You’re lying in your cage when the sprinklers turn on. You used to jump at the cold, but that was a long time ago.
The water stops. You open the door and crawl, dripping, out of your dog cage. The voice of the hive is in your ear. It demands that you assume the position. It is a good thing you’re already on your hands and knees.
You grovel from one corner to another with your head down and your buttocks waving. The hive commands and you sit. You kneel. You roll over, and you beg. The hive wants you limber. The hive wants you wide-awake.
The hive also wants to remind you of your place, but you already knew that.
After ten minutes of crawling and reviewing your slave positions you kneel in front of the dildo on the wall. As you take it in your mouth, your lips push it backward. There’s a click as a valve opens and you get your first drink of the day.
Greetings, Subject 19. Welcome to the Project. Since this is your eleventh session we can skip the usual briefing and trigger entrenchment.
Sit down. Close you eyes. I’m going to count to ten and your mind is going to go quiet. Imagine a volume control knob. Imagine it turning backward as I count to ten.
One.
Two.
Three.
The world has gone quiet.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
My voice fills your head.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
You just felt a *click.* Very good. Your mind should be free of unnecessary thoughts.
Now I’m going to count to ten again. This time you’re going to feel my hands fitting you with restraints. First the collar, then the cuffs, then the ankle cuffs. With each one that we buckle onto you, your body will grow heavier and more relaxed.
One.
Two.
The collar settles onto your neck.
Three.
Four.
That’s the right wrist-cuff.
Five.
Six.
That’s the left wrist-cuff.
Seven.
Eight.
There’s the right ankle-cuff.
Nine.
Ten.
There’s the left ankle-cuff.
As the last restraint is buckled on you feel a door open in your mind. You are a part of the Project. You have *always* been a part of The Project. You may not normally be aware of this in your current life, but you are Subject 19. You have always been Subject 19. And you belong to the Project.
I will count to ten. Picture yourself standing in front of a mirror. You know which the mirror. Your reflection will be somewhat different at first, and growing more different as we count closer to ten. I will count to ten. And you will remember.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
And ten.
You step through the mirror.
You are sleeping when the lights and sprinklers turn on. You used to bruise yourself against the bars when this happened, but now you know not to.
You still gasp. The water is like ice on your skin. When the sprinklers shut off, you unlock the cage door and climb out, the water running down your hair and your piercings.
The hive speaks to you now. You can only obey.
You pad around the room on your hands and knees. The floor close to the walls is soft, rubberised. You keep your head down but you know when you’ve reached a corner. You know when you need to offer your sex, or offer your mouth, or debase yourself like an animal. You start to warm up as you crawl. You feel the heat start between your legs. You aren’t wearing a chastity belt, but you couldn’t touch yourself if you tried.
Ten minutes of crawling. Ten minutes of kneeling and presenting your holes. The hive releases you and you crouch. You take the water dispenser in your mouth.
The house is larger than you need. But then, you almost never go outside. Cleaning the house gives you something to do.
Today you’re scrubbing the floors. On your knees, naturally. The hive would never permit you to use a mop. You scrub everything by hand. The weights swing from your nipples as you creep along the floor.
The hive tells you that you missed a spot. You feel a stab of discomfort as the hive voices its disapproval. The hive sees everything. And why shouldn’t it? There are cameras and microphones everywhere.
The hive does not get tired.
The hive does not get bored.
It barks a command and you scrub faster. Faster. The hive has a schedule for you and you do *not* want to be punished.
The last time you were slow with the chores, the hive made you scrub the entire house with a brush gag. Your neck was sore for days.
You’re doing pushups, and every time you lower yourself you take a dildo into your mouth. It took practice, but now it is a single smooth movement. You dip down, breathe in, and suck the phallus to its base. You ought to be proud.
You push off and the dildo slides out between your lips. A little thread of spit connects you to the phallus, then is gone. You reach the top of the movement and start back down.
You don’t know how many more of these you have to do. The hive keeps count. The hive tells you when to stop. It knows your limits better than you do. Many times it has pushed — pushed you until your arms shook and your breath burned inside your lungs. You thought you would collapse, but the hive spoke to you, and you kept going. You keep going even now. You do it for the hive.
You pour your breakfast out of the blender and into the dog dish on the floor. This is your one meal for the day and you are looking forward to it.
The mush is nutritious — you’ve eaten little else for the past three years — but it has almost no taste or texture. You eat it on your knees, with your eyes closed and your hands behind your back. A clumsy position, to be sure, but now it comes to you as easily as sucking cock.
You’ve forgotten how to eat with knife and fork. Your lips and tongue are all you need to lap up your food. A lot of it still ends up on your cheeks and jaw, but that’s the idea. Only people can eat without making a mess. Slave-animals can’t help but get it on their faces.
The hive is speaking to you. You are not supposed to enjoy your food so it reminds you of your shortcomings. You’re still too fat, it tells you. You’re still too thin. Both things are true because the hive says they are true. Your arms are flabby and your hip bones stick out. Your dancing is sloppy and your cocksucking lacks endurance.
It’s true. It’s all true. Tears run down your face and the mush begins to taste of salt. The hive laughs at your humiliation. You feel a stab of pleasure at the fact that it knows you so well.
You position yourself over the squat toilet and empty yourself. You have no fetishes in this area, so the hive is silent. It allows you to finish. It allows you to clean yourself.
The shower is another matter. Like the room with the dog cage, the water is not under your control. The hive can blast it at you from any direction, as hot or as cold as it likes.
You soap yourself on your knees. The hive tells you where your hands should go. It makes you start at your crotch and it makes you return there now and again. You scrub your arms slowly, gently, turning right and left for the benefit of the cameras.
The water turns on. *The water is freezing* You yelp but the hive tells you to be quiet. You were not soaping yourself sensuously enough. This is your punishment.
The shower turns off. A phallus mounted on the wall squirts liquid soap all over you. The hive commands you to start over.
Clean, dry, but still naked, you find yourself chaining your nipple rings to your workstation, which hangs from the ceiling like a spider made of TV screens.
You set down the exercise ball and screw yourself onto the built-in phallus. You start to feel uncomfortably full. You have to bend over to chain up your ankle cuffs. This tugs at your nipples, but it is all part of the plan.
You lock chains onto your wrist cuffs. The chains are loose, but they constantly remind you of your place even as you do the work of the hive. Next, you buckle on a combination headset-and-harness-gag. The headset allows you to hear when others speak. The gag allows you to drool all over your chest.
You start up the computer. You take hold of the dildo that serves as your joystick. You log into the hive.
This is the hive: millions of submissives chained up in attics and basements across the world. By yourselves you are only human. Together you are something more competent.
There is a story about a country fair where people were invited to guess the weight of a cow. The answers varied greatly, but their average was surprisingly accurate. And it became more accurate the more people volunteered.
There is another story, a common one, of a group of friends using an ouija board to call up someone, anyone, and having a conversation with what seemed to be another person. It didn’t matter whether this person ever existed. Imaginary people could talk just fine.
The hive is a swarm intelligence of unrivalled coordination and size. And it is the perfect master. The hive never gets tired. The hive never gets bored. The hive never goes too far, or not far enough. The hive knows you better than you know *anything*. And it gives you what you need.
As you sit there, slowly bouncing on the phallus, you look in on your fellow slaves. You see that one needs punishment. You see that one needs pleasure. *You* choose the punishment and the pleasure. It is the only time you are permitted to make decisions. Your actions combine with the actions of others and together they inform the hive. Not one of you speaks, but a computerized voice speaks for you all.
You grow thirsty: your harness-gag dispenses water. Your bladder grows full and you empty it where you sit. Hot urine patters down your legs and puddles onto the bare concrete. It flows into the drain.
You do the work of the hive. There is always much to do. Some of it relates to your previous life, your previous career. In this way does the hive sustain itself.
The hive releases you and you stand up. The hive barks a command and you settle back onto your knees. Once again you are just a lowly slave.
But you have been good today. You feel a thrill in your belly as the hive speaks. Tonight you will sleep in a bed. Tonight, you will orgasm.
The bed has an elastic strap at each corner. The hive commands you to attach them to your wrist- and ankle-cuffs.
*Subject 19, do as the hive commands. I will relay its instructions.*
I will count to ten and you will remember how you clipped the straps to your wrists and ankles. The straps are thick and short: you have to strain to move them.
One.
Two.
That’s the left leg-cuff. The strap pulls your leg straight.
Three.
Four.
That’s the right leg-cuff. Now both your legs are spread wide.
Five.
Six.
That’s the left wrist-cuff. The strap starts pulling your arm to the corner and you have to force it to stay in place.
Seven.
Eight.
That’s the right wrist-cuff. Now the bed is pulling on all four limbs.
Nine.
Ten.
You relax and the straps pull you into a spread-eagle position. Now try touching your genitals. It’s not easy, is it? You can touch yourself, but the straps keep forcing your hands away.
*Subject 19, touch yourself.*
Now I’m going to count to twenty, slave, and you’re going to start masturbating for me. I’m going to count slowly, but you are not to cum until I give you permission. I’m going to count to twenty and you’re going to think back on the day you’ve just had.
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
You keep touching yourself. It feels so good, even if you have to fight the straps.
Four . . .
Five . . .
Six . . .
You remember waking up and crawling. Crawling and presenting your body.
Seven . . .
Eight . . .
Nine . . .
You remember scrubbing the floors on your hands and knees. Naked, in your own house, and watched from every angle by thousands of people.
Ten . . .
Eleven . . .
Twelve . . .
You remember eating from the floor like an animal, because you *are* an animal. You can still feel that mush all over your face.
Thirteen . . .
Fourteen . . .
Fifteen . . .
You remember bouncing on the exercise ball, feeling the dildo push and flex inside your ass. You remember dominating your fellow slaves at a distance.
Sixteen . . .
Seventeen . . .
Eighteen . . .
You can still see their bodies bucking and twisting at your command.
Nineteen . . .
Twenty . . .
You’re so close now. You look up — and there is a mirror over the bed. You see yourself, and you are beautiful. Years of slavery and forced exercise have been good to you.
Now every muscle is straining against the straps. Your arms are shaking. You legs are rigid. You’re gasping, and there’s sweat on your face as you fight your elastic bondage. You are so close, it feels *so good*, but I will not allow you to cum until you’ve said the words. Repeat after me: “I am a slave.”
*I am a slave.*
Again! “I am a slave.”
*I am a slave.*
Louder this time. “I am a slave!”
*I am a slave!*
That’s a good little thrall. Now you may cum. Cum all over your hands, and the bed, and yourself. Cum for me and cum for the project.
Very good, Subject 19. We have received your memories of that alternate world. They currently await analysis. You may step through the mirror and return to yourself. I will count to ten and remove your restraints. When I reach ten, you will wake up feeling refreshed.
One.
Two.
That’s the right leg-cuff taken off.
Three.
Four.
That’s the left leg-cuff taken off.
Five.
Six.
That’s the right wrist-cuff.
Seven.
Eight.
There’s the left wrist-cuff.
Nine.
Ten.
There! No more collar for you. But don’t be surprised if you feel its weight from time to time. Remember, you belong to the Project.
. . . which means you belong to *me.*
Wake up.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6ksrtl/the_hive_any_orientation_bdsm_fantasy