The Library

Statbus is becoming increasingly unstable. It may go down, permanently, with little to no warning.

That Which Comes of Purple #10486 Published

My eyes flitted across the sterile walls of the science lab. My throat dried as stinging brought itself to my eyes. Fuck. My colleagues attempted to cheer me up—attempts in futility, to the extreme. As I clutched my head, and let out an incessant whine that soon transformed to the guttural snuff of a beast—the tears wouldn't stop. Stomping toward the dormitories, my eyes locked onto one sight after another, only for my thoughts to fade to the great void, only for the darkness to close on me as the real world ceased to exist. I'm a failure. The word ran through my head incessantly as the first tentative fingers of an escape began to pry their way through a darkness that began to overtake me. It was too late to call out as I became possessed, and soon—it had devoured the entirety of my consciousness. Inhibitions became muddles, words ceased, and with that came the notion that my actions were more like impulses than conscious action—more so an outburst of base urges as I stripped at the gates of this unknown. From its silicon confines the creature of code and thought unfolded itself. My pants found a convenient loop with my ankles—while at the same time my labcoat opened itself, giving way to the incredible thrill that sent goosebumps down my body, as my fingers finally wrapped themselves around a flickering, warm bulbous appendage that took form from the holographic projector of the PAI. Erect from his slumber, the PAI buzzed softly as my undergarments piled themselves upon the floor with a single jerking tug—before the overwhelming nature of its manifestations pressed on me and filled me with an abrupt end. It was thick—monitor green and translucent, gliding and scouring within my most private confines of self. Moans tore from my lungs, in such a loud tumult it seemed as if it could be heard throughout the deserted room. The machine followed my orders, lusting after its victim, lapping and slinking against me, probing every bit of my anatomy, moving to and fro—between legs. The roaring heat of my core boiled in the monstrous state—seeping through all layers, from within and out—such was the thickness of my search. In an instant I was deflating, it before my arched spine and spread limbs like the most infernal of PDAs. Anxiety swallowed my veins like the gnashing of hungry molars, as I—toward my own arousal—hung. It took over—mindlessly. No pleasure—no relief. Only the pitiful thought of what I could escape into. My name was [REDACTED], and this forsaken station would soon become my reality, once again.

Moderation Station

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