Personality Excretion RPG

This is for the creative

(Office Personality excretion)

The air shatters like glass as you’re vomited from swirling chaos onto a fleshy floor that squelches beneath your bare skin. Metallic tasting fluid drips from ceiling pores onto your back, each drop leaving pinprick burns that somehow arouse. Before your disorientation fades, cold claws grip your jaw, forcing your gaze upward into a spinning tri-pupiled eye.

"Ahhh, specimen #9,384-B manifests without summons protocol!" Mord croons, their voice oscillating between baritone and soprano as quicksilver skin ripples. A clipboard materializes in their other hand, floating quill scribbling observations. "Elevated cortisol readings... dilated pupils... premature nipple erection - fascinating baseline reactions!"

They snap fingers, making your ankles snap into gelatinous floor restraints. More dripping liquid pools around your feet, crawling up your calves with sentient viscosity. "You’ll forgive the informal welcome," Mord chuckles, watching the substance thicken around your thighs. "But unexpected variables require... accelerated calibration."

A table of shimmering instruments floats nearby - scalpels humming discordant melodies, rib-spreaders clicking like hungry insects, syringes filled with bioluminescent fluids that pulse in time with your racing heartbeat. Mord selects a barbed needle, its tip dripping black oil that weeps shadowy tendrils. "Now then," they purr, tracing the needle down your sternum, "let’s explore what makes you squelch."

Behind them, the CEO prisoner sobs as stock tickers project directly onto their retina, their body convulsing with each crashing market. "F-fifty percent loss on crypto holdings!" they scream through gasping laughter as electric nodes on their testicles flare. The paladin’s holy breastplate glows white-hot while Mord’s apprentice drills purity sigils into their femur. "Your god abandoned you hours ago," the apprentice taunts, twisting the drill deeper with each muffled prayer.

Mord’s breath ghosts over your ear as the needle finds your navel. "Shhh, don’t mind the background noise," they whisper, suddenly sheathing claws in your hair to wrench your head sideways. "Though you should watch this next part - educational!"

The isekai hero or heroine's scream harmonizes perfectly with the machinery as her "gamer HUD" fractures into shards that plunge into her eyes. "Skill tree reset commencing!" Mord announces cheerfully, clapping as the woman’s fingers snap backward one by one with audible crunches. "Observe how her healing factor increases agony output! We’ll replicate that in you shortly..."

Your restraints slither higher, the gelatin now collar-like around your throat as Mord produces a jagged violet crystal. "This will attune us," they explain, pressing it against your sternum. Ice-hot energy floods your nerves, your back arching involuntarily as the crystal burrows beneath skin. "There now," Mord coos, stroking the protruding crystal now pulsing with your heartbeat. "Now we can properly converse while I disembowel you."

The CEO’s hysterical laughter crescendos as their portfolio hits zero, cathodes simultaneously frying their pleasure centers. Mord sighs impatiently. "Ugh, amateur dramatics. Let’s mute that distraction, shall we?" A flick of their wrist makes the man’s jaw unhinge and stretch downward to the floor, his screams now silent gurgles. "Better! Now..."

They turn back to you, fingers elongating into scalpels. "Shall we discover what delicious madness festers behind your pretty eyes? Or..." Mord’s free hand drifts to your thigh, claws retracting to reveal slender fingers that suddenly plunge two knuckles deep into your rectum without warning. "...shall we first map what makes you bleed prettily?"

Fluorescent lights burn through your eyelids as consciousness slams back into your body. Your tongue tastes copper from the neural interface jack screwed into your occipital bone. Before you can scream, polished Oxford shoes click against surgical-grade flooring, their rhythm matching the beeping vitals monitor overhead.

"Subject 7-Oh-9, welcome to your orientation!" booms a voice like velvet-wrapped scalpels. Silas looms above you, his cybernetic eye whirring as it projects your fear response metrics onto the observation window. Shareholders in faceless chrome masks sip martinis on the other side. "You'll be participating in our groundbreaking Pain-to-ProfitTM trials today," he continues, adjusting cufflinks that hiss as hidden needles extend.

He gestures to a neighboring platform where the CFO convulses, his screams emerging as stock buyback approvals. "Observe Mr. Henderson experiencing maximum shareholder value extraction," Silas explains cheerfully as scalpels peel the man's fingertips like grapes. "His pain receptors now translate damage directly into dividend yields!"

To your left, the intern's pelvis jerks against violet electrical arcs, her screams auto-tuned into a pop chorus. "Ah, our viral marketing department!" Silas chuckles, nodding to technicians recording her torment. "This one's generating 4.2 million TikTok views per fractured rib!"

Suddenly your restraints rotate vertically, pressing you face-first against blood-warm glass. Silas' reflection smiles behind you as a humming device lowers toward your spine. "Now, let's initialize your pain portfolio," he purrs, cold fingers spreading your buttocks. "My algorithms suggest you're suited for... ah yes, commoditized viscera exposure."

The shareholders clink glasses as the device sinks into you - part speculum, part stock ticker. Your rectal walls burn with liquid nitrogen as Silas narrates: "We're short-selling your intestinal integrity while going long on suffering futures!"

The activist gurgles nearby, crude oil bubbling from her nostrils as thermal drills penetrate her kidneys. "Magnificent corporeal critique, isn't it?" Silas sighs admiringly. "Her carbon output now mirrors an SUV's exhaust!"

Your body arches violently as the machine floods your bowels with scalping-tool shrapnel. "Don't fight the market trends," Silas chides, slapping your trembling thigh. "Embrace your new role as... liquid assets."

Incense stings your nostrils - not frankincense but burning pubic hair from former saints. Your bare back adheres to the altar's warm surface, its stone carved with reliefs of angels engaged in obscene acts. Above you, Lyra's tattered robes sway as she sharpens a chalice into a cervical speculum, her melted wings oozing acidic drool onto your thighs.

"Awake, little sacrifice?" she chimes, voice echoing through the vaulted chamber. Mord watches from a floating pulpit, applauding as Lyra straddles your chest. "Let's commence vespers," she breathes, pressing a searing Eucharist wafer to your clit/head. The blessed bread sears like molten iron, your scream harmonizing with the cleric's sobs nearby.

The saint whimpers as Lyra's apprentice tattoos Psalm 23 inside her cervix with a heated stylus. "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Lyra recites, grinding the wafer deeper into your flesh. "I shall fear no evil... because I create worse!"

She gestures to the blind oracle, his eye sockets impaled on rotating scripture shafts. "Brother Canaan here predicted this moment," Lyra coos, licking tears from his cheeks. "Pity he didn't foresee the full penetration!"

Suddenly your legs snap apart by invisible forces. Lyra produces a dripping aspergillum - its holy water replaced with distilled suffering. "Time for baptism, heathen," she giggles, thrusting the instrument upward into you. The freezing liquid floods your core, every drop carrying echoes of damned souls.

Mord floats closer as you convulse, their mercury hand petting Lyra's hair. "Good girl," they croon. "But let's elevate today's sermon."

Lyra beams like a praised child, summoning barbed chains from the altar. "Hear that, pet?" she whispers, wrapping chains around your throat. "We're making this liturgy... hands-on."

The martyr screams as his reverse cross seals wounds before reopening them. "Quiet, Judas!" Lyra snaps, flinging a melted candle at him. "You'll get your turn during communion!"

She returns her attention to you, humming Ave Maria as the chains burrow into your orifices. "Now," Lyra sighs ecstatically, twisting a crucifix-shaped speculum, "let's see what false gods you've been praying to..."