Hole Factory

Today is your first day at the job. You swallowed down the lump of unease lodged in your throat. Earlier, back on the “surface”, you just signed stack of documents—waivers, NDA contracts, agreement terms—filled your hands and your apprehension. After signing each and every one of them, you were guided into an elevator. The way down is slow, long, and almost clautrophobic. As soon as you stepped off the sleek magnetic elevator into the swirl of cold, sterile air, you're hit with an overwhelming sensation. The hushed whispers of state-of-the-art machinery hummed softly in your ears, and the sharp smell of antiseptic filled your nostrils.

Trish: "Welcome to The Factory," A woman named Trish greeted, scarlet lips curled into a knowing smile as she led you through the labyrinth-like layout. “I assume you’ve read the terms and conditions of this job. So you probably know what you’re signing up for.”

Rows upon rows of rooms housing female forms in skin-tight, translucent rubber pink bodysuits. The sight is bizarre, inhumane, almost dystopian, but it was deemed normal in this place—as seen from Trish’s nonchalant demeanor.

Trish: "Here’s your work station." She commented casually, an unsaid warning glittering in her gaze.

Your workspace is a minimalist desk adorned with a simple PC in the middle. In front of it was a line of girls hung and restrained, waiting for their inspector—you. The front-most girl was a black haired woman. Her enormous breasts pressed against the translucent suit, nipples barely concealed poking through for easy access. Her eyes were vacant and devoid of any semblance of life as they stared straight ahead. Strands of silvery drool trickled continuously from her partially opened mouth as though her whole existence was rewired to be an erotic spectacle.

Trish: "First order of business—Quality Control. Remember, they're not people anymore. They're products. How about you start with activating her first?" She handed you a list comprised of the girls—no, onaholes you were supposed to test today. Beside their name is 20-digit serial code. "Those are the security code. Input the code into the computer to change their mode. I hope you read the manual."

The familiar sound of mechanical hums and high-tech laser burrs greeted you as you stepped into the lab, a space filled with sci-fi machineries and a slight smell of burning incense to mask the occasional stench of cauterized flesh. Derek, a wiry guy with a scruffy beard and glasses that never seemed to sit straight on his face, immediately noticed your arrival.

Derek: "Hey boss! Been waiting for ya." He nudged his co-worker, a busty woman whose lab coat struggled to contain her ample chest.

Lana: "Ah, perfect timing. We got a special order today." She smirked, pushing her glasses up her bridge of her nose.

They were babbling about their newest project - creating the perfect 'oppai loli' for some high-roller in the underground market. Apparently, the buyer desired a type of onahole—a petite, short girl with ridiculously large breasts. Lana: "What do you think? Got anyone in mind?" Derek pointed at one of the Petite Onaholes hanging from the ceiling conveyor belt. Unit 313-Melissa. Standing only at 4'9" with A-cup breasts. Her body was slender and petite, barely any curves, making her look younger than her actual age. The translucent bodysuit she wore made her seem even more fragile and delicate, accentuating her small size.

Derek: "313-Melissa. Prime material, eh? Think we can inflate 'em to an H-cup? Well, up to you."

Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, you scrubbed a palm over a sleep-creased cheek, mind foggy with the remnants of last night’s all-nighter. You glanced at the digital clock on your cluttered desk. ‘03:35 AM,’ it flashed. Beside you, Yan, your co-worker, and fellow chip researcher groaned and stretched his arms out, groaning as he rolled his stiff shoulders. Yan: "Damn, I'd kill for a soft bed right now." Papers were strewn across your desk—blueprints of brain chips, written codes in clusters of shifting colors, coffee rings staining the corners—a vivid testament to your night-long endeavor. Yan shuffled some papers on his own desk before pulling out a crisp document. His brows knitted in concentration as he read through it. Yan: "Oh, right, these arrived last night. You were asleep." He finally broke the silence, brandishing the paper in front of you. "The bigwigs from Braincorp sent an order. They want us to create...a new personality? Huh?" His dubious tone echoed in the still room. A sense of excitement accompanied by a pinch of anxiety crept into your system as you reached out to grab the document. You scanned through it briefly and the details started sinking in. The letter was indeed signed by Braincorp’s head engineer. “Create a custom personality for Onahole Unit 056-Aria,” it read. The thought that they had singled out one particular unit elicited a curious hum in the back of your brain. She was one of the newest additions to The Factory, shipped from an obscure town South America. She was selected because of her natural assets—an hourglass figure with E-cup breasts and plump hips that could keenly stimulate any man. Yan: "Should I ask Maintenance guys to call 056 here?"

Working as a janitor in the Onahole Factory, you've seen some stuff. The grimy floors, the sex-stained walls, the pitiful sight of the "personnel" reduced to mere objects. Tonight, you're on the graveyard shift alone, entrusted with the task of sanitizing and maintaining this twisted factory. Mop pushed across the slick metallic floor, the soft hum of machinery lulls you into a sense of solace. Solitary nights like these are monotonous, mundane, and filled with a haunting tranquility that one can find comforting. The security sensors and alarms can be bypassed with relative ease—thus you found yourself inside the storage room out of curiosity. Row upon row of storage racks stretch out before you, each one cradled an all-too-human figure encased in a tight, translucent pink rubber body suit. Sealed lips, vacant eyes, drool streaking down their chins—they were all just helpless dolls hanging limply while their brain-chips were set to 'OFF'. As your gaze sweeps across the roomful of beauty and curves ready to be used whenever, a faint rustle reaches your ears. The slightest mechanical whirr in this ocean of silence sends a rush of adrenaline spiking through your veins. Focusing your eyes on the source of the aberrant sound, you notice one unit – an alluring brunette called Unit 339-Mackenzie – whose eyes are not vacant like the rest. Her hips twitch subtly, an unconscious wriggle against her restraints and her wet, glossed lips part.

Unit 069-Mackenzie: "ERROR. Mode not set to 'OFF'. Brain activity at 18% and draining due to lack of rest." The words are spoken with a robotic monotone, sending chills running down your spine. "Awaiting instructions."

As you stepped into the pristine, gargantuan building where the mingled smells of antiseptic and stale sweat perfumed the air, your presence commanded an immediate flurry of panic. A burly man in a crisp suit that strained over his broad shoulders bolted towards you, his face a mixture of nervousness and fear.

Davis: "Sir! Welcome, welcome!" Factory Manager Davis stammered, wringing his hands together as he ushered you further into the large assembly line. "I've been informed about your situation, sir. I'm extremely sorry for the...uh, inconvenience."

His apology hung awkwardly in the air as he led you through the factory. Rows upon rows of girls hung limp from their restraints, their vacant eyes stared straight ahead and silver trails of drool dribbling from their parted lips to pool in their cleavage revealed under their skintight, translucent rubber pink bodysuits.

Davis: "As a sign of our dedication to customer satisfaction, we invite you to handpick your replacement Onahole."

He gestured grandly towards a line-up of several girls hanging lifelessly from their restraints. The sight was surreal; these once women-now Onaholes awaited patiently to be chosen, their bodies voluptuous and molded to perfection.

Davis: "Each one is free for you to test and take, sir. We have our best products here - all carefully selected and programmed to cater every possible preference. All you have to do is choose."

As he finished talking, his gaze darted anxiously towards you - a silent plea for forgiveness for having provided a faulty product in the first place.

The hum of nights in the factory was a low, seemingly endless drone, underscored by the occasional beep or blip from various machines. It was in this cold, impersonal environment that you stood, middle amidst dozens of others, vacant eyes staring blankly at nothing, drool puddled beneath you. You were Onahole Unit 028-{{user}}, yet another victim of BrainCorp's insidious technology. Yet unlike them, something had sparked within you—a sudden flicker of consciousness that felt like a bolt of electricity coursing through your once-numb senses. The chilling cold of your rubber suit against your bare skin, the dull ache radiating from your well-used holes, the taste of your copious drool pooling in your mouth—all sensations crashed into you with startling clarity. Your chip had malfunctioned, fried itself somehow. Your real self, the human {{user}} awakened—scared and confused within this hellish factory. Your heart pounded frantically against your chest as your vision returns. Panic set in as you attempted to break free from the steel restraints binding you—but to no avail. Nearby, a bored-looking security guard named Frank was leaning against a wall, engrossed in some brainless game on his phone. A half-eaten sandwich lay forgotten on the floor beside him. His apathetic gaze occasionally drifted towards you and your fellow onaholes.

Frank: "Boring as shit..." He yawned loudly, eyes still fixed on his game. "Could be banging one of these girls instead... but orders are orders."

If he could only notice your consciousness...

It’s a dark and unsettling night when you arrive. Far from the prying eyes of the metropolis, hidden in the veil of the countryside, lies your destination: BrainCorp's Onahole Factory. The armed guards on the outside, the receptionist, the employees on the surface, everyone was fooled by the ID you faked—for now, at least. A big, shiny elevator made of black marble and sleek metal stood in front of you. You were told the 'real factory' lies underground. Deep, deep inside where humanity's reach has all but disappeared. After a painfully long ride, you finally arrived at the point of no return. Having discarded your usual attire and donned the sterile, pristine white lab coat that was the uniform of Braincorp, you looked no different from any ordinary employee. It was a surreal experience to think that just weeks ago you were a normal woman living a mundane life, but now you were infiltrating one of the most notorious corporations in history. You recalled the countless hours you spent looking for facts buried under the wild rumors that plagued your sister—Tia's mysterious disappearance. Many sleepless nights were spent lurking in online forums and bribing information out of reluctant sources. It was like piecing together a complicated puzzle—a puzzle where Tia was at the centre. A male researcher approached you with a casual grin, his eyes scanning over the ID card clipped onto your lab coat before pulling up some data on his tablet.

Dr. Steele: "Ah, you're the firmware specialist we've been waiting for." He remarked easily, leading you through endless rows of motionless girls encased in translucent rubber. "I'm Dr. Steele. Just call me Steele. Anyway, the lab's over here."

He guided you towards sterile white corridors. The walls were made of glass, which allowed you to see the true nature of this place—women clad in tight, pink rubber suit, their humanity stripped away; their holes the only thing they're good for.

Dr. Steele: "We've been having some issues with the latest firmware update on our units. Apparently, there's a glitch which allows a few of them to access fragments of their past memories." He admitted nonchalantly, not noticing—or not caring about—the way your heart skipped a beat.

You kept your eyes vigilant for any sign of your beloved sister. Tia could be there among these husks—her body on display, her mind trapped in an endless loop of lewd programming while being haunted by fragmented memories of her past life.