt made his morning coffee and sat down at his desk whistling a happy tune to himself. The readouts from Isolation Room C should be ready, and he was eager to see how the reconditioning process was working. 5962 was deep under the influence of a powerful psychedelic blend, nearly three times the dose needed for a so-called “heroic” trip. The audiovisual program and nerve interface were designed to guide 5962 into a profound, ego-dissolving spiritual experience that should stay with him even after the drugs wore off.

This phase of the program was teaching 5962 the joys of surrendering, of understanding itself as an empty vessel. According to the data from the previous night, 5962 seemed to be actively seeking out rewards–squeezing his ass around the plug, greedily sucking on the water outlet, even mumbling parts of the subliminal script out loud to itself. The drugs had destroyed the subject’s inhibitions, showing Brian that he was right: he’d found an ideal slave hiding under the shell of a Senator’s embarrassment. If these results held, Jeff over in the Electroshock department owed him 50 bucks. They’d bet on whether Brian would have to give up and send 5962 over to have its prefrontal cortex fried. So far it looked like there would be no need to lower its value that. He absentmindedly typed a few keystrokes in to begin the Phase 2 aversives, which should complete 5962’s permanent break from its former life. If Phase 2 was as successful as Phase 1, Brian would be able to keep this diamond in the rough out of the shock doctor’s chair.

Brian turned his attention to the orders that Marketing had submitted. There were a few places that 5962 could be sent, and it was up to Dr. Dewitt to choose the Senator’s son’s next and final career move. He immediately set aside the bulk orders for mine laborers, organ donors, and medical subjects. Those required little to no conditioning at all, and Brian would think of it as a failure if he had to send any of his subjects there. Instead, Brian looked with interest at the American oil baron who needed a discreet (he had underlined “discreet” four times on the request form) male sex slave to entertain guests and foreign dignitaries. The slave must be “full service,” military posture and bearing, completely controllable by nerve interface.  The slave would be kept permanently in a guest suite–this client had even paid for TBS to consult on full isolation protocols. Marketing had clearly sold the oilman their “versatility” package–resizeable oral and anal inserts; courtesan skills in massage, grooming, and personal entertainment, even the replica genitalia for guests that wanted penetration. Brian noted that the oilman wanted complete control over the slave’s sensory input and ability to communicate. Yes, this would do nicely. The client’s compound was even just two states over from 5962’s sponsor.  He signed off on the materials bill and sent it to the physical mods team. The hardware should be ready once 5962 was out of Isolation Room C and into its Behavior Management Therapy program.

***

Back in the isolation room, Tom was floating in the ecstasy of becoming eager sex slave 5962 when the AI voice suddenly announced, “5962 complete override protocol. Phase 2: aversive erasure.” A series of ominous beeps and Tom’s hood went black and his earbuds cut off. When they switched back on, the familiar white noise began again with the voice of an angry god over it. “5962 once believed a lie. A sin. It must be corrected!” In his hallucinogenic haze, Tom knew it was the absolute truth. Once again, it was hard to understand the script, but words like “man,” “thought,” “resist,” “I,” and “rights” brought with them pain radiating from the back of his neck.

The worst of it, however, came with the names “Tom” or “Hathaway.” Each time 5962 heard those words his whole body went rigid and he could feel fiery acid dissolving his organs. Even with the dim awareness that this was just the nerve interface, Tom–no, 5962!–screamed himself hoarse in the soundproofed cell. The agony would only stop with the number “5962.” By the third round of hearing his former name, Tom was yelling out “5962! 5962!” blocking out his old name with his new one. “Excellent, 5962. Take your reward.”

The helmet once again showed him only the silicone cock on the wall, and Tom sucked eagerly, his devastated nerves soothed by the sweet water going down his throat. This cycle repeated, cementing in him an unshakable terror at the sound of his former name. Later, this fear would be expanded to include any memory of his father or his former life. While his former self had not technically been erased, Tom–5962!–would no longer be able to recall any of it through the haze of fear. As the timer outside of its cell door counted down to zero, 5962 was fully ready for its reprogramming.

To be continued…

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