You squint against the light. It sears painfully. You try and remember how long you've been in here, but it's no use. Time doesn't really exist in the tank.

Have you gotten in the tank before?

You've got memories of it, of course. You remember the array of needles that descend, and how their chrome catches the light and glints, winking playfully as they bite deep into soft bits of your abdomen and harvest your DNA. You remember the sound of the tank's motors, more felt than heard, a horrible layered high-pressure wail as the machinery lumbers into action. You remember the claustrophobia of it, shoulders tight against the walls, glass panel sealing so close it almost touches your nose. You remember the pressure on the sides of your head as the plush headrest compresses over your ears, deafening you. You remember Julia's voice pumped in through the speakers there, the literal only thing you could hear. Her voice like an anaesthetic, lulling you to sleep so the tank can do its unholy work.

There are things you don't remember, though.

You don't remember what Julia's voice says while you're under. Not specifically. You don't know the specifics of the content but you know it's important. You know there's a lot of words and a lot of repetition, and you know it goes on for a long time. 

You don't remember how long. The tank exists for as long as it exists. There's no way to know. It might be a quick and easy and painless process. You're pretty sure that's not true.

You don't remember getting in the tank. Not really. You can picture it, sort of. Your muscles tired and achy, your skin dewy and fresh, despite maybe being spattered with blood. Your blood, you think, but not your blood exactly. 

You don't remember what came before the tank. Surely there was a life there, an existence and an identity before Julia's game. But every time you get in, the tank breaks a piece off and eats it. And you've been in the tank so, so many times. Haven't you?

You don't remember if you've been in the tank before. Someone has. But only half of the people who get out of the tank will ever get back into it. How many times have you been lucky?

You don't remember what 'lucky' means in this context. 

You've let your mind wander for too long, though. You can feel that in the way your muscles clench with anticipation. It's time to get out. You press your palm forward, on the small release button inside the tank. You know without thinking where it is. Have you done this before? Or was it just written into your instincts somehow? Maybe Julia whispered it to you while you slept here. She's told you so many things, so many things you know without hesitation are utterly, inescapably true. Everything Julia says is true. Always.

The glass dislodges, coughing with the escape of the recycled gases that you've been breathing. You step out of the tank and into the world, into Julia's playroom. The concrete floor is rough on your bare feet. You glance back at the space you emerged from - twin tank chambers, side by side. The right-side chamber is quietly venting and cooling back down, having just dislodged you. The left-side chamber looks as though it's been empty for a while. 

Two, three, four quiet padding steps into the room before you can hear Julia. Not words, just grunts. Rhythmic and rough, like spasmodic barks. Each one timed to match the sound of flesh colliding with flesh. Three more steps, ducking under heavy steel ducting, before you can see her. Julia. Perfect Julia. She's angled mostly away from you, her jeans open and halfway down, bunched at her knees. Her hair is void-black and clinging to the back of her neck. It's longer than you remember, and the uncertainty of your place in time makes the floor feel spongy under your feet. How long were you in the tank? How long have you been away from her?

Julia's got another figure bent over the table in front of her, and her cock is buried in them. They aren't moving. You can't see their face because they're pointed away from you, and also because of the thick plastic that's wrapped over their head. It's translucent but condensation has coated the interior. The figure's last futile breaths, fogging up everything around them, as Julia took every bit of pleasure she could from them. Emptying everything they had to give until they were well and truly drained dry. For a moment, the question of how to define 'lucky' unfurls again in your mind.

"Look who's finally up," Julia says with a laugh, a bit out of breath. She pulls herself free from the figure bent over the table, cock still turgid and high. "You missed most of the fun. Sorry. I'm in a rush today, and I just couldn't wait. But here - let's wrap up together, huh?" She cocks her chin at the floor next to the table, and your body responds. It's so easy to be moved like a puppet on Julia's strings. You settle yourself onto your knees next to the body, your head so close to the plastic. You know what Julia wants without needing to be told. She radiates her desires out into the world, and you're a perfectly-tuned antenna, designed and perfected to receive her signals.

She tugs the plastic off, and your own face looks alien to you like this. Slack and distant. There's something in the eyes that fascinates you, but you can't untangle what you think you're seeing there. Fear, maybe, and release. Satisfaction. Pride? Regret? Gratitude? 

Or maybe it's just emptiness. The glass-blank nothingness of a doll's eyes.

Julia enjoys watching you process this for a moment, but then she steps closer and wordlessly places her cock before you. Just from the posture, the way she offers it, you know she's not looking for you to worship or pleasure her right now. In a rush, she said. So this is just work. Domestic duties. Tidying up after her playtime. 

That's fine, of course. You were born to give Julia what she needs.

So you put your tongue to work, licking her clean. The taste is familiar, but of course it is. Know thyself.

She permits you a couple of minutes of that labor, polishing her length. More than necessary to get the job done. She's feeling indulgent, maybe. Spoiling you a little. Then she places her hand in your hair. patting, giving you a rough tousle.

"Enough," she says, and you sit back onto your heels. Your jaw's a little sore, both from the efforts of your work and from the ache of wanting more of her. Not now, though. Maybe you'll be blessed again soon. Maybe you'll be lucky.

Julia stands you up, takes you back to the tank. Both chambers are empty, ready, accepting. Julia grins at you. 

"Go ahead," she says. "I'll see you again soon."

You get into the left side.

You get into the right side.