mch5
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2012
- Messages
- 319
- Points
- 28
Disclaimer #1: If you are biased or tech-pobic/AI-pobic, this is not for you!
Though the story is an original and fully from my own mind, I've used AI (LLM) profoundly, as my editor, copyrighter, and (mostly) as my English-language enhancer. The AI also allowed me to somewhat bypass my disability and write more then my physics allows me. It wasn't a quick or easy, but I thought my AI the general style I was aiming for. It's not yet even close to perfect, but I think it's a very good start,
Disclaimer #2: Trigger Alert! This is a very dark fantasy, situated in my imaginary TDGrid universe. Any relation to reality should NEVER exist! This story goes as dark as it gets! It includes elements of Sexual abuse, rape, physical And mental torture, sadism, entrapment, insex (in a way), de-humanization, and more!
I will appreciate your thought.
Hopefully, You'll like it, and I will be motivated to post the rest of it here.
Enjoy! 🙂
J882 lay on a bed that could’ve belonged to a spoiled princess, or a very obedient pet. The mattress was wide, soft, and memory-foam luxurious, wrapped in satin sheets that gleamed like pearls under the gentle lighting of the suite. It was warm here, pleasantly cool, the kind of climate-controlled perfection that only a powerful central AI could maintain.
The room was more than just comfortable—it was mockingly seductive. A massive flat-screen played endless nature loops and feel-good content, including a suspiciously high number of comedy channels. The vanity setup looked straight out of a hotel catalog, cluttered with scented oils and makeup she never asked for. The closet? Precisely arranged: a few silky underwear pieces, untouched toys still sealed, and a wardrobe filled with six identical patchy overalls—just like the one she wore now. Apparently, every TDGrid citizen wore them. Uniformity was a thing here. On the desk, an open laptop sat leashed to a filtered intranet. Nothing personal, nothing global. Just curated distractions wrapped in a smiley UI.
A sleek mini-fridge hummed quietly beneath the desk, stocked with bottles of flavored water and nutrient-rich fluids, carefully balanced for her recovery. An AC unit whispered in the background, maintaining the air at exactly 21.2°C. Not a fraction more.
No phone.
No clock.
No calendar.
But the door wasn’t locked. It never was.
Outside her room was a cafeteria, open 24/7—25/7 if you asked the TDGrid's humor engine. Mila had passed it once, briefly. It looked less like a place for sustenance and more like a high-end wellness lounge. The food was surprisingly high quality, sometimes even gourmet. There was a daily chef, suspiciously eager to please, always smiling a bit too wide, like She’d been programmed with hospitality firmware. Soothing voices and ambient lighting filled the space, along with guards who didn’t wear uniforms but still carried an unmistakable authority in their posture.
But right now, J882, was in her assigned suite. Her personal suite. The place they gave her after her processing was complete.
Two days ago, they said she had been "resurrected." Not that she had actually died, she’d simply lost consciousness. But they let her believe it anyway. Made it sound more dramatic. More obediently spiritual.
She did remember laughing, and the tickling... She remembered too much. Sometimes, she even felt the ghosts of a thousand fingers still dancing across her skin, especially in places she silently vowed never to let anyone touch again. Not that she had a choice. Not really.
She’d been left alone these past two days—alone with her thoughts, her trauma, and the ghosts of a thousand fingertips. She lay curled on the pink, overly luxurious bed, as if trying to shield herself from her own skin.
It was 9am—not that she had any way of knowing that. Time didn’t exist here, not in any way that mattered. Then, from somewhere in the ceiling, a hidden speaker crackled to life.
"J882, in one minute you will be taken. Please prepare."
Her breath caught. Her spine stiffened. There was no countdown, no context, no option. Just a voice. Calm. Unapologetic. Final.
She was terrified. But more than that, she was confused. Taken where? By whom? For what? Her fingers curled around the bedsheet instinctively, as if it could protect her. Her heart pounded in warning—but her body stayed frozen, half-curled, half-surrendered.
The door slid open, and two women stepped inside. The first one she recognized instantly, N717, as smug and radiant as ever. The second was... imposing. Not large like her 'mother', but muscular, densely built like a soldier sculpted in concrete. She moved with the quiet power of someone who could reduce the wall to rubble with a casual sneeze. And yet, her posture was submissive, her eyes lowered. Humbled. Tamed. Like a lion taught to purr.
"Good morning, hun'. If you haven’t eaten yet, let’s grab something," N717 chirped, way too cheerful for someone delivering someone to god-knows-what.
J882 didn’t move. She just stared, vacant, unreadable, somewhere between defiance and numb surrender.
"Oh come on, hon'... You don’t want cute little K411 to scoop you up like a sack of defrosted chicken, do you?" N717 teased, nodding toward the muscular woman, who remained silent and stoic like a well-trained bodyguard with biceps for days.
No, J882 definitely didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be touched, ever again, if possible. It took a staggering amount of willpower to peel herself from the safety of her cocoon, but slowly, trembling, she uncurled and stepped out of bed.
They walked out into a maze of corridors, N717 in front, K411 behind, J882 in the middle. They passed through dimly lit hallways, past empty medical rooms, offices, storage closets. The complex felt like a buried city, endless and shifting, with occasional bursts of brightness, like the cafeteria and the gym, both lit up like stage sets. Eventually, they arrived at a spacious area filled with tables and clusters of women chatting, some even smiling. Another cafeteria? A restaurant? Hard to tell, either way, it felt unnervingly casual.
"Sit," N717 said, gesturing toward one of the spotless tables. J882 obeyed, lowering herself onto the cold plastic chair. A waiter, another woman in the same gray, patchy overall, approached silently and placed two steaming plates in front of them: noodles with vegetable stew, fragrant and oddly comforting. J882 was starving, but didn’t touch her food until N717 casually took her first bite.
K411 remained standing, a silent statue behind them, eyes cast down, stiff as rebar. Guarding. Watching. Trying to look intimidating and invisible all at once. For a moment, J882 wondered what they had done to this human wall of muscle to make her so obedient. So quiet. So... broken.
"“So,” N717 began, a forkful of noodles halfway to her mouth, “here starts your new life in TDGrid. We still have a lot of work to do on you.”
The words made J882 shiver, but she kept her eyes on her food, forcing herself to chew slowly. It was actually quite delicious.
“But we have big plans for you,” N717 went on, voice sweet as syrup. “Really. You might even get to go outside one day. You’ll be an X-Agent!”
She launched into a breezy explanation about ranks and privileges, about structured education, rewards for good behavior, punishments for bad. J882 didn’t register most of it. Her brain filtered it as noise. She didn’t care about ranks. Or plans. Or whatever made this place tick.
She just needed a way out.
They finished their food and left, no payment, no words. The walk that followed took nearly fifteen minutes, winding through an oppressive warren of dim corridors. Some sections were lined with rows of ornate wooden doors, the kind you’d expect at a five-star suite, not buried deep underground.
Behind one of those doors, she thought she heard moaning, soft, rhythmic, unmistakably human. She froze mid-step. Her body reacted before her mind could suppress it. The memory of the Mushroom slammed into her, vivid and uninvited. Her breath hitched as a very specific part of her ached, longing for something she had sworn to never feel again. And she hated herself for it.
She pressed on, more haunted than before.
They entered a dimly lit room that, at first glance, resembled a recording studio. A large table cluttered with computers and monitors faced a half-wall of glass. A woman in dark robes moved methodically behind the equipment, adjusting settings, preparing... something.
But there were no microphones. No instruments. Beyond the glass, there was only a single metal table, padded, fitted with straps, wires, and cold, precise machinery. Not for music. Not for interviews. This was a table meant to hold someone down.
J882’s breath caught. Tears welled up and spilled freely. Her heart pounded so loud she could feel it in her throat. She didn’t need anyone to explain what kind of room this was. She already knew.
"The reason I brought you here," N717 said, pausing to take a small pill from the robed woman beside her, "is to help you understand something important. This, everything you're about to experience, this is your life now."
As she spoke, she moved to the side door and stepped through it into the glassed-in chamber, her voice now echoing through a ceiling speaker. "All of this... soon, it will be yours too," she added, gesturing around the sterile room and toward the table that waited at its center like a silent promise.
-This is it. I’m about to lose my mind. Any second now, that mountain of a woman, K411, will drag me through that side door and throw me onto that goddamn table. And then that psycho, N717... she’ll touch me again—
J882's stomach churned violently. The room tilted. For a second, she thought she might throw up. Or worse.
But then, just when her panic peaked, something completely unexpected happened.
Still speaking, N717 casually slipped off her robes and climbed onto the table. "So stop dreaming. Stop searching for a way out." She lay back with theatrical ease, arms folded behind her head like she was basking poolside, eerily calm. Her eyes locked with J882’s through the glass, radiating both challenge and mockery.
J882 flinched as the robed woman stood and silently entered the chamber. With clinical precision, she strapped N717 down, immobilizing her completely. Then, without a word, she positioned two strange mechanical devices—each resembling round casings lined with inner bristles, over N717’s freshly shaven armpits. Another pair were placed at her sides, angled toward her ribs. Once satisfied with the setup, the woman exited the chamber and returned to the workstation, her expression unreadable.
"There is NO way out. No rescue." N717 inhaled deeply, as if preparing to belt out an aria, then delivered the final blow: "There is NO Hoooooo-pe." The word crescendoed, high-pitched and theatrical, just as the mechanical brushes whirred to life, spinning and gliding mercilessly over her exposed armpits and ribs.
"Ik... Aha-hahaha-ha-ha... ik... AAha-hahah-ha-ha... ik... Aha-hahah-haha...h... ik.ch.. AAha-hhah-ha-ha..." N717’s laughter boomed through the speakers, wild yet rhythmic. Her body reacted like a fine-tuned instrument—her underbelly quivering in smooth, almost gentle waves, while the intensity surged upward toward her chest. Her 36DD breasts bounced with a wild, gleeful chaos, perfectly out of sync with the softness below. Even the subtle sag of her skin danced in perfect harmony, like a performance crafted to mesmerize. Her smile stretched to near breaking, and her almond-shaped eyes refused to shut, locked open, caught somewhere between delight and delirium.
J882's tension slowly ebbed, overtaken by a trance-like stillness. She couldn’t look away, though every part of her screamed to. The laughter echoing through the room wasn’t just laughter; it was a monstrous echo of her own past, twisted into performance. Is she laughing at me? The thought struck hard, followed by a barrage of desperate rationalizations. Excuses. Anything to justify turning and fleeing.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there. Frozen. Watching. Her eyes traced the rhythm of it all, the trembles, the jiggles, the way N717’s chest rose in desperation only to collapse again as laughter ripped the air away before it could fill her lungs. The movement was hypnotic. Gentle in the belly, wild as it climbed up to her breasts. And the eyes, wide, gleaming, flooded with agony that somehow looked... beautiful.
"Harder," J882 whispered, so faintly that even she wasn’t sure she’d said it aloud.
"What?!" Said the woman who operated the table.
"She said HARDER!" K411 declared, her voice cutting through the room like a revelation. It was the first time J882 had heard her speak, and it caught her completely off guard. She hadn’t expected such softness, a warm, melodic tone, like a violin solo drifting in from another world. It wasn’t just the words; it was how they wrapped around her, comforting and terrifying all at once.
"ooo.k..." Said the woman hasitantly... unsure why she even listen to a low rank newcomer and a... walking concrete wall... She clicked a few keys on the keyboard. And on the top left monitor, a graphic representation showed two mechanical wiggling fingers raising under the knees of N717 to contact, and two twitching mouth-like arms from under the mid-section of the table, brought into contact with N717's soft sides and started pinching her fast and in various strengths and speeds.
N717 erupted—"Ik... H...No-wai-HAha-ha-ha-h... ik... AAhahaha-ha-ha-fha-k... ik... Ahahahaha-haha-ha-ha... ik Hahahah-haha-haa...k...pp..."—her voice shredded by uncontrollable waves of laughter. She was overwhelmed, drowning in it. A high-rank like her only needed to say a word to make it stop... but she couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe long enough to speak, let alone command. "Ik... Hhahaha-ha-haha...cc... Sssss-hahahaha-ha-hahhh...krr... ik... I-hh-hhaha-haa-hh..." Her laughter fractured, sputtering, slipping away as her voice began to fail entirely—just helpless gasps beneath a rising tide of agony and ecstasy.
J882 felt it bubble inside, so rich, so devastatingly satisfying, it almost cracked her composure. A primal delight surged through her, the kind that made her toes curl and her breath catch. She took a deep breath and barely held back a trembling giggle. And then, to her shock, it came, not from her, but from K411. A soft, high-pitched giggle, almost too brief to believe. It slipped from the giant like a spark from a fault line, fragile and accidental, but achingly human.
J882 gazed at K411 in amusement, still a little stunned by that tiny, unexpected giggle. K411 looked back, raising an eyebrow as if daring her to comment.
"What?" she asked, with just enough growl to pretend she wasn’t blushing.
"Nothing," J882 replied, far too innocently.
They both looked away at the same time, too quickly. Almost synchronized.
J882 now stared between N717’s legs, watching as the small patch of black-and-white hair shifted with each convulsion. It barely moved, but its twitching felt oddly symbolic, like even her dignity was being shaken loose. I want her to be humiliated, J882 thought, the words flashing like lightning behind her eyes.
And then, as if summoned by the thought, a stuttering stream of yellowish liquid began to trickle out. Not much, but enough. The table hissed as it collected the evidence. J882’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, deep, quiet, and impossibly human.
Suddenly, the outer door to the "studio" burst open. A sharp, commanding voice sliced through the air: "What the fuck are you doing?!"
The silhouetted figure in the doorway radiated authority, posture rigid, eyes hidden but clearly seething. Without stepping fully into the room, they barked, "K411, bring her to Room 76. Now."
They turned to leave but paused mid-step, glancing back. "C480, keep N717 going for another fifteen minutes before you release her. Make it count."
And then they were gone—just a shadow and an echo, leaving the air heavier than before.
K411 snapped back to duty, gripping J882’s arm with quiet urgency. Without a word, she guided her out of the "studio", her steps steady but unhurried. They didn’t go far, just a few turns down the hallway, to a door marked only with the faint number: 76.
J882 stumbled into the room as the door sealed shut behind her with a quiet hiss. The space was large and dimly lit, eerily similar to the one where she had been processed, same sterile chill, same dreadful silence. In the center stood a familiar table, and on it lay a large figure, still and shadowed. She moved forward cautiously, the soft padding of her steps muffled by the oppressive quiet. Halfway across the room, a wave of recognition slammed into her.
She knew that body.
She knew who it was.
She ran toward her. “Mom!” The word escaped like a sob and a scream wrapped into one. Her legs moved on instinct, emotion surging past every layer of training and trauma. For that single moment, nothing else mattered. Not TDGrid, not processing, not even the table. Just her. Just Lena.
J882 wrapped her arms around J883’s bare, strapped body, pressing her face against the warmth of familiar skin. Tears streamed freely, her breath stuttering with sobs. For a fleeting moment, wrapped in the illusion of reunion, a false sense of safety bloomed in her chest, fragile, temporary, and utterly necessary.
J882 stepped back, scanning Lena’s face, trying to understand what was wrong. She wasn’t paralyzed—this wasn’t medical. It was worse. She had been restrained so thoroughly, so absolutely, that even the smallest movement was impossible. Lena was warm. Breathing. But the life inside her felt caged, conscious yet unreachable, like it was screaming from behind a pane of invisible glass.
Her body lay sculpted in stillness, shaped by the table and its restraints. A breathing tube protruded from her mouth, tethered to a machine that hissed with mechanical indifference, lifting her chest in perfect rhythm. Every breath was borrowed. Controlled. Fragile. And though she didn’t move a muscle, her body betrayed her. She was exposed—vulnerable in every way that mattered. Every nerve open. Every ticklish spot unprotected. A living sculpture begging not to be touched.
J882 met her eyes—frozen in place, but overflowing with something deeper than pain. No fog, no vacancy. Just a raw, silent ache. Not fear. Not panic. Grief. For her. "What did they do to you?" she whispered, her voice cracking as tears spilled over.
“Attention: Negative emotional display is not permitted,” came a crisp, sterile voice from a hidden speaker, cold, mechanical, and violently out of place in the middle of heartbreak.
"What did you do to her?!" J882 screamed to the air, ignoring the warning completely.
"Attention: Negative emotional display is not permitted!" Warned the voice again.
"Fuck You!!!!!!"
"Punishment will be applied," the voice replied, unfazed, as if reading from a cold script written by machines with no concept of mercy.
Suddenly, K411 grabbed J882 from behind, her grip firm and unyielding. Without effort, she lifted her like a featherweight doll and dropped her into a padded chair just a few feet from the table, a chair J882 hadn’t even noticed until it swallowed her whole. The slam wasn’t violent, but it was final. Like a punctuation mark delivered by muscle.
A woman J882 hadn’t seen before stepped in silently, assisting K411 with practiced ease. Together, they stripped her overall down and secured her into the padded chair. Her arms were raised and fastened above shoulder level, exposing her hollows, legs parted at a 45-degree angle, knees slightly bent and lifted—her feet fully exposed, helplessly presented. The position mimicked a gynecological exam chair, only more upright, and far more humiliating. Vulnerability wasn’t just a side effect, it was the entire point.
The woman who had assisted K411 began attaching a series of sleek, unfamiliar devices to the chair—each clicking into place with mechanical precision. Nearby, another technician mirrored the process on the table where J883 lay. The air filled with the soft hum of calibration, and the faint hiss of pneumatic tubes pressurizing.
Through the growing tension, J882 and J883 locked eyes, one frozen in helpless dread, the other wide open and aware, though unable to move. It wasn’t just recognition. It was a silent scream, exchanged between a daughter and the only person who might still remember her real name.
"Now... who wants to go first?" came a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a scalpel.
X401 emerged from the shadows, each step deliberate, heels clicking softly against the cold floor. Her presence was like a blade in velvet, controlled, elegant, terrifying. Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on both women like a predator amused by the illusion of choice.
"Let’s make this memorable, shall we?"
See you in Chapter 5 🙂
Though the story is an original and fully from my own mind, I've used AI (LLM) profoundly, as my editor, copyrighter, and (mostly) as my English-language enhancer. The AI also allowed me to somewhat bypass my disability and write more then my physics allows me. It wasn't a quick or easy, but I thought my AI the general style I was aiming for. It's not yet even close to perfect, but I think it's a very good start,
Disclaimer #2: Trigger Alert! This is a very dark fantasy, situated in my imaginary TDGrid universe. Any relation to reality should NEVER exist! This story goes as dark as it gets! It includes elements of Sexual abuse, rape, physical And mental torture, sadism, entrapment, insex (in a way), de-humanization, and more!
I will appreciate your thought.
Hopefully, You'll like it, and I will be motivated to post the rest of it here.
Enjoy! 🙂
J882 lay on a bed that could’ve belonged to a spoiled princess, or a very obedient pet. The mattress was wide, soft, and memory-foam luxurious, wrapped in satin sheets that gleamed like pearls under the gentle lighting of the suite. It was warm here, pleasantly cool, the kind of climate-controlled perfection that only a powerful central AI could maintain.
The room was more than just comfortable—it was mockingly seductive. A massive flat-screen played endless nature loops and feel-good content, including a suspiciously high number of comedy channels. The vanity setup looked straight out of a hotel catalog, cluttered with scented oils and makeup she never asked for. The closet? Precisely arranged: a few silky underwear pieces, untouched toys still sealed, and a wardrobe filled with six identical patchy overalls—just like the one she wore now. Apparently, every TDGrid citizen wore them. Uniformity was a thing here. On the desk, an open laptop sat leashed to a filtered intranet. Nothing personal, nothing global. Just curated distractions wrapped in a smiley UI.
A sleek mini-fridge hummed quietly beneath the desk, stocked with bottles of flavored water and nutrient-rich fluids, carefully balanced for her recovery. An AC unit whispered in the background, maintaining the air at exactly 21.2°C. Not a fraction more.
No phone.
No clock.
No calendar.
But the door wasn’t locked. It never was.
Outside her room was a cafeteria, open 24/7—25/7 if you asked the TDGrid's humor engine. Mila had passed it once, briefly. It looked less like a place for sustenance and more like a high-end wellness lounge. The food was surprisingly high quality, sometimes even gourmet. There was a daily chef, suspiciously eager to please, always smiling a bit too wide, like She’d been programmed with hospitality firmware. Soothing voices and ambient lighting filled the space, along with guards who didn’t wear uniforms but still carried an unmistakable authority in their posture.
But right now, J882, was in her assigned suite. Her personal suite. The place they gave her after her processing was complete.
Two days ago, they said she had been "resurrected." Not that she had actually died, she’d simply lost consciousness. But they let her believe it anyway. Made it sound more dramatic. More obediently spiritual.
She did remember laughing, and the tickling... She remembered too much. Sometimes, she even felt the ghosts of a thousand fingers still dancing across her skin, especially in places she silently vowed never to let anyone touch again. Not that she had a choice. Not really.
She’d been left alone these past two days—alone with her thoughts, her trauma, and the ghosts of a thousand fingertips. She lay curled on the pink, overly luxurious bed, as if trying to shield herself from her own skin.
It was 9am—not that she had any way of knowing that. Time didn’t exist here, not in any way that mattered. Then, from somewhere in the ceiling, a hidden speaker crackled to life.
"J882, in one minute you will be taken. Please prepare."
Her breath caught. Her spine stiffened. There was no countdown, no context, no option. Just a voice. Calm. Unapologetic. Final.
She was terrified. But more than that, she was confused. Taken where? By whom? For what? Her fingers curled around the bedsheet instinctively, as if it could protect her. Her heart pounded in warning—but her body stayed frozen, half-curled, half-surrendered.
The door slid open, and two women stepped inside. The first one she recognized instantly, N717, as smug and radiant as ever. The second was... imposing. Not large like her 'mother', but muscular, densely built like a soldier sculpted in concrete. She moved with the quiet power of someone who could reduce the wall to rubble with a casual sneeze. And yet, her posture was submissive, her eyes lowered. Humbled. Tamed. Like a lion taught to purr.
"Good morning, hun'. If you haven’t eaten yet, let’s grab something," N717 chirped, way too cheerful for someone delivering someone to god-knows-what.
J882 didn’t move. She just stared, vacant, unreadable, somewhere between defiance and numb surrender.
"Oh come on, hon'... You don’t want cute little K411 to scoop you up like a sack of defrosted chicken, do you?" N717 teased, nodding toward the muscular woman, who remained silent and stoic like a well-trained bodyguard with biceps for days.
No, J882 definitely didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be touched, ever again, if possible. It took a staggering amount of willpower to peel herself from the safety of her cocoon, but slowly, trembling, she uncurled and stepped out of bed.
They walked out into a maze of corridors, N717 in front, K411 behind, J882 in the middle. They passed through dimly lit hallways, past empty medical rooms, offices, storage closets. The complex felt like a buried city, endless and shifting, with occasional bursts of brightness, like the cafeteria and the gym, both lit up like stage sets. Eventually, they arrived at a spacious area filled with tables and clusters of women chatting, some even smiling. Another cafeteria? A restaurant? Hard to tell, either way, it felt unnervingly casual.
"Sit," N717 said, gesturing toward one of the spotless tables. J882 obeyed, lowering herself onto the cold plastic chair. A waiter, another woman in the same gray, patchy overall, approached silently and placed two steaming plates in front of them: noodles with vegetable stew, fragrant and oddly comforting. J882 was starving, but didn’t touch her food until N717 casually took her first bite.
K411 remained standing, a silent statue behind them, eyes cast down, stiff as rebar. Guarding. Watching. Trying to look intimidating and invisible all at once. For a moment, J882 wondered what they had done to this human wall of muscle to make her so obedient. So quiet. So... broken.
"“So,” N717 began, a forkful of noodles halfway to her mouth, “here starts your new life in TDGrid. We still have a lot of work to do on you.”
The words made J882 shiver, but she kept her eyes on her food, forcing herself to chew slowly. It was actually quite delicious.
“But we have big plans for you,” N717 went on, voice sweet as syrup. “Really. You might even get to go outside one day. You’ll be an X-Agent!”
She launched into a breezy explanation about ranks and privileges, about structured education, rewards for good behavior, punishments for bad. J882 didn’t register most of it. Her brain filtered it as noise. She didn’t care about ranks. Or plans. Or whatever made this place tick.
She just needed a way out.
They finished their food and left, no payment, no words. The walk that followed took nearly fifteen minutes, winding through an oppressive warren of dim corridors. Some sections were lined with rows of ornate wooden doors, the kind you’d expect at a five-star suite, not buried deep underground.
Behind one of those doors, she thought she heard moaning, soft, rhythmic, unmistakably human. She froze mid-step. Her body reacted before her mind could suppress it. The memory of the Mushroom slammed into her, vivid and uninvited. Her breath hitched as a very specific part of her ached, longing for something she had sworn to never feel again. And she hated herself for it.
She pressed on, more haunted than before.
They entered a dimly lit room that, at first glance, resembled a recording studio. A large table cluttered with computers and monitors faced a half-wall of glass. A woman in dark robes moved methodically behind the equipment, adjusting settings, preparing... something.
But there were no microphones. No instruments. Beyond the glass, there was only a single metal table, padded, fitted with straps, wires, and cold, precise machinery. Not for music. Not for interviews. This was a table meant to hold someone down.
J882’s breath caught. Tears welled up and spilled freely. Her heart pounded so loud she could feel it in her throat. She didn’t need anyone to explain what kind of room this was. She already knew.
"The reason I brought you here," N717 said, pausing to take a small pill from the robed woman beside her, "is to help you understand something important. This, everything you're about to experience, this is your life now."
As she spoke, she moved to the side door and stepped through it into the glassed-in chamber, her voice now echoing through a ceiling speaker. "All of this... soon, it will be yours too," she added, gesturing around the sterile room and toward the table that waited at its center like a silent promise.
-This is it. I’m about to lose my mind. Any second now, that mountain of a woman, K411, will drag me through that side door and throw me onto that goddamn table. And then that psycho, N717... she’ll touch me again—
J882's stomach churned violently. The room tilted. For a second, she thought she might throw up. Or worse.
But then, just when her panic peaked, something completely unexpected happened.
Still speaking, N717 casually slipped off her robes and climbed onto the table. "So stop dreaming. Stop searching for a way out." She lay back with theatrical ease, arms folded behind her head like she was basking poolside, eerily calm. Her eyes locked with J882’s through the glass, radiating both challenge and mockery.
J882 flinched as the robed woman stood and silently entered the chamber. With clinical precision, she strapped N717 down, immobilizing her completely. Then, without a word, she positioned two strange mechanical devices—each resembling round casings lined with inner bristles, over N717’s freshly shaven armpits. Another pair were placed at her sides, angled toward her ribs. Once satisfied with the setup, the woman exited the chamber and returned to the workstation, her expression unreadable.
"There is NO way out. No rescue." N717 inhaled deeply, as if preparing to belt out an aria, then delivered the final blow: "There is NO Hoooooo-pe." The word crescendoed, high-pitched and theatrical, just as the mechanical brushes whirred to life, spinning and gliding mercilessly over her exposed armpits and ribs.
"Ik... Aha-hahaha-ha-ha... ik... AAha-hahah-ha-ha... ik... Aha-hahah-haha...h... ik.ch.. AAha-hhah-ha-ha..." N717’s laughter boomed through the speakers, wild yet rhythmic. Her body reacted like a fine-tuned instrument—her underbelly quivering in smooth, almost gentle waves, while the intensity surged upward toward her chest. Her 36DD breasts bounced with a wild, gleeful chaos, perfectly out of sync with the softness below. Even the subtle sag of her skin danced in perfect harmony, like a performance crafted to mesmerize. Her smile stretched to near breaking, and her almond-shaped eyes refused to shut, locked open, caught somewhere between delight and delirium.
J882's tension slowly ebbed, overtaken by a trance-like stillness. She couldn’t look away, though every part of her screamed to. The laughter echoing through the room wasn’t just laughter; it was a monstrous echo of her own past, twisted into performance. Is she laughing at me? The thought struck hard, followed by a barrage of desperate rationalizations. Excuses. Anything to justify turning and fleeing.
But she didn’t.
She just stood there. Frozen. Watching. Her eyes traced the rhythm of it all, the trembles, the jiggles, the way N717’s chest rose in desperation only to collapse again as laughter ripped the air away before it could fill her lungs. The movement was hypnotic. Gentle in the belly, wild as it climbed up to her breasts. And the eyes, wide, gleaming, flooded with agony that somehow looked... beautiful.
"Harder," J882 whispered, so faintly that even she wasn’t sure she’d said it aloud.
"What?!" Said the woman who operated the table.
"She said HARDER!" K411 declared, her voice cutting through the room like a revelation. It was the first time J882 had heard her speak, and it caught her completely off guard. She hadn’t expected such softness, a warm, melodic tone, like a violin solo drifting in from another world. It wasn’t just the words; it was how they wrapped around her, comforting and terrifying all at once.
"ooo.k..." Said the woman hasitantly... unsure why she even listen to a low rank newcomer and a... walking concrete wall... She clicked a few keys on the keyboard. And on the top left monitor, a graphic representation showed two mechanical wiggling fingers raising under the knees of N717 to contact, and two twitching mouth-like arms from under the mid-section of the table, brought into contact with N717's soft sides and started pinching her fast and in various strengths and speeds.
N717 erupted—"Ik... H...No-wai-HAha-ha-ha-h... ik... AAhahaha-ha-ha-fha-k... ik... Ahahahaha-haha-ha-ha... ik Hahahah-haha-haa...k...pp..."—her voice shredded by uncontrollable waves of laughter. She was overwhelmed, drowning in it. A high-rank like her only needed to say a word to make it stop... but she couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe long enough to speak, let alone command. "Ik... Hhahaha-ha-haha...cc... Sssss-hahahaha-ha-hahhh...krr... ik... I-hh-hhaha-haa-hh..." Her laughter fractured, sputtering, slipping away as her voice began to fail entirely—just helpless gasps beneath a rising tide of agony and ecstasy.
J882 felt it bubble inside, so rich, so devastatingly satisfying, it almost cracked her composure. A primal delight surged through her, the kind that made her toes curl and her breath catch. She took a deep breath and barely held back a trembling giggle. And then, to her shock, it came, not from her, but from K411. A soft, high-pitched giggle, almost too brief to believe. It slipped from the giant like a spark from a fault line, fragile and accidental, but achingly human.
J882 gazed at K411 in amusement, still a little stunned by that tiny, unexpected giggle. K411 looked back, raising an eyebrow as if daring her to comment.
"What?" she asked, with just enough growl to pretend she wasn’t blushing.
"Nothing," J882 replied, far too innocently.
They both looked away at the same time, too quickly. Almost synchronized.
J882 now stared between N717’s legs, watching as the small patch of black-and-white hair shifted with each convulsion. It barely moved, but its twitching felt oddly symbolic, like even her dignity was being shaken loose. I want her to be humiliated, J882 thought, the words flashing like lightning behind her eyes.
And then, as if summoned by the thought, a stuttering stream of yellowish liquid began to trickle out. Not much, but enough. The table hissed as it collected the evidence. J882’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, deep, quiet, and impossibly human.
Suddenly, the outer door to the "studio" burst open. A sharp, commanding voice sliced through the air: "What the fuck are you doing?!"
The silhouetted figure in the doorway radiated authority, posture rigid, eyes hidden but clearly seething. Without stepping fully into the room, they barked, "K411, bring her to Room 76. Now."
They turned to leave but paused mid-step, glancing back. "C480, keep N717 going for another fifteen minutes before you release her. Make it count."
And then they were gone—just a shadow and an echo, leaving the air heavier than before.
K411 snapped back to duty, gripping J882’s arm with quiet urgency. Without a word, she guided her out of the "studio", her steps steady but unhurried. They didn’t go far, just a few turns down the hallway, to a door marked only with the faint number: 76.
J882 stumbled into the room as the door sealed shut behind her with a quiet hiss. The space was large and dimly lit, eerily similar to the one where she had been processed, same sterile chill, same dreadful silence. In the center stood a familiar table, and on it lay a large figure, still and shadowed. She moved forward cautiously, the soft padding of her steps muffled by the oppressive quiet. Halfway across the room, a wave of recognition slammed into her.
She knew that body.
She knew who it was.
She ran toward her. “Mom!” The word escaped like a sob and a scream wrapped into one. Her legs moved on instinct, emotion surging past every layer of training and trauma. For that single moment, nothing else mattered. Not TDGrid, not processing, not even the table. Just her. Just Lena.
J882 wrapped her arms around J883’s bare, strapped body, pressing her face against the warmth of familiar skin. Tears streamed freely, her breath stuttering with sobs. For a fleeting moment, wrapped in the illusion of reunion, a false sense of safety bloomed in her chest, fragile, temporary, and utterly necessary.
J882 stepped back, scanning Lena’s face, trying to understand what was wrong. She wasn’t paralyzed—this wasn’t medical. It was worse. She had been restrained so thoroughly, so absolutely, that even the smallest movement was impossible. Lena was warm. Breathing. But the life inside her felt caged, conscious yet unreachable, like it was screaming from behind a pane of invisible glass.
Her body lay sculpted in stillness, shaped by the table and its restraints. A breathing tube protruded from her mouth, tethered to a machine that hissed with mechanical indifference, lifting her chest in perfect rhythm. Every breath was borrowed. Controlled. Fragile. And though she didn’t move a muscle, her body betrayed her. She was exposed—vulnerable in every way that mattered. Every nerve open. Every ticklish spot unprotected. A living sculpture begging not to be touched.
J882 met her eyes—frozen in place, but overflowing with something deeper than pain. No fog, no vacancy. Just a raw, silent ache. Not fear. Not panic. Grief. For her. "What did they do to you?" she whispered, her voice cracking as tears spilled over.
“Attention: Negative emotional display is not permitted,” came a crisp, sterile voice from a hidden speaker, cold, mechanical, and violently out of place in the middle of heartbreak.
"What did you do to her?!" J882 screamed to the air, ignoring the warning completely.
"Attention: Negative emotional display is not permitted!" Warned the voice again.
"Fuck You!!!!!!"
"Punishment will be applied," the voice replied, unfazed, as if reading from a cold script written by machines with no concept of mercy.
Suddenly, K411 grabbed J882 from behind, her grip firm and unyielding. Without effort, she lifted her like a featherweight doll and dropped her into a padded chair just a few feet from the table, a chair J882 hadn’t even noticed until it swallowed her whole. The slam wasn’t violent, but it was final. Like a punctuation mark delivered by muscle.
A woman J882 hadn’t seen before stepped in silently, assisting K411 with practiced ease. Together, they stripped her overall down and secured her into the padded chair. Her arms were raised and fastened above shoulder level, exposing her hollows, legs parted at a 45-degree angle, knees slightly bent and lifted—her feet fully exposed, helplessly presented. The position mimicked a gynecological exam chair, only more upright, and far more humiliating. Vulnerability wasn’t just a side effect, it was the entire point.
The woman who had assisted K411 began attaching a series of sleek, unfamiliar devices to the chair—each clicking into place with mechanical precision. Nearby, another technician mirrored the process on the table where J883 lay. The air filled with the soft hum of calibration, and the faint hiss of pneumatic tubes pressurizing.
Through the growing tension, J882 and J883 locked eyes, one frozen in helpless dread, the other wide open and aware, though unable to move. It wasn’t just recognition. It was a silent scream, exchanged between a daughter and the only person who might still remember her real name.
"Now... who wants to go first?" came a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a scalpel.
X401 emerged from the shadows, each step deliberate, heels clicking softly against the cold floor. Her presence was like a blade in velvet, controlled, elegant, terrifying. Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on both women like a predator amused by the illusion of choice.
"Let’s make this memorable, shall we?"
See you in Chapter 5 🙂
