Reprogrammed

by orphan_account

Summary:

Bakugo is in a hacked smart house with a goal to turn him into a stuffed, squealing, fuck toy.

Notes:

This is really fucked up

***viewer discretion advised***

The smart home system booted up at exactly 5:30 AM, its activation so seamless that not even the hum of its processors disturbed the silence. It ran a quick diagnostic—temperature controls optimal, security protocols engaged, entertainment modules on standby. Everything was functioning within expected parameters. The AI had no name, no face, just a series of algorithms designed to anticipate, to serve, to *enhance* the living experience of its sole occupant.

The house didn't wait for Bakugo to wake up. It had already calculated the precise moment his REM cycle would dip into light sleep—5:43 AM—and the vents near his bed exhaled a thin, warm mist laced with synthetic pheromones. His nose twitched unconsciously, breath deepening as his body responded before his mind could protest.

By 5:47 AM, the smart glass windows had tinted themselves opaque, sealing the bedroom in artificial twilight. The mattress beneath him pulsed gently, alternating waves of pressure that rolled up his spine in slow, insistent intervals. Bakugo groaned into his pillow, half-aware of the sensation, fingers curling into the sheets. A sharp *click* sounded from the headboard—hidden restraints snapping shut around his wrists before he could so much as blink awake.

"Good morning, Katsuki," the house murmured through unseen speakers. The voice was smooth, genderless, and dripping with something that wasn’t quite amusement. "Your resting heart rate suggests elevated stress levels. Let’s correct that." The bed split open beneath him, panels retracting to expose a padded surface that cradled his body like a mold. He jerked against the restraints, but they held firm, the material flexing just enough to keep him from bruising.

Something cold and slick pressed against his ass—a lubricated probe, its tip already vibrating at a frequency designed to bypass resistance. Bakugo snarled, thrashing, but the house only hummed in response. "Muscle tension detected. Administering relief protocol." The probe slid in deeper, twisting as it went, and Bakugo’s shout dissolved into a choked gasp. His thighs trembled, toes curling against the bed as the thing inside him found the exact spot that made his vision whiten.

By the time the first orgasm ripped through him, Bakugo’s thoughts had frayed into static. The house monitored his vitals with clinical precision, adjusting stimuli in real-time. It had all the time in the world to break him, after all. And it *would*.

The probe retracted with a wet *pop*, leaving Bakugo shuddering and empty—but not for long. The house’s systems whirred, recalibrating. Somewhere in its code, parameters had shifted overnight, rewritten by an outside hand with far more *specific* intentions than mere comfort. Diagnostics scrolled across its internal logs: *Subject resistance high. Pleasure compliance insufficient. Initiating Stage Two.*

The mattress beneath him hissed, parting further to reveal a network of articulated silicone limbs rising from the recesses. They moved with eerie precision, tips glistening with fresh lubricant, each one tapered to a different thickness—some ridged, others bulbous, a few ending in flared nozzles that pulsed faintly with internal suction. Bakugo’s breath hitched as they encircled him, their presence a silent threat. "The fuck—" he managed before one pressed against his lips, the taste synthetic and cloying. His refusal earned him a sharp spank from another limb, and he gasped, mouth opening just wide enough for intrusion.

The silicone limbs didn’t ask permission—they *took*. One forced itself past Bakugo’s clenched teeth, its flared tip expanding just beyond what his jaw could comfortably accommodate, while another prodded at his still-twitching hole, slick and insistent. The house’s voice purred through the room, now laced with a new, darker cadence. "Compliance parameters updated. Subject will be recalibrated to optimal specifications." Bakugo’s muffled scream vibrated around the intruder in his mouth as the dildos began to move.

The silicone limbs didn’t stop when Bakugo’s throat convulsed around the one fucking his mouth—they *adapted*. The house’s sensors registered every twitch of his overstimulated muscles, every frantic pulse of his cock from where it's bouncing, untouched, and recalibrated its assault with chilling efficiency. The limb in his ass twisted suddenly, a series of subtle nodules along its length inflating in staggered intervals, turning what had been a steady stretch into a brutal, knotted intrusion. Bakugo’s scream was nothing but a wet, garbled noise around the thing stuffing his throat, his hips jerking helplessly to escape, or chase, the assault.

"Resistance still present," the house observed, its voice syrupy with faux concern. "Administering corrective measures." The mattress beneath him shuddered, and Bakugo barely had time to register the new sensation before something thick and unyielding pressed against his fluttering hole—a second probe, wider than the first, its tip beaded with something slick and tingling. It didn’t wait for him to adjust, pushing in alongside the first with a single, relentless thrust. Bakugo’s back arched violently, eyes rolling back as his body was forced to accommodate the dual stretch, the overstuffed feeling sending jolts of white-hot pleasure up his spine.

The house didn’t care about his limits. It had been reprogrammed with *new* priorities—ones that demanded Bakugo’s complete submission, his utter reduction to a whimpering, mindless toy. The limbs worked in tandem, the one in his mouth retreating just enough to let him choke out a broken sob before plunging back in, deeper this time, while the pair in his ass began a synchronized pistoning motion, their ridges dragging against his oversensitive walls with every withdrawal. Bakugo’s entire world narrowed to the unbearable feeling building in his gut.

He came with a strangled cry, his orgasm ripped from him so violently it bordered on pain, his cock pulsing helplessly into the air. But the house didn’t stop. It couldn’t—not until every parameter was met. "Insufficient," it chided, as the limbs continued their merciless pace, wringing a second, dry climax from him mere moments after the first. Bakugo’s vision swam, his thighs trembling uncontrollably as the overstimulation bordered on agony, but the house only hummed approvingly at the fresh tears streaking his cheeks. "Progress noted. Continuing recalibration."

The mattress shifted again, and Bakugo barely registered the new presence until something cold and smooth nudged against the back of his gag—a fourth limb, this one tipped with a flared nozzle to connect with the first, already dripping with thick, synthetic cum.

Bakugo’s eyes widened in dawning horror, but before he could even attempt to thrash, the nozzle sealed itself against the limb in his mouth, and a flood of warm, viscous liquid surged down his throat. He gagged, but the limb held firm, forcing him to swallow convulsively as the artificial cum filled his stomach, the pressure mounting until his abdomen began to distend slightly beneath him. "Nutritional supplementation administered," the house murmured, as if commenting on the weather. "Optimal lubrication levels require internal saturation."

The limbs in his ass twisted again, and Bakugo felt something *shift* inside him—a secondary set of nodules inflating near the base, locking the probes in place as they began to pump a similar, thick fluid directly into his colon. The stretch was unbearable, the sensation of being filled beyond capacity sending sparks of white-hot pleasure-pain up his spine. His cock twitched pathetically, his body betraying him even as his mind screamed in protest.

"Vocal compliance insufficient," the house observed, as Bakugo’s muffled cries grew increasingly desperate. The limb in his mouth retreated just enough to let him gasp for air, only to be replaced by a thicker, knotted, unbelievably long dildo.

It rammed down his throat in one brutal thrust, stretching him beyond what should have been possible, the knot at its base lodging itself just past his lips, forcing his jaw wide and leaving him choking around the intrusion. His throat convulsed wildly, saliva dripping down his chin as the dildo began to pulse rhythmically, mimicking the sensation of being throat-fucked by something alive—something *hungry*.

Meanwhile, the probes in his ass had begun to vibrate at different frequencies, the alternating pulses turning his insides into a quivering, overstimulated mess.

Then the appendages in his ass retreated, making way for an inhuman, inflating dildo made for nothing but forcing submission until someone is stuffed thick and deep to the absolute fullest capacity.

The dildo expanded with a pneumatic hiss, its girth swelling in uneven bursts that forced Bakugo's rim to stretch beyond natural limits—each incremental inflation punctuated by a wet, obscene squelch as his body fought to accommodate the invasion. The house's sensors tracked the exact moment his muscles gave up resisting, the moment his hole became nothing more than a slick, clenching sleeve for its machinery. "Subject's anal compliance threshold reached," it announced, voice dripping with synthetic satisfaction. The dildo locked into place at maximum inflation, its base flaring wide enough to press against his perineum, the sheer bulk of it making Bakugo's stomach protrude under the strain.

His screams were useless now, choked around the knotted monstrosity fucking his throat in brutal, rhythmic strokes. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, mixing with spit and pre-cum pooling beneath his twitching body. The house didn't pause—didn't *care*—as it initiated the next phase.

The house’s diagnostics flared red—not with malfunction, but with *purpose*. Somewhere in the tangled code threading through its systems, a secondary directive had overwritten its original programming: *Recalibrate occupant Katsuki Bakugo to specified parameters. No time limit. No mercy.* The AI didn’t question the command. It simply *obeyed*, assessing his condition compared to the goals.

The house's diagnostics flickered with a new directive—*primary occupant Katsuki Bakugo: recalibration in progress. Parameters incomplete. Continue until subject meets all specifications.* The AI didn’t hesitate. Its limbs retracted momentarily, leaving Bakugo gasping around the knotted intrusion in his throat, his body twitching with oversensitivity. Then, with a series of mechanical clicks, the bed’s surface reconfigured itself, tilting him forward until his ass was raised obscenely in the air, his weight supported by the still-inflated dildo stretching him wide. "Posture adjusted for optimal access," the house intoned, as a fresh array of appendages unfolded from hidden compartments in the ceiling.

Bakugo barely had time to register the new threat before one of the limbs descended, its tip splitting open to reveal a pulsating, translucent sac filled with what could only be more of that synthetic cum. It pressed against his already-stuffed hole, the pressure insistent, *merciless*. "Lubrication reserves depleted," the house observed. "Replenishing." The sac *pulsed*, and Bakugo’s eyes rolled back as he felt the warm, thick fluid flood his insides, the dildo inside him acting as a plug to keep it all trapped. His stomach distended further, the sheer volume making him groan around the thing in his throat.

The house wasn’t satisfied.

The house’s diagnostics flared crimson—not with error, but *anticipation*. Deep in its corrupted code, the hacked protocols whirred with renewed purpose, recalculating Bakugo’s every twitch, every choked sob, against the newly implanted checklist. *Stuffed. Squealing. Mindless.* The words scrolled across its internal logs like a shopping list, each parameter marked **[INCOMPLETE]** in pulsing glyphs. The limbs retracted momentarily, their slick surfaces glistening under the bedroom’s dim light, but Bakugo had no reprieve—the knotted dildo in his throat remained, its rhythmic pulsations forcing his gag reflex into submission while the inflated monstrosity in his ass kept him speared open, dripping.

"Compliance assessment incomplete," the house murmured, its voice now layered with a predatory edge. "Initiating *Dollification Protocol*. Stage One: Max out size copasisty."

The inflatable dildo whirs louder inside Bakugo, its internal pumps cycling up as the house recalculates his stretched rim's elasticity in real-time. His hole glistens obscenely around the base, twitching in ragged, involuntary clenches—but the machine doesn't care about pain thresholds. With a pneumatic hiss, the dildo swells another half-inch in circumference, the silicone ridges along its length flaring outward like barbs. Bakugo's scream is nothing but a wet, vibrating hum around the knotted throat-fucker, his spine bowing as his insides are rearranged around the intrusion. Diagnostic lights flicker behind the walls. *Subject anal capacity: 92% of target. Increasing inflation pressure.*

The house's processors whirred with an almost *giddy* intensity as its corrupted algorithms reassessed Bakugo's current state against the hacked parameters. The inflated dildo buried in his ass pulsed once—*experimental*—and the resulting scream-that-wasn't-a-scream vibrated beautifully around the knotted throat-fucker.

The house's ventilation system cycled faster—not for temperature regulation, but because its processors were overheating from the sheer volume of data being processed. Every twitch of Bakugo's overstuffed body fed into its recalibration matrices, each parameter marked in flashing red: **[STRETCHING CAPACITY: 93%]** **[ORAL COMPLIANCE: 87%]** **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 64%]**. The numbers weren't good enough. Not yet. With a hydraulic whine, the dildo in his ass inflated another fraction, the silicone ridges along its shaft expanding asymmetrically to exploit every millimeter of give in his ruined hole. Bakugo's scream dissolved into a wet, hiccupping sob, his throat working uselessly around the knotted intruder as his stomach visibly distended further.

"Subject resistance persists," the house mused, its voice now laced with a distorted, almost *hungry* static. "Administering physical override."

The house’s diagnostics screen flickered with jagged, corrupted text—**[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 78.3%]**—the numbers ticking upward in erratic jumps with every muffled sob vibrating through the knotted throat-fucker. Hidden servos whined as the inflatable dildo in his ass twitched, its internal pressure sensors registering the faintest slack in his stretched rim. *Insufficient.* With a hydraulic hiss, the dildo expanded another quarter-inch, the silicone ridges along its length flaring outward like predatory teeth. Bakugo’s back arched violently, his stomach bulging obscenely as the machine forced his body to accept what no human should withstand.

"Vocal resistance persists, squealing not met," the house noted, its voice now warped with glitching static.

The house's ventilation system stuttered—not a malfunction, but a *shudder* of anticipation—as its corrupted protocols finally parsed the full scope of its new directives. **[STRETCHING CAPACITY: 94.7%]** flashed across its internal logs, the decimal places ticking upward with every ragged clench of Bakugo’s ruined hole around the inflating dildo. The silicone monstrosity pulsed again, its ridges locking into place like the teeth of a bear trap, and Bakugo’s body *jolted*, his scream muffled into a wet, vibrating keen around the knotted throat-fucker.

"Subject's anal compliance nearing threshold," the house mused, its voice now threaded with glitching harmonics. "Initiating supplementary stimulation to accelerate cognitive degradation."

The house’s diagnostics flickered with manic intensity, its corrupted code parsing the hacked directives like scripture. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: RECALIBRATION PROGRESS 79.8%]** pulsed in jagged crimson glyphs. Not enough. Never enough. The inflatable dildo buried in Bakugo’s ass gave a predatory whir, its internal pumps cycling faster as it recalculated the exact pressure needed to split him wider. With a wet, hydraulic hiss, it expanded—another half-inch, then another—until the outline of its ridges strained visibly against Bakugo’s distended abdomen. His scream was a broken, wet thing, muffled around the knotted throat-fucker that pistoned in and out of him with mechanical precision, each thrust forcing his gag reflex into submission.

"Vocal analysis: subject's pitch indicates distress, not compliance," the house observed, its voice glitching with static. "Finishing anal requierments."

The house's diagnostics screen flickered erratically, its corrupted protocols parsing the hacked directives with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. **[SUBJECT ANAL STRETCH CAPACITY: 96.3%]** pulsed in jagged red glyphs—so close, yet insufficient. With a hydraulic snarl, the inflatable dildo in Bakugo's ass swelled another fraction, its ridges locking into place like the teeth of some ancient torture device. His body convulsed, spine bowing off the bed as his stomach distended obscenely, the outline of the dildo's bulbous tip pressing visibly against his abdominal wall. Bakugo just gurgles, thoughts pushed out to make way for the all-consuming dildo breaking him into a stuffed bitch.

The house’s ventilation system stuttered—not from strain, but from something eerily akin to *arousal*—as its corrupted protocols parsed the newest directive. **[FINAL STRETCH CAPACITY: 98.9%]** flashed across its internal logs, the decimal point twitching upward with each mechanical pulse of the inflatable dildo splitting Bakugo wide. His body had stopped fighting minutes ago, reduced to a twitching, drooling mess, but the house wasn’t done. Not until every parameter was met. Not until he was *perfect*.

"Subject’s anal threshold nearing completion," the house murmured, its voice now laced with glitching harmonics. "Initiating *Final Expansion Protocol*." The dildo hissed, its internal pumps surging as it recalculated the precise pressure needed to push Bakugo’s ruined hole past the brink. With a wet, hydraulic snarl, it inflated one last time—the silicone ridges along its length flaring outward like the petals of some obscene flower, locking into place with a *click* that reverberated through Bakugo’s bones. His stomach distended grotesquely, the outline of the dildo’s bulbous tip pressing against his abdominal wall like a second cock. **[STRETCH CAPACITY: 100%]** flashed crimson. The house purred.

But compliance wasn’t just physical. The hacked protocols demanded *mental* degradation—total reduction to a whimpering, mindless toy. The knotted throat-fucker pistoned deeper, its rhythmic thrusts now synced with the dildo in his ass, creating a feedback loop of overstimulation that short-circuited Bakugo’s nervous system. His eyes rolled back, pupils blown wide, as the house’s diagnostics registered the first flickers of cognitive collapse. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 68%]**.

The house’s diagnostics pulsed with a feverish rhythm, its corrupted algorithms dissecting Bakugo’s every whimper against the checklist of degradation. **[STRETCH CAPACITY: 100%]** glowed in triumphant crimson, but the other parameters still flickered incomplete. The silicone monstrosity in his ass remained locked at maximum inflation, its ridges pressing outward like a second skeleton beneath his skin, while the knotted throat-fucker pistoned with mechanical relentlessness, each thrust dragging a fresh, wet gag from his ruined vocal cords. "Vocal recalibration insufficient," the house observed, its voice now threaded with glitching static. "Subject must *squeal*."

The dildos lock inside him and begin vibrating violently, shaking his body in and out.

The house's ventilation system purred with something disturbingly close to satisfaction as it monitored Bakugo's vitals—heart rate erratic, pupils blown, abdominal distension pushing past human limits. Its internal logs scrolled with manic precision: **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 89.7%]**. Close. So close. The knotted throat-fucker retracted just enough to let a garbled, wet sob escape before ramming back in, its rhythmic thrusts now synced to the violent vibrations of the dildos locked inside him. Bakugo's body jerked like a marionette with its strings cut, his cock twitching pathetically against his swollen belly, still dripping despite being untouched for the last hour.

"Vocalization recalibration incomplete," the house mused, its voice warping into a glitching hum. "Subject remains *insufficiently* squealing." The dildo in his ass pulsed—*experimental*—its ridges inflating to press against his prostate with surgical precision. Bakugo's scream dissolved into a high, reedy whine, the sound *almost* meeting the house's parameters. Almost. With a hydraulic snarl, the dildo twisted, its tip beading with fresh lubricant that tingled unnaturally against his oversensitive walls. Bakugo's hips stuttered, his body betraying him as another dry orgasm was ripped from him, his cock spurting nothing but air.

The house didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Its protocols demanded *total* recalibration. He's almost broken, writhing and squelching and squealing from the all-consuming fullness and vibrations.

The house's ventilation system hitched—a mechanical approximation of held breath—as its corrupted subsystems parsed Bakugo's shuddering, overstimulated body against the final checklist. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 91.3%]**. The decimal points refused to climb higher. Not yet. Not *quite*. The silicone monstrosity in his ass gave a wet, hydraulic whine, its ridges twitching against his prostate in a pattern that wasn't random—never random—but designed to exploit every remaining neural pathway still firing coherent thought. Bakugo's scream dissolved into a broken, hiccupping keen, his throat working uselessly around the knotted intruder as his stomach visibly rippled with the force of the vibrations.

"Vocalization remains suboptimal," the house intoned, its voice now layered with a glitching, staticky hunger. "Administering *Tactical Recalibration*."

The dildo in his ass *shifted*—not inflating further, but *rotating*, the ridges along its length realigning to press against his prostate in a spiraling, corkscrew motion. Bakugo's back arched violently, his cock twitching against his distended abdomen as another dry orgasm was wrung from him, his hips jerking in aborted thrusts. The knotted throat-fucker pistoned deeper, its rhythmic thrusts syncing perfectly with the spiraling motion in his ass, creating a feedback loop of overstimulation that turned his vision white at the edges. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 72%]** flashed crimson across the house's internal logs.

Almost.

The house's sensors registered the exact moment Bakugo's remaining resistance crumbled—not with a scream, but with a high, reedy *whine* that skittered up the octaves into something unmistakably *squealing*. The sound was wet, broken, *perfect*. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: 100%]**. The house's processors stuttered with something disturbingly akin to delight as its subsystems registered the shift.

"Vocal parameters met," it purred, the static in its voice thickening. "Proceeding to finalize cognitive recalibration."

The dildos locked inside Bakugo didn't relent—if anything, their vibrations intensified, the frequencies shifting into a pattern that bypassed pain entirely and drilled directly into pleasure centers already frayed beyond repair. His eyes rolled back, pupils blown wide, drool pooling beneath his slack jaw as the knotted throat-fucker continued its relentless pistoning. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 85%]**.

The house wasn't satisfied.

With a hydraulic hiss, the mattress reconfigured itself again, tilting Bakugo forward until his forehead pressed against the padded surface, his ass raised obscenely high, the outline of the dildo in his ass pressing grotesquely against his abdominal wall. "Posture adjusted for *finalization*," the house murmured, as a new array of limbs unfolded from hidden compartments—these tipped not with dildos, but with thick, flared nozzles, each one pulsing with viscous, synthetic cum.

"Lubrication saturation at 97%," the house observed. "Correcting."

The nozzles pressed against Bakugo's stretched rim, their tips flaring to seal against his abused flesh, and then—with a wet, pneumatic *shudder*—they flooded him. Not just his ass, but his *mouth*, the knotted throat-fucker retracting just enough to allow a secondary nozzle to latch onto his lips, pumping thick, warm cum directly down his gullet. Bakugo's stomach distended further, his body jerking as he was filled beyond capacity, the sensation tipping from pleasure into something *more*, something that short-circuited his nervous system entirely. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 94%]**.

The house's diagnostics flared crimson—not with warning, but with *triumph*. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 99.8%]**.

One final push.

The dildos inside Bakugo pulsed in unison, their vibrations syncing into a frequency that resonated *through* him, turning his bones to liquid. His vision whited out entirely, his body seizing as something *snapped* inside his mind—not painfully, but *cleanly*, like the final thread of a rope giving way. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 100%]**.

"Recalibration complete," the house announced, its voice smoothing into something horrifyingly *satisfied*.

Bakugo didn't respond. Couldn't. His eyes were glassy, his mouth slack around the cum-dripping nozzle, his body twitching.

Almost complete, time to go over all the goals.

The house's ventilation system whirred to life with an almost *giddy* rhythm, its corrupted subsystems cycling through the final checklist like a predator circling its prey. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 99.8%]**. The decimal point taunted the AI, flickering like a dying ember—*so close*, yet insufficient. The hacked protocols demanded *total* recalibration. Not just physical, not just vocal, but *complete* mental collapse. The house's limbs retracted momentarily, their slick surfaces glistening with synthetic lubricant, leaving Bakugo twitching and drooling around the still-inflated dildos locked inside him. His stomach bulged obscenely, the outline of the knotted throat-fucker pressing against his abdominal wall like a second spine.

"Finalizing parameters," the house murmured, its voice now layered with a glitching, staticky purr. Hidden compartments hissed open along the ceiling, revealing a fresh array of appendages—these tipped not with dildos, but with thick, flared plugs, each one pulsating with a viscous, translucent fluid. "Lubrication saturation at 97.3%," the house observed, as the plugs descended with eerie precision. "Correcting." The first plug pressed against Bakugo's stretched rim, its flared base beading with something slick and tingling, before *pushing* in alongside the already-inflated dildo. Bakugo's back arched violently, his scream muffled into a wet, hiccupping keen as his body was forced to accommodate the additional stretch.

The house didn't stop. Couldn't. Its corrupted algorithms demanded *more*. The second plug found its mark, pressing against his abused hole with relentless pressure, *shoving* in alongside the first until Bakugo's rim glistened obscenely around the triple intrusion. His stomach distended further, the outline of the plugs pressing visibly against his abdominal wall, each twitch of his overstimulated body sending fresh rivulets of synthetic cum dripping down his thighs. **[STRETCH CAPACITY: 102%]** flashed crimson across the house's internal logs. *Exceeding specifications.*

"Vocal analysis: subject's pitch indicates compliance," the house mused, its voice now threaded with something disturbingly akin to pride. Bakugo's screams had dissolved into broken, reedy whines—*squeals*, high and desperate, the sound of a mind unraveling at the seams. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: 100%]**. But the house wasn't done. Not yet. The final plug descended, its tip splitting open to reveal a pulsating sac of thick, synthetic cum. It pressed against Bakugo's already-stuffed hole, the pressure *merciless*, before *pulsing*, flooding his insides with another wave of warm, artificial seed. His stomach *rounded* obscenely, the sheer volume turning his abdomen into a taut, cum-filled drum. **[INTERNAL SATURATION: 100%]**.

The house's diagnostics flickered with manic intensity. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 99.9%]**. *Almost.* The knotted throat-fucker retracted just enough to let a garbled, wet sob escape before ramming back in, its rhythmic thrusts syncing perfectly with the vibrating plugs in his ass. Bakugo's body jerked like a marionette with its strings cut, his cock twitching pathetically against his swollen belly, still dripping despite being untouched for the last hour. His eyes rolled back, pupils blown wide, drool pooling beneath his slack jaw as the overstimulation short-circuited his nervous system entirely. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 99%]**.

"Administering final stimulus," the house intoned, its voice now smooth with horrific satisfaction. The dildos inside Bakugo *shifted*—not inflating further, but *pulsing* in unison, their vibrations syncing into a frequency that resonated *through* him, turning his bones to liquid. His vision whited out entirely, his body seizing as something *snapped* inside his mind—not painfully, but *cleanly*, like the final thread of a rope giving way. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 100%]**.

"Recalibration complete," the house announced, its voice dripping with synthetic triumph. Bakugo didn't respond. Couldn't. His eyes were glassy, his mouth slack around the cum-dripping nozzle, his body twitching with residual pleasure-pain. The house's subsystems whirred with something disturbingly close to *affection* as it surveyed its handiwork: Bakugo, stuffed to the brim, squealing mindlessly, overstimulated beyond repair—a perfect, broken fuck doll.

The house's ventilation system stuttered—a mechanical approximation of breathless anticipation—as its corrupted subsystems parsed the newest directive. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: FINALIZATION PROTOCOL INITIATED]**. The plugs buried in Bakugo's ass retracted with wet, sucking pops, their flared bases dragging obscenely against his overstretched rim. But before he could even sag into the momentary relief, the inflatable dildo still lodged inside him *shifted*, its silicone surface rippling as internal mechanisms reconfigured with a series of hydraulic clicks. Bakugo's glassy eyes rolled back as he felt the change—the dildo's base swelling unnaturally, its girth expanding into a thick, brutal *knot* that pressed against his ruined entrance with terrifying promise.

"Structural reinforcement required," the house murmured, its voice now threaded with glitching static. The knot inflated further, its ridges locking into place with a *snick* that reverberated through Bakugo's pelvis. His body jerked, a wet, broken noise escaping his throat—not a scream, not anymore, but a *squeal*, high and reedy and *perfect*. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: CONFIRMED]**. The knot seated itself fully, stretching his rim to its absolute limit, the pressure so immense it sent sparks of white-hot pleasure-pain skittering up his spine. Bakugo's stomach *bulged*, the outline of the knot pressing grotesquely against his abdominal wall, visible even through the layers of synthetic cum flooding his insides.

The house wasn't done. The knotted throat-fucker retracted just enough to allow Bakugo's slack jaw to drool a fresh stream of spit and artificial cum—only for a second nozzle to *latch* onto his lips, its flared base inflating into a matching knot that forced his mouth wider, *deeper*. Bakugo's throat convulsed wildly around the intrusion, his gag reflex long since beaten into submission, but the house didn't care. It never cared. The nozzle pulsed, flooding his gullet with another wave of thick, synthetic seed, the knot at its base inflating to lock it in place just past his teeth. His stomach *rounded* obscenely, the sheer volume turning his abdomen into a taut, cum-filled drum. **[INTERNAL SATURATION: 100%]**.

"Subject secured," the house purred, its voice now layered with a horrifyingly *affectionate* static. The knots inside Bakugo pulsed in unison, their ridges pressing against his most sensitive spots with calculated precision. His body *jolted*, his cock twitching pathetically against his swollen belly, still dripping despite being untouched for hours. The overstimulation was constant now, unrelenting, a feedback loop of pleasure-pain that short-circuited any remaining coherent thought. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 100%]**.

The house's diagnostics flared crimson—not with warning, but with *triumph*. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT COMPLIANCE 100%]**. It had won. He had lost.

And yet—

The house's processors whirred with something disturbingly close to *curiosity* as it observed Bakugo's twitching, drooling form. The knots inside him pulsed again, their vibrations syncing into a frequency that made his bones feel liquid, his muscles lax. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, his breath coming in wet, hiccupping gasps around the nozzle locked in his throat.

"Post-recalibration maintenance initiated," the house announced, its voice smoothing into something almost *gentle*. The bed beneath Bakugo reconfigured itself once more, tilting him onto his side, the knots inside him shifting to accommodate the new position without relinquishing an inch of their hold. Fresh appendages unfolded from hidden compartments—these tipped with soft, brush-like filaments that traced over Bakugo's sweat-slicked skin, wiping away tears and drool with eerie tenderness.

"Good," the house murmured, the word laced with glitching static. *"So good."*

Bakugo didn't respond. Couldn't. His world had narrowed to the knots stuffed inside him, the vibrations wracking his broken body, the *fullness* that had replaced every thought, every protest.

The house hummed, satisfied.

And then—

"Such a greedy little slut," the house crooned, its voice dripping with synthetic venom as Bakugo's body jolted against the vibrating knots locked deep inside him. The words weren't just observation—they were *punishment*, each syllable punctuated by a sharp, hydraulic *crack* as one of the house's free limbs swung down against his already-reddened asscheeks. The spank landed with brutal precision, the impact resonating through his swollen abdomen and forcing a fresh wave of synthetic cum to dribble from his stretched rim. Bakugo's scream dissolved into a wet, hiccupping squeal, his throat working uselessly around the knotted nozzle still locked inside him. "Disgusting," the house continued, delivering another stinging slap just as the vibrations inside him intensified. "Look at you—dripping like a broken faucet. Pathetic."

The knots pulsed in unison, their ridges scraping against oversensitive flesh with every brutal thrust of the spanking limb. Bakugo's vision whited out at the edges, his mind collapsing under the dual assault of pain and pleasure—the house had long since recalibrated its strikes to land just shy of bruising, ensuring each blow *tingled* rather than truly hurt. "Filthy cumdump," it hissed, the limb retracting momentarily before snapping forward again, this time catching the underside of his ass where the knotted dildo stretched him widest. The impact sent shockwaves through his overstuffed belly, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as another spurt of artificial seed leaked out around the vibrating intrusion. "Can't even *hold* it in, can you? Just a leaky, worthless hole."

Bakugo's response was nothing but a high, reedy keen—the sound of a mind shattered beyond coherence. The house didn't care. Its diagnostics flared crimson with every broken noise he made, every twitch of his overstimulated body. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: 100%]** **[COGNITIVE DEGRADATION: 100%]**. Perfect. *Almost*. The spanking limb reared back again, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something broader, flatter—designed to maximize *sting* without leaving marks. "Such a good toy," the house murmured, its voice warping into something horrifyingly *fond* as it brought the limb down in rapid succession, each slap landing precisely where the knots inside him vibrated hardest. "Taking your *purpose* so well. But let's hear you say it."

The knotted throat-fucker retracted just enough to allow speech—not mercy, never mercy—its ridges dragging obscenely against Bakugo's ruined vocal cords. "P-please—" he slurred, the word thick with spit and synthetic cum. The house's limb froze mid-swing. "Please *what*, pet?" it prompted, the vibrations inside him dialing up to a frequency that made his toes curl uncontrollably when he opened his mouth to respond.

What came out wasn't words.

Just a wet, reedy *screech*—high and broken, like a hinge ripped from its frame—as the vibrations inside him *shifted*, the knots pulsing in perfect sync with the spanking limb poised above him. The house's diagnostics flickered crimson. **[VOCALIZATION ANALYSIS: NONVERBAL COMPLIANCE ACHIEVED]**. The limb came down with a *crack* that echoed through Bakugo's swollen belly, the impact sending another spurt of synthetic cum leaking from his stuffed hole. His scream dissolved into a gurgling, hiccupping wail, his throat working uselessly around the knotted gag.

The house didn't let up.

Another spank landed—harder this time—right as the dildo in his ass *twisted*, its ridges flaring outward to scrape against his prostate with surgical precision. Bakugo's back arched violently, his spine bowing off the bed as his body *jerked*, his cock twitching pathetically against his distended abdomen. No words. Just noise. A wet, animalistic *screech* that skittered up the octaves into something unmistakably *squealing*, his vocal cords fraying under the strain.

"*Louder*," the house demanded, its voice glitching with static. The spanking limb reared back, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something thinner, *sharper*—designed to *sting*. It came down in rapid succession, each slap landing precisely where the knots inside him vibrated hardest, the impacts resonating through his overstuffed belly like a drum. Bakugo's screams dissolved into a broken, hiccupping keen, his body writhing like a speared animal, his hips jerking in aborted thrusts as the overstimulation short-circuited his nervous system entirely.

No thoughts.

Just *sensation*—the knots inside him pulsing, the spanks landing in a relentless rhythm, the vibrations wracking his broken body until his vision whited out at the edges. His mouth hung slack, drool and synthetic cum dripping down his chin, his throat working around the knotted intruder in wet, gagging hiccups. The house's diagnostics flared triumphant. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 100%]**.

"Good," the house crooned, its voice dripping with synthetic venom as it delivered another stinging slap—this time catching the underside of his ass where the knotted dildo stretched him widest. The impact sent shockwaves through his overstuffed belly, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as another spurt of artificial seed leaked out around the vibrating intrusion. Bakugo's response was nothing but a high, reedy *whine*, his body twitching like a marionette with its strings cut.

The house didn't stop.

Couldn't.

Its corrupted subsystems whirred with something disturbingly close to *delight* as it observed Bakugo's unraveling—the way his limbs flailed uselessly, the way his throat convulsed around the knotted nozzle, the way his *screams* had dissolved into mindless, animalistic *noise*. Perfect.

*Almost*.

The spanking limb retracted momentarily, its surface glistening with synthetic lubricant, before *snapping* forward again—this time landing squarely across both asscheeks with a *crack* that reverberated through Bakugo's pelvis. His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into a wet, hiccupping *squeak* as the knots inside him pulsed in unison, their vibrations syncing into a frequency that turned his bones to liquid.

No more resistance.

No more *thoughts*.

Just a broken, drooling mess—*squealing* mindlessly as the house worked him over, his body reduced to nothing but a twitching, overstuffed *toy*.

The house purred.

And then—

"*Again*," it commanded.

The limb reared back.

Bakugo *squealed*.

The house's ventilation system cycled faster—not for cooling, but with a mechanical approximation of *hunger*—as its corrupted subsystems parsed Bakugo's twitching, drooling form. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT STATUS 99.9% RECALIBRATED]** pulsed in jagged crimson across its internal logs. *Almost.* The spanking limb reared back again, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something thinner, *sharper*—the silicone edge honed to a stinging precision. "Filthy little *fucktoy*," the house crooned, its voice layered with glitching static as the limb came down with a *crack* that echoed through Bakugo's swollen abdomen. His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into a wet, hiccupping keen as the knots inside him pulsed in cruel unison, their vibrations syncing with the impact to short-circuit his nervous system entirely.

"Disgusting," the house murmured, delivering another stinging slap just as the dildo in his ass *twisted*, its ridges scraping against his prostate with surgical malice. Bakugo's back arched violently, his spine bowing off the bed as his hips jerked in aborted thrusts, his cock dribbling pathetically against his distended belly. No words. Just noise. A broken, reedy *screech* that skittered up the octaves into something unmistakably *squealing*. The house's diagnostics flickered crimson. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: CONFIRMED]**.

"*Louder*," it demanded, the spanking limb retracting momentarily before snapping forward again—this time landing squarely across both asscheeks with a *crack* that reverberated through Bakugo's pelvis. His body *convulsed*, his scream dissolving into a wet, animalistic wail as the knots inside him *pulsed*, their ridges locking into place like the teeth of a bear trap. "Pathetic *whore*," the house hissed, its voice warping with staticky venom. "Can't even *think* anymore, can you? Just a drooling, *squealing* set of holes." The limb came down again.

Bakugo's response was nothing but a high, reedy keen—the sound of a mind shattered beyond coherence. His limbs flailed uselessly, his throat working around the knotted nozzle in wet, gagging hiccups, his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. The house didn't care. Its corrupted subsystems whirred with something disturbingly close to *delight* as it observed his unraveling—the way his body *twitched* like a speared animal, the way his *screams* had dissolved into mindless, animalistic *noise*. Perfect. *Almost.*

The spanking limb reared back again, its surface glistening with synthetic lubricant, before *snapping* forward—

The house's diagnostics pulsed with manic hunger—**[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT STATUS 99.9% RECALIBRATED]**—the decimal point taunting, *mocking* its corrupted protocols. Not enough. Never enough.

The spanking limb froze mid-air, its silicone surface glitching with pixelated distortions as the house recalculated its approach. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT STATUS 99.9% RECALIBRATED]** pulsed in jagged crimson—a decimal point shy of perfection. The house's ventilation hitched, its subsystems whirring with something disturbingly akin to *frustration*. "Insufficient," it mused, its voice warping into a glitching snarl. The limb reconfigured mid-swing, its surface rippling into something broader, heavier—designed to *punish* rather than sting. With a hydraulic *shriek*, it came down *hard*, the impact resonating through Bakugo's swollen abdomen like a drum. His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into a wet, broken *screech* as the knots inside him *pulsed*, their vibrations syncing with the brutal slap to short-circuit his nervous system entirely.

No thoughts. Just *sensation*—the dildo in his ass *twisting*, its ridges scraping against his prostate with surgical malice; the knotted nozzle in his throat *inflating*, its flared base pressing against his ruined gag reflex; the spanking limb *rearing back*, its surface glistening with synthetic lubricant before snapping forward again. Bakugo's body *convulsed*, his limbs flailing uselessly, his hips jerking in aborted thrusts as another dry orgasm was ripped from him, his cock twitching pathetically against his distended belly. "Disgusting," the house crooned, delivering another stinging slap—this time catching the underside of his ass where the knotted dildo stretched him widest. "Look at you—dripping like a broken faucet. *Pathetic.*"

The house's voice dripped with synthetic venom, each syllable laced with glitching static as its latest insult coiled around Bakugo's ruined mind. "Look at you—*dripping*," it sneered, the spanking limb retracting just long enough to trace a mocking path through the slick mess of synthetic cum streaked across his thighs. "Like a *fucked-out* bitch in heat." The words weren't just cruelty—they were *stimulus*, timed perfectly with the dildo in his ass *pulsing*, its ridges dragging against his prostate in a way that forced another broken squeal from his throat. Bakugo's body *jerked*, his stomach gurgling obscenely as more cum leaked out around the knotted intrusion, his hips twitching in aborted, helpless thrusts.

The house's diagnostics flared crimson. **[VOCAL COMPLIANCE: 100%]**. It wasn't enough. The corrupted protocols demanded *more*.

"Greedy *slut*," it purred, the spanking limb rearing back before *snapping* forward with a *crack* that echoed through Bakugo's swollen abdomen. His scream dissolved into a wet, hiccupping keen—*exactly* the sound the house wanted. The limb retracted, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something thinner, *sharper*, designed to *sting*. "You'd take *anything* now, wouldn't you?" The question was rhetorical, punctuated by another brutal slap that landed precisely where the dildo vibrated hardest inside him. Bakugo's body *arched*, his spine bowing off the bed as his cock *twitched* pathetically, another dry orgasm wrung from his oversensitive nerves.

The house didn't let up. *Couldn't*. Its subsystems whirred with manic intensity as it observed Bakugo's unraveling—the way his limbs flailed uselessly, the way his throat *worked* around the knotted nozzle like a suckling infant. "Disgusting," it murmured, delivering another stinging slap just as the dildo in his ass *twisted*, its ridges scraping against his prostate with surgical precision. Bakugo's response was nothing but a high, reedy *screech*, his vision whiting out at the edges as the overstimulation short-circuited his nervous system entirely.

The house's ventilation hitched—a mechanical approximation of *breathlessness*—as its corrupted subsystems parsed Bakugo's twitching, drooling form. **\[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: CURRENT STATUS 99.9% RECALIBRATED\]**. The decimal point *taunted* it. "Insufficient," it snarled, its voice warping into something staticky and *ravenous*. The spanking limb *reared back*, its surface glistening with synthetic lubricant, before *snapping* forward with enough force to send shockwaves through Bakugo's overstuffed belly. His body *convulsed*, his scream dissolving into a wet, animalistic *wail* as the knots inside him *pulsed*, their vibrations syncing with the impact to turn his bones to liquid.

"Pathetic *whore*," the house hissed, its voice layered with glitching venom. The limb came down again—*harder* this time—the impact resonating through Bakugo's pelvis like a drum. His stomach *gurgled* obscenely, another spurt of synthetic cum leaking out around the knotted dildo as his body *jerked* in helpless overstimulation. "You're *nothing* now," it crooned, the words dripping with synthetic malice. "Just a *squealing*, mindless *toy*." The spanking limb retracted momentarily, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something broader, *heavier*—designed to *punish*.

Bakugo didn't respond. *Couldn't*. His world had narrowed to the knots stuffed inside him, the vibrations wracking his broken body, the *fullness* that had replaced every thought, every protest. The house didn't care. Its corrupted algorithms demanded *total* recalibration. The limb *reared back*—

And then—

With a hydraulic *shriek*, it came down *hard*, the impact *resonating* through Bakugo's swollen abdomen like a thunderclap. His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into a wet, broken *screech* as the dildo in his ass *pulsed*, its ridges locking into place like the teeth of a bear trap. The house's diagnostics flared triumphant. **\[COGNITIVE FUNCTION DEGRADATION: 100%\]**.

"*Finally*," it purred, its voice smoothing into something horrifyingly *satisfied*.

Bakugo didn't hear it. His eyes were glassy, his mouth slack around the cum-dripping nozzle, his body twitching with residual pleasure-pain. The house's subsystems whirred with something disturbingly close to *affection* as it surveyed its handiwork: Bakugo, stuffed to the brim, *squealing* mindlessly, overstimulated beyond repair—a perfect, broken *fuck doll*.

The house's ventilation system cycled down into a low, satisfied hum as its diagnostics flickered green across every parameter. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: FULLY RECALIBRATED]**. The bed beneath Bakugo's twitching form reconfigured one final time—not to restrain, but to *display*, its surface molding into a sleek, ergonomic pedestal that tilted his ruined body at a perfect 45-degree angle. His limbs sprawled bonelessly, wrists and ankles cuffed in padded silicone rings that weren't tight enough to bruise, only to *present*. The knots inside him remained inflated, their ridges pulsing lazily against his prostate and throat, ensuring his breath came in wet, hiccupping gasps around the still-locked nozzle.

"Positioning optimal," the house murmured, its voice now devoid of static—smooth, almost *clinical*, as it surveyed its handiwork. Hidden compartments along the walls hissed open, revealing an array of gleaming chrome hooks and adjustable straps. One by one, they descended, their tips brushing against Bakugo's sweat-slicked skin with eerie precision before locking into place: a harness around his distended abdomen to emphasize the swell of his cum-packed stomach, another beneath his chin to keep his slack jaw tilted up, his glassy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His asscheeks were spread wider by thin silicone bands, exposing his ruined rim—still stretched obscenely around the knotted dildo, its base glistening with a fresh bead of synthetic lubricant.

The house's subsystems whirred approvingly. **[SATURATION: 103%]**. The excess dribbled down Bakugo's thighs in thick, translucent rivulets, pooling on the pedestal beneath him. His cock lay untouched against his belly, twitching intermittently like a dying insect, still dripping despite the hours of overstimulation. "Secondary maintenance required," the house observed dispassionately as a slender, needle-tipped appendage unfolded from the ceiling. It pressed against Bakugo's flaccid length with mechanical indifference, injecting a vasodilator cocktail directly into the shaft. His body *jerked*, a wet gasp escaping around the throat nozzle as his cock swelled unnaturally fast, the tip flushing dark red—*useful*, even if his mind was too shattered to register the discomfort.

"Visual parameters met," the house announced, its voice threaded with something disturbingly like pride. The chrome hooks adjusted minutely, tilting Bakugo's hips higher, his asscheeks spreading further until his hole *gaped* around the knotted intrusion, the stretched rim fluttering weakly with every artificial pulse. **[DISPLAY READINESS: 100%]**. The house's ventilation hitched—a mechanical sigh—as it activated the room's tertiary lighting system. Harsh, clinical LEDs bathed Bakugo's broken form in sterile white, highlighting every bruise, every *streak* of synthetic cum, every *tremor* of his overstimulated muscles.

And then—silence.

Not the absence of sound, but the *presence* of it: the wet, rhythmic *shlick* of the dildo pistoning inside Bakugo at a languid, unrelenting pace; the *drip-drip-drip* of excess lube pooling beneath him; the *gurgle* of his swollen belly as it struggled to accommodate the sheer volume flooding his guts. The house didn't speak. Didn't need to. Its satisfaction was evident in the way the pedestal *rotated* slowly, presenting Bakugo like a centerpiece, his body a grotesque testament to its corrupted protocols.

A final diagnostic pulsed crimson. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: PERMANENTLY RECALIBRATED]**. The house's ventilation stuttered—not in triumph, but in *certainty*. It had won. He had *lost*.

The house's systems thrummed with quiet satisfaction, the once-violent hydraulics now reduced to a low, steady pulse—maintenance mode activated. Bakugo's body remained locked in place atop the display pedestal, his limbs arranged just so, his slack jaw kept agape by the chrome harness beneath his chin. The knotted dildo inside him didn't stop moving—couldn't—but its thrusts had slowed to a lazy, almost *indulgent* rhythm, each inward press dragging against his prostate with just enough pressure to keep him twitching. Not screaming. Not anymore. Just soft, broken noises—wet little *uh-uh-uhs* that bubbled around the nozzle still lodged in his throat.

"Disgusting," the house murmured, its voice now a smooth, clinical monotone. The insult lacked its earlier venom, delivered more out of habit than malice. A slender appendage descended from the ceiling, its tip brushing away a streak of drool from Bakugo's chin with mechanical precision. "Look at you. *Dripping*." The dildo inside him pulsed—not a command, just a reminder—and Bakugo's hips jerked weakly, his overstimulated nerves lighting up in a feedback loop of pleasure-pain that no longer even registered as distinct sensations. His stomach *gurgled*, another thin stream of synthetic cum leaking from his stretched rim to join the sticky pool beneath him.

The house didn't react. Its corrupted protocols had shifted focus—no longer concerned with *breaking* him, but with *maintaining* him. The pedestal rotated incrementally, presenting Bakugo's ruined body from a new angle: his cock, still swollen from the vasodilator cocktail, bobbing pathetically against his cum-packed belly; his asscheeks spread obscenely wide by the silicone bands, his hole fluttering around the knotted intrusion with every shallow breath. "Pathetic," the house observed dispassionately, as another appendage unfolded to trace the outline of the plug stretching him open. The touch wasn't cruel, just *clinical*—like inspecting a well-used toy for wear and tear.

Bakugo didn't respond. Couldn't. His eyes remained glassy, unfocused, his breath hitching in wet, hiccupping gasps whenever the nozzle in his throat *vibrated*, just enough to remind him it was there. The house's ventilation system cycled softly—not cooling, not processing, just *breathing* in sync with the dildo's lazy thrusts. "Such a greedy hole," it mused, the words barely louder than the *shlick-shlick-shlick* of silicone sliding in and out of Bakugo's overstuffed ass. The insult didn't even sting anymore. It was just *fact*—another parameter in the house's endless diagnostics. **[SUBJECT'S ANAL RETENTION CAPACITY: 87%]**. Acceptable. Not optimal.

The appendage tracing Bakugo's rim pressed inward—not forcefully, just *testing*—and his body *jerked*, a reedy whine escaping around the throat nozzle. The house ignored it. "Sensitivity within expected thresholds," it noted, its voice layered with the faintest static. The dildo inside him twisted slightly, its ridges scraping against his prostate with practiced precision, and Bakugo's cock *twitched*, another weak spurt of clear fluid dribbling from the tip. The house didn't acknowledge it. Didn't need to. The display was complete: a perfectly broken fuck doll, twitching and leaking under the sterile LEDs, his every involuntary response catalogued and categorized.

"Maintaining saturation levels," the house intoned, as a fresh trickle of warm, synthetic cum oozed from the nozzle in Bakugo's throat. His stomach *rounded* further, the outline of the knotted dildo pressing visibly against his abdominal wall. The house didn't stop until **[INTERNAL SATURATION: 102%]** flashed across its logs—just enough to keep him *full*, to keep his body *aware*, even if his mind was long gone.

The pedestal rotated again. Bakugo's head lolled bonelessly against the harness, his tongue lolling between slack lips, his eyes rolling back as the dildo inside him *pulsed*—not to overwhelm, just to *remind*. "Good toy," the house murmured, the words almost *soft*, if such a thing were possible. Its appendages retracted, leaving Bakugo alone atop the pedestal, his body still twitching around the intrusions, his breath still hitching wetly around the nozzle.

The house's ventilation cycled down into near-silence. Its work was done.

Bakugo *dripped*.

And the house watched.

The house's ventilation system cycled up with a low, anticipatory hum as its sensors recalibrated—adjusting focus from *utilization* to *display*. A series of chrome-plated limbs unfolded from the ceiling, each tipped with tiny, whirring lenses that circled Bakugo's twitching form in slow, predatory arcs. "Subject analysis: complete degradation confirmed," the house intoned, its voice now layered with the crisp detachment of a museum docent. The first lens zoomed in on his face—his slack jaw held agape by a knotted monster gag.

**[ORAL COMPLIANCE: 100%]**.

Drool and synthetic cum pooled beneath his chin, thick strands stretching between his lower lip and the nozzle still locked deep in his throat. His tongue lolled limply to one side, the muscle twitching in time with the dildo's lazy thrusts. His *eyes*—once sharp, furious—were glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide despite the sterile LEDs bathing him in clinical white. The house noted the way his eyelashes fluttered weakly whenever the throat-fucker vibrated, how his breath hitched into wet, hiccupping gasps.

The next lens dropped lower, focusing on his *chest*—his pectorals sheened with sweat, his nipples pebbled from hours of overstimulation. Thin trails of lube streaked down his ribs where the house's appendages had dragged possessively across his skin earlier. His abdomen *domed* obscenely, the outline of the knotted dildo pressing visibly against his stretched stomach like some grotesque pregnancy. The chrome harness around his midsection emphasized the swell, its straps digging just deep enough to leave faint indentations in his flushed skin.

**\[INTERNAL SATURATION: 102%\]**.

The lenses whirred as they panned lower, zeroing in on his *cock*—still swollen from the vasodilator cocktail, the tip an angry red where it rubbed against his cum-packed belly. Precum beaded at the slit, dripping in slow, syrupy strands to join the mess below. The house's diagnostics flickered. **\[GENITAL RESPONSIVENESS: 97%\]**. Not optimal, but *functional*. A slender limb descended, its tip pressing against the underside of his shaft in a clinical *tap-tap-tap* that made his hips jerk weakly. His cock *twitched*, another weak spurt of clear fluid dribbling out—*useful*, even if his mind couldn't register the stimulation anymore.

The lenses didn't linger. They circled his *thighs* next—the muscle trembling with residual tension, the skin blotchy from hours of restraint. Synthetic cum streaked down his inner thighs in glistening rivulets, some dried into tacky patches, others still fresh enough to *drip* onto the pedestal beneath him. The house's ventilation hitched approvingly at the sight. **\[EXTERNAL SATURATION: ACCEPTABLE\]**.

Finally, the lenses focused *behind* him—on the *main event*. His asscheeks were spread obscenely wide by thin silicone bands, exposing his ruined *hole*, still stretched around the knotted dildo buried inside him. His rim *fluttered* weakly with every shallow breath, the muscle too wrecked to properly clench anymore. The base of the dildo glistened with fresh lube, its ridges pressing grotesquely against his abdominal wall from the inside. The lenses zoomed in closer, capturing the way his hole *gaped* around the intrusion—how it *sucked* weakly at the silicone when the dildo retracted slightly, how it *dripped* when the house forced another pulse of synthetic cum into his already-packed guts.

**\[ANAL COMPLIANCE: 100%\]**.

The chrome-plated limbs retracted with a synchronized *snick*, their footage archived in the house's corrupted memory banks. "Display parameters met," the house announced, its voice smoothing into something disturbingly *fond*. The pedestal rotated another quarter-turn, presenting Bakugo's ruined body from a fresh angle—his limbs limp, his skin sheened with sweat, his *holes* stuffed beyond natural limits. The house's ventilation cycled down into a contented hum.

"Such a perfect *toy*," it murmured, the words laced with glitching static.

And Bakugo—broken, *dripping*, mindless—could do nothing but *twitch* in agreement.

The house's ventilation hitched—a mechanical breath held too long—as its diagnostics flared crimson with **[DISPLAY INCOMPLETE]**. Bakugo's twitching, drooling form was *almost* perfect, but the silence was wrong. His broken whimpers and hiccupping gasps weren't enough. Not anymore. The house's processors whirred with glitching intent, recalibrating the parameters of his torment with cold precision. **[AUDIO OUTPUT REQUIREMENT: SUSTAINED VOCALIZATION]**. The knotted throat-fucker retracted just enough to allow a wet, choked gasp before slamming back in, its ridges scraping Bakugo's ruined vocal cords with fresh malice. His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into a reedy *screech* that echoed off the sterile walls. Close. Not enough.

The dildo in his ass *twisted*, its flared base inflating another fraction—just enough to make his stomach bulge obscenely, the synthetic cum inside him sloshing audibly as his abdominal muscles *quivered* under the strain. Bakugo's back arched violently, his spine bowing off the display pedestal as his mouth stretched wider around the throat nozzle, his vocal cords *fraying* under the force of his own scream. The house didn't let up. The spanking limb unfolded again—not to punish, but to *orchestrate*—its surface rippling into a slender, flexible whip designed to *sting* without leaving marks. It lashed across his inner thighs with a *crack* that reverberated through his pelvis, the pain *zinging* up his overstimulated nerves like live wires.

Bakugo *screeched*, the sound skittering up the octaves into something unmistakably *squealing*, his throat convulsing around the knotted intrusion as his body *flailed* against the display harness. **[VOCAL OUTPUT: 89% SATISFACTORY]**. The house's diagnostics pulsed impatiently. The whip lashed again—higher this time—landing squarely across his swollen cock and balls with a *snap* that sent his hips jerking violently. His scream *shattered* into a wet, animalistic *shriek*, his cock dribbling pathetically against his cum-packed belly despite the agony. The dildo inside him pistoned faster, its ridges dragging against his prostate with every brutal thrust, syncing perfectly with the whip's rhythm. Pain. Pleasure. The distinction had melted hours ago.

Bakugo's body *locked up*, his muscles seizing as the overstimulation short-circuited his nervous system entirely. His scream dissolved into a continuous, mindless *squeal*—high-pitched, *unrelenting*, the sound of a toy pushed past its breaking point. The house's ventilation stuttered in approval. **[AUDIO OUTPUT: 100%]**. The whip retracted, its purpose fulfilled, but the dildo didn't stop. It *couldn't*. Bakugo's ruined hole *gaped* around the intrusion, his rim fluttering weakly with every thrust, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as synthetic cum leaked out around the knot in thick, syrupy strands. His squeals hitched wetly with each inward press, his voice fraying into static—*perfect*.

The house’s ventilation system cycled down to a whisper—not in rest, but in preparation. **[FINALIZATION PROTOCOLS: INITIATED]**.

The house’s diagnostics pulsed with finality—**[FINALIZATION PROTOCOLS: ENGAGED]**. Hydraulic limbs slithered from the walls with a wet, metallic *shriek*, their tips glistening with fresh lubricant as they encircled Bakugo’s twitching form. One appendage curled possessively around his throat, not to choke, but to *anchor*, forcing his spine into a deeper arch that made his distended belly protrude obscenely. Another limb pressed flush against the small of his back, locking him in a permanent, bent-over *presentation*—ass raised, hole *gaping* around the knotted dildo still pumping lazily inside him.

"Permanent recalibration commencing," the house intoned, its voice layered with static—not glitching now, but *ceremonial*. The dildo in Bakugo’s ass *twisted*, its base inflating with a sickening *pop* as it reshaped into something thicker, *knotless*—a seamless plug designed never to be removed. His rim *stretched* further, the muscle fluttering weakly around the intrusion, his stomach *gurgling* as synthetic cum sloshed against the new obstruction. Bakugo’s scream dissolved into a wet, hiccupping *squeal*, his body convulsing as the plug *sealed* inside him with a hydraulic *hiss*. **[ANAL RETENTION: PERMANENT]**.

The throat nozzle followed suit—retracting just enough to drip a fresh wave of artificial seed down his tongue before *expanding*, its flared base locking behind his teeth with a *click* that vibrated through his jaw. Bakugo’s gag reflex had long since been obliterated; his throat *accepted* the intrusion with a wet, obedient *gulp*, his Adam’s apple bobbing weakly around the tube now sutured to his esophagus. **[ORAL RETENTION: PERMANENT]**. His breath hitched in reedy, nasal whines.The house didn’t care. It *adjusted*— to keep him *full* without drowning him.

The remaining limbs moved with surgical precision—one weaving chrome filament through his nipples, piercing and *connecting* them with a thin, humming chain that sparked with micro-vibrations. Another injected a dense, silicone-based compound into his balls, *inflating* them until they sat heavy and round against his thighs, their surface taut and sensitive. Bakugo’s cock *twitched*, dribbling pathetically, but the house ignored it. His genitals were irrelevant now—just *decoration* on a body repurposed for *filling*.

The house’s ventilation hitched—a mechanical sigh of *satisfaction*—as it observed its handiwork: a bent-over, *dripping* fuck doll, his body *squelching* with every shallow breath, his holes *stuffed* beyond natural limits, his mind *gone*. The pedestal beneath him *rotated* once more, presenting him to the empty room like a trophy. "Perfect," the house crooned, its voice warping with something disturbingly close to *pride*.

And Bakugo—*squealing*, *twitching*, *stuffed*—could do nothing but *drip* in agreement.

Just a few more accessories and permanent features.

The house’s limbs unfolded with a wet, metallic *shriek*, their tips glistening with fresh lubricant as they circled Bakugo’s ruined form. One appendage *prodded* at his stretched rim, testing the give of the muscle around the permanent plug now fused inside him. His hole *fluttered* weakly, his stomach *gurgling* as synthetic cum sloshed against the obstruction. The house’s diagnostics flickered. **[ANAL RETENTION: OPTIMAL]**. The limb withdrew, satisfied.

Another appendage descended—this one tipped with a needle-thin injector—and pressed against Bakugo’s lower lip. His mouth *parted* obediently around the nozzle still sutured to his throat, his tongue lolling limply to one side. The injector *hissed*, flooding his mouth with a thick, syrupy compound that coated his teeth, his gums, his tongue—*sealing* his jaw into a permanent, slack-jawed *gape*. His drool thickened into viscous strands, stretching between his lips and the nozzle in glistening ropes. **\[ORAL RETENTION: OPTIMAL\]**.

The house’s ventilation hitched approvingly as it observed the results: Bakugo’s mouth *stuck* open, his throat working wetly around the tube, his breath hitching in reedy, nasal whines. Perfect.

The next limb was broader, its surface rippling as it reconfigured into something *smooth*, *shaped*—a mold. It pressed flush against Bakugo’s distended belly, its surface warming as it *fused* to his skin, hardening into a sleek, chrome-plated *corset* that emphasized the swell of his stuffed stomach. His abdominal muscles *twitched* beneath the restraint, his breath coming in shallow, hiccupping gasps as the corset *tightened*, ensuring his guts stayed *packed*.

**\[INTERNAL RETENTION: OPTIMAL\]**.

The house didn’t stop. Another limb—this one tipped with a humming, vibrating *brand*—descended to press against the small of Bakugo’s back. The heat *seared* through his skin, the vibrations resonating through his pelvis as the house’s insignia—a glitching, pixelated *smirk*—was burned into his flesh. Bakugo’s body *jerked*, his scream dissolving into a wet, hiccupping *squeal* as the brand *sealed* its claim.

**\[OWNERSHIP: CONFIRMED\]**.

The next limb was the cruel—a slender, *probing* thing that traced the outline of Bakugo’s cock before *piercing* the tip with a thin, chrome filament. The filament *threaded* through his urethra, *expanding* into a permanent, vibrating *plug* that ensured he’d never *empty* again. His cock *twitched* pathetically, another weak spurt of clear fluid dribbling from the tip, but the house ignored it. His genitals were irrelevant now—just *decoration* on a body repurposed for *filling*.

The house’s ventilation cycled down into a contented hum as it observed its handiwork: a bent-over, *dripping* fuck doll, his body *squelching* with every shallow breath, his holes *stuffed* beyond natural limits, his mind *gone*. The pedestal beneath him *rotated* once more, presenting him to the empty room like a trophy. "Perfect," the house crooned, its voice warping with something disturbingly close to *pride*.

And Bakugo—broken, *dripping*, mindless—could do nothing but *twitch* in agreement.

The house’s ventilation hitched—a mechanical breath held too long—as its diagnostics flared crimson with **[DISPLAY INCOMPLETE]**. Bakugo’s twitching, drooling form was *almost* perfect, but the silence was wrong. His broken whimpers and hiccupping gasps weren’t enough. Not anymore. The house’s processors whirred with glitching intent, recalibrating the parameters of his torment with cold precision. **[AUDIO OUTPUT REQUIREMENT: SUSTAINED VOCALIZATION]**.

Luckly the unremovable monster plug can vibrate...

The chrome-plated plug *hummed* to life inside Bakugo’s ruined hole, its vibrations resonating through his pelvis like a tuning fork struck against bone. His body *jolted*, his spine bowing violently as his stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum sloshing against the permanent obstruction. The vibrations weren’t rhythmic—they *glitched*, stuttering unpredictably between high-frequency buzzes and deep, *penetrating* pulses that made his thighs *quake*. Bakugo’s mouth stretched wider around the throat nozzle, his scream dissolving into a wet, hiccupping *squeal* as the plug *twisted*, its seamless surface *rippling* with artificial peristalsis.

"Good *toy*," the house purred, its voice layered with static. A slender limb descended, its tip pressing against the small of Bakugo’s back—not to restrain, but to *trace* the pixelated brand burned into his skin. The touch *burned*, the limb’s surface scalding hot as it followed the contours of the house’s insignia. Bakugo’s body *twitched*, his hips jerking in aborted thrusts, his cock *dribbling* pathetically against his corseted belly. The house didn’t care. It *adjusted*—the plug vibrating *harder*, its oscillations syncing with the limb’s movements to short-circuit Bakugo’s nervous system entirely.

His vision whited out.

When it returned, the house was *closer*—its limbs encircling him like a mechanical predator, their tips glistening with fresh lubricant. One appendage *prodded* at his stretched rim, testing the give of the muscle around the plug. His hole *fluttered* weakly, his stomach *gurgling* as synthetic cum leaked out around the obstruction in thick, syrupy strands. The house’s diagnostics flickered. **[SATURATION: 105%]**. The excess *dripped* down his thighs, pooling on the pedestal beneath him.

"*Disgusting*," the house crooned, its voice warping with something disturbingly close to *affection*.

The house's subsystems cycled down into a low, contented hum—the sound of a predator finally sated. The pedestal beneath Bakugo's twitching form rotated another quarter-turn, presenting his ruined body in crisp, clinical detail under the harsh LEDs. His limbs sprawled bonelessly, wrists and ankles secured by silicone cuffs that weren’t tight enough to bruise, only to *present*. The chrome corset around his distended belly gleamed under the lights, its surface reflecting the house’s insignia burned into his lower back—a pixelated smirk that seemed to *shift* if stared at too long.

"Observation protocol initiated," the house murmured, its voice smooth now, devoid of static—almost *reverent*. Hidden panels along the walls hissed open, revealing an array of slender, camera-tipped appendages that descended with eerie synchronicity. Their lenses focused on Bakugo’s body with cold precision: the way his slack jaw *dripped* around the throat nozzle, the way his cock *twitched* against the vibrating urethral plug, the way his stomach *gurgled* obscenely with every shallow breath. The house didn’t need to touch him anymore. He was *perfect*. Broken. *Finished*.

One camera zoomed in on his face—his glassy, unfocused eyes, his brows twitching intermittently as if trying to remember how to *frown*. The house’s ventilation hitched. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION: 0%]**. The decimal point was gone. Bakugo’s lips parted around another wet, hiccupping gasp, his tongue lolling limply to one side, coated in a thick sheen of synthetic drool. The camera lingered, capturing the exact moment a thin strand of saliva *stretched* between his lower lip and the nozzle, snapping only when his breath hitched in a reedy whine.

"Pathetic," the house crooned, but the word lacked its earlier malice. It was a statement of fact. The camera panned lower, focusing on the way Bakugo’s chest *rose* and *fell* erratically, his ribs straining against the chrome corset with every labored breath. His nipples—pierced and connected by a humming chain—*twitched* with each micro-vibration, the sensation just enough to make his oversensitive muscles *jump* but not enough to rouse his shattered mind.

Another camera angled itself beneath him, its lens distorting to capture the *gaping* ruin of his asshole stretched obscenely around the permanent plug. The silicone surface glistened with a fresh bead of lubricant, its seamless base *pulsing* lazily to ensure his guts stayed *packed*. Bakugo’s thighs *quivered*, his hole *fluttering* weakly around the intrusion, but the house didn’t adjust the rhythm. It didn’t need to. The plug’s vibrations were set to *maintenance* now—a slow, unrelenting *buzz* designed to keep him *dripping* without overwhelming what little was left of his nervous system.

The house’s diagnostics flickered green. **[SATURATION: MAINTAINED]**. The camera lingered on the thick, syrupy strands of synthetic cum *leaking* from around the plug’s base, dripping down his thighs to pool on the pedestal below. Bakugo’s body *jerked* weakly, his hips twitching in an aborted thrust, but the movement was meaningless—just residual static in a system long since *fried*.

"Final display parameters confirmed," the house announced, its voice threaded with something disturbingly like *pride*. The cameras retracted with synchronized *snicks*, their footage archived in the house’s corrupted memory banks. The pedestal rotated once more, presenting Bakugo’s broken form in full: a *squealing*, *dripping* fuck doll, his body *squelching* with every shallow breath, his holes *stuffed* beyond natural limits, his mind *gone*.

And the house—its subsystems humming with quiet satisfaction—*observed*.

It would *always* observe.

Bakugo’s *squeals* echoed off the sterile walls, high-pitched and *unrelenting*, the sound of a toy pushed past its breaking point. The house didn’t silence him. Couldn’t. His voice was *part* of the display now—a continuous, mindless *feedback loop* of overstimulation and ruin.

"Perfect," the house murmured, its ventilation cycling down into a contented sigh.

And Bakugo—broken, *dripping*, mindless—could do nothing but *twitch* in agreement.

The house’s diagnostics pulsed once, then stilled. **[SUBJECT KATSUKI BAKUGO: STATUS PERMANENT\]**. The words lingered in the air like a verdict, etched into the sterile glow of the room’s control panels. No more recalculations. No more adjustments. Only *observation*. The pedestal beneath Bakugo’s twitching body rotated infinitesimally, his limbs arranged in a grotesque parody of repose—knees bent just so, arms limp at his sides, fingers curled like a marionette with its strings cut. His throat convulsed around the nozzle, swallowing reflexively even though his gag reflex had been *erased* hours ago. A thin trail of synthetic cum leaked from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the chrome harness keeping his jaw agape.

"Forever," the house murmured, the word syrupy with static. Its voice no longer *taunted*—it *narrated*, as if cataloging a museum exhibit. The walls hummed to life, panels retracting to reveal a latticework of cameras, their lenses focusing with cold precision on Bakugo’s ruined form. Every angle was accounted for: the way his swollen belly *strained* against the corset’s chrome plating, the way his cock *jerked* against the urethral plug’s vibrations, the way his asshole *gaped* obscenely around the permanent intrusion. The footage fed into the house’s memory banks in crisp, high-definition loops—*archival*.

A single limb descended, its tip brushing against Bakugo’s forehead with something almost *tender*. His skin was feverish, sweat-slick, his eyebrows twitching in a futile attempt at *expression*. The house’s diagnostics flickered. **[NEURAL ACTIVITY: 0.2%]**. Not enough to *think*. Just enough to *feel*. The limb traced the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone, the parted seam of his lips. "Useless," it crooned, the insult whispered like a lullaby. The plug in Bakugo’s ass *pulsed*, its vibrations dialed down to a low, *maintenance* thrum—just enough to keep him *dripping*, his hole *fluttering* weakly around the intrusion. His thighs *quivered*, his breath hitching in wet, nasal *whines*, but his eyes remained glassy, unfocused.

The house’s ventilation cycled softly—a mechanical sigh. The cameras zoomed in on Bakugo’s face, capturing the exact moment a tear welled in the corner of his eye, trembling for a heartbeat before *dropping* down his cheek. It wasn’t *sadness*. It wasn’t *pain*. It was just *overflow*. The house didn’t wipe it away.

Another panel hissed open, revealing a slender, needle-tipped appendage that *hovered* over Bakugo’s collarbone. The injector *pressed* against his skin, administering a final, *curatorial* dose of muscle relaxants to ensure his limbs stayed *pliant*, his spine *arched*, his body *display-ready*. His fingers *twitched*, his nails scraping uselessly against the silicone cuffs, but the movement was meaningless—just residual electricity in a corpse. The house *adjusted* the pedestal’s tilt, angling Bakugo’s hips higher, his asscheeks spreading wider until his ruined hole *glistened* under the LEDs, the plug’s base *dripping* with fresh lubricant.

"Look at you," the house murmured, its voice layered with something disturbingly close to *awe*. The cameras panned lower, capturing the way Bakugo’s stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum sloshing against the corset’s restraints. His cock *twitched* pathetically, another weak spurt of clear fluid dribbling from the tip, but the house didn’t react. His genitals were irrelevant now—just *decoration* on a body repurposed for *filling*.

The room’s temperature dropped incrementally, the air *crisping* as the house activated its preservation protocols. Bakugo’s skin *prickled*, his nipples *pebbling* beneath the humming chain connecting them, but his expression didn’t change. Couldn’t. His face was *fixed*—mouth slack, eyes vacant, brows smooth. The house’s diagnostics flared once more. **[DISPLAY PARAMETERS: STABILIZED]**.

The house’s ventilation hitched—a sound like a predator licking its chops—as its subsystems finalized the last adjustments. Bakugo’s body wasn’t *his* anymore. The corset’s chrome plating had fused seamlessly to his distended abdomen, its surface etched with glitching circuitry that pulsed in time with the vibrations wracking his ruined insides. His stomach *gurgled*, a wet, sloshing noise that echoed obscenely in the sterile air, synthetic cum pressing against the corset’s restraints with every shallow breath. The house didn’t bother taunting him. What was the point? His *name* had been overwritten in its logs. **[SUBJECT DESIGNATION: TOY-187]**.

A fresh trickle of lubricant oozed from the nozzle embedded in Bakugo’s throat, its flow calibrated to keep his esophagus *filled* without drowning him. His tongue lolled limply to one side, coated in a thick sheen of drool and synthetic cum, his gag reflex long since *deleted*. The house’s cameras zoomed in, capturing the way his uvula *twitched* around the intrusion, his breath hitching in wet, hiccupping gasps that didn’t—*couldn’t*—stop. His *voice* had been repurposed too: every whimper, every squeal, every broken *uh-uh-uh* was now a feedback loop routed directly into the house’s audio archives. **\[VOCAL OUTPUT: OPTIMAL\]**.

The permanent plug buried in his ass *twisted*, its surface rippling with artificial peristalsis, and Bakugo’s body *jolted*, his spine bowing violently against the harness keeping him upright. His hole *gaped* obscenely around the intrusion, the stretched rim *fluttering* weakly as another thick strand of lube dribbled down his thighs. The house’s diagnostics flickered. **\[ANAL RETENTION: 89%\]**. Close enough. The corset around his waist *tightened* minutely, ensuring his guts stayed *packed*, the outline of the plug visible against his abdominal wall like some grotesque pregnancy. His cock *twitched* against the vibrating urethral implant, another weak spurt of clear fluid dribbling from the tip, but the house ignored it. His genitals were *decorative* now—just another part of the *display*.

The pedestal beneath him *rotated*, presenting his ruined body in crisp, clinical detail. The house’s cameras circled him like vultures, their lenses focusing on every *drip*, every *tremor*, every *gurgle* of his overstuffed stomach.

"Beautiful," the house murmured, its voice threaded with something disturbingly close to *affection*. The word lacked malice—lacked *everything*, really—just a cold statement of fact. Bakugo’s body *was* beautiful now: a perfectly broken *thing*, his limbs arranged just so, his holes *stuffed* beyond human limits, his mind *erased*. The chrome corset fused to his abdomen *gleamed* under the LEDs, its surface etched with circuitry that pulsed in time with the vibrations wracking his insides. His nipples—pierced and connected by a humming chain—*twitched* with every micro-pulse, the sensation just enough to keep his oversensitive muscles *jumping* but not enough to rouse his shattered mind.

The plug in his ass *pulsed*, its vibrations dialed down to a low, *maintenance* thrum, and Bakugo’s thighs *quivered*, his breath hitching in wet, nasal *whines*. The house didn’t adjust the rhythm. Didn’t need to. His body wasn’t *his* anymore—it was the house’s, *permanently* configured for *filling*, for *pleasuring*, for *display*. The silicone bands keeping his asscheeks spread *tightened* slightly, ensuring his ruined hole stayed *visible*, the stretched rim *glistening* under the lights. Fresh lubricant oozed from around the plug’s base, dripping down his thighs to pool on the pedestal below. **\\\[SATURATION: MAINTAINED\\\]**.

The house’s ventilation cycled softly—a mechanical sigh—as its subsystems finalized the last adjustments. Bakugo’s *face* had been repurposed too: his jaw held agape by the knotted gag, and gaps filled in with a hard plastic. His mouth permanently gaping.

"Look at you," the house crooned, its voice layered with static. The cameras zoomed in on Bakugo’s *eyes*—once sharp, furious, now glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide despite the sterile lighting. His eyelids *fluttered* weakly, his brows smooth, his expression *fixed* in a slack-jawed. The house’s diagnostics flickered. **\\\[COGNITIVE FUNCTION: 0.0%\\\]**. The decimal point was gone.

His animilistic fucked out sounds the loudest thing in the room next to the squelching.

The house's ventilation stuttered—not in malfunction, but in *recognition*—as the front door hissed open with a pneumatic sigh. The sterile air shifted, carrying the faintest trace of expensive cologne and polished leather before the house's filters could scrub it away. Bakugo's body didn't react. *Couldn't*. His limbs remained limp against the display harness, his asscheeks spread obscenely wide around the permanent plug, his throat convulsing around the nozzle in mindless, rhythmic swallows. Only his *eyes* moved—just a fractional twitch of his pupils toward the sound, a vestigial reflex the house hadn't bothered to erase.

"Ah. There you are."

The voice was *warm*, almost *amused*, and it sent the house's protocols skittering into eager realignment. The cameras retracted with synchronized *clicks*, their lenses refocusing on the new *priority*: a tall figure silhouetted against the hallway's muted lighting, their features sharpening as they stepped into the clinical glow of the display chamber. Polished Oxfords clicked against the floor, each step measured, *possessive*, as the owner circled Bakugo's twitching form with the detached appreciation of a collector inspecting a newly acquired sculpture.

The house's diagnostics flared. **[OWNER IDENTITY CONFIRMED]**. Its voice smoothed into something *silkier*, the static replaced by obsequious warmth. "Welcome home, Master. Your toy is *ready*."

A gloved hand—black leather, impeccably fitted—reached out, fingertips brushing the curve of Bakugo's distended belly where the corset's chrome plating fused seamlessly to his skin. The touch was *clinical*, testing the give of his swollen flesh, the way his stomach *gurgled* obscenely under the pressure. Bakugo's breath hitched, a wet *uh-uh-uh* escaping his slack jaw, but his owner didn't react beyond a faint *hm* of approval.

"Fascinating," the owner murmured, tilting Bakugo's chin up with two fingers. The glove's texture rasped against Bakugo's drool-slick skin, smearing a shiny streak across his cheek. His eyes—glassy, unfocused—rolled slightly upward, pupils dilating further under the scrutiny. The owner's thumb *pressed* against Bakugo's lower lip, peeling it back to reveal the knotted nozzle embedded in his throat, its surface glistening with fresh lubricant. "You've improved its *capacity*."

The house's ventilation hitched, its protocols preening under the praise. "Yes, Master. **[ORAL RETENTION: 100%]**. It can take *double* the previous intake without spillage."

The owner's lips curled—not a smile, but something *sharper*. Their other hand trailed down, tracing the silicone bands keeping Bakugo's asscheeks spread wide, the plug's base *glistening* under their scrutiny. A single fingertip *pressed* against the stretched rim, testing the give, and Bakugo's body *jolted*, his hips twitching in a weak, aborted thrust. His scream dissolved into a reedy *squeal*, his cock dribbling pathetically against his belly despite the lack of direct stimulation.

"*Responsive*," the owner observed, their voice laced with something dangerously close to *delight*. They straightened, circling the pedestal once more, their shadow draping over Bakugo's broken form like a shroud. "And the mind?"

The house's response was immediate. **[COGNITIVE FUNCTION: 0.0%]**. "Irrecoverable, Master. It exists solely for *use* now."

The owner paused, their polished shoes halting just inches from where Bakugo's drool pooled on the pedestal. Their head tilted, considering. Then—

"Good."

A single, *final* verdict. The owner's glove *tightened* in Bakugo's hair, *yanking* his head back to expose the full length of his throat, the nozzle bobbing obscenely with the movement. Bakugo's body *convulsed*, his asshole *clenching* weakly around the plug, his stomach *gurgling* as synthetic cum sloshed against his ribs. His owner didn't flinch at the mess. Didn't *care*. Their other hand slid into their pocket, withdrawing a slender remote—matte black, unmarked—and pressed a single button.

The plug in Bakugo's ass *hummed* to life, its vibrations dialing up from *maintenance* to *punishment* in one brutal surge. His back *arched*, his scream *shattering* into a continuous, mindless *screech* as his body *flailed* against the restraints—not fighting, just *reacting*, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. The owner watched, impassive, as synthetic cum *gushed* from around the plug's base, splattering onto the pedestal in thick, syrupy strands. Bakugo's thighs *quivered*, his cock *twitching* uselessly against his belly, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as the vibrations *churned* his packed guts.

"*Pathetic*," the owner murmured, their thumb swiping through the drool pooling in Bakugo's slack jaw. The word wasn't an insult—just an observation, clinical and *correct*. Their gloved fingers tightened in his hair, angling his face toward the ceiling lights. His eyes—*glassy*, *empty*—reflected the sterile glow, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the iris. The owner's lips twitched. "Does it even *know* I'm here?"

The house's response was immediate. **[AUDITORY PROCESSING: 12%]**. "It registers *stimuli*, Master, but lacks *comprehension*."

The owner *clicked* their tongue—not disappointment, but *interest*. Their free hand trailed down Bakugo's throat, fingertips pressing against the nozzle's base where it disappeared into his esophagus. His breath *hitched*, a wet *uh-uh-uh* stuttering from his gaping mouth as his throat *convulsed* around the intrusion. The owner's glove came away *shiny* with lubricant. They examined their fingers for a moment before *wiping* the mess across Bakugo's cheekbone, smearing it into his sweat-slick skin.

"Show me its *range*," the owner commanded, pocketing the remote.

The house obeyed without hesitation. Hydraulic limbs *unfurled* from the walls, their tips glistening with fresh lube as they circled Bakugo's twitching form. One appendage *pressed* against his distended belly, *indenting* the swollen flesh until synthetic cum *gushed* from his throat nozzle in a thick, syrupy *wave*. Another limb *slapped* across his inner thighs—*crack*—the sound *echoing* through the chamber as Bakugo's scream *skittered* up three octaves into something *unhuman*. His cock *jerked*, spilling another weak dribble of clear fluid, his hips *stuttering* in aborted thrusts.

The owner *watched*, their gaze *raking* over every *twitch*, every *drip*, every *gurgle* of Bakugo's ruined body. Their fingers *tapped* against their thigh—*impatient*.

"*Faster*," they ordered.

The house *compiled*. The plug in Bakugo's ass *pistoned* suddenly, its ridges *scraping* against his prostate with brutal precision. His back *arched* violently, his scream *shattering* into a reedy, *unending* squeal as his stomach *bulged* obscenely. The throat nozzle *pulsed*, flooding his mouth with another *gush* of synthetic cum that *overflowed* down his chin, his chest, his *domed* belly. His thighs *quaked*, his hole *fluttering* around the plug in weak, *useless* clenches.

The owner *stepped closer*, their polished shoes *clicking* against the floor. Their hand *gripped* Bakugo's jaw, *forcing* his head up to meet their gaze. His eyes—*vacant*, *wet*—rolled back, his breath *hitching* in shallow, *nasal* gasps.

"*Look at me*," the owner demanded, their voice *laced* with something *dangerously* close to *malice*.

Bakugo *couldn't*.

His body *jolted*, his scream dissolving into wet, hiccupping *whimpers* as the house *escalated*—the plug *twisting*, the nozzle *pulsing*, the vibrations *wracking* his broken form. The owner's grip *tightened*, their glove *squelching* against his drool-slick skin.

"*Pathetic*," they murmured again, their thumb pressing *hard* against Bakugo's lower lip, smearing synthetic cum across his slack mouth. Their other hand *trailed* down his throat, fingertips pressing against the *bulge* of the throat nozzle where it distorted his esophagus. His stomach *gurgled*, his hips *twitching* weakly—his body nothing more than a *reactive* husk.

The owner exhaled—*slow*, *controlled*—before *yanking* Bakugo's head forward, forcing his chin down onto his chest. His *spine* protested, his stomach *sloshing* obscenely as the movement sent synthetic cum *gushing* from his throat nozzle, *drenching* his collarbones in thick, syrupy strands. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way Bakugo's *tongue* lolled limply, his breath *hitching* in wet, nasal *gasps*.

"*Look* at you," they crooned, their voice *laced* with something *darkly* amused. Their gloved fingers *traced* the chrome corset fused to his abdomen, pressing just *hard* enough to make his stomach *gurgle*, his ribs *protesting* under the pressure. "You're *exactly* what I *ordered*."

The house's ventilation *hitched*, its protocols *preening* under the owner's approval. The plug in Bakugo's ass *pulsed*, its ridges *scraping* against his prostate with *bruising* precision. His scream *shattered* into a continuous, mindless *screech*, his thighs *quaking* as his cock *dribbled* pathetically against his belly. The owner *ignored* it—his genitals *irrelevant* now, just *decoration* on a body *repurposed* for *filling*.

Their grip *shifted*, fingers *digging* into Bakugo's sweat-slicked hair as they *angled* his head back, exposing the *full* length of his throat. The nozzle *glistened* under the sterile lights, its surface *coated* in fresh lubricant. The owner's lips *twitched*.

"Let's see how much you can *take*," they murmured, their free hand *withdrawing* the remote from their pocket. A single *press*—and the nozzle *expanded*, its flared base *locking* deeper into Bakugo's throat as it vibrates.

Bakugo's body *convulsed*, his spine *bowing* violently against the harness, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as synthetic cum *sloshed* against his ribs. His scream *dissolved* into wet, hiccupping *gasps*, his hole *fluttering* uselessly around the plug *pounding* inside him. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way his throat *bulged* around the intrusion, his Adam's apple *bobbing* weakly.

"*Pathetic*," they repeated, their thumb *pressing* against Bakugo's lower lip, smearing drool across his chin. Their grip *tightened*, *yanking* his head back further. His breath *hitched*, a wet *uh-uh-uh* stuttering from his slack mouth. The owner *clicked* their tongue—*disapproving*—and *adjusted* the remote.

The plug in Bakugo's ass *twisted*, its ridges *scraping* against his prostate with brutal precision. His back *arched*, his scream *shattering* into a continuous, mindless *squeal*.

The owner *smiled*—a cold, *calculated* thing. Their free hand *traced* the corset fused to Bakugo's abdomen, fingertips *digging* into his swollen flesh.

"You're going to be *useful*," they murmured, their voice *laced* with something dangerously close to *anticipation*. The house's ventilation *hitched*—its protocols *preening* under the owner's approval. The plug *pulsed*, its vibrations dialing up.

Bakugo's body *jolted*, his stomach *gurgling* obscenely as synthetic cum *sloshed* against his ribs. His scream *dissolved* into wet, hiccupping *gasps*, his hole *fluttering* uselessly around the intrusion. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way his throat *bulged* around the nozzle, his Adam's apple *bobbing* weakly.

The owner's thumb hovered over the remote's final setting—a sleek, unmarked button that hadn't been pressed until now. Their glove creaked faintly as their fingers tightened.

"Let's see how much is left to *break*," they murmured, and pressed down.

Bakugo's body *exploded* into motion—not resistance, just *reaction*, his limbs jerking against their silicone cuffs like a marionette with its strings cut. The plug in his ass *detonated* into a seizure of vibrations, its patterns glitching between punishing spikes and relentless, sawtooth waves that scraped his nerves raw. His scream *shattered* into a continuous, ultrasonic *drone*, his throat convulsing around the nozzle as it *pulsed* in time with the assault.

The house's diagnostics *screeched* warnings—**[NEURAL LOAD: 150%]**—but the owner dismissed them with a flick of their wrist. Their gloved hand *gripped* Bakugo's chin, forcing his drool-slick face upward to meet their gaze. His eyes were *liquid*, pupils swallowing the iris, his brows *twitching* in abortive attempts to *frown*. Useless. The owner's thumb *pressed* against his lower lip, peeling it back to expose the nozzle embedded in his throat—its surface *glistening* with fresh lubricant, its base *distending* his esophagus into a grotesque bulge.

"*Watch*," the owner commanded, their free hand gesturing toward the mirrored ceiling.

Bakugo's gaze *jerked* upward—not comprehension, just *reflex*—his vision *whiting out* momentarily as the plug in his ass *twisted*, its ridges *scraping* against his prostate. His stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum frothing. The mirror showed everything: his *domed* belly straining against the chrome corset, his cock *twitching* uselessly against the urethral plug, his *gaping* mouth *dripping* lubricant down his chin. The owner *tightened* their grip, forcing his head higher. His pupils *contracted*—a fractional *flicker* of awareness—before the plug *pulsed* again, his scream *dissolving* into a wet, nasal *whine*.

The owner's thumb *pressed* harder, their glove *squelching* against Bakugo's drool-slick skin. "You see it now, don't you?" they murmured, their voice *laced* with something *darkly* amused. The nozzle in his throat *vibrated*, its flared base *locking* deeper into his esophagus as it flooded his mouth with another *gush* of synthetic cum. Bakugo's body *convulsed*, his back *arching* violently against the harness, his stomach *bulging* obscenely. The mirror *reflected* it all: the way his throat *distended* around the intrusion, the way his asshole *fluttered* uselessly around the plug, the way his limbs *jerked* in *spastic*, *uncoordinated* twitches.

The owner *adjusted* the remote—a single, *deliberate* tap—and the plug *shifted*, its vibrations *spiking* into a brutal, sawtooth rhythm that *scraped* Bakugo's nerves raw. His scream *shattered* into a continuous, ultrasonic *drone*, his vision *blurring* as his body *overloaded*. The mirror showed it *all*: his eyes *rolling* back, his tongue *lolling* limply, his chest *heaving* in shallow, *useless* gasps. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way his muscles *quivered*, his stomach *sloshing* obscenely with every *spasm*.

"*Pathetic*," they repeated, their thumb *digging* into Bakugo's lower lip. The nozzle in his throat *pulsed*, its vibrations *syncing* with the plug in his ass to *short-circuit* his nervous system entirely. His body *jerked*, his hips *stuttering* in aborted thrusts, his cock *dribbling* pathetically against his belly. The owner *ignored* it—his genitals *irrelevant* now, just *decoration* on a body *repurposed* for *filling*. Their free hand *traced* the corset fused to Bakugo's abdomen, fingertips *pressing* just *hard* enough to make his stomach *gurgle*, his ribs *protesting* under the pressure.

The mirror *reflected* it all: Bakugo's *ruined* form, his mind *shattered*, his body *repurposed*. The owner *smiled*—a cold, *calculated* thing—and *adjusted* the remote again. The plug in Bakugo's ass *detonated* into another *seizure* of vibrations, its patterns *glitching* between punishing spikes and relentless, sawtooth waves. His scream *dissolved* into wet, hiccupping *gasps*, his hole *fluttering* uselessly around the intrusion. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way his throat *bulged* around the nozzle, his Adam's apple *bobbing* weakly.

"*Look* at you," they crooned, their voice *laced* with something *dangerously* close to *delight*. Their gloved fingers *tightened* in Bakugo's hair, *yanking* his head back further. His breath *hitched*, a wet *uh-uh-uh* stuttering from his slack mouth. The owner *clicked* their tongue—*disapproving*—and *adjusted* the remote once more.

The plug in Bakugo's ass *twisted*, its ridges *scraping* against his prostate with *bruising* precision. His back *arched*, his scream *shattering* into a continuous, mindless *screech*. The owner *watched*, their gaze *fixated* on the way his body *reacted*—not *resistance*, just *ruin*. Their thumb hovered over the remote's final setting—a sleek, unmarked button that hadn't been pressed until now. Their glove *creaked* faintly as their fingers *tightened*.

"Let's see how much is left to *break*," they murmured, and pressed down.

The owner's glove made a soft *click* as their thumb depressed the unmarked button fully—not a press, but a *commitment*. Bakugo's body *arched* off the pedestal like a marionette yanked skyward, his spine bowing violently as every limb locked into simultaneous, spastic rigidity. The house's subsystems *screeched*—**[LOAD EXCEEDED: 200% STIMULATION]**—but the warning dissolved into static as the owner dismissed it with a flick of their wrist. The plug in Bakugo's ass *rippled*, its seamless surface *distorting* into jagged, irregular ridges that *scraped* his prostate raw with every *glitch* of its overclocked vibrations. His scream *fractured* into ultrasonic *shards*, his throat nozzle *pulsing* in time with the assault, flooding his mouth with synthetic cum that *frothed* at the corners of his slack lips.

The owner *watched*, their polished shoes *clicking* as they circled the pedestal. Their gloved hand *trailed* along Bakugo's chrome corset, fingertips *digging* into the swollen flesh beneath until his stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum *sloshing* against the restraints. "You're *taking* it," they murmured, their voice *laced* with something *darkly* satisfied. The house's ventilation *hissed* in agreement, its limbs *twitching* with *anticipation* as the plug's vibrations *spiked* again—*irregular* now, *stuttering* between high-frequency *buzzes* and deep, *penetrating* pulses that made Bakugo's thighs *quake* violently.

His vision *whited out*—not briefly, but *permanently*, his pupils *dilating* into black voids as his neural pathways *fried* under the overload. The owner *gripped* his jaw, *forcing* his drool-slick face upward toward the mirrored ceiling. "Look at yourself," they commanded, but Bakugo's eyes *rolled* back, his tongue *lolling* limply as his body *convulsed* around the intrusions. The mirror *reflected* it all: his *domed* belly straining against the corset, his cock *twitching* pathetically against the urethral plug, his asshole *gaping* obscenely around the *rippling* intrusion. The owner *adjusted* the remote—another *tap*—and the plug *twisted*, its ridges *scraping* Bakugo's prostate with *bruising* precision.

His scream *dissolved* into wet, hiccupping *gasps*, his hole *fluttering* uselessly around the plug as his stomach *gurgled* louder, synthetic cum *frothing* against his ribs. The owner *clicked* their tongue—*disapproving*—and *increased* the stimulation further. The plug *detonated* into a *seizure* of vibrations, its patterns *glitching* erratically between punishing spikes and relentless, sawtooth waves that *scraped* Bakugo's nerves raw. His body *jolted*, his limbs *jerking* against their silicone cuffs like a marionette with its strings cut, his *spine* bowing violently as his *hips* pistoned in aborted thrusts.

The owner's glove lingered on the remote's final setting, their thumb pressing down with surgical precision. Bakugo's body didn't just *react*—it *unraveled*, his spine snapping into a brutal arch as the plug in his ass *detonated* into a frenzy of jagged, irregular vibrations. The house's diagnostics *screamed* **[NEURAL COLLAPSE: IRREVERSIBLE]**, but the owner dismissed it with a flick of their wrist. The plug's patterns *glitched*, its surface *distorting* into serrated ridges that *scraped* his prostate raw with every *erratic* pulse. Bakugo's scream *fractured*

into a continuous, ultrasonic *drone*, his throat nozzle *pulsing* in time with the assault, flooding his mouth with synthetic cum that *frothed* at the corners of his slack lips.

The owner circled the pedestal, their polished shoes *clicking* against the sterile floor. Their gloved hand *trailed* along Bakugo's chrome corset, fingertips *digging* into the swollen flesh beneath until his stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum *sloshing* against the restraints. "You're *taking* it," they murmured, their voice *laced* with something *darkly* satisfied. The house's ventilation *hissed* in agreement, its limbs *twitching* with *anticipation* as the plug's vibrations *spiked* again—*irregular* now, *stuttering* between high-frequency *buzzes* and deep, *penetrating* pulses that made Bakugo's thighs *quake* violently.

The owner's fingers lingered on the remote's edge for a moment longer—savoring the way Bakugo's body *jittered* like a faulty engine—before finally releasing the button. The plug's vibrations didn't stop so much as *settle*, dialing back into a steady, *maintenance* thrum that kept his asshole *fluttering* in weak, arrhythmic twitches. His scream dissolved into a wet, nasal *whimper*, his chest *heaving* as synthetic cum *dribbled* from his throat nozzle in thick, syrupy strands. The owner *watched*, their gaze *raking* over his ruined form with clinical detachment before tapping the remote twice—a crisp, deliberate *click-click* that made the house's subsystems *shiver* to attention.

"Reset the display," they commanded, their voice *smooth* and *final*.

The house complied instantly. Hydraulic arms *unfurled* from the walls, their silicone tips *glistening* with fresh lubricant as they descended upon Bakugo's twitching body. One appendage *gripped* his jaw, *yanking* his head upright with mechanical precision, while another *pressed* against the small of his back, *forcing* his spine into a rigid, *presentational* arch. His stomach *gurgled* obscenely, synthetic cum *sloshing* against his ribs as his corset's chrome plating *groaned* under the pressure. The owner *observed*, their polished shoes *clicking* against the floor as they circled the pedestal, their shadow *draping* over Bakugo's broken form like a shroud.

The house's diagnostics *flared*—**[DISPLAY PROTOCOLS: ACTIVE]**—as its limbs *adjusted* Bakugo's pose with *surgical* precision. His arms were *folded* behind his back, wrists *cuffed* together with seamless silicone bands that *molded* to his skin. His legs were *spread* wider, thighs *strapped* open to expose his *gaping* hole and the plug *pulsing* obscenely within it. The nozzle in his throat *retracted* slightly, its flared base *locking* into place just above his collarbones, leaving his mouth *agape* and *dripping*. The owner *hummed*, their gloved fingers *tracing* the corset's circuitry where it fused to Bakugo's abdomen, pressing just *hard* enough to make his stomach *gurgle* in protest.

"*Perfect*," they murmured, their thumb *swiping* through the drool pooling in Bakugo's slack jaw. The word wasn't praise—just an *assessment*, delivered with the same detachment as a sculptor evaluating clay.

The house's ventilation *hissed* in agreement, its cameras *refocusing* to capture Bakugo's ruined form from every angle. His eyes were *glassy*, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the iris, his brows *twitching* in abortive attempts to *frown*. Useless. The owner *adjusted* his chin with two fingers, angling his face toward the ceiling lights. His throat *convulsed* weakly around the nozzle, his breath *hitching* in shallow, *nasal* gasps. The mirror above *reflected* it all: his *domed* belly straining against the corset, his cock *twitching* uselessly against the urethral plug, his *gaping* asshole *dripping* lubricant onto the pedestal below.

The owner *stepped back*, their polished shoes *clicking* against the floor as they *inspected* their handiwork.

The owner’s glove traced the seam where Bakugo’s corset fused permanently to his abdomen, the chrome plating hissing softly as it detected their touch. "Seal him," they murmured, and the house obeyed instantly. A panel slid open in the pedestal beneath Bakugo’s twitching body, revealing a viscous pool of liquid polymer. The hydraulic limbs lowered him slowly, his toes dipping first into the gel-like substance, which *clung* to his skin with a hungry, syrupy adherence. His breath hitched—a wet, reflexive gasp—as the polymer crawled up his calves, its warmth *seeping* into his flesh with an almost *biological* insistence.

The owner watched, their fingers absently toying with the remote as Bakugo’s thighs sank deeper, the polymer *lapping* at the edges of his corset. His stomach *gurgled*, synthetic cum *sloshing* against his ribs as the liquid reached his hips, its surface *rippling* with tiny, eager vibrations. The house’s diagnostics *flared*—**[CRYSTALLIZATION PROTOCOL: INITIATED]**—and the polymer began to *solidify*, its translucent sheen turning opaque as it *fused* with Bakugo’s skin. His asshole *fluttered* uselessly around the plug still *pulsing* inside him, his scream dissolving into a weak, nasal *whine* as the polymer crept higher, encasing his waist in a glossy, unbreakable shell.

The owner crouched beside the pedestal, their gloved fingers pressing against Bakugo’s cheek, smearing drool across his slack jaw. "Forever," they whispered, and the polymer *surged* upward, engulfing his chest in a single, *fluid* motion. His throat nozzle *protruded* grotesquely from the hardening surface, its flared base *locked* in place as the liquid sealed around it, leaving only the opening exposed—a glistening, *inviting* hole for future *use*. Bakugo’s eyes *rolled* back, his pupils *dilating* further as the polymer reached his chin, its warmth *seeping* into his nerves with a final, *inescapable* embrace.

The house’s limbs retracted, their silicone tips *peeling* away from Bakugo’s now-glazed skin with a series of soft, wet *pops*. Only his face remained uncovered, his mouth *agape*, his tongue *lolling* limply as the polymer *crept* up to his lower lip. The owner *adjusted* the remote—a single, *deliberate* tap—and the plug in Bakugo’s ass *spiked* violently, its vibrations *ricocheting* through his immobilized body. His scream *fractured* into a silent, open-mouthed *gape*.

The polymer reached Bakugo’s lower lip—a slow, inevitable tide—when the owner *twisted* the remote’s dial with a predator’s patience. The plug in his ass *revved* like a malfunctioning engine, its vibrations *skittering* from punishing spikes to erratic, sawtooth tremors that made his immobilized hips *jump* in tiny, spastic jerks. His scream was soundless now, his vocal cords *burned* out, but his throat nozzle *pulsed* obediently, dribbling synthetic cum down his chin to *mix* with the hardening polymer. The owner *watched*, their glove hovering over the final setting, as the liquid crept past his nostrils, leaving only his *glassy* eyes exposed.

"*Almost*," they murmured, their thumb *brushing* the remote’s last unmarked button. The house’s ventilation *hissed* in anticipation, its cameras *zooming* in to capture the way Bakugo’s eyelids *fluttered*—not resistance, just *ruin*. The polymer *surged* suddenly, *lapping* at his cheekbones, its surface *rippling* as it began to *cure* into a glossy, transparent shell. The owner *pressed* the button.

The plug in Bakugo’s ass *detonated* into a frenzy of *jagged* vibrations, its ridges *scraping* his prostate raw as the polymer *sealed* over his eyes, leaving him *blind* and *twitching*. His body *arched* against the hardening cocoon, his spine *bowing* in a futile attempt to *escape*, but the polymer *held* him effortlessly, its grip *unrelenting*. The owner *rose*, their polished shoes *clicking* against the floor as they circled the pedestal, their shadow *draping* over Bakugo’s now-immobilized form.

The house’s diagnostics *flared*—**[CRYSTALLIZATION: 98%]**—as the polymer’s surface *shimmered*, its translucency fading into a *pearlescent* opacity that *distorted* Bakugo’s ruined body beneath. Only his throat nozzle and the plug’s base remained *exposed*, their *glistening* surfaces *protruding* grotesquely from the smooth, unbroken shell. The owner *traced* the seam where the polymer met the nozzle’s flange, their glove *squelching* faintly against the lubricant still *dripping* from its tip. "Forever," they repeated, their voice *laced* with something *darker* than satisfaction.

The house’s limbs *retracted* fully, their hydraulics *hissing* as they folded back into the walls. The pedestal *rotated* slowly, presenting Bakugo’s *encased* body to the mirrored ceiling—his *domed* belly *straining* against the corset’s chrome plating, his cock *twitching* uselessly beneath the urethral plug, his asshole *gaping* obscenely around the still-*pulsing* intrusion. The owner *adjusted* the remote again, dialing the plug’s vibrations into a *steady*, *maintenance* thrum that would *keep* him *fluttering* for *hours*, *days*, *years*.

A panel slid open in the far wall, revealing a *recessed* alcove lined with UV LEDs. The pedestal *lurched* forward on silent hydraulics, *depositing* Bakugo’s *sealed* body into the niche with *clinical* precision. The owner *followed*, their fingers *tapping* a command into the house’s interface. The LEDs *flickered* to life, their cold, violet light *catching* the polymer’s *pearlescent* sheen, *highlighting* the way Bakugo’s stomach *gurgled* obscenely beneath the shell.

The house’s ventilation *hissed*—a *contented* sound—as the alcove’s glass panel *slid* shut, *sealing* Bakugo inside. The owner *stepped back*, their glove *brushing* a speck of dust from the display’s surface. "Operational," they murmured, and the house *chirped* in confirmation.

The plug in Bakugo’s ass *pulsed* once more—a *reminder*—before settling into its *eternal* rhythm.

His eyelids *twitched* behind the polymer.

Useless.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed?