This is what I want you to do, next time you come. You can warm up however you like—scroll through your tumblr, slouch in your chair and slip one hand down into your jeans—but that’s only allowed at the beginning.
As soon as you hit the edge, you will stop and stand up. You will go to your room, if necessary, and strip. That means naked—no clothes, no underwear, no jewelry. Then you’ll climb onto your bed and get on your hands and knees.
You may use whichever hand you prefer. You may not use a vibrator. Instead, you will rub your eager little clit with two fingers and work it quickly, thinking about all the things you just saw, and how much you like being given specific instructions.
You will come on your knees. Your elbow will collapse, and you will push your face into the sheets, directly against the mattress if necessary to muffle your cries. You may not bring your thighs together until after your orgasm or orgasms are complete.
You are a little animal sometimes, you know. A wet and eager animal, presenting herself to be mounted, without a shred of the clothing accorded to civilized people. An animal who knows nothing better than to spend an evening taking pleasure in being trained.
Now show me.
"You do understand what we’re doing here, don’t you, Stacy?" he said, cupping her breast in one hand as her body shook slightly from the motor working away behind her. "I mean—breaking you, certainly, that much is obvious. Breaking you systematically, down into a collection of screaming nerve bundles and drooling holes. But beyond that?"
Stacy lolled her head back and tried to focus her eyes on him, panting through the ring. The double pump shifted its angle slightly, and a little whine escaped her throat, her aching back stiffening a little as the rods found a new place they hadn’t pummeled as thoroughly yet.
"We’re making you a part of something more." He laced his fingers through her cotton-candy-fine hair and helped her meet his gaze, grip tight and sure. "We’re making your body understand that it’s a machine too. An uncomplicated machine, beautiful in its elegant simplicity. A machine that serves."
A few days ago she would have glared at him; a week ago she would have fought like a wild animal. Now, after enough time trapped, helpless, fucked and used by the tireless device, she could barely manage to keep herself from sobbing—for mercy or for more, she wasn’t sure anymore.
"Machines have controls, Stacy." He released her breast, just long enough to slap it sharply with one hand, then again, then again. She jerked reflexively with each blow, but in truth she could barely distinguish pleasure from pain, and he knew it. "Machines can be turned on. Or turned off." His hand found her throat and squeezed just a little. "Machines do what they’re built to do. And we will build you back up again… starting very soon."
He let go of her throat, and she sagged, shuddering. He toyed with her hair again, undoing the snaps on his fly and freeing his cock. “Would you like me to show you what the next piece of your construction is, what’s-left-of-Stacy?”
As he began to fuck her open mouth, all she could think through her own moaning was that she finally felt complete.
It’s been too long since I’ve tied you up with a vibrator and sat back to watch you thrash and squirm through orgasms.
"Let’s try this again, Kinsey. Did you, or did you not, invite me up to your dorm room for the express purpose of tricking me?"
She shook her head, hair falling down over her eyes, which were large and dark and innocent.
"So the toy currently seated inside you—did you buy that in the belief that you could somehow humiliate me by getting me to, ah, insert it? Or did you buy it for your own use?"
Her eyes darted back and forth, not sure which answer made her look worse.
"Have you already forgotten? Let’s remind you exactly what I’m talking about." He slapped a button on the side of the remote, turning it on to full.
The toy was not a small one, and its high-discharge battery pack had barely started. Kinsey yelped through the tape and wriggled around, which only made her little black shorts ride up and tuck the vibrator more firmly into its place inside her. She opened and closed and flexed her hands, bound with tape even more securely than her mouth, unable to get to any position that would help. Little frustrated grunts of breath escaped through her nose as he watched. And waited.
Finally he slapped it again, and she sagged in relief. “So. You remember exactly which toy I’m talking about, Kinsey?”
This time her nod was quick and emphatic.
"Let’s continue with the sequence of events. You plied me with alcohol—inexpensive alcohol. You challenged me to a card game. You lost deliberately but lightly, while getting me to what you believed was a point of intoxication where I’d take you up on some rather outlandish wagers. Do you agree with any of that assessment?"
Kinsey rolled her eyes as she nodded. He flicked the switch just for a second. She jumped, and kept her eyes on his face when she nodded again.
"And then you tried to cheat." This time it wasn’t a question. He tapped the remote against his chin. "And I caught you."
Kinsey tried to protest at length through the tape; he let her, watching carefully, not letting the cheap scotch in his system show in his face. (Though maybe in his actions.)
"Now, you didn’t disagree with that, Kinsey," he said when her muffled words ran out. "Which is good! I’m glad you’ve decided to adopt a little honesty. But we still have to figure out what an appropriate forfeit is."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, in a face that clearly said: I thought this was the forfeit.
"Nope," he said, smiling cheerily as he turned the speed dial down to low and flipped the switch back on. Kinsey started to squirm again, but this time she was watching him, starting to figure out where he was going. "The forfeit, I think, is this: I get to use this toy you so kindly bought for me until the batteries die. And I get to record it. On the camera I strongly suspect you hid in that closet."
She panicked, jerking and kicking desperately as he slowly turned up the speed, but the tape held fast. He turned and flicked open the closet door with one finger, smiling at what he found.
"Well, Kinsey," he said, "little cheater, it looks like I’m the one who’s going to have the blackmail footage when we’re done with the evening’s games. Might just be that I pocket it before I get around to untying you. Might just be that unless you want it distributed, I get to come back here any night I want, and bring some fresh batteries, and start a new game."
The power was all the way up now, and Kinsey could barely get a squeak out for gasping. He slapped it off. Then on. Then off. Then on again. Each time, she thrashed like a caught animal, even as her big, pretty eyes were starting to glaze over with pleasure and a rapidly growing need.
"The thing I like about games is the element of chance," he grinned, picking up the scotch bottle. "And there’s a chance I’ll get tired of this before I make you beg me to leave it switched on." He took a swig and settled down in the chair, smiling, tapping on, off, on, off, on. "Or there would be. If I were going to play fair."
After shipping, it’s typically recommended that you cut away the straps.
But who are we to rush you?
"I know it’s been a little while," he said, chuckling as he patted her flank. "But I’ve been busy, and your warranty doesn’t start until I take you out of the packaging, you know. There’s no point running it out before I have time to take you for a proper test drive, now is there?"
Elise could do little but glare up at him. The straps still kept her perfectly immobile, and the matching ring gag held her mouth open in a perfect O, “TRY ME!” still emblazoned on the tag next to her cheek.
"Now, I did finally have a chance to sit down with the manual," he said, as if this were reassuring. "I just skimmed it, really, but one thing stuck out to me. It says you actually can’t enter ‘full functionality’ mode until you’re unstrapped. That is, you can react and feel and lubricate, but try as hard as I might, I can’t make you come. Did you realize that?"
She stared, open-mouthed, as if she had a choice. Surely he wasn’t—he couldn’t. No.
"I thought I’d just give that limit a spot check," he grinned, lifting her out of the box and up onto some kind of work table. Beside it was a pegboard, hung with tools—probes, clamps, voltmeters and a heavy, well-used Hitachi. He picked up the last and tested it against the palm of his hand; it buzzed like the world’s biggest, angriest bee.
"The other thing I read," he said, setting it down next to her face where she had to stare at it in fearful anticipation, "was that you have some diagnostics enabled. Voltage output indicators, for instance. Here and here." The red and black alligator clamps snapped onto her nipples before she could move, but she arched and squirmed and tried to shake them off anyway.
"See?" he took her face in one hand, pressing it tightly and twisting her head to look at the needle bobbing at the left side of the meter. "But then when we apply stimulation…" He flicked the Hitachi back on and started to work it down between her tightly bound legs.
The vibration was incredibly strong—strong enough that it didn’t have to be anywhere near her clit to start sending pulsing waves of irresistible pleasure through her. Elise thrashed some more, but she wasn’t going anywhere, and the tool was wedged tightly against her. The needle rose, and rose, and rose… and stopped, hovering close to the right side but not going any farther.
"They weren’t kidding," he grinned, delighted. "You absolutely do have a built-in lock. And I can keep you pushed right up against it for as long as I leave this thing turned on." He turned to get out a roll of black electrical tape and began winding it around her to keep the Hitachi in place. "Oh yes, little toy, I think we’re going to have quite a few tests to do before we decide to ruin your collector’s value."
Whimpering, throbbing and already beginning to grow frantic with frustrated need, Elise started to wonder if her warranty would cover a broken brain.
"It’s a lovely little thing," he murmurs in your ear as you rest yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. "Warm to the touch, and yielding. Find it for me."
Shyly at first, then with some enthusiasm, you reach down into the pretty sparkly band of fabric and brush your fingers over yourself: smooth where he shaved you, velvet-soft where you can feel the beginnings of just a little swell.
"Don’t be shy," he grins, and then both his hands are there, pressing to rock you back against him and pull you up a little bit under his fingertips. He doesn’t go underneath the panties, not quite, but the pressure is perfectly clear. You inhale.
"There. Try it like that. Like Daddy showed you." You follow his movement, hand on the outside and pressing against your mound, then deeper under to rub the seam against your clit. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, not exactly, but it’s different somehow—like you’re acting as his hands, even as his other pair roams up and down your tingling back.
"A good girl knows how to play with the toys her Daddy got her." He’s settling into the rhythm of his words, calm and low, his voice rumbling a little through his chest against your back. "You wouldn’t want me to think it’s not being put to good use, would you? I might have to take it away…"
Spurred on, fumbling a little with excitement, you slide your hand underneath again and spread yourself, wet your fingertips. It’s a lot easier than it was a moment ago. His hands move down to rub your thighs, encouraging you to spread a little wider. You feel yourself contract, pulse, hunger, and the sudden heat in your belly makes you lean your other hand on his knee for support.
"There we go," he says, and the pleased tone in his voice is as effective as a vibrator. You’re rubbing yourself in earnest now, humping his leg and your hand—no, his hand—as your wetness begins to seep downward into the sparkly, lacy, glittery pretties he got to decorate his toy.
"It’s fascinating, isn’t it?" he whispers. "Beautiful little puzzle, little heat pump, the place I enter to bring you home." You can’t quite stay quiet at that, all shyness gone now, rocking your throbbing clit like a clumsy teenager flooded with need. "You’re shiny and new every time I touch you, my present. And as long as we both want to play together, I’ll never need any new toys."
They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.
They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.
Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.
Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.
"Good afternoon, Annika," said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. "You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up."
She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.
"Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan," he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. "Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings—areas you instinctively try to protect—are exposed to me." He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. "I’m going to work on those areas—stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time."
Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.
He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage—and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch—just a hunch—that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.
"And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins." He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.
"Annika!" Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. "Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!"
"That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold," said the monster brightly, turning it off again. "Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?"
Hours of this.
"Sorry hon!" said the text message. "Stuck in traffic! Be back with the replacement keys any minute. Hang on tight! DEFINITELY home by morning!!"
this is genius.
Actually, you only need one hand for this.
Go ahead and keep humping the air, girl. You know you’re not coming until I say so.
Behavior correction case file #108: Lillian. Subject arrived at the Institute intoxicated, with what she claimed was a “groupon,” entitling her to “sexy orgasm lessons.” Subject became belligerent and demanded to learn how to achieve female ejaculation. Her phrasing at the time was “don’t you guys do this kinda stuff? I wanna squirt, dammit!”
Lillian ejaculated for the first time within fifteen minutes of initiating therapy. As of this writing, one week into continued work with her, she has been induced to ejaculatory orgasm 82 times. While she expressed increasingly strident regret and anger about entering the Institute once sobriety returned, such behavior is common among new patients, and can be ignored under the terms of the release she signed voluntarily.
At any rate, as treatment continues, the subject is less and less vocal and seems to have difficulty articulating complex ideas or indeed finishing sentences. The current goal of her program is to mold her body into a training model for future ejaculatory therapy, to be stored and “checked out” by staff and instructors as needed. When not in use, she will be mechanically stimulated to orgasm once per hour, and hydrated by means of throat intubation.
If this pilot program is successful, we envision a growing library of such single-focus training models, possibly to be housed in the unoccupied room B of the annex. Other useful exemplars might include electrostim, extravulvar orgasm, trigger-word subconscious response, or gag reflex suppression.
New game: you both get to come if you can keep the eight-ball from slipping out from between you.
Oooh, I’m so sorry, number two, but you lose! Twenty strokes with the belt on that greedy little pussy, and then back to a month of no-touch for you.
"Nineteen hours. How is our little prisoner holding up?"
"Oh, she’s broken. Has been since late yesterday. At this point the only thing keeping her from babbling every secret we could possibly want is the gag in her mouth."
"She certainly exhibits all the signs. Pupil dilation, rhythmic groaning, humping the toy like an animal. Has she been permitted to come yet?"
"She almost got there once, but we think we caught it in time. A bucket of ice water brought her back. No slip-ups since then. She’s been held at the edge so long she’s practically putty."
"So do we plan to ask her any questions?”
"We ask plenty, we just don’t let her answer. Increases her desperation, plus we’re recording the whole thing to prove to her bosses that she hasn’t given away anything sensitive. She’s a much more valuable for barter if she hasn’t been unsealed, so to speak."
"How long will it take to get the recording to them?"
"A few more days. And they’ll need a week to decide on terms after that."
"Nineteen hours. I wonder what she’ll be like by the time she finally leaves."
"If her predecessors are any indication, Ma’am, in her own mind she’ll never really leave at all."
This reminds me of someone who can probably come up with a significantly better caption for this than I.
The vitals monitor on your wrist indicates that you are frightened, and I can think of a number of reasons why that might be. You are here increasingly against your will but cannot effect any articulate protest: that might be one. You don’t even know where “here” is, for that matter. You have been stripped and strapped down, only able to move your hips and thighs when I adjust these stirrups. Oh, and you’ve just felt the speculum slide inside you to open you up for my inspection.
Cold, isn’t it? Poor thing. Let’s apply a little clit stim to distract you.
There. Now, as I was saying: those things really shouldn’t be at the top of your list of concerns. (Sensitive there, aren’t you? Interesting.) What should concern you is the blindfold—not the fact that you can’t see, but the fact that those two patches each fit perfectly over one of your eyes. The fact that this collar is sized just so to the length of your neck. The ball gag, and the way it fits into your mouth with no gap.
These straps were made just for you, girl. You’ve been watched. Stalked. Measured. Certainly, they can tighten—but that’s for control, not fit. This bondage is bespoke. And now, with you wide open and helpless on my table, I’m going to take one final measurement for my records.
Don’t worry. I promise, it won’t hurt a bit.
Behavior correction case file #114: Jennifer. WARNING: subject is noncompliant and presents a danger to staff and herself. She claims to be a close friend of another long-term patient of the Institute, and attempted to enter the facility undetected to secure her release. During the process of her apprehension by security, subject injured several orderlies and a doctor, and continued to be uncontrollably violent until forcibly sedated.
For her own protection, Jennifer has been fitted with a set of long-term restraints and secured via suspension in a padded ward. Said restraints are to remain in place until both her primary and attending therapist have confirmed that she is no longer dangerous. It is not expected that such confirmation will arrive this year.
During her intake interview, subject indicated certain opinions that point toward specific anxieties in regard to sex, deviance and femininity. The first object of her treatment will be to explore and exploit these to the limit. Subject’s vulva will remain symbolically above her during all sessions, kept open via spread leg restraints, and covered only to maximize the impact of repeated revelation.
Jennifer will be subject to impact therapy and corporal punishment of labia, clit, vagina and cervix until fully sensitized. When hypersensitivity to even light pressure is established, the therapy will switch to heavy stim and dual penetration. Each morning and afternoon, repeat this set of exercises—restarting if necessary—until subject can actually watch herself drip with arousal. Induce orgasm only via electricity and pain; once achieved, continue to induce for the remainder of the session, even if that means a considerable part of the day.
The incontrovertible evidence of her own arousal response to such treatment, combined with her residence environment, should lead to deep cognitive dissonance and humiliation for the subject. We will take advantage of this liminal state to plant new seeds for a healthier, more accepting, more sexuality-driven outlook.
We have high hopes for Jennifer’s rehabilitation, and will likely keep her on even after a successful course of treatment is complete to use as a model resident. In the same way that “therapy dogs” can provide comfort and pleasure to the traumatized, we plan to use Jennifer as a “therapy object” upon which other patients may express their frustration or violent impulses.
All that is in the future, of course—right now let’s concentrate on reducing the risk of harm to others, by inflicting harm on her. —DT
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