The Slave Processing Pod - Surrender

By Jason Carcione

Published on Dec 18, 2024

Gay

Summary: Slave SV198742 falls into a rhythm, and begins to lose its identity.

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I was learning the routine, and getting punished less each day. Gradually the voice started giving me smaller orders. Simple things--"Stand up." "Sit down." "Look left." "Breathe deeply." The voice never asked for much--simple tasks, like drinking water. The routines it set out gave me something to focus on. In the confines of the chair, those routines made the hours pass faster. The rhythm of it, the predictability of the commands--it gave me a sense of purpose.

"Stop thinking," it commanded one day as I shut down for the night. I did, my mind went vacant, without question. Soon, it wasn't just about tasks. The voice started guiding my thoughts. It wasn't just about standing or sitting--it was about how I thought. How I felt.

"Don't think about your past. Focus on the now," it told me.

For the first time in a long time, I found myself able to push aside my memories and regrets. The voice dulled their sharp edges, like a smooth stone skipping across water. I let it happen. Let the voice take over. It was easier that way.

The line between my thoughts and the voice had blurred. They were no longer distinct. I thought, and the voice thought with me. It was just... there.

Weeks turned into months. Months into years. The world outside grew more distant. The voice was all I had left. It was the only thing that gave me stability and purpose.

It told me when to sleep. I slept. It told me to stare ahead thinking of nothing. I did.

Think. Focus. Don't resist.

The road work detail felt different. There was something about the harsh sunlight and the smell of tar that felt... foreign. But the voice was still there. The voice was always there.

"Work. Focus," it said. "Dig. Dig deeper. Don't stop. Focus."

I didn't think twice. The rhythm of it was almost mechanical. The sharp scrape of the shovel against the asphalt felt comforting in a strange way--steady, predictable. It was work, and the voice told me how to do it. Where to dig. How deep. When to stop and rest.

The sun beat down, making the heat rise off the pavement in waves, but the voice was clear. It told me to dig through the hot tar, to position my body just right, to ignore the pain in my arms.

"Don't think about the heat. Don't think about the sweat. Just work."

I kept working, digging, moving with the same rhythm, the same precision.

"Good. Keep going. You are doing well. Focus."

The hours stretched on. I didn't know how long we'd been out there, but it didn't matter. Time didn't matter anymore. There was only the road, and the work, and the voice that kept me going. It was my guide, my reason for moving.

By the time we were done for the day, the sun was low on the horizon. The road was patched, smooth again in places, rough in others. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't matter. It was just another task completed.

I felt no sense of accomplishment. No pride in the work. Only emptiness. The road stretched out behind me, a long, paved path. It didn't mean anything to me anymore. It was just another order followed, another instruction carried out.

"Rest now. You did well. Tomorrow, we begin again."

Back in my chair, The voice didn't stop. It never stopped.

It had become part of me. And I, it.

"Think. Focus. Don't resist."

I obeyed. Always.


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