I
The electric shock jolted Simon awake, his fingers twitching against his thigh, the cold air raising goosebumps across his skin. "Good morning, Simon," the disembodied voice intoned. Simon slowly stood up before realizing he was naked except for the choker around his neck. "That's it," the voice said, "show everyone what we have to work with."
Simon turned, blinking against the harsh fluorescents overhead. Rows of seated spectators watched him like a zoo exhibit, murmuring amongst themselves. One woman licked her lips deliberately. "Where am I? Who the hell are you?" Another shock surged through him, making his muscles convulse.
The fluorescents buzzed overhead, too bright, bleaching the scuffed tile floor white. Someone chuckled—low, metallic—from a speaker hidden in the ceiling.
"Feet shoulder-width apart," the voice continued. Simon obeyed before catching himself. A red dot blinked above the doorframe. Camera.
Cold metal pressed against Simon’s bare skin as he staggered forward, the room’s harsh white lights revealing a dozen faces staring at him from behind glass. Their expressions were clinical, bored—like he was just another specimen on a tray. He instinctively covered himself, but another jolt sent his arms jerking back to his sides.
The choker around his neck beeped twice—soft, mocking—before tightening with a suddenness that stole his breath. His fingers clawed at it pointlessly, the smooth metal unyielding, biting deeper as his pulse hammered against it. A whisper of static crackled, then the voice returned, almost amused. "Ah, good, autonomic responses still intact."
Simon’s jaw clenched, but his muscles betrayed him, forcing his chin up, exposing his throat like prey. The hum deepened, vibrating against his windpipe until the voice’s commands weren’t just heard—they *lived* in his tendons, twisting them into compliance. *Turn.* His body pivoted before his mind caught up, the sting of resistance like salt in an open wound. Behind the glass, a woman scribbled notes, her pen scratching loud enough to hear.
Hands—his hands—rose without permission, palms facing the ceiling, fingers spread. The choker pulsed in time with the voice’s next word: *Display.* Simon’s dick twitched, half-hard, his skin prickling under the scrutiny of unseen eyes. The humiliation burned hotter than the shocks, but his body didn’t care, hips tilting forward to offer himself like a menu item. Someone coughed. A dry, disinterested sound.
The choker’s hum dropped an octave—thick, syrupy—and Simon’s knees hit the tile before he could gasp. *Position two.* His spine arched, ass up, face pressed to the floor, every muscle trembling with the effort of staying perfectly still. Breath fogged the polished surface beneath his lips. Behind the glass, a chair creaked.
The collar buzzed again, and Simon lurched back onto his feet. "Now," the voice commanded, and Simon jerked into motion. His limbs moved with the graceless precision of a marionette, arms snapping up, legs splaying wide. The jumping jacks were absurd, obscene—his dick swung heavy between his legs, smacking his stomach with every jump. His thighs burned as he bounced, the slap of his bare feet against tile echoing like applause. Sweat rolled down his ribs, pooling in the dip of his pelvis. Someone murmured behind the glass. A high, feminine laugh fluttered through the speakers. A click. Another shock licked up his spine, forcing his legs wider apart mid-air.
Simon’s breath hitched as his arms snapped outward—perfect right angles. The choker pulsed faster, syncing with the rhythm of his forced exertion. His nipples tightened under the cold glare of the lights, his breath ragged as he counted in his head, the ache pooling low in his gut: *twenty-three, twenty-four—* A wet sound escaped him.
The audience’s murmurs grew louder, punctuated by the occasional scribble of pens. Simon’s knees trembled mid-air, sweat dripping down his calves as his toe curled against the tile. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass—flushed, glistening, his dick bouncing obscenely with each mechanical jump. A man in the front row adjusted his glasses, gaze locked below Simon’s waist.
II
A hiss—sharp, chemical—flooded Simon’s nostrils as the choker released a thin mist. The scent was cloying, like burnt sugar and skin, seeping into his pores. His shoulders jerked back, spine arching as his body responded before his brain could protest. His dick twitched, then swelled, the head glistening under the lights. A woman leaned forward, tapping her pen against her clipboard in rhythmic anticipation.
His breath came ragged, chest heaving as the pheromones coiled hot in his gut. Every inhale dragged him deeper—muscles slackening, hips rolling forward in slow, involuntary circles. Behind the glass, someone adjusted a dial; the choker vibrated, sending waves of artificial need radiating down his thighs. Precum beaded at his tip, dripping onto the tile as a dozen pens scribbled in unison.
The mist clung to his skin like oil, sweet and suffocating. His nipples stiffened, pebbling under the cameras’ gaze as his dick throbbed—hard now, painfully so—twitching against his belly with each pulse of the choker. He tried to clench his thighs, but the shock that followed forced them wider, his knees trembling as slick heat pooled between them. Someone murmured *fascinating* into a recorder, their breath fogging the glass.
Simon twisted his head toward the sound, lips peeled back in a snarl. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU—" The words dissolved into a guttural cry as electricity arced down his spine, seizing his vocal cords mid-scream. His hips bucked, involuntary, his dick painting a sticky streak across his abdomen. The speakers crackled—laughter, this time—as the choker’s vibrations deepened, massaging his prostate through the cage of his pelvis.
Precum dripped steadily now, pooling in his navel before spilling over his hipbones. His fingers—*not his, couldn’t be his*—twisted around his shaft on the next upstroke, thumb digging into the slit. A shudder tore through him, toes curling against tile as his balls drew up tight. Behind the glass, someone exhaled sharply. The scent of musk and ozone thickened the air.
His wrist snapped faster, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. Simon’s mouth fell open—no sound, just wet panting—as his hips stuttered forward to meet each brutal tug. The choker pulsed *yes-yes-yes* against his throat, its vibrations skittering down to his groin like live wires. His reflection in the glass was grotesque: lips spit-slick, pupils blown, every tendon standing in sharp relief as his body betrayed him.
The finger inside him, knuckle-deep now, twisted on the upstroke to brush that spot that made his vision whiten. Simon’s scream came out a whimper, his thighs quaking as his dick twitched violently. Precum splattered the tile between his spread knees. Behind the glass, someone muttered *elevate dosage*—the words slurred with fascination—before a fresh wave of pheromones choked the air.
His other hand abandoned his dick to claw uselessly at the tile as the finger inside him curled once, twice, relentless. His hole clenched around nothing when it withdrew abruptly, leaving him gaping—until two fingers plunged back in, scissoring him open with clinical precision. Simon’s back arched off the floor, muscles straining against the shocks that pinned him in place.
A third finger joined without warning, stretching him obscenely wide. His stomach muscles fluttered, his dick twitching against the air, drooling thick strings of precum. The fingers twisted deeper, dragging a rough groan from his throat as his body jerked forward—chasing the intrusion. His reflection in the glass showed spit smeared across his cheek, his lips swollen from biting back noises.
The fingers crooked inside him, relentless, and Simon’s thighs spasmed like a dying animal’s. His dick pulsed untouched, the head flushed an angry red, veins standing stark under the fluorescents. Someone behind the glass cleared their throat—bored, impatient—as the fingers sped up, the wet slap of skin echoing louder than his choked whimpers. His ass clenched around nothing when they withdrew, leaving him twitching and empty.
Then his own hand—god, *his hand*—jerked back without warning, fingers glistening with spit before plunging two knuckles deep into his hole. Simon’s scream shredded into a wet gasp as his hips pistoned forward, fucking himself on his fist like a toy. The choker vibrated approval against his windpipe, its hum syncing with the brutal rhythm of his fingers driving in and out. Precum oozed down his shaft, pooling in the crease of his thigh.
His free hand clamped around his dick, violently pumping so fast he feared he would tear his manhood off. The slap of skin echoed off the sterile walls—wet, obscene—as his thumb swiped over the leaking head on every upstroke. Behind the glass, chairs scraped closer; someone muttered *remarkable vascular engorgement* under their breath. Simon’s vision tunneled, his body a live wire thrashing between his own hands and the choker’s electric dictates.
The scent of sweat and musk clogged the air, mingling with the chemical sweetness still pumping from his choker. His thighs trembled violently, toes curling against the tile as his hole clenched around nothing when his fingers withdrew abruptly. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose, hanging suspended for a breath before splattering onto his chest.
Simon’s jaw locked, teeth grinding as he tried to wrench his hands away—just one inch, one fucking inch—but his fingers only plunged deeper, twisting inside him with clinical precision. His reflection in the glass was monstrous—mouth slack, pupils blown—as his free hand fisted his dick so hard his balls drew up tight against his body. The choker pulsed *more-more-more*, vibrating approval down his spine, and his hips bucked forward like a marionette jerked taut by its strings.
Muscles he didn’t know existed snapped tight—inner thighs, lower gut—before unraveling all at once. His release hit like a seizure, white-hot and violent, his dick spitting thick, milky ropes of cum across his chest and chin. The scent of salt and iron flooded his nose as his cum pooled in the hollow of his throat, dripping down to mingle with the sweat gluing him to the tile. Behind the glass, someone exhaled sharply—*fascinating*—their breath fogging the observation window.
III
Simon’s fingers stayed buried inside himself even as his body convulsed, toes curling against the cold floor like claws. His hole pulsed around his own knuckles, greedy and spasming, milking nothing as his hips jerked through the aftershocks. The choker vibrated—data collection, probably—its hum syncing with the rapid-fire twitches of his oversensitive dick. A bead of cum slid off his nipple, landing with a wet plop near his knee.
The scent hit him first—cloying jasmine and something metallic, flooding his sinuses until his mouth watered. Then the heat followed: waves of it, radiating through the glass in pulses that matched the lab techs’ heartbeats. He could *taste* their sweat in the back of his throat, could feel the exact moment the woman in the third row shifted in her seat—her thighs pressing together under crisp white lab coat fabric. Simon whimpered, his spent cock twitching feebly against his stomach.
The choker pulsed—once, twice—and suddenly Simon’s spine straightened without his permission, his limbs rearranging themselves with eerie precision. His left hand lifted palm-up, fingers splayed exactly 47 degrees apart—just like the first time they’d measured his grip span. His right knee hit the tile at the perfect 90-degree angle, the bruise from earlier blossoming fresh purple where it kissed cold linoleum. Behind the glass, a dozen pens scratched in unison as his body became their living blueprint.
Sweat dripped into Simon’s eye as his hips rolled forward—same shallow arc, same trembling hesitation—replicating the exact moment his cock had first betrayed him. The choker’s vibration synced with his pulse now, each thrum rewriting his nerves like an editor slashing through a manuscript. His tongue darted out to wet his lips on cue, the salt of his own skin tasting like data points. Someone murmured *note the pupil dilation* as his dick twitched back to half-mast, obedient as a metronome.
His fingers—no, *their* fingers—duplicated the exploratory press against his hole, the initial resistance, the way his body had clenched before yielding. Simon’s breath hitched in perfect unison with the recording playing through the choker’s bone conduction speakers, the sound of his own choked gasp echoing inside his skull. A pen tapped against glass in time with his prostate being grazed, the rhythm clinical, unhurried. His thighs trembled at 23.4 degrees of spread—measured, optimal—as his reflection performed its humiliating pantomime behind the glass.
The choker’s subsonic pulse reset his nervous system like a clock wound backward. Simon’s back arched at the precise angle of his first involuntary thrust, his hips stuttering forward to recreate the exact moment precum had first beaded on his tip. Heat bloomed across his collarbones in a perfect replica of earlier flush patterns while sensors embedded in the floor tracked the microscopic twitches of his overstimulated dick. Behind the glass, a gloved hand adjusted a dial; his anus clenched around nothing at the specified pressure, a wet click echoing in the sterile air.
His tongue lolled out to retrace the path of spit that had dripped down his chin during climax, every muscle fiber firing in identical sequence. The observers leaned closer as his right hand—guided by some invisible puppeteer—jerked his softening cock through the same twelve-stroke pattern that had milked him dry. Simon’s pupils dilated on cue when the playback reached the prostate massage, his hole winking obscenely in sync with the archived footage projected onto the wall behind him. Someone murmured *neural plasticity exceeds projections* as his left index finger twitched toward his asshole like a compass needle finding north.
The choker’s next pulse sent Simon’s body into hyperlapse—his thighs snapping shut, then spreading wide in rapid succession like a zoetrope flipping through frames of degradation. His hips pistoned at quarter-speed, then triple-time, reverse-engineered to isolate which angle had wrung the loudest whimper from his throat. Behind the glass, a technician adjusted dials with latex-clad fingers, elongating Simon’s moans into grotesque, slow-motion warbles that made his own skin crawl. His dick stiffened against the cold air at the exact moment the playback reached his third involuntary erection, neural pathways overwritten like a cassette tape recording over its own screams.
Simon’s fingers—still glistening with spit—jammed back inside himself with the same clinical precision as before, but now the motion stuttered like buffering video. His hole fluttered around knuckles at half-speed, then spasmed in double-time as the choker’s algorithm pinpointed the exact millisecond his resistance had crumpled. Precum leaked in stop-motion droplets from his tip, each bead hovering mid-air for a surreal second before splattering onto his thigh in perfect sync with the archived footage playing on overhead monitors. Someone coughed—a dry, statistical sound—as Simon’s tongue lolled out to recreate the exact angle of his climax-slackened jaw.
