Tom gets turned into a Metalmaid

By billymcbob

Everything hurt. It was dark. Tom lay on the ground in a padded cell, his hands tied behind his back, and a gag in his mouth. Not even imminent death could have made the poor man feel as much pure, undiluted fear as he felt know, knowing exactly what was about to happen to him. It had all been true, everything. All the rumours, all the conspiracies, everything. He closed his eyes, and he cried.

When Chasti-Permalock had first discovered its methods of permanently bonding metal to other metal, and even metal onto flesh through the use of nanites, it was both highly surprising and depressingly predictable that they had mostly used this to make and sell sex toys. Despite numerous inquiries and cases of corporate espionage, the methods, the science, and the techniques behind their closely guarded trade secrets were still to this day unknown to the outside world. This had been okay when they were a bizarre, obscure news story to be brought up in trivia quizzes, but as they had grown so too had their notoriety. Questions about consent had come up, and whether or not someone could consent to essentially disabling themselves for life, or if it was self harm. The shaking voices of family and friends, standing in front of a loved one who had been forced into Chasti-Permalock's equipment against their wishes, didn't help matters. As the negative press and publicity grew, Chasti-Permalock became ever more guarded and distant with the outside world. Their new line of Metalmaids in particular created no end of controversy, with rumours and conspiracy theories soon circulating that the people inside Metalmaids purchased "off the shelf" were not, in fact, volunteers, but had been instead kidnapped and forced to undergo the encasement process against their will. Everything, all the controversy, all the rumours, had all come to a head when the European Union abruptly forbid Chasti-Permalock from operating within their borders, and all company assets in all member states were siezed. As all this was happening, talk had even begun to spread about ways to potentially extract those who had otherwise been irreversibly trapped within the company's products. Although Chasti-Permalock adamantly maintained that their alloys were truly, inescapably permanent, recent developments into laser surgery had created hope for many, and drawn harsh criticism from Chasti-Permalock. Where did Tom fit into all of this? All of this madness and politics and shady business practices? He was nothing. Nothing more than an investigative journalist, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

The door to Tom's cell opened. He looked up, eyes still red with tears. The people at the door had their faces covered, probably to protect their identities. They entered, closing the door behind them. As one of the figures silently went down to their knees and began to measure Tom's left arm, the tallest figure spoke.

"Make sure to give him the works. The last thing we need right now is a leak, or a corpse to get rid of. I want him out of the picture, permanently."

Tom began to cry again. This was it. This was the end.

The process had started low-key enough. He was made to wear high heels at all times, to get his feet accustomed to the positions they would hold for the rest of his life. Low key as it was though, it hurt, and it only got worse with time, as he was made to wear higher and higher heels, until he was hobbling around his cell in ballet boots. When the day finally came when he was strapped down onto a table by masked surgeons and they took off his ballet boots, he almost had a panic attack. his feet were forced into unnatural positions, squeezed into new, permanent cages. As the leg plates were sealed on and fused to the boots, he realised that there were no joints at the ankles. He would have to walk like this for the rest of his life, unable to bend down except at the knees. It might have seemed like a small thing to lose once, but that would have been a time when he wasn't watching himself lose the use of every joint below the knees in a sterile, brightly lit room that had no doubt seen the same procedure hundreds, if not thousands of times before.

Days passed. His fingers and arms soon disappeared beneath the metal, one piece at a time. His waist was compressed to a painful degree, and a pair of fake breasts were added for good measure. When the surgeons finally began on the internals, he cried one last time. He tasted the salt from his own tears as the tubes went down into his stomach, and connected to more tubing going up his rectum. He closed his eyes as it dawned on him that this would be the last thing he ever tasted with his own tongue. After the last of the plugs were added, after the last of his crotch was covered and sealed, after 40 or so days of this torture, the day finally came when he watched the last plate slowly lower to meet his face. Although his eyes and whimpers were clearly begging for mercy, the surgeons simply watched him in silence, every one of them having been long ago utterly desensitized to completely ending someone's freedom with the push of a button. From now on, his sight would be solely through a camera. It was one last little piece of freedom stolen from him, permanently. His life would be that of a slave, from now until he died of cancer, or heart failure, or anything else which not even the suit could protect him from, which no doctor could ever reach now.

It didn't take long for the days to blend together into little more than endless beige. The training regimen was nightmarish. They were taught what each electric shock in each point of the body meant, and what orders they communicated. They were taught how to do every household chore imaginable. They were taught how to operate their suits, what different warnings and symbols meant on their camera vision, what things to report to an owner and what to ignore. They were made to walk in formation, both to train discipline and to further acclimate them to their new footwear. Tom never got used to it, not entirely. His toes never stopped hurting completely, even as he was trained to hide it through elegant and articulated walking patterns, restricted though he was by his crushlingly tight, unbending legs.

The worst part by far and away, however, were the probes in their brains. They weren't for brainwashing, no, that wouldn't be kinky enough for the sick fucks that ran this place; they were to punish incorrect actions. Trying to write anything  down was grounds for immediate punishment. Trying to communicate with hand gestures was grounds for immediate punishment. Going as far as to attempt to learn or speak in sign language was the worst offence of all. Tom had only ever seen one unfortunate Metalmaid actually try and go against this rule, and the poor soul's agonized writhing on the floor only ended when the instructor got bored and used her controls to lock the suit's joints. He never learned that Metalmaid's name or designation, but he still saw them in his nightmares, in agonizing pain, unable to move, unable to scream... It made sense to Tom now why no Metalmaids had ever actually communicated their stories to others; they were simply unable to.

On Tom's last day of training, he knew what was going to happen. The date had been slowly etched into his mind for weeks, always at the corner of his vision. He was released from his charging cage as usual, and as was common, the handlers seemingly decided that to compensate for the amount of time it took for the cage to unlock and release the occupant, he would be given navigational aid through the use of sharp, painful shocks in specific points on his back. It was like interpreting morse code, as designed not by any old sadist, but by their collective namesake the Marquis de Sade himself. Distracting himself desperately from the pain with such thoughts, he rapidly navigated his way one shock at a time to the room where all the other Metalmaids-in-training had been made to congregate. He recognized the posture of the figure who addressed them, he recognized their voice too. It was the person who had been there in his cell, so very long ago...

"There are many who have no faith in our survival as a corporation. There are many these days who wish to purchase as much of our produce as possible as quickly as possible, so that they will have an easier time covering up their dealings with us once, as they no doubt suspect, the Chasti-Permalock corporation ceases to exist, for one reason or another."

The figure grew taller, as their back straightened and their eyes narrowed.

"We shall prove them wrong. I shall prove them wrong. You shall all prove them wrong. Chast-Permalock is stronger than ever! We will regain our holdings in Europe, one way or another! Above all, it shall be you, our lovely employees, who must rebuild our reputation, to display your obedience, your loyalty, and your work ethic, to prove to the world that Chasti-Permalock can produce results! Each of our products is a self-contained lifestyle, and with so many now choosing to embrace the lifestyle we have given birth to, there is no possible future for us, for all of us! Except! To take the stage as one of the great corporations of the world! Let our name be recognized in every corner of the Earth! Should you fail, any of you, in proving not only to your future masters that Chasti-Permalock's products are of unmatchable quality, and unequalled skill and obedience, but in proving so to their friends, their families, and everyone you should come into contact with... should you fail, we will find replacements, and once you have been made a suitable example of, you will be recycled. Good luck, Metalmaids! The future - our future, and your futures as well - depends on your actions in the days, weeks, months, and years to come! Go forth now, and make Chasti-Permalock proud!"

It was certainly a grand speech, Tom wasn't going to argue about that, but the Speaker's seemingly complete lack of understanding of the Company's actual situation was surprising. People weren't upset at the Company because their products were of low quality, or because their training was bad, or because chastity might go out of fashion or whatever it was he was on about when he talked about Chasti-Permalock being s "Lifestyle", people were angry at the company because of... well, exactly that. Making better products and more obedient drones was just going to make people angrier as the chances of ever being able to go back on their choices got slimmer and slimmer. After standing around for some time contemplating this for lack of anything else to do, whoever was running the show finally decided to send them to the packing department, to be boxed and sold online, and to never see the light of day again with their own two eyes.

As tom glided painfully towards the packing machinery, he realised couldn't feel his emotions anymore, or at least not like he used to. It was like he had cried so many tears that he didn't even have the willpower to feel miserable anymore. No sadness, no anger, not even acceptance, just... nothing. He wanted nothing more than to die, right here, right now. As he was hooked up into his charger, and the charger was lowered into an enormous crate, he watched the world grow dark. It would be almost twenty years before the day came when the police stormed his Master's home, and it would take months for the surgeons to pry off his metal prison piece by piece, letting his bleeding flesh recover before continuing onto the next section. For the poor man's mental health, it was too late. Much too late. He would never recover from his time in hell.