Prison X
By Musuko

The outer lock hissed and cycled, blasting a whiff of ozone into the corridor. Alandrix's ears popped, and his nose twitched. A rush of additional scents flowed into the sterile antiseptic air of the Delta-Alpha Shuttle ("Sailing the Solar System Since Six-Sixty-Two!" The jingle was an ear worm. It had been ringing in Alandrix's head for the last two hours). A roar of fans kicked in above him, but it was too late. The rich cacophony of spices and body odours washed over him, seeming to soak into his fur. And he could already hear the voices, the clamour and clatter, the brash and uncontrolled chaos of ten-thousand souls, and likely just as many species and cultures, churning and bubbling in the cauldron of the cramped and dirty station, the solar-system's oldest...and damn proud of it.
	Station X. It meant many things. X as in "ex-parrot". Crossed off the register. Decommissioned. Surplus to requirements. Written off, abandoned, deleted, forgotten. X for "extraordinary". X for "extrasolar". X for "there were two more Xs but some bugger nicked them". X for every expletive that you would likely hear when describing the place, or if you expressed an interest in visiting.
	Alandrix was the only one on board the shuttle. Whatever tax swindle kept this particular route open, it must have been lucrative. The light and noise beyond the airlock door was overwhelming. The instinct to step back into the shuttle and ride it back to a more civilised station was almost overpowering. It took effort, and strength of will, to step forward.
	The door chimed "bing bong" and whooshed shut, and a cheerful voice thanked him for travelling with Delta-Alpha (and advised him that the service's liability cover for any injury or harm occurring to his person or personal belongings was now terminated and he was very much on his own).
	Alandrix took a deep breath that stung his throat, waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, and stepped forward into the bustling inner metropolis of Station X's outer wheel, third quadrant, market quarter.

Recruiter Dray watched from the digger-noodle bar at the mouth of the thoroughfare, where the terrestrial illusion of the city street butted up against the outer hull bulkheads and the travelport airlocks (one functioning out of sixteen). The shuttle had a traveller today. Now that was interesting. And about damn time. Hwmbo was getting a bit restless.
	Dray hummed and tapped their fingers on the counter, and decided on a quick check before the overlay gave them what they needed. It was a bit of a game. There was time. Plenty of it. They were counting on it, in fact. What could they tell about the visitor with eyes alone? Canine. That was easy enough. Primarily Alsatian. Natural colouration, but blue flares on the ear tips. Some gene modification. Likely just cosmetic. Apparent age mid-to-late twenties. Jumpsuit, jacket, bag, boots. All a little too clean and new to pull off the 'seasoned traveller' look they were trying to go for. Out seeing the world on their parent's money, then. Oh so very, very perfect.
	Good-looking too, thought Dray. Though that hardly mattered. Bonus, though. Dray flopped on the overlay and took a look. Basic details broadcast openly. Name, Alandrix. He-him pronouns. Earth. Well, wasn't that dull. Height, 1.8 dead on. Weight smack bang in the middle of the bell curve. Dray reassessed their conclusion; nobody gets that perfectly average without a little tweaking. Trying to blend in by stopping by a moddershop before going on your adventure, hmm? Bless his heart.
	Dray flipped over to the other overlay. A lot more information scrolled through the air above Alandrix's head. Dray skimmed it. Most of it was very personal and extremely illegal and thoroughly interesting, but only a little of it was relevant.
	Living relatives: none known.
	Net worth: SS$ 15,210.
	Important person relation index: 0.0002 - low-none.
	Dray tutted. They were slipping. Not parent's money, then. Just some dumb guy getting bored with a normal life. As common as an air leak, but hopefully just as interesting.
	Dray stood up. And hopefully as gullible as Dray suspected.

Alandrix became aware of being approached. He had been warned about hucksters and con-artists. That was why his ID and cards were locked up tight, why he only had a few loose coins in his pocket. He adjusted the strap on his bag, holding it closer against his side.
	The stranger was...was...well. It took Alandrix a few moments to process it, and in that time the stranger got closer. They were tall. They were slim. A low-gravity build. They had a narrow vulpine muzzle and long, sharp ears. Androgynous body, of the style that was popular a decade or so ago. They had no clothes that Alandrix could see. Until they got closer, and it became more obvious.
	Whoever this was, they were covered from toe to eartip in glossy black rubber, without a seam or a break, without eye or nose holes, no zipper, no nothing. What an outfit! Who made such a thing?
	And then they got close enough for Alandrix to make out the face properly, and his throat felt like a stone had just got lodged in it. They weren't wearing rubber. They were rubber. The eyes, black and glossy like marbles, sitting under black rubber eyelids. Black rubber teeth inside a black rubber mouth, black rubber tongue, black rubber smile. Alandrix knew moddershops could do amazing things. But full-body skin replacement? Out here? They must be a visitor to the station, like him, in from some rich orbital where this sort of modding was as common as a haircut. Alandrix flicked on his overlay.
	The text above the stranger read: ▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯ - ERROR NO DATA -
	Then the overlay froze, the text hovering displaced from above the stranger's head, before winking out entirely, save for an error counter in the bottom left corner of his vision that had a number in the hundreds, rapidly whirring into the thousands, then the tens of thousands. And then the stranger was right in front of him, and those black marble eyes seemed to reflect his own face back at him.
	"You are loitering," said the stranger, in a sharp and strangely accented voice that sounded almost artificial, like an old AI. Was this an AI? A robot? An avatar for the station? This place wasn't that sophisticated, surely! Alandrix could see leaking pipes and corroded bulkheads from where he was standing!
	"Uh," he said. And then, because he couldn't think of what else to say, he said "uh," again.
	The stranger pointed a shiny black finger upwards. Alandrix turned his head up to look. A sheet metal sign was bolted to the wall above his head, rusted almost to complete illegibility. His overlay was broken, and so unable to help pick out the lettering. There was a 'p' maybe? And an 'o'? And that curly bit could be...
	The stranger spoke. "Station Ordinance one-seven-one adjunct nine-nine-zero, no loitering in outer dock terminal bay."
	"Ah," said Alandrix. So that was it. Shaken down for a fine. He'd been warned about that too. It would be silly to try to argue it. Just a rite of passage. Something to accept when venturing into seedy, disreputable places like this. He imagined some slovenly, greedy station authority sitting behind some big desk, waiting for the bribe to slide across to them. Alandrix actually felt a little thrill. This was kinda like an adventure story! He'd be able to tell people about it later, about the time he got shaken down on Station X and...
	Alandrix only saw the stunner for a brief moment, before the prongs touched his neck and his brain switched off.

It wasn't painful. It wasn't anything as crude as an electric shock. The brain is just a biological computer, and not a terribly complicated one. The technology to send a 'reboot' command into the mess of neural pathways was older than Alandrix. But not, as far as he knew, a particularly legal one.
	He groaned, because it seemed like the right thing to do. His head didn't hurt, but it seemed like it should. The lights weren't bright, but they should have been. Alandrix blinked, and focussed.
	His overlay was off. As in, completely off. Not in error mode. Dead. Gone. Displaying nothing and not responding to mental commands. As if it were entirely uninstalled.
	His clothes were missing. He wondered why he didn't notice that before the overlay.
	He was strapped down by his wrists, ankles and waist to a metal slab angled at forty-five degrees in a room lined with white plastic walls and light panels on the floor and ceiling, with various unidentified devices sitting on wheeled trolleys either side of him, the whole setting looking like a perfectly ordinary medical bay, or a moddershop devoid of style and imagination. The straps were an oddity though.
	Alandrix wondered why that wasn't the first thing he noticed.
	He was alone. A door faced him on the opposite wall, closed. There were some chips and scuffs on the door's paintwork. And now that he looked closer, there were other little clues. A couple of the light panels were dimmer than the others. One was even flickering ever so slightly. The unidentified devices...damn his overlay not working...looked a little worn and old-fashioned. Some seemed positively antique. One of the wheels on one of the trolleys was damaged and repaired with tape. The air smelled a little like ozone and dust, like a ventilation system that had seen better days. He sighed, almost relieved. Still on Station X, then. Most likely, anyway. So, he'd fallen awkwardly and hit his head when he was stunned and they needed to tend to him in medical and...
	Wait a minute. That bastard stunned him!
	And, as if on cue, the bastard walked in through the door in front of Alandrix.
	"You-" yelled Alandrix. But the next words didn't come. He opened and closed his mouth and huffed and wheezed. The stranger lowered their finger.
	"I don't want you to be chatty," said the stranger in that odd voice. "Vocal inhibitor. Temporary. It'll come out when we're done."
	Alandrix tried to communicate with his expression; equal parts righteous indignation and confused interrogation.
	"I am Recruiter Dray. You have been sentenced, during your absence of consciousness. We are here to carry out this sentence."
	Before Alandrix could spend too much time wondering whether Recruiter Dray was a gestalt entity, the door behind them slid open once more and three similarly shiny black figures crawled into the room on their hands and knees. Slim, smooth, faintly feminine androgeny, flat-chested but wasp-waisted. They were almost identical, save for some small differences in the shape and size of their smooth, pillow-like tails, and in the features of their faces. Alandrix could only make vague guesses as to their species. The three of them crawled across the room towards him, and were soon kneeling at his feet.
	As if following some invisible cue, the two outer figures leaned forward and started to lick at Alandrix's toes. He flinched and tried to yelp, and curled his toes up tight. Recruiter Dray watched impassively, and offered nothing helpful in their expression when Alandrix turned his silent, begging questioning towards them.
	So he watched, staring down the length of his naked body at the two latex-skinned creatures affectionately licking at his toes. The third one was kneeling between them, hands on their knees, placidly staring up at him. Of all the times to be rendered mute! But, he reasoned, his exclamations of 'what the fuck is this?!' would probably not get satisfying answers. He would have to figure it out for himself.
	Or...just wait and see. Because he didn't hold out much hope in being able to figure this out.
	Their tongues were black and shiny like the rest of them. Smooth, warm, and oddly dry. Though, was that really odd for shiny rubber creatures? He wiggled his toes, and waved his feet from side to side, but they kept up with his movements with seemingly little effort, continuing their dutiful task of slowly, methodically, licking against his toes. He chewed his lip. He had to admit that it felt good.
	A little too good.
	Wait.
	Hold on.
	Where they were licking...tingled.
	And he knew that tingle!
	Alandrix jolted hard against the straps and glared at Recruiter Dray. He shouted soundlessly. Fucking...fucking moddershop nanites! He hadn't consented to this! This was illegal! There were laws against it and...
	...oh.
	He sagged back against the table. Dray's expression never changed, but Alandrix felt like there was a hint of 'yeah, that's right, you understand now don't you' in their eyes.
	He looked back down at his feet. He splayed his toes and squinted. He wasn't entirely sure what he expected to see, but he had a growing feeling that he could make a good guess. It took a few moments to see it, and by that point the licking pair's smooth tongues were lapping at his ankles, and initially he wasn't entirely certain that what he saw wasn't in his imagination; his fur, soft and fluffy on that part of his body, was melting and flattening down like cotton candy in water. And it was turning black. And shiny.
	He groaned silently and lay his head back, eyes closed, and let the inevitable process continue. He had never heard of a moddershop's nanite procedure being administered by licking, but the world was a wide and varied place, and he was in one of the weirder parts of that world, so...
	Fuck, he was getting hard.
	He didn't dare look. He kept his eyes shut. The licking tongues worked their way up his legs. He rubbed his toes together and felt the smooth, squeaky latex skin. It'd be spreading up his legs in the wake of their licking, seeping out like ink blots to fill in any part their tongues missed. He clenched his hands into fists. He could feel his cock bouncing in empty air, hard and needy. What was wrong with him? Sure, this was kinky, but fuck...this is how the underworld ended up with slaves, isn't it? Whatever was going on here wasn't good. So why was he so damn horny?
	Now they were at his hips, and the mystery of the third figure resolved itself; a third tongue started to lap at his balls. And Alandrix was certain that they were making far more effort to be thorough than the other two. He writhed against the table and thrust outwards into the air. Okay, there was something going on. This wasn't normal arousal. He was feeling need! They were doing something to him! Oh fuck did he want the third one to lick his cock. Just a little bit. That's all he needed. Please...just one lick. One would do!
	All three tongues pulled away at once, and Alandrix snapped his eyes open. Now he understood why Dray wanted him silenced; he'd be shouting out every profanity he knew if he could.
	His body up to his hips was coated in black rubber. Or rather, his skin had been turned into it. This wasn't a costume. This wasn't a layer above his skin. It was his skin. And any touch against it was just as vivid and vibrant as one against a shaved spot of his body. Or his cock. Maybe even more so. When he rubbed his toes together, it sent an electric thrill of pleasure and a spike of lust up through his body, making him want to pull the straps away from the table and rut and fuck like a wild beast. He panted hard, staring at Dray, imagining how good it would feel to pin them down and...
	Dray was smiling. It was disconcerting. Alandrix's lust faltered for a moment. They were holding something in their hands, and they stepped over to Alandrix. The three kneeling figures parted out of their way, obediently waiting. Through the swirling fog of need and frustration, Alandrix tried to focus, looking at the thing in Dray's hands.
	It looked like half of an egg. Or an odd bowl. Shiny black latex, because of course it was. Smooth on the outside, concave on the inside but lined with...something. Something upsettingly alive. Squirming black feelers, little rounded nubs, like the weird sea creatures that used to live in the ancient oceans on that coral stuff. Anenny...anenna...he couldn't remember. They shouldn't be moving like that. It was freakish and wrong. And Dray, smiling, was turning that strange tentacle-lined cup towards him, and Alandrix realised with horror that it was perfectly shaped and sized to fit neatly over his balls and his erect cock, like the world's most fucked-up athletic protective cup.
	He must have started struggling too much, because Dray paused and stared at him for a while, then spoke with robotic calm. "This will be easier with you still. The simplest solution..."
	And via means unknown to Alandrix, he passed out.

Alandrix spent some time in the cell, sitting against the wall, staring at the door, staring at the display screen above the door. He had a lot to think about.
	This place certainly had a theme. His body had been transformed, top to toe, into glossy black latex-like skin. When he touched himself, rubbery fingertips squeaked against rubbery skin. He explored his mouth. Slippery, wet, shiny tongue. He couldn't taste anything. Rubber-capped teeth, or teeth turned into rubber, he couldn't be sure. They felt firm enough to bite, but perhaps not firm enough to puncture skin. Made sense. His tail was like a balloon. A latex tube, stuffed with some kind of semi-solid fluff, with a hint of his tail bone and muscle still in there somewhere if he squeezed hard enough. It was weird, but he had to admit there was some merit to it. He might get something like it in a reputable moddershop once all this was done.
	It wasn't just his skin that was like this. The walls, floor, and ceiling were too. Slightly padded. The surfaces dimpled when he pushed a finger against them. The door was black and shiny as well. The only part that wasn't...
	His eyes flicked up to the screen. It reassured him.
	He'd learned early on that his skin was overly sensitive. That surely must have been deliberate. Sadists! And that must have been why those licking tongues felt so...he shivered, and tried not to think about it. A stroke of a fingertip against his forearm, or chest, or any other innocent and normal part of his body, felt exactly as pleasurable as the most tantalising and almost-unbearably stimulating lick against the head of his cock. He had to be so careful how he moved. Otherwise, he'd end up rolling onto the floor and moaning like an animal.
	And then there was the...thing...over his crotch. While he'd been out, it's installation had been completed. The strange rubbery cup seemed to blend seamlessly into the suit, or skin, or whatever his rubber coating was. His probing fingers could find no join. His taps and prods discovered a firm, unyielding domed surface, without that same sensitive feeling as his body; this part wasn't skin. A crotch-cover. A cup. A cage. A...chastity. Alandrix wasn't naive. Inexperienced, perhaps. But...he knew things.
	And he knew what those wriggling numbs inside the cup could do. Okay, well...he suspected he knew. He could make a good guess. So far they'd been dormant, unmoving. But he wasn't holding his breath that they'd stay that way. On the surface of the cup/bulge/chastity thing was embossed a large red 'X'. The only colour or patterning on his otherwise black and featureless skin. As far as he could tell, at any rate. He didn't have a mirror, and his reflections in everything shiny around him weren't the best for getting a good picture.
	Another glance to the screen above the door. He steadied his breath.
	It had taken him a while to discover the metal collar around his neck. It was so well-fitting, so light-weight, despite being several centimetres thick and seemingly solid, aside from a small nub on the left side which contained a small blinking red light, which he determined by inspecting the reflection of it on his palm. He could only guess at its nature and purpose, aside from guessing that it had something to do with controlling him, and that he wouldn't like what it could do.
	He looked at the screen above the door. The glowing figures read: SENTENCE REMAINING: 3D 21H 33M 24S. Alandrix had to admit he was impressed by the to-the-second accuracy. He assumed that's what it meant, anyway. He had watched the seconds, and then the minutes, and finally the hours, count by. If '3D' didn't mean three days, then it would be one mother fucker of a sick joke. He kept looking at the screen. It gave him peace. Just four days. That fucker Dray had made it seem like he was going to be here forever! Well, maybe not necessarily forever. But a damn sight longer than four days.
	Four days was alright. He could handle four days. He'd see it out and it'll be over before he knew it, and he'd have a great story after all to tell to people. The time he ended up in a freaky weird kinky prison on Station X...yeah, that Station X, check me out, what a cool world-wise traveller, the things I've seen! Why don't we talk about them over drinks? And then afterwards we can go back to my room and...
	Alandrix yanked his hand away from the crotch cup bulge thing. Fuck it. He was just going to call it 'the chastity'. That's clearly what it was. Why else would there be those things inside it. Or the big red 'X' on the front. Kinky fucked up pervert prison with...
	A thought occurred to him, and he quickly looked around the room, checking all the corners and the seams where the rubber padding met the edges of the door, the screen, the light fitting in the ceiling. He couldn't see any evidence of cameras recording his every move for the twisted deviant delight of viewers out on the net. But then, would he see them? Cameras could be the size of a grain of sand. And without his overlay, he only had basic organic eyes made of flesh and jelly and whatever to see them, and that wasn't going to work.
	He raised a fingertip to his lower eyelid and pondered. If his eyes were still made of flesh. Who knew. Dray's eyes, and the eyes of those three sexy crawling figures didn't look very organic. Fuck he wanted them here right now, those licking tongues.
	He snatched his hand away from the chastity again. Fuck, what was wrong with him? Was there something in the air? Was this how he learned that he's always been a secret perve into this shiny rubbery stuff and he'd just never realised how much it turned him on? Come on, surely not. He sighed and leaned back against the wall, shivering as the ripple of pleasure washed through him from even that simple body contact. Was it just because his body was so sensitive? Maybe that's all it took to make him into a horny mess.
	The numbers on the screen continued to tick. SENTENCE REMAINING: 3D 21H 56M 11S.
	Hang on.
	He kept watching.
	No, the time was still counting down. It was 55M 48S now. But...wasn't it a lower number last time he looked?
	He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Don't go crazy right away," he mumbled.
	And then, with surprise, "oh, I guess my voice is back."
	He hummed to himself for a few minutes. At least, he hoped it was to himself. If any sick fucks were watching, they could enjoy his awful mangled rendition of the Sparknut Energy Vape jingle. Thoughtlessly, he rubbed at the red 'X' on the front of the chastity, and watched as the numbers on the screen flitted.
	SENTENCE REMAINING: 3D 22H 02M 47S.
	He blinked rapidly. He lifted his hand up and stared at it, then stared at the chastity bulge, then stared at the screen again. Two plus two became 'oh fuck'.
	"Oh, you motherfuckers!"

Okay, he thought. Okay...okay. Breathe. Just...breathe. Oh, he could still breathe. Well, that was something. Must still be lungs under this weird new skin. Wonder how it worked to piss and sh...
	Wait, no. Getting distracted. Ten minutes added every time he touched the chastity. Focus on that! That was important!
	He touched it again, just to be sure. In the name of science.
	Nope, yep. Every time. Ten minutes. That's okay. No big deal. Just...remember not to touch it any more. He was only touching it so much because he didn't realise. He knew now. Just don't touch it, and everything would be cool. Don't think about the hard cock still throbbing away under there nestled in amongst those little rubbery nubs that were surely going to activate at some point and with how sensitive the rest of his body was...
	No! Bad! Don't think about it! Stop!
	Deep breaths. Lay back...carefully. Calm down from the nice feeling of the rubber floor against his rubber back. He closed his eyes. Instantly he knew that was a bad idea, because in the absence of something to look at his mind just went 'welp, let's think about those three sexy crawling sextoy slave servant drone robot prisoner things...and damn, Dray was pretty hot weren't they, with that whole commanding attitude and how slim and curvy their body looked and...
	Fuck! Ten more minutes added. No wait. Twenty? Did it keep adding on time if you kept touching for longer? Fuck. He wasn't going to test that one! Eyes open, then. Stare at the light fitting. Think about...toast. Butter on toast. A cup of coffee. That really awful episode of Bubblegum Sparrow Adventures with the breadcrumb monster. Butter melting and dripping off the toast. Slippery and oily. Melting off the curve of Dray's crotch, onto his tongue...
	Alandrix slapped his hands over his eyes and groaned.
	The screen read: SENTENCE REMAINING: 3D 23H 42M 15S.

The first time was the worst.
	The second time, though...the second time was the worst.
	The third time...
	Every time was the worst.
	He found himself wishing that he hadn't been wondering about how his bodily functions would be handled. He was feeling as if his imagination had summoned this procedure into being.
	The door slid open. It wasn't a surprise to him. He'd been able to predict, and dread, the occurrence. He didn't have much else to do except watch the clock, after all.
	His collar chimed. A voice that could well have belonged to Dray spoke quietly. "Proceed," it said. He knew that meant he was expected to walk through the door. He had learned that the hard way when an hour was added to his sentence when he remained in the cell.
	The corridor beyond was very much like the cell. The same glossy black coating on everything. The same lights and doors. It was here that he had met his fellow inmates for the first time. All of them had the same modified skin, and some variant of the chastity cup. All of them had collars. But beyond that...he had yet to meet one that wasn't wearing at least one other item. He tried not to think about the broken and variously-bound figures shuffling meekly along the corridor with him.
	He had also learned, very quickly, that trying to talk to them was useless; his mouth moved soundlessly, voice suppressed, as it had been when he'd first met Dray. He had tried gesturing, but he got only blank, uncomprehending stares in return. Drugged, perhaps? And when he returned to his cell to find six hours added to his sentence, he decided not to try that again.
	The end of the corridor opened out into a large space. He'd first thought it was a bare room, like the cell and the corridor, but he had quickly noticed the small metal hatches set into the floor at even intervals. The other inmates had shuffled in and each one of them took a spot, standing over one of the hatches. Twelve inmates, including himself, and twelve hatches. It soon became obvious what was expected of him, and he could easily guess what would happen to the numbers on the screen in his cell if he didn't do it. He had shuffled over onto the unoccupied hatch and stood, waiting.
	The first time was the worst.
	This time was the worst.
	He wanted to cry. It wasn't fair. But he stood tall and rigid and concentrated on steeling himself. This time he would get through it without penalty. This time, for sure.
	The hatch slid open with a sharp snapping sound, echoed across the room by the eleven others. The sound alone was enough to shoot a shiver of terror through him. The split second that followed always made him want to scream; a sudden drop, and the lurching feeling of falling in the pit of his stomach, as the hatch beneath his feet disappeared and he started to fall into the void below. Then a chorus of high-pitched motorised sounds, like a terrible orchestra all hitting the same unpleasant note at full volume for a split second. A rush of air. And the snap snap snap snap of the mechanical restraints snatching hold of him and arresting his fall. One around each ankle, one around his waist, and one around his chest, each one smooth and metallic and similar in style to his collar, and each attached to long and slender robotic arms that looked sleek, sophisticated, expensive, and very much alien to a run-down orbital dump like Station X.
	Alandrix wished, as he always did since the second or third time he went through this, that the restraints had also snapped onto his wrists.
	Around him, the same was happening to the other inmates. He felt infinitely envious of the two whose arms were bound behind their back in tight latex armbinders, and the one whose whole body from the waist upwards was encased in a shockingly-complicated straitjacket-hood combo. They were going to be spared most of the torment he and the others were about to experience.
	Deep breaths. Get ready. The screen was lowering down on its arm. The same was happening to the other inmates. Each had a screen, a copy of the one in their cell, hovering in front of their face.
	For Alandrix, his screen read: SENTENCE REMAINING: 16D 11H 02M 32S.
	He had quickly learned that they...whoever they were...wanted him to see, in real time, the results of his actions. And that was why he was keeping his hands very still at his sides, hovering in empty air. Because he knew that clasping them together behind his back would put an hour onto his sentence. The same if he put them behind his head, or gripped any of the robotic arms holding the restraints that held him in mid air. All that, though...well, that was just a side show.
	Whirring and clicking. And he heard, rather than saw, the machinery rise up beneath him. He could watch it happen to the other inmates, but he had soon learned that just made it worse. And each inmate seemed to have a different arrangement of torture equipment below them. Some big, some small, some long, some...knobbly. But invariably rubbery, slippery, pulsing and writhing.
	And inexorably rising up towards their rears.
	Alandrix braced himself. Not for pain. No, there wasn't any pain. Such a thing wasn't particularly surprising. Simple tech. The lubricated tip of the intruder pressed against his pucker, overcame the natural resistance, and slipped inside, stretching, filling, swelling up into him with perfectly precise and calculated motions. In any other setting he would have enthusiastically paid for this experience. Perhaps exactly this sort of entertainment was readily available in the brothels and pleasure parlours all across the station. Alandrix couldn't help but feel a surge of anger at the injustice of it. The rubbery 'waste extractor and nutrient-feeder' settled snugly inside him and started vibrating and throbbing...something which Alandrix couldn't help thinking sarcastically about; sure, of course, those were perfectly normal and necessary features! It was almost as if it was intentionally designed to cause the maximum amount of pleasure possible for its victim. And he had to endure it, with his hands unbound and hovering in the air at his sides, just a careless impulse away from grabbing for his chastity bulge. Nothing to stop it except his willpower.
	Which always failed.
	And every touch against that chastity, even the slightest feather-light brush of a fingertip, added six hours to his sentence.

SENTENCE REMAINING: 17D 17H 12M 10S.
	He was going to go mad. There was no other alternative.
	He lay in a heap in his cell, staring at the screen. An hour spent on the 'waste extraction and feeding' machine. Thirty hours added to his sentence. It was a process that happened twice a day. The mathematics of it was inexorable. It was rigged. It was unfair. It made him want to punch the wall (two hours added to sentence). It made him want to shout and cry (which didn't cost him anything, apparently). More than anything, it made him want to tear the chastity cup off. And he just about managed to resist clawing at it.
	Carefully, trying not to rub any part of his body too much, he pulled his knees up to his chin and hugged his legs, and tried not to think about thrusting and fucking and moaning. Tried not to think about...oh god, so many days. He could try to think about it in terms of months. Less than one month. It didn't seem so bad when he thought of it like that. He just had to get control of himself. Resist the urge to touch. Suffer the pleasure and the denial. Fight it! Fight them! Fight the fuckers! Yeah! He puffed up his chest and steeled his resolve. Next time, for sure, he would pass the procedure without racking up any more time on his sentence, and he would be one small step closer to being free! Back to normal! Cock free! And a station of depravity and fun all laid out at his feet, and he would tear through it in a frenzy of fucking!

Twelve hours and one more procedure later, the screen read: SENTENCE REMAINING: 22D 03H 54M 36S. And Alandrix sobbed into his hands.

In moments of lucidity, in those rare instances when the fog of denied arousal wasn't too intense, when the oppressive weight of the clock-watching boredom of the cell sent his mind wandering, he would sometimes wonder why the chastity device had those little rubbery nubs on the inside.
	On day seven he awaited the first of the two daily procedures. Like always, he tried to mentally steel himself, tried to ignore the aching throb inside the chastity device, tried to rationalise and downplay the building terror he was feeling, the anticipation of the machinery's torture and the ever-climbing sentence. The screen's timer ticked over. The door slid open. He pulled himself up onto his feet.
	He noticed the screen now read, VOLUNTARY PARTICIPATION. EXIT CELL TO PARTICIPATE.
	That was new.
	He stared at it for a few moments.
	And then, thinking that the door could close at any moment and he would miss his chance, he darted forward and out into the corridor.
	It wasn't as crowded as usual. Only three other inmates had left their cells. He trudged with them in the usual direction, moving like a zombie on autopilot. He was like them now. Too frightened of the tyranny of the timer to act out and misbehave. He and they were silenced. And if one of them tried to gesture and sign to him as he had to them on his first day, he would likely return the same blank stare as they had to him. Onward to the room with the machines. They moved towards their assigned spots. But a door that Alandrix had never seen before now stood open on the far wall. Above it, a screen displayed the message, ENTER TO PARTICIPATE.
	Hesitantly, the other inmates started towards the door. A couple of them even glanced around, as if registering the presence of each-other for the first time. This door must have been as new to them as it was to Alandrix. One of them, a slim-built male-appearing mustelid, about a head shorter than Alandrix, who always seemed to move with gentle, timid motions, and who Alandrix knew occupied the cell opposite and one to the left of his, even momentarily made eye-contact with him. It was a fleeting second. It felt like an age. Alandrix didn't know if it was the effect of the chastity device...it probably was, he thought...but that moment made his legs wobble.
	With just as much hesitation as the rest of them, Alandrix followed them through the door. The space on the other side was much the same as the one they had just left. Black rubber throughout. Bare and harsh lighting from above. The door slid shut behind them. He and the others looked around in confusion. Then he felt the painless tingle of electricity at his neck. And in the split second before he blacked out, he thought two things.
	Huh, he thought. The collars have stunners in them.
	And; oh you mother fu...

Loud.
	Oh so loud.
	A roar like a hangover.
	Sound that was like a physical wall, bricks collapsing on him.
	And over it, a booming voice speaking in a language that he couldn't understand. Anglo-franca maybe. That was a new experience; not having an overlay to translate for him. It sounded like...
	His vision swam back into focus. Green. Lots of green. With white lines stretching away from him. A blur. A swarming motion of insects? He blinked and adjusted. A crowd. A massive crowd. Hundreds, thousands perhaps. And above, the glare of artificial lights. His brain caught up and made sense of the visions. He was an arena. A stadium. And the stands were packed with spectators. And in front of him was a running track.
	Oh, he thought. This is an anxiety dream. That makes sense. Any moment now someone will come out to start him on a test he hadn't studied for. And he'd be naked. And...
	He looked down. And for the first time in a week he wasn't naked. Aside from the collar and the chastity device at any rate. He turned his hands over, inspecting both sides. They were encased in padded mitts, made of the same firm rubbery material as the chastity device. He could feel his fingers in there. When he flexed them, he felt cool squishy gel around them. There were similar mitten-like encasements on his feet. There were hard rubber pads on his knees and elbows. And they were all blended into his rubbery skin in the same way as the chastity device, like they were now part of him. He vocalised surprise, and the sound came out as 'ergk!'
	Nervously, he felt his face. Something was in his mouth. Firm and rubbery and snugly filling almost to his throat, but not quite. Big enough to fill, not so big that it wasn't comfortable, oddly comforting, somewhat familiar, and something that made his cock throb inside its prison.
	Fuck. He had a cock in his mouth.
	Or rather, a gag in the shape of one.
	He half-closed his eyes and huffed out a breath through his nose. He tried to keep his tongue still. But he had been imprisoned for a week, denied any kind of release, and been twice-daily fucked by a machine seemingly intentionally designed to drive him mad with lust. He was hormones on legs at this point. The most chaste and platonic kiss on the cheek would send him into sex-crazed fantasies of longing at this point. Having a rubber cock in his mouth was warcrime-level overkill. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet, nearly falling.
	The booming voice was still talking. He'd forgotten about it. And the crowd was cheering. He'd forgotten about them too. He looked around. To his sides, two on his left, one on his right, stood the other inmates who had gone through the door with him. The mustelid on his right glanced his way. They met eyes for almost a full second. On his left, a canine, masculine in form, taller than him, considerably more well-built, and on their far side was one of the inmates he envied at each procedure; from neck to knees they were encased in puffy bands of inflated rubber. Or perhaps they were filled with the same sort of gel that was in the mittens. They had no use of their arms. They barely had use of their legs. Their gender and species were a mystery. Their expression was more vacant and distant than most.
	Each of them, aside from the one encased in the balloony tubes, wore the same mittens and padding as Alandrix. All of them had their mouths sealed over, smooth and featureless.
	The voice was building to a climax, sounding more frenzied and shouty. The crowd got louder. Streamers danced through the air. Lights flashed. At the far end of the running track, a set of holograms lit up. A chequered finish line. Flashing holographic fireworks. A hovering set of holographic screens mimicking the appearance of the ones in their cells. Alandrix saw the words "SENTENCE REMAINING" on each. He saw his own timer, steadily counting down. He was up to 34 days now. And he saw the timers on the others.
	The mustelid had 66 days. The tall canid had 151. And the mummified inmate had 2,602.
	Alandrix felt a cold shiver. He didn't want to do the maths on that one.
	The hologram began to animate. The numbers flowed up off the holographic screens, which faded away, and reordered themselves in the air. In glowing letters, they read:
	FIRST PLACE: 	34D 11H 01M 22S. 
	SECOND PLACE: 	66D 02H 14M 48S.
	THIRD PLACE: 	151D 09H 29M 02S.
	FOURTH PLACE:	2,602D 22H 44M 53S.
	He and the inmates exchanged glances. The voice went silent. The crowd's roar reduced to a hum of anticipation. Alandrix nervously licked the rubber cock. And to his left, the mustelid's legs buckled and he fell down onto his knees.
	Wait, that...
	Alandrix gave the cock an experimental suck. The mustelid jerked and fell onto all fours, a shiver rippling through his glossy body. His head lifted, half-lidded eyes turned up towards Alandrix. He saw the mustelid's cheeks suck in. And at the same moment, he felt his own legs give way. The rubbery nubs inside his chastity device had finally done something. They had moved. And they had managed to recreate with perfect fidelity the exact sensation of having his cock sucked by...
	...by...
	He stared at the mustelid. The mustelid stared back. Alandrix saw a little motion of the other inmate's jaw, and felt a perfectly corresponding sensation on his cock; the feeling of a tongue flicking over the underside of his shaft. His mittened hands shot towards his crotch. He looked up in sudden panic at the timers. His hadn't changed, aside from counting down! He wasn't being punished for touching the chastity device! He could rub at it all he wanted! Maybe he'd feel something through it! Maybe he'd...
	An electric sensation of pleasure rolled up his cock. The mustelid was staring at him, and his throat was bobbing. He was sucking on the cock inside his mouth, and Alandrix was feeling it. The one inside his mouth seemed to affect the mustelid in the same way. Was it sized to match? The same shape, the same...Alandrix felt heat in his face. Oh fuck. That had to mean that the one inside the mustelid's mouth was a copy of his own. And he wasn't small. It must be right down into the other inmate's throat.
	He noticed movement to his side, and turned to see that the tall canine was starting to jog down the track. The mummified prisoner had fallen flat on their face and was rolling over, back and forth, making no progress. Alandrix looked in a panic between them, the mustelid, and the glowing numbers above the finish line. The mustelid was clearly doing the same, and when they met eyes again Alandrix saw steel in the expression of that small, delicate face. Before Alandrix could react, the mustelid was on his feet and starting forward. And Alandrix felt the crippling pleasure of a mouth sucking hard on his cock, tongue lapping feverishly at the shaft, a throat closed tight around the head...and he fell forwards onto his face just like the mummified inmate.
	That...wasn't...fair!
	Wait. It was fair. It was just very, very cruel. He pulled himself up onto all fours, arms and legs shaking, and stared at the mustelid, and sucked hard on the cock in his mouth. He watched the mustelid's stride falter, watched his legs fall from under him, watched him fall heavily onto his knees, heard the crowd roar and the voice speak excitedly, watched the mustelid shoot a glare back at him, and felt the inmate's tongue wriggle and enact revenge on his own cock. Slowly, the mustelid crawled forward on hands and knees. Equally slowly, Alandrix did the same. The mummified inmate wriggled like a worm some way behind them. And the hologram at the end of the track lit up in a blaze of light and the word "WINNER!" as the taller canine jogged across the finish line, and the first place time disappeared, leaving only 66 days as the prize to play for. Alandrix felt a pang, and wanted to sob, seeing his sentence double at a minimum. And the mustelid was still ahead of him.
	But he was closing! He forced his arms and legs to move. Forced himself not to think about the eager mouth enthusiastically suckling on his cock. Forced himself not to question why he hadn't blown his load yet, why this merciless pleasure was only keeping him on the edge of release. Forced himself not to imagine himself falling into a bed with the cute little mustelid, hands everywhere, mouths meeting. He set his eyes on the finish line and clawed his way forward. And before long, he was alongside the mustelid, and pulling ahead!
	And then Alandrix caught a blur of movement and felt an impact across the front of his arms. He crashed down face-first onto the mercilessly-padded flooring. Before he could get back up onto his hands, he was shoved on the shoulder and rolled onto his back. The mustelid was on him, straddling his chest, sitting on his ribcage, with his knees pinning Alandrix's arms at his sides. That gleaming, near-featureless, otherworldly face stared down at him, small and delicate, but with fire in those eyes. Alandrix could almost imagine he could see himself reflected in them. The mustelid leaned over him, almost face-to-face, and Alandrix saw those cheeks suck in.
	It was almost like being hit by the stunner. Was the link from gag to chastity device affected by proximity? He couldn't think. He couldn't move. He couldn't even react with suckling of his own. In his mental map of his body, his cock swelled and swelled until it was ten times bigger than the rest of his body. He wanted to howl and thrash, but all he could do was quiver and silently moan. The mustelid didn't let up. No mercy, no relief, no break. Just the most intense and talented cocksucking Alandrix had ever felt, and oh how he wished he could be feeling this in any other circumstance! He'd fall in love with this person. He'd do anything for them. If only they could just...get him...over the edge.
	He barely registered the chorus of noise off in the distance. He did not see the second-place prize get taken. He was oblivious to the mummified competitor slowly and steadily wriggling along the track, past the pair of them, and over the finish line. But the mustelid saw. His head shot up, and the suckling faltered for just a moment. Only a moment. He shot up off of Alandrix, and with the renewed focus that came with not having his cock sucked in return, set off at a run down the track, legs pumping, mouth sucking, and Alandrix was barely able to roll over and get up onto his trembling legs, just in time to watch the mustelid cross the finish line.

Alandrix wished he could go comatose. Maybe into one of those fugue states where nothing mattered any more. Maybe that's what the other inmates did. Maybe that was why they seemed so vacant. There must have been a trick to getting like that, because Alandrix was yet to find it.
	Seven years.
	He'd counted and recounted. Done the sums over and over. Every time hoping that somehow the numbers wouldn't come out the same.
	Seven years!
	During the next procedure, he didn't even rack up any additional time. He was too preoccupied with thinking about that monstrous gulf of time to succumb to the urge and need to touch himself. It was a small comfort. Because back in his cell, that number was still on the screen, and he had absolutely no other distraction from it, aside from the one he had to resist at all costs. Although, what did it matter now? What was a few more hours on top of seven years?
	He didn't know if it was oversight, or intentional, but he had been left with the mittens, pads and gag. He could no-longer open his mouth. It was sealed over, smooth and featureless, lips gone, hidden somewhere under the rubber. And in his mouth, still, was that rubber cock, the facsimile (he assumed) of the mustelid's cock. Was it still linked up to him? If he suckled it, did the mustelid feel it? He had looked for the mustelid when he had left the cell for the procedure, but didn't see him. Maybe he'd been moved to another area. Perhaps they wisely thought he might try to get revenge? But then, what could he do? Bap at him with his padded mittens?
	Now that he thought about it, Alandrix couldn't be quite sure that it was the same inmates every time. With the identity-robbing covering of shiny rubber, and the focus-stealing fog of constant throbbing lust, mixed in with the dread and misery of the procedure, it was hard to keep track. He thought that he had seen familiar figures each time. But how could he know for sure? Now he was looking around at his own cell, questioning. Was it the same cell every time? Did they knock him out and move him around without him knowing?
	Well, he thought. This must be how you go mad in solitary confinement. Probably helps pass the time quicker.
	He held his padded mittens in front of his face and stared at them. Flexing his fingers inside the gel produced only the slightest movement on the outside.
	Voluntary participation. Well, he wouldn't be volunteering again!

The routine dragged. There were no days and nights. There was sleep. There were the long hours in the cell spent either staring at the sentence timer, or swimming in the daydreams of a mind melted by lust. There was the procedure, twice daily, taking away the pleasant chores of eating and pissing and shitting, replacing it with the unbearable machine-fucking and cruel torment of temptation and punishment. He would for sure go mad. Nothing to do. No company. No conversation. Now games and diversions. No entertainment of any kind. Occasionally he would suck on the cock in his mouth, just in case it sent some torment to that damn mustelid who sentenced him to seven years of this misery, but it only served to spike his arousal and make him pound his mittens against the walls.
	He barely paid attention to the punishments racking up on the screen. What did it matter to have a day or two added here or there, when there were already thousands on the counter?
	It must have been a week later, maybe two, when the screen changed. He didn't see the change. He wasn't sure how long ago it had changed. He had been slumped against a wall in a stupor of drowsy nothingness, vaguely imagining a hand, or a tongue, or a machine, sliding up and down, a nice warm bed, a seductive partner. No particular details. Just an essence of what he felt he was missing.
	He blinked. Realisation cutting through the fog. The sense of the change. He tilted his head to look up.
	The screen read; ALANDRIX, ARE YOU THERE?
	He blinked a few more times. The words didn't disappear. Slowly, he pulled himself up to his feet. He stood up as straight and tall as he could. He wasn't used to it. Most of the time he crawled or lay on the floor. On the way to and from the procedure, he would shuffle along in a slouch, head as low as it could go. Standing up straight was novel. It twinged his back. But it brought his eyes closer to the screen.
	Nope, no change. It still said the same thing. That was odd.
	Then he blinked, and the words changed.
	ALANDRIX. WE ARE BREAKING YOU OUT.
	He stared. Thoughts rolled around in his head and took a while to bump into each other. He felt his heart begin to race. He felt the urge to reach up and grip the screen, to shake it, to be absolutely certain that the words were there in reality. He couldn't reach. The screen was embedded into the wall. His mittens made it impossible. But he reached for it anyway. He wanted to shout!
	GO DOWN THE CORRIDOR. GO NOW. QUICKLY ALANDRIX.
	The door slid open. But not like it normally did. It came to a sharp stop half-open, as if jammed. A grinding noise sounded. The door slid a fraction back towards closing, and then opened all the way with a tortured sound and a subtle burning sound.
	The corridor was empty. All the other doors were shut. No shuffling inmates. He peered around the doorframe. Nobody down the corridor. Just the ever-present shiny black padding coating everything. At the far end was the wider room where the procedure happened. Even just looking at it made his heart thump and his gut ache. The screen above the door at the far end of that room was flashing.
	THIS WAY!
	QUICKLY!
	THIS WAY!
	Alandrix stepped out into the corridor, expecting at any moment his collar to hit him with a stun, or for the screen to suddenly change and announce his misbehaviour was adding a century to his sentence, or for...something. He couldn't predict any more. But beyond that door, maybe...was freedom? His life returned to him? Freedom from this coating of rubber. Freedom from the chastity device?
	He hurried down the corridor, darting his head around and behind him, checking and rechecking to see if he was about to be grabbed. The screen flashed faster. THIS WAY! QUICKLY! HURRY! HURRY! The door below slid invitingly open to the darkness beyond, with the same unpleasant metallic shriek and whiff of burning. He lunged through the doorway to freedom.
	In the last split second before passing through, he saw the screen quickly shift to read; VOLUNTEER ACCEPTED.

Recruiter Dray circled around him like an extinct ocean predator.
	"It was a dirty trick," said Dray, without a hint of apology in their voice. "But an entertaining one. I wonder if you would like to know what odds the bookmakers were giving for you falling for it. No? Alright."
	Alandrix had awoken strapped to an upright metal table, in a familiar way, in a familiar room. He wished it didn't seem so routine and unexpected. He wished he could go back to the shock he had felt when he first woke in this room. It didn't feel the same the second time. It was a disturbing thing to get used to.
	Dray leaned against Alandrix's arm and held up a data tablet. "The numbers are wonderful. Your first race? Perfection. You have a lot of fans, you know."
	Dray lay a hand on Alandrix's chest. He shivered and clenched his eyes shut. The tingle. The warmth. The unusual affection. He tried not to let it give him butterflies. This was the fucker who trapped him here! This couldn't be affection. It'd be a trap! Focus!
	"And now you've volunteered again. So very spirited of you!"
	Alandrix tried to angrily shake his head, but the strap across his forehead prevented it. Dray lifted a finger and touched it to the smooth front of his muzzle where his lips should have been.
	"You'd be very popular on the station, once you're free. Perhaps you'll decide to keep your new skin. The ex-con look is very much sought after. Especially when it's authentic, like yours. How does that sound, hmm? All those sexy fans, falling over themselves trying to seduce you. You'd have your pick."
	Alandrix met Dray's eyes. He vibrated with tension. The fucker was practically draped over him. And their fingertip was slowly tracing down the smooth surface of his chest, sending unwelcome pleasure shooting through him.
	"You just have that little matter of, let's see now...two-thousand, six-hundred and...let's just call it three-thousand days, hmm?" Dray's fingers flicked across the tablet. Alandrix saw a number update. Just like that. Dray locked eyes with him, and Alandrix understood. All just a show. Pantomime. A demonstration of just how much power this creature had over him. How easily they could take away his life, day by day, on a whim.
	"I would like to make you aware of another number," said Dray, almost at a whisper. Their mouth was close to Alandrix's cheek. Their body was making contact with his, all down his side. Alandrix was trying to keep focused. Hate not lust. Righteous fury! Not desire! Please, he begged. Please just let him keep hold of that.
	Dray held the tablet in front of Alandrix's face. "Revenue from the sporting event. From the camera feeds. From the senselinks. I told you that you're popular. I don't think there's been a moment of your sentence when you haven't had at least two-hundred observers and masochistic sense-grabbers riding along with you. I hope you haven't ever felt lonely. Because you haven't ever been alone."
	Dray paused.
	"Aside from here, in this room," they said. "Right now it's you, me, and this datapad. And my finger, and the power it can have." Dray dragged their finger over the curve of Alandrix's chastity device. But it was the other finger that really held his attention; the one that was idly tapping against the rim of the pad. The one that had the power to add to his sentence, or erase it. Was that their game here? To abuse their power? Get sexual favours from him in exchange for leniency? Because if that was what this was...he was in. One-hundred percent. Anything to get him out of here! Whatever sick desires this monster could possibly have that they couldn't satisfy in the darker reaches of a station like this, Alandrix would enthusiastically provide! He'd scratch any itch! Anything!
	The finger tapped. Tap tap tap. Alandrix blinked his watering eyes into focus and looked at the figure on the screen. A smile twitched on Dray's face. Alandrix must have shown his surprise.
	"Enough to buy one's own small orbital station," said Dray. "Or a modest fleet of interplanetary cruisers. Or a one-bedroom apartment on Earth. All just from watching and enjoying you."
	Alandrix stared at the number.
	"I think you get it now, don't you? What is this station to you? What are you to this station? What piddling contribution did you bring as a tourist, compared to what you're giving us as a prisoner? Out here, under nobody's jurisdiction but our own, untouched and ungoverned by greater powers who pretend to have some paper-thin obedience to what people think is just and right. You're ours. You're our product."
	Alandrix pulled against the restraints, just in case the force of his anger could be enough to break the metal. Dray was swirling a fingertip around and around the bulge of his chastity device, and it was a tiny mercy that he couldn't feel it.
	"I know you're wondering why I'm telling you this," said Dray. "I've been here before, countless times. It's all so predictable. Your thoughts are as clear as if I'd hooked up a scanner. We thought about doing that one time, by the way. But Hwmbo...ah, sorry, 'He Who Must Be Obeyed'...put a budgetary hold on that." Dray lifted a finger up to tap against Alandrix's forehead, and the sheer humiliation that came from even that body contact making him want to orgasm was almost too much to bear.
	"I don't need a machine to see what's in there. Let me walk you down the path. You thought there was a system. Perhaps even a fair one. Behave right, walk the right way, do the right thing, play the game, and you'll get out. See out your time. Serve your sentence. Then it became clear that the system was rigged. The punishments too harsh. The ways of earning them too easy. And everything set up to make it nearly irresistible to fail. A day would pass, but you'd earn three days extension in the process. It would never end. Did you like the machinery, by the way? My design. I'm very proud. And oh how good you looked squirming on it and trying not to touch yourself. I wonder if you had any notion that thousands of people were watching you and laughing at you, placing bets on you, and a smaller but not-inconsiderable subset of particularly-kinky viewers with the premium access to senselink riding along with you and feeling everything you felt, with of course the small difference that they could diddle themselves to a satisfying orgasm afterwards. If they wanted to, of course. We do happen to sell these chastity devices, and they do remarkably well."
	"But now you'll be wondering why I'm telling you this. Why you're now being shown that there wasn't a system, fair or otherwise. That it was all a cruel trick. That you could never win. That it was all as corrupt as fuck. Why would I spoil that, hmm? So you could go back to your cell, aware of the cameras, no-longer playing along as an entertaining little idiot for the viewers? Knowing that at any time we could have forced you to participate in the 'voluntary' activity, that the whole song and dance trickery was just for the delight of our viewers? What's my game, hmm?"
	Dray manipulated the datapad and held it for Alandrix to view. The text there was so small and dense that it may as well have been gibberish. Alandrix wouldn't have been at all surprised if it was. At the bottom was a standard consent square.
	"Given your current state, and lack of access to your fingers, another form of DNA sampling will be required. Ah, here, let me zoom in for you."
	Dray scrolled up to the top and enlarged the title. Alandrix saw the words "VOLUNTARY TRANSFER TO RESEARCH DIVISION".
	"Hwmbo insists on it," said Dray, with an apologetic shrug that didn't match their smile. "It looks better amongst the semi-legitimate organisations we connect up with. When inmates consent to providing invaluable assistance to the advancement of blah blah blah. In exchange for generous reduction in sentence length and severity..."
	Alandrix's ears perked.
	"...it's just good optics."
	Dray did something. Alandrix couldn't tell what. But there was a soft popping sound. A strange feeling of movement around his cock. And the sight of Dray's hand lifting up into view with the chastity device held in it. He was free? He was free! Part of him, anyway. The part he cared most about. He strained against the restraints, to reach down and stroke it with his mittens, to at least bend his head forward to see! Dray set the chastity device down onto a small wheeled table, and then moved the table closer, just in front of Alandrix's bound body. Carefully, Dray set the datapad down on the table. Alandrix could just see it in the edge of his vision.
	"People tend to think that the press of a finger against a consent square is what's needed. That painless extraction of a few cells, the logging of the DNA. Not many people bother to think that other sources can work just as easily. They would realise if they thought about it. But they don't."
	Alandrix jerked in shock. He didn't believe it at first. And even when his senses confirmed it, he didn't believe it. His cock was free of the chastity device. It was feeling air. And it was feeling Dray's smooth, warm fingers, wrapped around his shaft. And with his skin so sensitive, with his hip or shoulder or elbow or ear feeling as sensitive and pleasurable as his cock normally would...that hand right there...was almost deadly-dangerous levels of pleasure. He shook all over, and sucked hard on the cock in his mouth, and writhed and silently moaned in ways that, some fragmentary lucid part of himself thought, would have been worth a fortune if there were cameras watching.
	And slowly, cruelly slowly, Dray began to stroke their hand up and down, rubbery fingers on a rubbery shaft, slick and lubricated after the second stroke, practically dripping after the third. Dray's body lay against Alandrix's side. Their voice whispered against his ear.
	"The records we send out for others to see will show that this will be halving your sentence."
	The stroking sped up. Alandrix could barely think. He knew that this was methodical, uncaring, dispassionate stroking, pumping an organ with machine-like disinterest. But it was the most amazing thing he'd ever felt. He'd do anything for it to last a second longer. He could feel the rush of orgasm building up, inexorable, intolerably strong, and with the feeling that this time...this time...he would actually reach it.
	"But our records..."
	Faster. Irresistible.
	"...if you consent...if you shoot your load over that consent square...just resist if you don't want to join the Research Division...just don't cum..."
	Alandrix was hyperventilating. He thrashed against the restraints. He thought he might actually break them! He was going to cum! He was going to halve his sentence...
	"But our records...the ones that actually count...will show your sentence doubled."
	The silent scream inside Alandrix's head felt like it would shatter his skull. He felt the surge of pressure. Felt the longed-for heights of pleasure and release, the supernova of orgasm.
	He felt Dray's fingers let go.
	He felt the pleasure snuff out like a pinched flame.
	He felt the ache of pleasure cut cruelly short, snuffed out to nothing, as his cock bounced in empty air, denied of the pleasure he deserved, shooting ropes of cum across the table, across the datapad, across the chastity device.
	He felt the intensity of Dray's cruel smile, and finally sensed the lust and satisfaction behind it.
	He saw the number on the screen as Dray delicately lifted the datapad. Saw it through the shameful smear of dripping cum.
	Six-thousand days.

Six-hundred days had passed.
	Give or take.
	It should have been a tenth of the way through his new sentence.
	It was not.
	Dray hadn't even used the stunner after Alandrix had given his 'consent'. Alandrix suspected this wasn't a mercy. He had been keenly aware of everything around him as he, and the table he was strapped to, had been wheeled from that room into another room conveniently nearby. Dray had hovered nearby, watching, enjoying themselves, while faceless technicians, both literally and figuratively, set to work on him. These, he was sure, were robots. Machines, methodical and uncaring, altering his restraints while never leaving any part of him free enough to even attempt to escape. They had fitted metal bands around various parts of his body. They had plugged various things into various parts of him. Some of them no-doubt included injections and intrusions deep into his body. Though he felt none of them. No pain. Nothing. Just the installation of tubing and wires and who knows what, all down his back, across his chest, into his shoulders. His cock, his traitor cock, had still been hard, dripping from the ruined orgasm, hungry for more. The machines never touched it. Even as they slid him wholly into a series of inflated, puffy, lube-slippery tubes, all too similar to the mummification that one inmate had worn during the race, they managed not to brush anything up against it, and they lined everything up perfectly so that it protruded out of a carefully-positioned hole in the tubing.
	He had tried to struggle, tried to protest. But they were strong. And the phallus gag was still in his mouth. They seemed to have no intention of removing it.
	Dray was oddly quiet throughout. Just watching. Perhaps there were cameras. Perhaps Dray was in an edited blind spot. Or perhaps they were just enjoying the show. Alandrix tried pleading stares. He tried angry scowls. He tried sobbing. Nothing changed the faint, contented smile on Dray's face.
	Then they wheeled out the coffin. And it all became far too clear. Dray's smile grew a little. Alandrix could tell they knew he had recognised it. Alandrix knew that moment of horror probably gave them some pleasure. Alandrix didn't care.
	Yes, he recognised the coffin. Because it wasn't a coffin. It looked like one, certainly. And people called them that, mainly disparagingly. They had, after all, had a success rate of next to nil so far, and the name was sometimes very much earned literally.
	The front plate was stamped with a label.
	B-22-99AJ-1114-X216.
	Which meant nothing to Alandrix. The part that caught his attention was just below.
	INTERSTELLAR HIBERNATION ENCLOSURE - EXPERIMENTAL (0.006B).
	Reality had yet to catch up to science fiction.
	They didn't freeze.
	They didn't create a bubble in time.
	They just stored you, slowed everything down, very carefully pumped you full of chemicals and drugs in a precisely-calculated balance that, if everything was worked out correctly, would keep the body alive with minimal support, minimal aging, and minimal risk, potentially indefinitely, potentially long enough for a crew to survive to reach a distant star, going the slow way.
	Theoretically.
	As they slid him into the snug enclosure, hooking up tubes and wires, checking and double-checking various components, Alandrix tried to console himself with the knowledge that they would put him to sleep.
	They...would put him to sleep, right?
	Any moment...
	Right?
	The robots positioned the cover, the lid of the coffin, ready to seal him in. In front of Alandrix's nose was a blank metal sheet. Nothing to look at. Only darkness to come. But below, and visible to him for the long moments as they held the lid there, as if waiting for him to notice him, was the grotesquely lewd sight of a wet and lubricated rubbery hole. At waist height.
	He caught a glimpse of Dray smiling, before the robots slid the lid into position, plunging Alandrix into darkness, and enveloping his rigid cock into the tight, wet embrace of an artificial fuck-hole.
	His heart pounded. He held his breath. Wait...no. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't suffocating, but he wasn't breathing. The machinery had taken over. He took stock of his situation. Tried to move. Arms, no. Legs, no. Head...almost, but no. He could blink. He could suckle on the gag. Other than that, he was immobile. And that tube around his cock was so...he just wanted to...
	At that moment he discovered that, with considerable effort, fighting the crushing squeeze of the bulbous, gel-filled rubber that filled the space between his body and the hard metal of the coffin, he could rock his hips back and forth just a tiny bit, just enough to thrust his cock in and out of that sleeve. He could force himself, with immense effort, straining every muscle down his thighs and up his back, and he could feel the tiniest amount of pleasure on his cock as it moved the tiniest fraction of a fraction of an ant's breadth in and out of the tube. And maybe, just maybe, if he kept thrusting hard enough, long enough, he might get enough pleasure to orgasm. A real one, not a ruined one. Maybe. Maybe.

The coffin stood in the antechamber of Hwmbo's office. Next to the potted fern (real) and the coffee machine (artificial). A small plaque on a stand gave any visitor a brief description of what the coffin was, and what it represented. It extolled with great pride the merits of such an experiment, how it was a shining example of Station X's collaboration with prestigious research entities, working to drive forward the advancement of life out into the stars, how this long-term project was one of many scattered around the station and across the solar system, containing brave pioneering volunteers, who will be richly rewarded!
	On the back of the coffin, out of sight from any except those few who knew to look there, was a small screen displaying a number, and two words.
	The number was 170,942.
	The words were 'days remaining'.
	And the number was ticking up by one, about once every second, in an almost perfect rhythm, as if in time with the ticking of a clock, or the swinging of a pendulum. Back and forth. Back and forth.
	Or...
	In and out.
	In.
	And out.