erotica – Page 2 – Not A Real Doctor

The Exam: Protocol Delta

Among the goals of the study currently in progress is to test a number of approaches in decoupling orgasm from pleasure, and vice versa, in physically healthy young women. The subjects of the study themselves are best able to assist each other with socially induced sexual stimulus, and have proven compliant when instructed to make withholding orgasm part of such sessions. In the converse case, however, a more clinical approach is necessary.

When beginning a Protocol Delta session, the subject is to be brought to the procedure room in the morning, stripped, and restrained in such a way as to provide convenient access to all orifices and erogenous zones without inducing undue stress. Lubrication may be used, or in some cases avoided; at any rate, most subjects self-lubricate upon restraint anyway.

Begin by clamping and drawing away the glans clitoris, to avoid introducing undue sensation to the session and interfering with the objective (though clitoral manipulation may play a role later on, after it is certain that the subject will derive little pleasure therefrom). Use a standard speculum to open the vagina, and if necessary, a modified McPherson speculum to open the mouth as well. The approach to the anus is to be determined based on the day’s objective.

Statistically, across all subjects, the strongest vaginal contractions and most vocal objections are achieved with the following method: insert a ¾" gauge probe anally; apply focused pressure to the anterior wall of the vagina, with speculum in place; constrain breathing via oral penetration and holding the nostrils shut manually; and deliver a series of low-amperage electrical pulses to the root of the pudendal nerve. This method reliably achieves climax with little or no pleasure, and will quickly exhaust the subject through successive orgasms if sustained.

Of course, individual subjects will vary in response, and may be induced to more intense reaction by introducing other factors. Several subjects have been caused to ejaculate, with or without orgasm, by adding manual pressure just below the ridge of the pelvic bone. Some have been observed to climax with sufficient electrical stimulus of the nipples. Each subject has a different response to the introduction of a urethral or cervical sound; be sure to document these thoroughly.

A given session conducted under Protocol Delta should last eight to ten hours. The most recorded separate orgasmic events during this period is forty-eight, though we believe that it is possible to break fifty under the right conditions. While subjects may display reluctance or resistance to the start of this protocol, several have confessed during recovery periods that they fantasize about it, and have even provided additional ideas for techniques to explore. Sessions will therefore continue in the current manner as long as we believe we still have much to learn.

Behavior Correction Manual Article 5.44(A): Bargaining. Understand this: given sufficient time and regular treatment, your subject will eventually offer sexual favors. This differs from the feints or pathetically transparent seduction attempts one often sees early on in subjects who believe they are cunning. The offers we discuss here are desperate and genuine, and appear later. They are part of an attempt to bargain purely as a coping mechanism, even if the terms of the offer the subject presents are far from clear.

You may be tempted to take this as a sign of progress. It is in fact a form of backsliding, and must be discouraged. Consider:

A bargain is a deal struck between peers. At the Institute, a subject surrenders claim to peer status prior to treatment.
An offer of sex implies three things to be traded: availability, anatomy, and willing participation. A subject is always available; can have her anatomy accessed at any time; and is required to participate in any act her therapist finds useful.
Trading is a form of economic control. Control, at the Institute, is a virtue exercised solely and entirely by our hardworking staff.

Recommended strategy in response to this behavior includes general depersonalization and forced sensation, often including deep-penetration therapy. Pictured above is subject #218, formerly “Melissa.” Note the use of heavy vaginal/vulva stim combined with degradation positioning and an inability to support herself against her retention hook. The subject was required to repeat the exact words of her original offer to a series of staff members until she became incoherent, then left in situ overnight before repeating the exercise for a full week. By its conclusion, when presented with video of subject-initiated versus staff-initiated sexual activity, she exhibited a marked preference for the latter.

The basic principle at work is this: almost universally, subjects who arrive at the Institute do not know what they want. To allow them to complete a cycle of desire-request-fulfillment is counterproductive and harmful. Instead, by concentrating our work on manipulating, guiding and hyperprovoking desire to the breaking point, we can show them what they actually need.

She’d bought the little white flower panties on his instructions; he liked to yank them to one side when he spanked her, or stuff them in her mouth. She kept them after they broke up, because hey, no point in throwing away perfectly functional underwear.

The first time she masturbated in them she didn’t even get off: she’d been frustrated and moody a lot since the breakup anyway, and sometimes she just got tired, shut the laptop and went to sleep. But the next morning, seeing them in the laundry bin, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way they’d felt. Different than the regular, smoother cotton-nylon she was used to. They rubbed. They clung.

Too impatient to wait for a load of laundry, she went out and bought another pair. The texture was even more pronounced on those, fresh out of the package with a little starch still in the fabric. She didn’t even bother pulling up her porn tumblr. She just pulled them on and squeezed her legs together.

Breathless. She was her younger self again, the way she never had been with him, no matter how many times she called him Daddy or got turned over his knee. Instinctively, she fumbled for a pillow and shoved it up against herself the way she had done before she learned to use her hands: she needed them to stifle herself, anyway, with the sounds that wanted to squeak out of her throat at that feeling.

She never came, pillowfucking, pantyfucking, but it wasn’t even about that. She got a dozen more pairs and soaked them through every day, drifting along in a haze of arousal and squirmy need and that addictive thread of shame. Once, she bought a pair of someone else’s panties online, feeling like a perverted basement-dweller and blushing to the roots of her hair the whole time. When they finally arrived, she wadded them against her face and humped her own brains out all night.

She’d figured out what she had once known and forgotten: she didn’t need to hand-feed her pussy. She didn’t need to let it have a moment of release. And if she kept it stoked, kept it hungry, kept it nestled in flower-fresh clean white fabric, all she had to do was come along for the ride.

He picked out their outfits day by day whenever he went out of town (business trips, mostly, or scouting, or someday–they dared to hope–finding them another playmate). Some days they got to wear pretty, modest things like nice young ladies, and even leave the house. Some days they didn’t get to wear anything at all. And some days they had to flip a coin to see who had to wear the good-girl shirt, and who got to be bad.

There were strict rules about what they could do to themselves and each other when he wasn’t home. But good girls had to do what they were told, and bad girls, well, they were known to break rules from time to time. Maybe the good girl had to promise not to tell what they got up to. Maybe the bad girl got to pinch, and smack, and bite. Maybe the good girl had to put her mouth to better use if she couldn’t say anything nice. Maybe the bad girl got to come.

The only rule the bad girl couldn’t break was about their jelly bracelets. They both wore them, and just like in schoolyard stories, the bracelets got broken when they did specific things. The good girl inevitably ran out by the end of t-shirt day. They only got more when he came home again, his briefcase full of presents, so he’d know by the colors on their wrists exactly what they’d done after all. But maybe if this time they were VERY good, or VERY bad, they could make him come home early.

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.”

The Exam, Part Two

They wouldn’t even let her keep her pretty little socks on.

Her daddy braided the rope into her hair while the doctor guided her hips to one side and slowly pulled her trembling fists away from her mouth. “Can’t have you hiding from the students, now can we?” he smiled, and carefully tightened the cuff around one wrist. “Besides, we don’t know where your fingers have been.”

“S-students?” she squeaked.

Her daddy began to loop the doubled rope in a cuff around her ankles, slowly pulling her head back, making her look up wide-eyed at the doctor as he cupped each of her breasts and palpated them. When it seemed he’d checked them out quite thoroughly, he shook a pair of clamps on a chain out of the pocket of his white coat.

“Nuh-uh,” she whimpered, looking down as best she could, increasingly unable to move her head to track them. “Nuh-UH.”

“What did we say about being bratty with the doctor?” purred her daddy, giving her a sharp little bad-girl spank between her legs.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped. “But I didn’t—I don’t—I’ve been GOOD—”

“Even good girls need to wear the right testing equipment.” The doctor patted her cheek, then reached down to grab her nipple and tweak back and forth a few times. She couldn’t help but let out a little whining sound when he tightened the first clamp onto it. “We have to make sure you fit in with all the others.”

“Others—” was all she said before her daddy, pulling on a spare glove, silenced her by pushing three fingers into her mouth.

Pacified, sucking automatically at them as they fucked against her tongue, she barely even noticed as the second clamp tightened down and the doctor unset the brake on the table’s wheels. Dazed, increasingly sunk in a very particular headspace, she watched them roll her—stripped, bound and exposed—out of the room and down a hallway. The wheels bumped over the threshold of an elevator, where a couple of other doctors glanced over at her with mild interest, and then turned away.

When they rolled her out, she saw a bank of other tables adorned with squirming, hogtied girls, and one empty spot in the middle.

“See? Nothing to fear. Still, we can give you a little something to soothe your nerves,” smiled the doctor as he pulled up a tray of gleaming surgical steel. The something in question turned out to be a heavy, bulbous plug, which he was able to work into her slippery ass without much trouble at all.

It worked, too, enough that once it was in, her daddy pulled out of her mouth and left her throbbing and panting and trembling—but not afraid. Being filled always helped her feel this way, like she was being used correctly, like she could stop guessing and flinching and just be where she was told to be.

“Acute regression,” the doctor was saying as his students gathered around, peering at her taut-bowed body. “Like most of the others in this group, we can prolong or intensify the effect with mild genital stimulation.” Some kind of plastic instrument pressed against her, parting her lips; a set of rubber nubs settled against her exposed clit and clicked to buzzing life. She squeaked, panting harder, looking up at them all in open-mouthed vulnerability as the flush spread from her cheeks down to her throat and chest.

The students all noted that down.

“Go ahead and form two lines to take a closer look,” said the doctor, “one on the left side of the table, one on the right. Remember, fresh gloves for each orifice! She’ll be staying with us during each day for the duration of the study, and released to her caretaker at night.”

Her daddy patted her hair as the anonymous people queued up to look inside her, one after another. It was clearly something they were getting used to practicing: speculum in, speculum open, a few swabs of the gloved fingers, speculum closed and out. The ones in front of her didn’t even bother making eye contact, just took her chin one by one and probed inside her cheeks, under her wet and gasping tongue. She would have been trembling even without the little instrument still teasing her clit.

Every one of them took a moment to toy with the plug and watch her react to it. Every one of them tapped a few times on the clamps, and scribbled a note or two.

By the time they’d all gone through both lines, she was a blinking, speechless mess, so deep in her own head that she couldn’t remember the way back out. “You’ve been SO brave,” she thought she heard the doctor murmur, bending down to stroke her ear while Daddy rubbed one thumb along the back of her neck. “And you’re all done for today! Tomorrow will be a little… longer, but you did just fine, and your Daddy and I agree that you can earn a new treat every time. Won’t that be nice?”

“Uh—uh huh,” she whimpered, even that little sound requiring an enormous feat of concentration.

“You’re here because you’re very, very special,” smiled her daddy. “I’ve always known it. The doctor here is just going to prove it. Isn’t that exciting, sweetheart? You and all your new little friends are going to be part of something absolutely wonderful.”

The Exam, Part One

She squirmed a little on the crinkly paper of the table. “Daddy,” she said in her smallest voice, “I’m scared.”

“Nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart,” Daddy said, stroking her hair and adjusting her headband. “I’ll be right here the whole time. And we’re only here to do what’s best for you.”

“That’s right,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him and flipping through her chart. “I’m sure this is all going to be quite routine, young miss. We’ll get you taken care of in no time, and then your daddy can take you out for a treat. Won’t that be nice?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“Why don’t we start by taking off that pretty dress?” The doctor smiled and flipped her frilly hem with his pen. “I’ll need to listen to your heart and lungs, so I’ll just warm up my stethoscope.”

She’d known this was coming, but it still made her pink up a little. Sliding off the table, she held her arms up straight, letting her daddy gather the material and pull it off over her head. “Upsy-daisy!” murmured Daddy, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

The doctor did warm the metal disc with his hand, but she still involuntarily shivered when he first put it against her chest, sitting there in her bra and white panties and little lace-trimmed socks. “Breathe in and hold,” he instructed, his other hand gently pressed to her back. “Very good. And again…” He moved the scope, slipping it under the edge of her bra. “Again. GOOD girl.”

She tingled, goosebumps rising on her skin, and she was sure he could hear her heart skip as he moved the strap off her shoulder and the cup out of the way. “One more time. You’re doing just fine.”

Her daddy stepped forward to squeeze her knee. “Told you it was nothing to be scared of, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, a little more quavery than she’d wished.

“All sounds just fine,” said the doctor, looping the scope back around his neck. “Now let’s proceed with the manual exam, hmm? Go ahead and turn over on your tummy, and you can remove your underwear, please.”

She swallowed, then swallowed again, and looked to her daddy for reassurance. All she got was an amused expression and a little circling gesture. Definitely blushing now, she rolled over, putting her thumbs against her waistband and then hesitating at the sound behind her: latex gloves being tugged into place.

“This won’t hurt,” said the doctor, hand coming to rest on her hip. “Go ahead. Good girl.”

That damn phrase always made her pliable. She scooted her knees up and pushed her panties all the way to her ankles, then felt the doctor’s other hand on her knee. He guided her back down, knees apart, hips just an inch off the white paper as his fingers cradled her mound.

“Pass me that, please?”

“Of course,” said her daddy, audibly smiling.

Then the wet cool feeling of lube, startling as it slide between her cheeks, and he was pressing one gloved finger slowly into her ass.

“Daddy!” Her voice came out in an embarrasing squeal, and she bit her knuckles, looking back with a panicked expression as the doctor gently continued to work it into her. She could feel herself pulsing and relaxing, almost tugging him in, and her face was on fire.

“Shh, princess.” Cool hands stroked her hair, her cheeks, and gently brushed her eyes closed. “You’re doing so well. Just relax and let your doctor do his job.”

She tried so hard. Her legs trembled; her breath came shallow, hitching in her throat. The doctor had worked himself in deeply now, probing her in the most embarrassing place, and if that wasn’t enough, she felt as if she kept accidentally pushing her hips down against his other hand.

She couldn’t help it. Her hand tilted, pressed to her lips, and then she found herself sucking nervously on her thumb.

It helped. Fuck, it helped. Her whimpers subsided, and she felt herself relax, little rhythmic sounds of comfort coming from her mouth as her daddy brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The doctor was pressing his hand up now, parting her pussy and wetting it with the lube that had dribbled down between her legs. Then his thumb was pushing into her—not too far, just inside, teasing her entrance even as the finger in her ass worked deeper.

The gentle hands continued to soothe her, cheek and chin and throat. “Everything seem all right down there, Doctor?”

“Absolutely.” He pulled out from both her holes, abruptly, and she gasped again. “I think the preliminary has gone just fine.”

“P-preliminary?” she mumbled around the thumb in her mouth.

“Go ahead and get her fully stripped,” the doctor continued, peeling off his gloves, “and we’ll move on to the therapy.”

(to be continued)

It wasn’t a real border crossing detention center; she’d figured that out when they stuffed the ball gag between her teeth. It had cut off the sputtering protests about her passport and questions about where they’d taken her friends quite effectively. Something told her that there would come a time soon when they’d start asking pointed questions; they just probably wouldn’t care what she answered.

In the meantime, though, they had dragged her off into one of the cinder-block cells for the “courtesy” of a private pat-down. The agent assigned to her seemed much more concerned with some areas than others. At one point, he rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a little plastic bag with a foil packet in it, and tossed it nearby.

“Oh, it was very unwise to try to import this particular substance,” he purred, holding her squirming body against the hot concrete. “The minimum sentence is five years of labor. Labor for which you will need very thorough training. And if we find anything else tucked away inside you, tourist girl…” He shoved her dress up and adjusted the glove on his fingers, grinning. “There may be a corporal element to your sentence as well.”

Panting in fear, knees trembling, undeniably dripping with things other than sweat, she got the distinct feeling that she’d find one particular thing tucked inside her very soon.

He could tell as soon as he walked in the door, the way she blushed and darted her eyes around, toe of one shoe twisting on the floor.

He didn’t ask at first. He took his time, removing his jacket and hanging it up, setting his briefcase on the table, unlacing his shoes. He let the silence lengthen. He let it build until she had to break it herself.

“Daddy?”

He didn’t look up at her yet. “Yes, little one.”

“I have to tell—um, did you have a good day at work?” She caught herself, remembering the protocol.

“It was fine, thank you for asking. And how was your day here?”

“Kinda boring. Um. Daddy.” She took a deep breath.

He pushed a chair out from the table. “Stand here,” he said quietly. “Hands on the back. Good posture. There’s my girl.”

She was shaking a little as she assumed her position. He stood and began to pull her clothes off, calmly, treating her as he would an easily-panicked animal. “Now,” he said, “your confession.”

“I played with your toys today, Daddy,” it tumbled out in a rush. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry. I know I wasn’t allowed to. But I did almost all my chores, and I was so good, I was waiting for you, but I just got so bored, and then—”

He had her down to her underwear and socks now; he unsnapped her bra and gently tugged it off her shoulders. His hand drifted up her belly to stroke the underside of her breast. “These toys?” he said.

She bit her lip, trembling, and nodded. “And others. Daddy.”

“It’s not your fault, Princess,” he explained, his mouth close to her ear, making her whole body tingle. “My toys should have known better than to help you break the rules. So I have to punish all the toys that you touched. I have to remind them why they don’t disobey Daddy. You understand, don’t you, little one?”

“B-but Daddy, I–I mean they tried so hard, I—”

“Little one,” he murmured, a little growl in his voice, “you’re going to drop your panties to the floor now. You’re going to carry them to your room—in your mouth—and put them in your dirty girl laundry, and come back with the soft cuffs you keep in your special drawer. And then we’re going to play a little game with my toys together. Say, how long that pretty little bottom can keep from lifting off this chair.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from going squeaky. “Yes, Daddy!”

“GOOD girl,” he chuckled. “I promise, tomorrow, you’ll all be MUCH better behaved.”

“Ugh, can you put that down and help me for a minute? We’ve got a fighter over here…”

“Wait, really? You can’t handle her on your own?”

“Come ON! She’s really squirmy, I don’t want to drop her.”

“Christ. All right, let me put this one down. I keep telling you, if you get a grip on the collar and then shove a few fingers in the other end, they’re a lot easier to hold onto. See?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, careful, you just left the keys on the ground there…”

“Eh. Let her stare at them for a minute and whimper. What’s she going to do?”

Mornings at the Institute. Dr. Kelling poured hot water over the Chemex, waiting for the bloom to rise, while Dr. Jackson rolled her eyes at him and sipped the double shot she’d picked up at Starbucks on the way in. “All right, weekly assessments,” she said, tapping a few keys and bringing up a six-camera multiview on the screens above them. “Let’s do the ones in fully automated treatment first. Case file… uh, 877? Hannah.”

Kelling swiped idly down his tablet, scanning the highlights of her case. “Right. Twenty-one, admitted back in January, initial response meters 2/7/6, A-cup. Under personal treatment for a month after intake, transitioned to partially automated care in February, encouraging results…” He squinted up at the screens. “She’s in a modified Jelenko rig, right?”

“Shows a surprising amount of tolerance for it, actually,” mused Jackson. “It reconfigures her stress position every few hours, but she’s been able to take sustained penetration and nipple stim at intensity level 7 for most of the day, most days.”

“Orgasm?”

“One permitted every ten days, if she shows progress… huh, she’s a little overdue, actually.” Jackson leaned forward to a microphone and activated the remote address system. “The subject will identify herself.”

“S-subject 877!” Hannah just managed to choke out, whimpering as the machine continued to pound her cunt. “This subject is happy to be used as a wet hole! This subject is–nnngAAHH!” She arched and jerked as the nipple stimulators engaged their electrical mode. “Th-this subject is eager to comply with treatment! This subject is sorry for her l-loss of composuOH GOD!”

“What is the subject’s chief concern?”

“Service! Oh fuck, PLEASE allow this subject to be of service!”

Kelling made a wry face and leaned into the mic as well. “Is the subject just saying that because her needy cunt wants to come?”

“N-no! I mean–th-the subject means YES, doctor, her needy cunt wants to come, but NO doctor, she is telling the tru–”

Jackson cut the sound. “Eh, I don’t think she wants it bad enough. Let’s check in again next week. Maybe get somebody in to make sure the Jelenko is equipped to do DP as well.” She watched the screen a little longer, as Hannah babbled on in silence and Kelling tapped out some notes. “What was she originally admitted for, anyway?”

“Hmmm. Looks like… occasional attitude problems and possible attention deficit.”

Jackson let a little smile cross her face. “Well. I’d say she’s getting better all the time.”

You don’t actually have to communicate voluntarily in any way for this assessment. In fact, your statements would be more likely to hinder the process. The goal is to derive directly from your bodily response the levels of stimulus at which you feel pleasure, at which pleasure starts to transition to pain, at which you achieve edge, and at which you are driven to orgasm regardless of preference. Even if you were able to do more than gasp and squeal, we trust the level of muscle tension and blood flow in your pussy more than your mouth.

That’s what the contact patches on your lower abdomen are for, you see: assessment of the tiniest change in reaction as our tech works you over. We can chart your growing arousal as we apply pressure and vibration, heat, cold, and pain. We can watch it spike when we control your breathing. We can see what it does to you when we chuckle at your helpless squirming, and which of our selection of degrading terms for you produce the strongest effect.

You’ll be glad to have completed the examination when it’s over, no matter how you may struggle while it’s in process. Trust us. With the plans we have for your next phase of treatment, knowing where to start stretching your limits will be helpful for all involved.

Behavior correction case file #902: Alex. Subject was introduced socially to Dr. L, and was diagnosed “in the wild” with sexual frustration, general insolence, and an inability to self-manage combined with an independent streak too wide for her own good. She was referred for an evening assessment by our house-call team. Subject displayed vehement disagreement with the team’s conclusions and was restrained for her own safety. Continued restraint is advised, for the time being, except when under strict supervision.

Alex is a natural submissive in deep denial of her essential self, which means she has been suffering emotional pain and dissonance for some time without being able to identify a cause. This in turn has led to her becoming hostile and lashing out at herself as well as those around her. Fortunately, our staff is accustomed to such referred pain, and even better, we have the tools to deal with it.

The subject will begin each morning with a sensory overload regimen: ritual bondage, exposure, depilation if necessary, and heavy applied stim to the nerve centers of maximum humiliation. Forced orgasm is an expected byproduct of this treatment, and we will of course track any such effects. Feel free to question the subject about her experience, though she is not expected to respond usefully for some time. In no case is the treatment to cease before the subject has screamed herself hoarse.

By this time, the subject should be more pliable. Take her to the workroom of choice and consult the attached training syllabus for the topics we expect to cover. They include oral, anal and vaginal service, self-identification and understanding of her new role, proper posture, apparel selection or lack thereof, pain management, and a very thorough course in obedience by means of operant conditioning. Feel free to continue education for as many shifts as seem appropriate; in case the subject’s energy levels seems to be flagging, remember that workrooms are stocked with fresh tubs of ice water hourly.

We will evaluate the subject’s progress each month, and expect to see significant improvement in attitude and aptitude by Q2. At this point, Dr. L plans to conduct a series of personal evaluations of her self-image and embrace of her most genuine self, and may take her on as a personal project. We expect that by then, she will be grateful for the opportunities offered by such focused work with a supervisor. Be sure to remind Alex just what a lucky subject she is.

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 #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

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.

“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.”

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.

A genuine fact about me: my hearing is unusually acute, and has remained so into my thirties, when most men start losing the ability to hear higher frequencies. I can hear a phone chime with a new text two floors away; I can pick you out of a crowd by the sound of your keyring when you put your hand in your purse.

That’s why I gave you this assignment. Yes, you spent long enough pleading with me for an orgasm that I decided to grant you one, on the condition that you get yourself off between seven and seven-fifteen this evening. Yes, that is in fact when my guests will be arriving for dinner. Yes, the four of us will be right in the next room.

I wouldn’t want your needy pussy to disturb anyone while we have company, and I think you know what will happen to you later if any of them notices or casts a suspicious glance at the bedroom door. You know the rules now. This is the only chance to come you’ll get this week, and possibly this month. But rest assured, girl, when I say not to make a single sound,

I

fucking

mean it.

Believe it or not, the majority of our treatment subjects at the Institute are admitted voluntarily.* They arrive for a number of reasons: anorgasmia, nymphomania, loss of libido, fulfillment of court-ordered therapy, a desire to be relieved of urges they don’t understand–or, on several occasions, an overabundance of curiosity.

The root of all these issues is misperception. It is a common and wildly incorrect belief that, with sufficient discipline and willpower, the mind can achieve primacy over the body it inhabits. There may even be people in the world for whom this is true, but for all of the listed disorders, such is obviously not the case. The body, for these women, is an instrument of sensation that acts upon the mind.

All our work at the Institute approaches a single principle: the extension of control from the doctor, through the subject’s flesh, into what we might unscientifically call her soul. The mind will struggle–oh, it will struggle, because if it were capable of an orderly surrender you would not be in such a condition that you need our help. But slowly, inevitably, it will yield.

At that point, the sensational instrument of your body can be put to a variety of innovative uses. Say, fucktoy rotation on Level 9.

* Oh, and the ones who don’t enter voluntarily? By the time treatment takes effect, they all admit that they should have.