At one point, he had a name. The Specialist didn't like it, and he had referred to him as 800. 

800 never knew what the source of that name was. In his prior life as a news analyst, he had heard his fair share of "1-800" numbers. But his masked captor didn't seem like the type who would keep up with current events.

He had seen The Specialist wheel out a television, once. It wasn't for him - he was strapped up on a training rig with his eyes and body covered. It was for another captive, someone nearby. 800 had been awake to hear him monologuing, though too heavily blindfolded to see it. The way that the jackal-headed man spoke was so practiced that he must have performed his lines in front of a mirror.

"Look at that, Lovely Assistant. What's on the news?"
800 had squirmed, knowing better than to grunt an alert. He heard the other voice speak.
"It looks to me like they're calling off the search. That was my doing, by the way! I got in touch with a contractor to help make sure they'd give up on you."

There was a pause. "That's odd. Lovely Assistant, it seems like Ms. Nineteen over here doesn't seem too bothered by it. I wonder; did she not like her old life? Has she forgotten about it? Is she just broken?"

800 heard the sound of someone flipping a loud switch, followed by immense, earnest, and pleasured groans.

"Nope. She looks pretty happy to me. In fact, she looks way better than when we brought her in."

"I agree," said the jackal. "And the color black suits her so much better. I wonder if she'd like to show off her outfit to the world?"

That was the last that 800 heard of that conversation. It made him curious about her name - number nineteen. He shuddered at the thought of many hundreds of other captives like him. He came to the conclusion that it must have something to do with his purpose - like a serial number. 

He made this conclusion when, after an unfathomable period imprisoned, experimented on, dressed, and teased, he was brought to a new room that he hadn't seen before. Not that he saw much, considering that he was frequently trapped in stasis, blindfolded, asleep, or hooded.

He was wearing a very slimming straitjacket over his undersuit. It was stretchy enough that, if he was at full strength, he might be able to do some damage to it. 800 wasn't, though. The pose didn't help. He was suspended from the ceiling by heavy steel chains, each attached to D-ring contact points on his suit. He was suspended in the air with his stomach up. Two chains each kept his knees aloft as though they were in stirrups. A saddle around his neck and head kept him steady. His head was slightly inclined - cushioned by a pillow - so that he could look down and see his form; shining black rubber over his undersuit, with a bright gold circle around his contained manhood.

His current hood covered every millimeter of his face. Tiny openings for his ears let sound through, and a pair of tinted lenses gave him a limited view. 

"Number eight hundred," started the jackal-masked monster, "you are comfortable, I hope."

The man wasn't exactly comfy. He had a pair of tubes that led from his nose to some unknowable filter elsewhere, giving him oxygen and occasionally whiffs of some worrisome odor that made him squirm. His mouth was filled with a fat inflatable gag, as well a tube that forced drool from his mouth on to his chest.

800 tried to nod. The Specialist moved his hands to his subject's manhood. His fingers were almost claw-like, wiggling until the pouch morphed and allowed the subject's imprisoned shaft to fly free. 

"Since your abduction, you haven't managed to orgasm even once. I hate to stoop to such crass terms, but I'm trying to put this in a way that your pleasure-addled brain can understand. I know that you're not able to tell if you enjoy the enforced denial, or if I've actually managed to instill some level of obedience in you. It's hard to say."

He didn't wait for the subject to respond. "The effects are the same. You've provided valuable data on how to keep others like you in line. I figured I'd reward you, since you've helped doom others."

The rubberclad slave rocked in tepid resistance. Suspended, he only managed to wiggle like a child throwing the most minor of tantrums. The Specialist keyed something on a remote, and 800's rear was suddenly quite full. His undersuit protruded inside his rear, easily penetrating with a slick and intrusive plug. It retracted, then pounded back in. 

It was impossible to hide how he felt. The whole room filled with grunts and groans of incredible pleasure as a result of incredible pressure. Over the course of a few minutes, the groans turned to moans as his rear was used. All the while, his manhood went neglected; aching for stimulation but still not quite to the point of release.

After five minutes exactly, the pounding cut off. 800 was breathing rapidly, shaking and rattling his chains for more.

The Specialist made a few notes, and then left the room. His slave was left in silence. He didn't deserve release. It hadn't even been on the menu; keeping him on edge and tormented was just his lot in life. He was ready to beg when someone's hands told him that he didn't have to.

The red-and-black clad vixen couldn't smile - not in her mask, at least- but he felt the grin on her lips as she very slowly unzipped his pouch and began to milk him. 800's eyes lit up. His heart soared. His orgasm was more intense than any he could have imagined. He looked at her like she was a savior; an angelic vixen in black and red rubber. 

The Lovely Assistant finished him off and kept going. All was according to plan, and all was well. 800 moaned in afterglow as The Assistant departed. She might leave that part out of her notes...