Glalia

All of that over nothing! That can’t be true, that can’t be how I end! What have I done to deserve this?

That was what I kept thinking as I was installed into my final resting place. I didn’t do anything. What triggered my eventual demise was just an “inappropriate stare” I gave to the female guardian who was torturing my balls while I suffocated in my former cell.

The truth is I was just unlucky. It was a dumb excuse. I guess the guardian really hated how dumb I looked while getting kicked in the balls. The prison did have a place, hidden from everyone, not mentioned in any records—a place internally called the rehabilitation cell. There were only three of them in the prison, and their goal was to give a new purpose to prisoners by giving us a chance of being helpful to society and getting a new occupation.

How I ended up here wasn’t unlike many others before me. A few hours after the “incident,” I was ungagged and given a stool to rest on while a guard asked me to join the new rehabilitation program. I was out of options, unable to produce a coherent thought, and seduced by the idea that my situation could improve. I agreed with enthusiasm.

That was when I saw the grim, sadistic smile on the guard’s face before he knocked me out cold. I didn’t really have a choice anyway—the prison was just happy to say the rehabilitation cell inmates were there "by their own will."

After what felt like hours or maybe days, I woke up in what seemed like a box. It wasn’t closed, so I had a view of the ceiling, and I felt it moving at a steady pace. I was being transported—but I didn’t feel any pain in my limbs, and I wasn’t bound? Maybe there really was a better situation waiting for me!

So I tried sitting up to get a view of my new cell, tears of relief forming in my eyes. But something was wrong. I couldn’t sit up. In fact, I couldn’t move my shoulders or thighs at all. Only my torso moved.

That’s when I looked around and realized the box was very small—too small for my full body unless I was restrained. I checked my arms...

And my heart sank.

I felt my guts twist with dread. I was missing my arms. I looked further—and realized I was missing my legs too. Why? Why did they do that? I was supposed to get a second chance, to rejoin society after a few years of labor, right?

Instead, I had been stripped of all agency over my body. I was reduced to a wiggling nugget. I looked around, trying to see how to escape this box, or understand what awaited me. I noticed I was now in a yellow latex suit, marked with a biohazard symbol on the belly. And on my chest, where my prisoner ID used to be, now were only two words that made my blood run cold:

“Shit tank.”

I didn’t even have time to panic before I reached my final destination. Four arms lifted me from the box. I saw a damp, tiny room. A glass tank occupied most of the vertical space. Piping systems ran along the ceiling. One of the pipes was clearly meant to connect to the tank, but the connection was missing.

It didn’t take long to understand—the missing segment... was me.

I struggled, screamed, shouted—but I only had about ten seconds. I was swiftly plugged by the ass to the tank, and the upper pipe was shoved down my throat so deep it triggered my gag reflex, making me vomit instantly.

But the hood that wrapped around my head left no holes for me to breathe through my nose.

Struggling for air, I realized the only way to survive was to swallow my own vomit—which I did. Misery overtook me in less than a minute of being installed.

I could breathe again—but the rancid air, even through my mouth, told me exactly what this pipe was connected to. I was, as labeled, a shit tank.

I cried. I screamed. I looked at the guards with pleading eyes—but they were already gone. I saw them activate an info panel while others began walling me in with bricks and cement.

I was utterly doomed.

A few minutes after I was properly sealed in, I heard a sound from the pipes. I knew what was coming. I cried even harder and tried to focus on my good memories. I thought about Edgar—was he going through this too? Was my family okay after the trial? And that girl I used to talk to online, the one I did RP with and sent lewd pics to... I’d never see her in real life, would I?

But no time to cry.

An even more putrid taste suddenly poured through the pipe into my mouth, the flow fast and relentless. It didn’t stop. How was I supposed to breathe? I gagged, choked, and writhed in agony. My belly swelled almost instantly. How much filth had I already consumed for it to do that?

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. I could only endure.

Two minutes without air. I reached my absolute limit.

I was sure this was an execution. That I’d die filled to the brim with shit, my belly bursting, my brain fading…

But then it stopped. The flow interrupted, and as I was passing out, a small breath of air filled my lungs. I survived? Maybe it was a test? Maybe they’d let me go?

No.

Now liquid burst from the other pipe—piss, even worse than the shit, entering with an even stronger flow. I choked harder, my belly inflating further. The pain was unbearable. I nearly passed out again from lack of air.

And once again, it stopped just before death.

Then, something strange—a small trickle of liquid, unlike the filth before. It tasted like medicine—bitter, synthetic. I swallowed it to breathe. The pipes were silent. Was that it for today?

But then my belly started to gurgle.

Something was wrong.

The pipe above made its sound again. The cycle was restarting.

But how? I was already filled to the brim!

Then I realized what the medication had done.

Suddenly, an explosion of waste burst from my ass—I was shitting myself violently. My bladder emptied in a torrent of piss so strong it made my glans hurt.

This... this wasn’t an event.

This was my new routine.

I screamed in despair as the flow came back. Liters of piss, tons of shit, always on the brink of asphyxiation, and diarrhea non-stop. That was my fate.

That last scream was the final sound I ever made.

And so ended my story as a sentient being, now locked in a perpetual waste-guzzling and diarrhea cycle. With only twenty minutes of sleep a day.

At least I was now helpful to society—a proper waste-processing unit.

All of that... for a bad bet.

Remember folks—don’t gamble.