Debt Camp III: NeuroLoop
Wrath · 01 Sep 2030
John Magee woke to pain from the previous night. The Gen Alpha hunk hung on forklift prongs. Carbon-fiber chains stretched his limbs into a punishing X. He winced with every breath. Two nurses dabbed antiseptic over crimson tracks and rinsed dried blood from carved abs. One checked vitals, the other slipped a rubber tube past clenched teeth, funneling protein slurry down his throat. Debt-camper Magee gagged, but the guards reminded him the diet was mandatory if the show was to go on.
His mind drifted to the circumstances that brought him here. John had once believed in abundant capitalism; Joe Rogan told him hard work paid. Matt Walsh called Labor Camps moral. John had voted for it all.
The countdown on the clinic wall glared 1 h 32 m 46 s when Warden Geoff #7 Bezos strode inside, boots cracking across concrete. Wrists locked to steel, ankles spread until each leg line pulled tight, while the silver NeuroLoop clamped John's buzz‑cut scalp, wires coiled like rose vines.
Fluorescents flared, exposing him in ruthless detail: twin pec slabs mottled by faint violet bruising, stacked abdominal bricks. A green-purple smear darkened the lowest ridge of his core. Each breath rippled new heat across those ridges, making veins writhe beneath tight skin.
Geoff scanned the metrics on his tablet. “MAGA wants a show,” he said with a grin. “Let’s give them something to remember.” The forklift lurched forward, beginning its steady parade toward the main bay.
Overhead tubes washed John’s chest in hard light, highlighting every bulge and striation.
The convoy halted beneath a cage of spotlights. The forklift prongs jutted forward, raising John as an example for the campers of Amazon’s Vacaville Fulfillment and Debt Camp and as entertainment for viewers streaming the public shaming. John's wrists, raw and swollen, were shackled wide; his ankles splayed so the full length of him formed a living cruciform. The NeuroLoop circlet pressed into his scalp like a ring of cold nails. Viewers spammed prayer emojis while jokers dubbed Leon Matthis "Late-Stage Judas."
Warden Geoff raised a gloved palm; four guards struck in relay, each crack ringing through the bay. The crowd winced. Thumbs turned down. Geoff sensed boredom and reached for personal flair.
He uncoiled a braided flogger. "You thought you could run? You're not a hero. You're a caught animal," he said, low and flat. He swung. Leather strands slapped the spread of John’s back, scoring red tracks between his wide lats. A second lash landed on the rounded dome of his left shoulder. Sweat sprayed. John hissed, "That all you got?"
The Warden forced a bright grin. "Up you go, show pony."
The NeuroLoop flashed green and sank needles into John’s mind. Every fiber yanked taut. Viewers watched veins lash up his throat, saw the broad slabs of chest swell then spasm in ragged jerks, quads hammering the steel forks with each jolt. Foam frothed from the corner of his mouth while a guttural groan rattled the audio feed; a wet snap sounded as a wrist chain carved into dense forearm meat. Geoff barked, “Behold what defiance buys you.”
The chat erupted in alarm emojis. Boo icons multiplied. Sponsors yanked ad spend in real time. A studio intern fainted.
Geoff’s grin vanished. He jabbed two fingers at a producer. “Cut the feed.” Too late. The world had already watched John convulse like the son of Nazareth at Golgotha.
Pride
Chains rattled overhead. The Warden barked "Observation Studio." The forklift rolled John through quiet bays and into Geoff #7's lab, a glass cube that overlooked the warehouse. Once the doors sealed, the forklift dumped John onto the concrete and he was immediately re-secured to what guards called "the patient's chair."
Geoff paced the glass room, jaw tight. Anger boiled behind his calm mask.
He turned to the man locked in a Puritan‑style yoke on a vertical rail. John’s wrists sat in the side stocks at waist height while the collar framed his neck, shoulders broad but unbowed. A dull hum pulsed from the crown circling his buzz‑cut scalp.
“Show me gratitude,” Geoff said.
John’s only answer was a slow exhale.
Geoff powered the NeuroLoop. "The board wants contrition." The warden thumbed a switch. Electrodes pressed against John’s scalp. A jolt raced through the crown. Veins burst across John’s neck. Quads clenched, calves knotted, yet the glare in his eyes never dimmed.
“On your knees,” Geoff ordered.
John spat a fleck of blood and remained upright.
Another surge. His sprawling back arched, every ridge bright beneath the lights. Sweat rolled down the deep line between traps. Still he stayed standing.
A third surge arrived, longer and harsher. His fingers curled, abdominal plates rippled, and a raw, short growl escaped him.
Geoff leaned close. “How much pain before you bend?”
John breathed hard. “You can’t buy what I won’t sell.”
Geoff shocked him again. The broad sweep of back convulsed; thighs trembled; the chair rattled from the force of his chained struggle.
“Still no?” Geoff muttered. “Fine. Let’s escalate.”
Geoff tightened the program instead. He punched a new sequence into the crown; the pulses doubled, then tripled, strobing through nerve and bone. Hours passed. Geoff recorded each attempt.
By dusk, John's throat murmured rough grunts and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Yet still he stood: shaking, drenched, unbroken.
Geoff stormed out in exasperation.
The next morning Geoff dragged a wooden chair into the cube and sat so close their knees almost touched. No audience this time, just the pulse of the Loop and the damp echo of their breathing.
John stood locked in the yoke, wrists at waist height, neck held firm. Bruises darkened to plum along his ribs.
Geoff leaned forward until his breath warmed John’s cheek.
“Kiss me,” he murmured. “One soft touch and a hundred credits vanish.”
John met his gaze, heat and contempt colliding behind his eyes. Slowly he bent, as if considering, then stopped a hair’s breadth from Geoff’s mouth and straightened again.
A faint smile flickered on Geoff’s lips, half challenge, half annoyance. He thumbed the dial. The yoke lifted a notch; John’s arms stretched, shoulders biting. Still he stared, silent.
Geoff’s fingertip traced the deep groove between John's pecs. The Loop answered with a gentle pulse meant to coax obedience, but John only drew a sharper breath through his teeth.
“A kiss is kinder than bone-breaking,” Geoff said, voice low. “Last chance.”
John’s lips stayed rigid, as Geoff grabbed John's balls through the uniform shorts.
Irritation flashed across Geoff’s face. He tapped the trigger; current hummed through the crown. John’s fingers curled, but his mouth never moved.
With a harsh breath, Geoff stood and pushed the chair away. “We’ll try a different avenue,” he muttered as he strode out, leaving John stretched but undefeated.
Geoff returned, more determined. He unlatched the patient’s chair, believing a taste of freedom would lure John to humility. “Smile for me,” Geoff said.
John bared teeth, but it was no smile. He swung his shoulder into the clone, knocking him backward. The warden staggered; the tablet flashed red: FAILURE.
Sirens shrieked. Two guards lunged in, clubs raised. One baton cracked across his left forearm; a sharp pop split the air as a bone gave way, yet John advanced, fury glowing in his eyes. He caught the second guard’s wrist, yanked him forward, and smashed a knee into the man’s chest. A third guard rushed from behind, swinging low. The baton smashed against John’s shin. Another crunch, but he twisted and drove his elbow into the attacker’s jaw, dropping him flat. Blood ran down his arm; he barely noticed. The fourth guard darted in, jabbed a shock rod under John’s ribs. Current tore through muscle, but he seized the rod, ripped it free, and hurled it aside.
A final baton snapped against his collarbone; bone splintered, shoulders lurched. Even fractured, he charged on Geoff, with one arm hanging at an odd angle while the other curled into a fist.
"Tethers, now! Keep the merchandise pretty," Geoff shouted. A mesh harness fired from overhead cannons and wrapped him mid‑stride. Straps cinched in a single pull: one broad band hugging shoulders and chest, smaller loops clutching biceps and thighs, a final web lashing both calves together. The sudden constriction yanked on the fresh fractures; pain ripped through his arm, forcing a ragged groan.
The Loop flooded John's cortex with a punishing surge. His vision whited out and he finally dropped to his knees.
Geoff pressed a trembling hand to his bruised jaw, age sharpening each breath. The warden stomped on the prone rebellious body and hissed to the guard: “This shit piece of technology doesn't work. Call that ugly South African-American cyborg.”
Envy · 08 Sep 2030
A black pod slid onto the catwalk and sighed open. It carried Muskelone, the latest incarnation of Elon Musk after a bitter fallout with President Trump. With federal grants gone and stock crushed by executive tweets, the fallen mogul rebuilt himself in secret labs, swapping promise for spare parts. The result waddled past safety rails: a pale waist cinched in a squeaking titanium corset, mismatched cyber arms brushing against soft flanks. Sparse tufts clung to a blotchy scalp.
Beside Bezos’ lean clone, Muskelone looked like a hospital waste bag stitched to kitchen hardware. Yet his small eyes still glittered with unchecked pride.
Bezos folded his arms. "Your crown hardly works," he sneered. "I shocked the brute for days and he still snarled back."
Muskelone’s smile thinned. "Tools fail when clumsy hands twist the dials," he replied.
Servo knees clicked as the visiting tech baron reached the glass cube. Inside, John slumped in the patient’s chair. Broad shoulders framed a neck thick with stubborn strength.
Muskelone intercommed Bezos outside the lab. "Let me show you how precision looks." He brushed a finger along the metal circlet on John’s head. "You used the blunt setting, shock and fear. That only hardens defiance. Switch to subtle pulses and watch him welcome every command." Bezos grunted but stepped back from the lab.
From a port set low on the cyborg's metal belt slithered a polymer cable. It swayed between plated thighs before snapping into the NeuroLoop on John’s head.
"Begin sensory indexing,” Muskelone ordered.
A soft glare spread through John’s vision, kaleidoscopic spirals blooming across the HUD. Electrodes pulsed. One by one, memories surfaced: end‑zone roars swelling against his broad pecs, ring lights sliding over the even planes of his abs, dawn shifts where thick arms swung hammers for tips. Each clip dripped a drop of sweetness into his mind and arousing clench of his prostate.
The spiral shifted. Marching songs thumped against his ribs, gilded slogans flashed across his torso, and a smiling mouth hovered between flexed slabs of muscle. Whenever he accepted the scene a warm flush rolled up his spine; when he balked, a cold knife slid down it until he yielded.
Discipline followed reward. The film rewound to silence: empty stands, dark screens, lights cut. A sharp sting cracked across the ridged ladder of his stomach and echoed through every groove. He tried to brace, but a neural spike drilled his testicles. The program offered one escape: performance. At each pulse he flexed, rolling the jacked wall of his back into a polished curve for an invisible auditor. Present correctly and pulsing edged the p-spot; falter and the spike ruined the hard-on.
Time slipped. Commands murmured like breaths, and he obeyed: spread, hold, turn. Hours blurred into days. When he flared his lats on cue, syrupy pleasure washed through his thoughts; hesitate and static snapped.
Night brought a different stage. A narrow runway glowed beneath his feet. Shadowed faces lined the edge, fanning pale slips of paper. Each deep swell of his chest set off a clear chime and dropped a glowing token at his feet. He followed the sound, hips driving, glutes tightening, until the watchers sighed in wordless approval.
After an unknown amount of time to John, the architect of the dream appeared, carcass plated in chrome. Metal fingers traced the curve of John’s pecs, sparks dancing where pointed nipples met alloy.
“Kneel,” the South African-American said, stimulating the hunk's areolas.
John glided down "the patient's chair", thighs rippling to kneel. The Loop drenched every corner of his skull in honeyed euphoria. Pleasure filled his heavy nutsack. He bowed the yoke lower to the cyborg's creature feet. When the loop scanned John's mind for the thought of to lick Muskelone's toes, the crown rewarded the hunk by neurally polishing his glans.
Muskelone lifted John's chin. “Tell me this is your choice.”
“I crave it,” he murmured.
Muskelone released John from "the patient's chair."
The kneeling muscular debt camper sealed a kiss on the half man-half machine monster hovering over him.
Sloth · 01 Feb 2032
The contacts cleared. The haze of hallucination spun away.
Muskelone’s voice sounded pleased: "Simulation complete. Field evaluation begins."
John stood, posture regal yet pliant.
A rolling shutter opened and the cube floor merged with the main bay. Supervisors pushed a weighted cart stacked with drone batteries toward him. John grasped the first slab, the dense load bowing across two vast traps before he hoisted it to a top shelf. A warm pulse flickered in his asshole, the Loop’s reward for flawless form. He repeated the motion; arms pumped like piston rods, chest driving each lift while quads flexed beneath taut skin. Sensors tracked output; metrics flashed green. Workers paused, watching the living gauge clear a full pallet without falter.
Next, a supervisor rolled out a steel beam the length of a park bench and told John to press it overhead. He lifted without hesitation, elbows locking, wide back steady while the beam trembled above him until the timer hit sixty seconds, and a surge of gentle heat hardened his cock to full length. The crown gasped, and another rush of pleasure poured over his prostate.
Finally, they ordered him to drop flat and hold a plank on his forearms. He lowered smoothly and steadied himself, torso rigid, shoulders square, the tip of his long hard cock kissing concrete. Two minutes passed before the command to stand; when he rose, a wave of pleasure edged him, sealing the test as passed. The Loop sent a final sweet surge that left his breath slow and content.
Muskelone smiled, satisfied that John's body and brand were ready for open commerce. Performance numbers soared beyond anything recorded before the escape.
Next came the showcase. An airbrush traced DUTY, AMBITION, FREEDOM across John's swole back, each word igniting whenever he flexed. He slipped into a presentation stance and squeezed into a side‑chest pose, shoulders rolling forward so his pecs swelled. He panted as pleasure was washing through him with every new demonstration; the gentle hum in his skull rewarded each precise contraction, warmth blooming his virgin bussy until the strain of holding still fell away.
Lust
Residual defiance flickered inside John, a pilot flame of self. The proof flashed on Muskelone’s console: John’s heart rate leapt each time the Leon Matthis file appeared. Muskelone scheduled a private session to snuff it. He dimmed the room and cut the audience feed. "You still feel humiliated by betrayal," he said, voice level. "Channel it." John’s pulse jumped. The device mapped the surge, linking it to a fresh mantra: weakness invites ruin.
"Who betrayed you?" Muskelone asked.
"Leon Matthis," John answered, tone gritty yet clear.
"Who rescued you from debt?" the baron pressed.
John hadn't cum since he masturbated in the showers days before his failed escape and the constant NeuroLoop teasing drove his desperate voice. "You," he replied. Warm pleasure rushed through him. Muskelone nodded in calm approval.
The tech baron stepped behind, metal fingers gliding down the deep valley between spreading lat wings. "Feel the debt fade, feel purpose take its place." He tapped the NeuroLoop. John's throbbing cock lurched.
Muskelone circled to face him, gaze tracing the thick columns of thigh shown by minimal shorts. "Demonstrate wrath against weakness." A dummy baton clattered to the floor.
John grabbed the baton and rose, towering over the hunchback cyborg. The hunks face contorted with conflict as he lifted his muscled arms to strike the monster. Yet John settled on snapping the baton with a simple twist, fragments scattering. Approval tones flooded the Loop, nerves flooded with honey.
"Good. Now accept forgiveness."
It was now Muskelone's turn to kneel. The tech baron pulled the uniform shorts down tree-trunk quads. He unhinged his mechanical jaw to deep-throat the entire length of John's cock. The cyborgs jaw locked and teeth retracted. Muskelone activated the Dyson mod of his mouth to vacuum John's cock with suction no man had ever been blown before. John braced the cyborg's doughy metalllic shoulders.
Muskelone charitably let John ride the physical blow job, combined with the NeuroLoop mindfucking, for what felt like an eternity to John. Muskelone detected John's pleasure threshold and graciously let John shoot months of cum into the cyborgs intestines.
A final prompt appeared on Muskelone's tablet: REMNANT PRIDE = 0%. Compliance locked. John’s lips curved in quiet satisfaction.
Greed · 03 July 2032
Amazon’s Vacaville Fulfillment and Debt Camp prepared for a press conference. John strode onto a stage. Viewers across fifty states tuned in. Under a ring of spotlights he paused and every detail sharpened: pecs arched outward then tapered into a slim yet dense waist; glutes pressing firm against contoured shorts.
"I stand here reborn through enterprise," he said, voice half locker room, half pulpit. Geoff shook John's hand while John’s free arm free arm curled so the bicep bulged into a proud arc that caught the light and sent the chat into emoji rapture.
A screen projected live ledger numbers: 880 USD. He held still, the overhead glow tracing every ridge of his back while donations poured in. "We finish the count today," he promised.
He dropped into a single kneel with rehearsed jock ease, quads flourishing. Each abdominal block surfaced. A drone swooped low, filming the faint rise and settle of chest, sweat tracing the central groove as viewers placed instant bids to sponsor single beads.
John dropped into a full kneel, clasping his hands in pseudo prayer above his head. The motion widened his torso into a breathtaking V.
Tips surged. One last donation chimed and the counter slid to zero. John, still on both knees, laced his fingers behind his head. On the stream, John's ab bricks three through six of eight spelled F R E E, one letter per block.
John rose and threw his arms high. “My debt is cleared, my duty begins,” he declared.
Gluttony
That night, a victory banquet beamed from the cube, now a glass‑boxed VIP lounge. Premium Prime Subscribers watched a fast food preserved third-term Trump, Warden Geoff #7 Bezos, Muskelone, Bronze Wallet Investor Dieter Zhel, Supreme Court Justice Lindsay Graeme and rapper B. Duddy clink flutes while John Magee served as living a centrepiece. Neuroloop stimulated John's cock and prostate while the hunk perched on a slow‑turn table, chest bare, arms outstretched, offering every angle of conquest.
Warden Geoff #7 Bezos groped the displayed muscles first “Efficiency never looked this handsome,” he quipped, massaging the flexed centrepiece. Muskelone clicked a chrome thumb against hardened nipples. “Precision conditioning, gentlemen, he is a living proof‑of‑concept.” Supreme Court Justice Lindsay Graeme slapped John's abs and murmured, “A triumph of contract law.” Rapper B. Duddy punctuated the circle by punching John's pecs. “Cash that chest, bro.”
The billionaires, turned-on by the athletically submissive presentation, baptised John in the most market-valuable circlejerk in american empire history. John smiled as unimpressive watery cum doused his muscles from the financially elite men. Debt removal had granted one liberty while forging fresher shackle. He pictured high‑school bleachers, hometown cheers, days before contracts and collars. The reward centre answered with a squeeze of his prostate, dulling protest.
Trump hoisted a paper cup of diet soda and a half‑eaten burger in salute. "Folks, I told you—nobody finishes debt servitude faster than Gen Alpha hunks, nobody, believe me," he drawled, pausing for the cheers. "Two years early, tremendous job. And what timing—seven years since my Big Beautiful Bill of 2025 kicked off, bolstered by the Libertarian Recovery Act of 2028, everybody said was impossible, then the court backed us in Luigi v. Washington. Huge win, huge. Maybe I run again, maybe a fourth term—people are saying it." Laughter and applause rolled across the lounge, drowning the clink of flutes.
Premium Prime Subscribers were disappointed when potential four-term president Trump rolled down John Magee's uniform shorts and a blur immediately pixelated the impressive cock length. Viewers saw Trump tug at the blur and watched a stream of golden liquid shower the leader of the free world. Trump, now blonde again with a piss-stained toupee, led the delegation away, discarding an american flag for John to wipe down geriatric cum off his shredded body with.
John trembled, letting the spotlights sanitize his torso. He flexed, granting the watchers their fix. View counters spiked. Unseen by viewers, but intimately felt by the hunk, John's nipples were flicked; areolas sucked; glans polished; taint licked and prostate pounded by the NeuroLoop.
Podcast host Dave Portnoy declared the masculine patriotic display of John Magee completing a debt camp servitude was evidence of success for Bronze Wallet's contracts; for Amazon's debt camp warehouse; for NeuroLoop's population control as well as abundant capitalism and free-market libertarianism. NeuroLoop rewarded John based on the review and allowed him to shudder waves of cum.
A lens caught John’s reflection: colossal and lacquered in sweat. The neural weave whispered: This is freedom. NeuroLoop, going rogue, identified John as surpassing his pleasure threshold as it triggered more orgasms from the free man.
Somewhere below, a pilot flame of resistance glimmered, nearly snuffed but stubborn. The crowd never noticed that spark. They saw only the final display, arms spread, pecs flared. The muscle hunk laid soaking on the red, white, and blue, trembling in forced refractive orgasms, proof that liberty now ships Prime with a barcode nestled between its pecs.
