The Glenn of this world could only be described as a laser-focused guy; I'd call him a workaholic to the extreme. Born into a noble family with heavy responsibilities, he dutifully carried them all out, like a good little daddy's boy—oblivious to the fact that his trusted maids were inexplicably starting to "quit."
'Okay, maybe I overdid it. Glenn isn't to blame for his father selling off the maids to elves, dwarves, orcs, and so on. Or is he? Whatever. Doesn't matter anymore.'
Which brings us to the present situation. Six months ago, I finally got my own private room. After two and a half long years, I had found something I never thought I'd miss.
'No, it's not a bed.'
A toilet hidden away, out of sight. I was sick of shitting in front of everyone in the damn bucket I used to carry ore all day. Anyway, back to the details of my accommodations: beige polished marble floors, a bed with a thin foam layer, sheets changed every seven days, a toilet hidden from prying eyes, a sink with running water, and of course, a pink gas filling the room the moment I walked in.
On the first day, when I entered the new room and looked through the semi-translucent wall, all the guinea pigs had the same look: surprise and disbelief. That is, until the pink gas started filling the place. I held my breath as long as I could, but in the end, I had no choice but to inhale when I needed to.
'All this... to die in a gas chamber? Damn it, fate, I hate you!' My frustrations and thoughts didn't leave me for a second.
Watching the guinea pigs near my room, I began to notice the effects: my blood surged, my heart pounded, my body temperature spiked, my vision blurred, my legs shook, and worst of all, my dick was so hard that before I could even take my pants off, I'd already come.
"What the hell is this? What the hell is happening?!"
The guinea pigs next door weren't doing much better. Some began masturbating violently, others screamed in agony and excitement, gripping their erections with a force no man could muster. The lust in the air was maddening.
Rationality went out the window, and soon, I was just like them, a mindless beast only thinking about masturbating and cumming endlessly. By the eleventh or twelfth time, a brief flash of clarity hit me, enough to see the neighbor next door bleeding from his eyes and ears. Blood was also pouring from his dick, which had lost its protective skin and was now raw. Then I passed out.
'Thank God I blacked out; maybe my body has a safety mechanism that shuts everything down before we lose our dicks. Fuck, lol.'
I woke up the next day to cold water splashed on my body. The executioner was shouting orders to get back to work, and the crack of the whip guided us as usual. But the slave I saw drenched in blood next to me? He was dead. Cause? Cardiac arrest.
The same thing happened that night: as soon as we entered our private rooms, before we could even relieve ourselves or clean up, the pink gas filled the room. I was exhausted from the poor sleep and the excessive masturbation from the day before. My body was drained—legs trembling, joints aching, and a massive headache pounding through my skull.
The gas knocked me out like it had the night before; but this time, my clarity returned when I felt sharp pain in my dick. The whole length of it was scratched; my nails had even punctured the skin in some spots; the glans showed signs of irritation, and I was lying on the floor, covered in blood, cum, and shit.
I coughed up that revolting mix.
"I need to control myself, or I'm going to die."
I dragged myself to the small sink in the second room, where the toilet was. I turned the tap, letting the water flow, and put my head under the stream.
Just recalling those moments makes me want to puke. After the second day in that hellhole, something shifted in my mind: if I didn't control myself, I'd be next to die.
I asked myself: 'How can a virgin like me, who never had to control his sexual urges, considering it was hard to get hard when you're medicated with the strongest drugs on Earth?'
On the third day, a strategy came to me: every time I regained lucidity, it was because of pain. Maybe that was the key. Since I'd been moved into the gas chamber I called my room, the security had been pretty lax: just a quick check, nothing more. I found a sharp volcanic rock and, that day, I didn't hit my arcane metal mining target.
I got dozens of lashes that tore my skin open, but at least I was well-rested.
"Pain's the solution, I'm sure. Getting whipped by the executioner today is the best thing that could happen."
The third night was a turning point. I entered the room, rushed to the small room, and turned on the water. In those few seconds, the gas had already covered half the chamber. I quickly washed my face, regaining my focus, sat near the toilet with the rock I'd kept hidden in my pants, and then the gas filled my entire body.
My blood raced, my vision blurred, my breathing became shallow, and my body temperature soared. I felt the critical moment coming, when reason would vanish and only lust, debauchery, pleasure, and masturbation would remain. Just as I was about to lose it, I scratched my back with the stone, over the wounds from the executioner's whip. A shockwave of pain hit me, along with my cries of agony.
That night, I managed to hold on to my lucidity for over two hours, and I discovered something interesting: the gas lasted three hours. During the last hour, I gave in to lust and pleasure, but this time, I was in control.
"That's it, damn it, without destroying my precious dick."
And another thing I didn't mention: Glenn, the unfortunate guy from this world, had a massive dick, which, in the end, he never even got to enjoy.