Why are you here? You’re here because you’re sick. Because you’re insane. At least, that’s what they tell you, when they even bother to speak to you, when the people who come to your cell can even speak.
How long has it been? There is no clock in here. There is no window. Food comes when it comes, but it doesn’t seem to come regularly. The pills, perhaps, are more regular, but they make time stretch and twist and bend and snap. More than a week, at least. Perhaps a month. Perhaps longer.
When can you leave? When you don’t want to leave anymore. After all, why would you want to leave this? You love this, don’t you? You love the feel of the rubber against your skin, how it feels to have your hands bound. You told them you didn’t, but the pills made you so horny, they refused to believe you. You made such a mess, in fact, cumming all over the floor, they had to pad you, and the constriction around your cock only makes you leak even more, all the time. But you don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be doing this, you don’t…right? But they say you do. They say you wanted to come here. They say you asked for this. They have your signature on paper, papers you don’t think you ever saw, but it’s enough, they say. Enough, that they can do anything they want to you, because that’s what you wanted, when you were sane, when you signed the papers, and now you are not sane, and so everything you say you think is wrong. So you cannot leave, until you want to stay, and if you ever want to leave again, it will only be another sign of your insanity returning, won’t it?