breaking – Not A Real Doctor

justifiedsurrender:

I don’t know why I can’t get enough today, I got a nice hard fuck earlier and my boyfriend let me use the toy to cum while he was inside me. Then a couple hours later he let me cum again, and here I am still rubbing my clit as I scroll through tumblr, feeling like an insatiable little fuckslut. I guess once last night and once this afternoon isn’t enough for me, it just makes me want more. Makes me crave more until I feel like I’m nothing but this hole between my legs, waiting to get used again. @doctortease, does the Institute have a treatment for this feeling?

Behavior Correction Case File #451: Justice. Subject displays excessive libido, to the point of interference with her day-to-day life, comorbid by exaggerated focus on her own genitalia and a self-centered objectification fantasy. Subject displays high-risk behavior by reaching out to strangers on the Internet to deal with these issues.

While one might read Justice’s dossier and decide that an “insatiable little fuckslut” is exactly what the Institute aims to produce, her case in fact demonstrates a known issue encountered in later stages of treatment. The issue centers on self-absorption. Even after accepting an orgasm control regimen and having her self-concept reduced to “nothing but a hole,” the subject may end up in a psychological cul-de-sac where her own satisfaction is both paramount and unattainable.

We at the Institute, of course, wish nothing more than to help our subjects transcend such obstacles on the road to becoming their best selves. The first step for Justice is a hard reset–a period of weeks during which she will be used, punished, rewarded or locked away in the dark completely at random, until she can no longer imagine a logical pattern of reinforced behavior and all previous training is effectively erased. This is traditionally quite hard on the subject, but necessary, and within the parameters of her assessed resilience.

When she’s ready, we will begin again from scratch, focusing on the following points: that her pleasure is someone else’s choice, and has no relationship to satisfaction; that insatiable need is a baseline state, and comforting; and that in addition to her vagina and vulva, all her orifices are of equal importance, and dedicated to the use of others.

This treatment plan will be effective if followed properly. Nonetheless, there is significant risk that Justice will fall back into her current pattern if not closely monitored for deviation from expected progress. Cases such as hers are among our most important work, so no matter how many times we have to reset her and start over, we are committed to doing this right.

The thing about the Institute is this: it’s no secret, what we do here. It’s common knowledge, both locally and online, and while the details of patient files and therapeutic methods are of course confidential, you’d be hard pressed to find a girl who knows where our complex is but not what happens inside. No one who enters emerges the same person. Many don’t emerge at all, as a person or otherwise.

Yet nearly all of them come to us of their own accord.

Why is that? Why would you, in possession of full knowledge or at least wild rumors about the treatment we plan to inflict on you, walk through our doors and sign away your life to our tender mercies? It seems counter to every instinct of self-preservation. Most of our clients are financially stable, and all arrive in good physical health. Your complaints are little things: bad habits, flaws of character, shames, mistakes and regrets. What drives you all to surrender voluntarily to the slow, thoughtful cruelty of men, women and machinery bent on breaking you?

It’s likely you couldn’t articulate the answer if you tried. But we can. We’ve seen you before, you and every girl like you. We know you’ve spent your whole life alone inside, frustrated, aching and empty, trying to smother the roaring fire of needs you do not and cannot understand. You have been hiding it so long that everything in you hurts. You are already suffering.

You want to believe that your pain can be fucked away.

Whether that’s true is something you’ll have to see for yourself—but only we can show you. You know that. So you’ll take a deep breath, step into our parlor, and hand over your body in the hopes that we’ll break it open to fix your soul.

That’s the thing about behavior correction, you see. It only works if you really want to change.

The Exam, Part Three

The study lasted–well, they later told her it was six weeks. She’d lost count by day four.

She returned to the doctor’s office each morning, and since Daddy had to leave early for work, most days she got belted into the back seat in her slippers and nightie and sleepy fuzzy hair. She always got put in a gown (and usually taken out of it) as soon as she arrived anyway. And it didn’t matter if she’d just had a bath or not; they always stripped her down and scrubbed her clean before they started.

Her head was different, inside and outside the doors. She knew that, but she found it hard to recall one version while she was living in the other. Her body felt different here, too. She wasn’t allowed to forget any part of her physical presence for long, and she became very used to any of the dozens of students treating her like a loose-limbed doll for checkups or demonstrations. She’d been hesitant about that, a little, at first. After a few days in the straps, she learned to comply.

Some days were play days, when she and other girls would be put in a room with toys and asked to try things or answer questions, while most of the staff watched from the other side of a mirror. Some days were Uh-Oh play days, when the straps came out, and the other girls got to make her the toy. Some days were good girl days, when they’d put sweet things in her mouth and sweeter things in her private parts, and she’d spend hours giggling and arching and edging and end up with a serious case of the squirmies.

Some days were bad girl days, when they’d put her on the table, and bring out the blindfold and the cold metal instrument tray and the cuffs. She didn’t like the bad girl days. Not even a little. No matter what they said.

The doctor was always there, even when she couldn’t see him. She grew to know his hands from everyone else’s: they way he was so careful with her, so precise, the way his palm on her back soothed her and the way his fingers inside her made her jerk and squeal. By the time Daddy came to pick her up, most days, she was well past the point of comprehending grownup words, but she could hear them quietly discussing her progress. She hoped the doctor always told her Daddy she was a good girl. She knew he sometimes didn’t.

There were two bad girl days in a row. Then three. Then four. Then this-many. She was very, very deep in scary space; she had stopped being able to come out of it even after Daddy took her home. She squirmed in the back seat, thumbsucking, trying to work up the nerve to say that she didn’t want to go back, please, please, it was a nuh-uh, it was too much.

That was when they kept her overnight.

She tried so hard to be brave, even when she could hear the other girls being shepherded off and picked up, even when she knew she was alone with all of them and the doctor was pulling on gloves and spreading her very wide. Even when she heard the click-buzz of the scariest implements, and felt the tip of the metal sound. Even when she felt the click of the oral speculum worked between her teeth.

They made a wet and thrashing mess of her. They reduced her body to a string of helpless muscles and raw nerves, and no matter how many times she inarticulately begged her they wouldn’t let her come, and then once she got really scared of coming they ignored her pleas to stop. This wasn’t punishment: there was no smirking or mockery, no attempt to see if she’d learned her lesson. This was a procedure. They were working, quietly and with professional competence, to break her.

The operation was declared successful at 5:34 am.

She woke up in her own bed with her Daddy stroking her hair. She was still aching, but her memories of the night seemed distant and foggy, locked in something at the center of herself.

“Shh,” said her Daddy. “You’re home now. The study’s concluded. You’re back here with me.”

“Do I have to go back?” she managed, curling instinctively around her blanket.

“No, no.” Daddy smiled. “The doctor wants to follow up with you, of course–he’ll be making a series of house calls.” Her heart skipped, for a complex and confusing number of reasons. “But all the primary work is done. Their next project is working with the data you and the others gave them.”

She wormed her head under the soothing hand, one fist against her lips, exploring the new space she’d found her head in. It didn’t buzz quite like it used to. Instead, very softly, it sang.

“Daddy,” she said, “how did the exam go?”

A little chuckle. “Oh, my little girl. You got the best possible score.”

Behavior correction case file #440 UPDATE: Ivy. While the subject has shown marked improvement under treatment so far, recent indications are that progress has plateaued. It may simply be that we have reached the limitations of what can be achieved by coaxing and instructing, and need to move on to working directly with the subconscious.

Simply put, Ivy will be put on overload. Each week, her chart will be updated with a randomized stim schedule, with staggered rest periods at irregular intervals to disorient her and induce repeated fugue states. She will spend the majority of shifts in some form of sensory deprivation combined with vibration, penetration, focused impact, and utilitarian bondage or encasement. She will never know exactly who is using her body, how long a session will last, or whether she will be permitted (or punished for) orgasm. Any information she gleans about her current circumstances will be drip-fed and incomplete. Monitor pulse levels, and feel free to switch things up to keep them high.

Between these sessions, Ivy will be folded into a small case and transported to the recovery chamber on level 4. She will spend recovery time unbound but collared, and dressed in minimal decorative garments, which are to be referred to as “pretties.” She will see a small, consistent set of supervisors during these periods, who have already been briefed on treating her gently but addressing her in diminutive and reductive terms. Soothing, petting, and cuddling are encouraged. Subject is to feel as if she is receiving special treatment (which is in fact true), but also in firm and careful hands.

Until, upon waking, she finds herself at full use again.

The overarching goal in this case is to simulate a fractured reality. The subject should come to believe that her stim sessions are a dream when she is in recovery, and that her recovery is a dream when she is under stim. The alternating stresses of this contradiction should provide opportunity to examine and manipulate her psyche to an otherwise unattainable degree.

The closest we have come to using this form of therapy in the past has been as a punitive measure against hostile actors bent on harming the Institute. The intent for those subjects was to break them. With Ivy, however, it must be clear that our intent is pure and therapeutic. We do not expect her to break; we expect her to blossom.

Behavior correction case file #32: Laura. Subject has no deviant behavior patterns in a range outside the norm, nor does she exhibit any signs of danger to herself or others. Simply put, the Institute sometimes requires a baseline subject or two to establish the expected results of therapy. In the experimental model, these subjects are the controls.

Laura was stripped, waxed and bound in the back of the Institute’s response vehicle before she ever entered its grounds. Inside, she is to be isolated and kept in restraints at all times, with rope preferred over cuffs for practical reasons. She will be addressed only in pejorative terms, when she is spoken to at all. “Subject” is the common term, but “girl,” “cunt” and “hole” are also acceptable.

The majority of the subject’s time here will be spent in focused, direct stim. She will be placed in a modified presentation strappado, quite roughly if necessary, and will have basic heavy tools applied from morning bell until the evening shift has concluded each day. This is a therapy normally only used at such significant doses on subjects capable of multiple orgasm; it is not established whether this subject has such capability, nor does it matter. The object of the therapy is to break the subject, which end it will achieve regardless of which forced orgasms are pleasurable and which are painful. (However, monitor logs should note effective refractory period over time, to see how it is affected.)

After the study concludes, orderlies and practitioners alike are welcome to run small-scale experiments on the subject as they see fit. In the meantime, however, isolation remains paramount. Subject is to see only her handler and monitor, when necessary, at unpredictable intervals. Her world will soon be reduced to pain, pleasure, struggle, orgasm, and surrender.

Current diagnostic criteria: subject will be marked a success when she can beg for more and make her handler believe her. Other suggestions for testing the subject’s permanent acquiescence are welcome. [Note from DT: Have any ideas?]

lightningbugjune1:

femsubdenial:

nanking-decade:

Clones are frequently implanted with false memories of a past life of freedom so to make the housebreaking process more enjoyable for some clients.

=-O That’s just evil!!!

(hmmm… but what if…)

Can we just, for a moment, focus on the two girls in the back, gagged and being lead away?

They were always lead one in front of the next so that they couldn’t see each other’s identical faces. It was impossible to see features of the clones still in their containers. When they left, as far as they knew, they were as unique as the people they were sold to.

“Look how lucky you are,” they heard. “Look at all these girls who have to stay here. How many are there? A hundred? Lucky you! Out of 100 girls, YOU were chosen. You must be special.”

Because that little extra bit of arrogance was fun to break, too.

He ordered thirteen copies of Penny, one a week for three months. The process of breaking her rarely took more than five days, but even God needed a weekend.

Each of the new clones had a different implanted background–one thought she was an heiress, one a sorority girl, one an executive, one a whore–but there was always something essential to her that didn’t change. Finding it was the best part of the game. When they started, she’d react differently, sometimes trying to fawn in hopes of mercy, sometimes struggling and spitting in his face. But when he took her apart, twisted and stretched and snapped her over the twin edges of pain and pleasure, then her real self appeared.

“Oh, hello,” he’d say, watching her eyes as she trembled, trying to hold absolutely still for him despite the things the machines were doing to her breasts and cunt, despite the things he was doing to her mouth and throat. “There you are.”

This one is the eleventh, and he’s starting to put together his conclusions about the project. First: the high doesn’t wear off at all, not a bit, not in the slightest; the dawning realization in her eyes as she understands what he can do to her, the fear and lust and hidden need, is perfect every time. Second: he’s going to start having to sell them off if he wants to have the cash to buy new ones.

Third: she is perfect, every instance of her, and she is everything he needs.

He trails one hand down her taut body, feeling more than hearing her gagged whimper as he brushes fingertips over the place between her abdomen and hip. “Every time I do this,” he murmurs, “it’s a chance to find something new about you, do you see? I know you better than you know yourself–” and with one touch, she arches into him, unbelievably desperate “–but there is still always more to know.”

On the other side of the one-way glass, the original Penny watches him working, and touches herself, and maybe smiles.