breathplay – Not A Real Doctor

They made her sit there and shake while they dragged the steel tub into her cell and filled it, a simple garden hose and its stream of cold water, little drops landing on her knees when it splashed. She was rope-bound, of course; she was always bound these days, both for easier handling and because they’d discovered it aroused her. One of them lightly rubbed the knot at her pussy back and forth as the water level slowly, slowly rose. Her pulse refused to climb back down out of her throat. She was very, very afraid, and very, very humiliated that the hose wasn’t the only thing in the room that was gushing.

“I can only hope,” said her doctor, when the tub was about half full, “that our subject understands the reason behind this disciplinary action.”

She looked up at him frantically and dipped her nose down three times, the silent way she’d been taught to ask for permission to speak.

“Granted,” he said.

“P-please, I promise, I wasn’t breaking the rules of my treatment plan,” she said quickly. “I know that it’s important for my own welfare not to viol–to violate the–”

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he said, bending down to rub the wet spot on her sheets between his fingertips, then inspecting them. “You were observed to take restricted actions during lights out, and the recording suggests strongly that you achieved orgasm by means of that action.”

“I didn’t–I’m sure I didn’t–it was a dream!” she said. “I didn’t even know it was happening! I only woke up when you–when the orderly entered my cell and, and began inspection.” She couldn’t tell if she was pale with fear or flushed with embarrassment.

“Do you know what the medical standard for measuring pain tolerance is, Anya?” said the doctor. “Cold water. One simply times the seconds for which a patient can hold their hand and forearm submerged. It’s simple, consistent, and harmless.” He rinsed his fingers in the tub, which was rapidly filling to the top now, and wiped them on her chest.

“It wasn’t my fault!” she said, voice rising to a hysterical little-girl cry.

“That’s not important,” he said gently. “Your body took actions that are contrary to the goals of your treatment. Whether you intended those actions is irrelevant. We will now reinforce, to your body, that humping the corner of your bed as a form of masturbation leads to negative consequences. You will internalize the induction of pain and the restriction of oxygen, and next time, your eager little clitoris will hesitate before it drags the rest of you down to its level.” He nodded to the orderlies.

One of them took the rope that ran down the front of her body and back behind her, tying it to the bar of her cell so that her head wouldn’t hit the bottom of the tub. The other slipped his arms under her shoulders and lifted her, tilted her forward, and let go.

They could all see the air burst from her lungs just after she broke the chilly surface; they watched, the doctor scribbling a couple of notes, as she thrashed in panic, hair drifting wild around her head. “Someone got their watch on?” he asked. “I’d say give her another thirty seconds. Just for the first dip.”

“How many rounds today, do you think?” asked the first orderly, pressing one heavy knee to the back of her pelvis so that he could continue the inspection of her genital response to new stimulus.

“Oh, until we get paged for something else,” the doctor shrugged. “It shouldn’t be long, really. But from what I’ve seen, I think she’ll be good to the last drop.”

(You might also enjoy my water tag, or–for a crueler take on this–one of the chapters of my Literotica story, “Enhanced Interrogation.”)

littlefeministbitch:

I was thinking about this earlier. It legitimately terrifies me and I want to say I don’t want to do this because it’s so frightening or too dangerous. I look at this and start to get a taste of the sort of things I would experience in this situation, a hint of that primal flight response, the struggling, the panic. And I get turned on. Of course I want to do this. It’s frightening and dangerous.

The interesting thing is that from the other side, it’s not about the fear, not about the danger—at least for me. You’re completely safe. There’s no way I’m going to let anything serious happen to you, no matter that you’re naked, bound and completely helpless. If you didn’t trust me, after all, there’s no way this scene would even have started.

The water and the ropes serve the same purpose: they constrain you, remove your options and your ability to choose what happens to your body. They reduce you to reactions. They make you an instrument, to be stimulated or denied, no matter how you fight. (They also make you wet.)

You can always go limp, when I make you fight me. You can always refuse to react, or at least muffle your reactions. Not when I drop you into the tub, though. The reason I put you in there is because I can make you panic. You’re back to a thrashing, panicked thing beneath me, your body struggling even though it will make you run out of oxygen faster.

In a moment I’ll haul you out, turn you over to cough, watch your chest and back heave with your frantic breathing. And then maybe I’ll play with you, in your dripping, helpless state, before I drop you in again. It’s a shortcut way to create a specific behavior. The struggle is what I want from you, and right now, it’s what you’re going to give me.

Behavior correction case file #874: Andrea. Subject is a journalist who has been publicly critical of the Institute and its methods, and who has gone to great effort to publicize our rather discreet facility and draw media attention. The Board was content to maintain our policy of not talking to the press until it became clear that the subject had compromised the privacy of patient records as part of her crusade. With the help of the Institute’s friends in influential government positions, subject was admitted to determine the extent of her dangerous obsession.

Andrea poses a conundrum: how are we to combat her monomania with regard to our organization without, in turn, reinforcing said monomania? Our current plan is to replace her focus on the Institute with one more immediate and pressing, and then begin to work on her generalized priorities while her superego is decommissioned.

To that end, subject has been assigned to an experimental new form of storage locker, designed for violent or problem patients. She will be exposed, locked into rigorous restraint, and fitted with an anal contraction monitor that will monitor her approach to orgasm. This monitoring, in turn, will inversely control stim level, as well as oxygen restriction via throat chain.

Combined, this simple system has shown the ability to keep test subjects at a full 99.9% edge for at least 72 hours at a stretch. Interestingly, the technique is more effective when the subject is resistant to the training method, which gives us high hopes for this application. Sleep deprivation is a useful side effect for molding the subject’s worldview, as well.

Be sure to check the subject every day or two and assess current ability to vocalize, answer questions, and recall simple facts; within months she should reach a state of sufficient pliability to record a voluntary admission statement, waiver, surrender of power of attorney, and so on. We can then draw up a fuller treatment plan that will incorporate the desires of the many staff therapists who would like to work personally with her.

Obviously, even after the first stage of treatment is complete, subject is to be clitlocked and have self-touch permissions withheld. Soon climax will be her only conceivable goal, and all her investigative reporting will fade from public consciousness. Estimated time to first orgasm: one year.

They’d caught her probably six or seven hours ago, though this windowless room made it hard to keep track. Jane had tried everything she could to play innocent–she was just an innocent guest who got lost; okay, no, she’d been bribed to carry something but she had no idea what it was–but once they’d searched her (quite roughly) and found the little microdrive, there was no question of escape.

In a last-ditch attempt, she’d made an attempt to seduce the man who caught her, whispering in his ear and grinding herself against his rough hand. He’d just laughed and spun her around, locking her wrists behind her back as he pushed her into the elevator and escorted her to the interrogation room. “Sweetheart,” he said, “by the time he’s done with you you’ll do a lot more than that.”

Then he’d walked in, and with a quiet, businesslike attitude, began to work her.

She had expected torture: electricity, waterboarding, stress positions, sleep deprivation. Jane had been trained to handle that, and while she was scared, she believed she could handle it until an extraction squad arrived to get her. She had not expected this.

He’d stripped her to the waist in total silence, then he’d yanked down her panties from under her skirt and forcibly began to manipulate her pussy. Over her inarticulate cries of protest, he’d controlled her like a simple machine, turning her frantic resistance into helpless squirming of another kind entirely. She didn’t want to like this, to take pleasure in her assault. But her body had other ideas.

He seemed to know everything about her cunt–when she wanted pressure, when she wanted penetration, how fast to grind against her and when exactly pain began to become something that wasn’t necessarily bad. She had stopped shouting, saving her breath for the struggle, but she was still surprised when a little moan slipped out of her mouth instead.

That was when the band of leather slipped around her throat.

He edged her. Jane would freeze, stiffen, arch and open her mouth, and he’d tighten his grip, restricting and then cutting off her breath as he slowed the hand using her clit until she felt she was tingling and aching and painfully close to coming–and then he’d stop and hold her there, struggling to breathe and not even realizing she was moving her hips against the empty air. He’d keep her there for two heartbeats, three, four, on the verge of a forced orgasm, before he released the strap and let her gasp in lungfuls of air. And as she collapsed forward, his hand would find her clit and start driving her up again.

This was the part where Jane started to lose track of time. She could have struggled to fight him off; soon she was only struggling to get more from his infernal hand. Everything he did made her want to lift herself against him and squeal with need. She could barely think. And that was before he yanked her back down and began to punish her breasts.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. It just hurt in a way that made her cunt clench and her back arch and her whole body flush with heat. Jane ground her dripping pussy against the chair and forgot her code name, her mission, her training, everything except her body and her need and the gasping breaths of air he allowed her.

Forgetting wouldn’t be all bad, she told herself as she edged again on the pain of his slap on her breast. After all, eventually he might start asking questions.

With her hands tied behind her back, Cassie can just about manage to support herself and keep her face above the surface, though she strains and trembles with the effort. They’ve left her there to just float, sometimes, feeling the water cool slowly around her as she listens to them going through her things, inspecting her computer.

Then one or two of them will come back in and resume their little game.

She’d call it an interrogation except that they long ago stopped asking questions. They just grip her hair–or sometimes, with an odd tenderness, touch her forehead–and begin to push her under. She used to take the deepest breath she could manage. By now she’s almost stopped trying.

They play with her while they hold her down, squeeze or grope her breasts (nipples wet, cool and stiff) or her belly, her hip or throat. At first she convulsed and thrashed and tried to throw them off, to absolutely no effect except that her oxygen ran out faster–and for every time she splashed them, they started dropping in a tray of ice cubes. Now she just tries to ride it out, wait for the panic to rise in her throat and her body to start arching desperately upward for air. It’s going to happen every time. It’s going to keep happening. They’ll take all the time they want to make sure the conditioning sets.

And it is conditioning, and the conditioning works. Down at the other end of the tub, where her knees are doubled and locked tight to keep her from getting out, dangles the shower head. It’s an expensive one. It can spray, or stream, or send a stuttering thud of water pressure wherever they point it. Every time they push her under, they aim it at her clit.

At least, she tells herself as the older one strokes the gently waving hair from her forehead, it’s not easy to see that she’s wet.

Behavior control case file #312: Vanessa. Subject generally willful, insistent that she can achieve orgasm only during solo masturbation, and lacking in libido. Surveillance of such habits, however, indicates a distinct preference for masochism, female submission, and predicament bondage. Note: subject referred to the Institute by partner under misleading pretenses and will likely be uncooperative.

Vanessa will be kept in some form of restraint at all times and displayed for observation by visiting colleagues for at least an hour a day. She will be mechanically stimulated upon waking each morning and will have two orderlies assigned to maintain her state of arousal until curfew. In between, she will undergo a series of therapeutic sessions designed to retrain her orgasmic response and obstinacy.

Pictured above is one such session. After being harness-bound and edged, Vanessa is submerged and must lift her hips above water to request being lifted out of the tub. Clitoral/vaginal stimulus will commence for fifteen to thirty seconds before she is lifted by her harness, hair, or nipples out of the water and allowed to breathe. As she shows signs of approaching climax, stimulus will be removed and subject will be dropped back in.

If desperation and self-degradation seem sufficient, subject will be permitted orgasm just as she is once more denied breath. Current recommendation is no more than twelve such permissions per day.

Hypothesis is that within the first week of such therapy, Vanessa will have a baseline elevated arousal level and willingness to submit, as well as quite literally associating breathing with pleasure and need. Follow up with forced orgasm regimen (type H or J), then fucktoy rotation on level 6.

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(This series is inspired by a number of things, but most obviously by pleasuretorture’s experiments.)