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(Part one, part two.)

After initial visual inspection and baseline vitals were established for Ivy (hereinafter “subject”), the session proceeded as per standard protocol. Subject was responsive and aroused. Subject was vocal despite attempted self-restraint.

Of particular interest for this exam were the subject’s orgasmic threshold, pain threshold, and verbal or physical cues to indicate their approach. The following techniques were employed to glean data.

  • Subject’s glans clitoris and labia were stimulated manually.
  • Subject, while sight-deprived, was allowed to hear a nitrile glove being donned.
  • Subject was offered and accepted synthetic lubrication.
  • Subject’s vaginal canal was penetrated with a single finger. (note: concern about diameter expressed here, unusually early)
  • Subject was stimulated via vibrating wand fitted with silicone diffuser head.
  • Subject was induced to choose between body weight on said wand or sustained stress posture. (note: she chose tiptoes)
  • Subject was bent at the waist, and manual impact stimulus was employed.
  • Subject was eventually persuaded to count manual impact stimulus aloud. Impact was extended to the upper thighs and the soles of the feet, in addition to the traditional posterior site, as part of this persuasion
  • (Note that by this point self-lubrication had made synthetic reapplication redundant.)
  • Subject was penetrated with two gloved fingers. Vocal protest increased sharply. Significant pressure noted.
  • Subject was turned onto reverse side to allow for tactile examination of breast tissue and, again, application of the wand.
  • Subject’s legs were repositioned to allow for maximum exposure.
  • The exam proceeded to phase three.

As audible cues had proven effective in exciting the subject so far, she was granted another one: the sound of a speculum being unscrewed and opened. While recent advances have brought some comfort and convenience to the apparatus, it remains apparent that the traditional steel-and-screw mechanism carries the strongest connotations. As stated at the outset, the objective was to establish thresholds, physical and emotional. Connotation was therefore considered paramount.

Subject’s vocal reactions increased in volume again and began to lose coherence as the device was secured in an open position. Visual examination of the canal, while not a focus of this visit, revealed healthy tissue. Subject was palpated deeply on the anterior surface of the lower abdomen while still dilated, which produced significant vocal reactions as well.

It may be that the reader wonders, at this point in the report, what makes it worth recording in such detail. After all, procedure according to protocol can be condensed to a terse note or two. But beyond personal interest in the subject, it is here that the events of the session become particularly noteworthy.

The subject was stimulated with the wand a third time, with the longest duration yet. In this case the wand was applied directly to the base of the speculum, which was still expanded internally. This led in short order to an orgasmic response, despite the fact that vibration was transmitted primarily to the internal body of the clitoris and not the glans. Subject voiced a sustained, high-volume response and displayed mild muscular convulsion.

Subject was evaluated verbally once verbal capacity appeared to return. Subject’s feet were also observed to uncurl as time went on. While she was engaged in light conversation and offered a lightly mocking taunt for her failure of self-control, subject was observed and evaluated for refractory period.

When it was judged that said refractory period was elapsing, subject—still blindfolded, restrained, and splayed open—was given another auditory stimulus: the sound of the vibrating wand being reactivated.

This is the part where Ivy clenched in fear so hard that she forced the speculum out.

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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)

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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.

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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.

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artisticsub:

thesimplestpleasure:

I blush just thinking about this. It’s the examining that gets to me, I think. The closeness, the intimacy, the inspection – the fact that this is a man merely looking at what he owns and doing with it as he sees fit. The fact that I damn well better sit still no matter what his fingertips do because he expects me to be good and let him explore.

So. Mean.

Every inch of you, smooth as velvet, groomed just as he instructed. Your pose picture perfect, legs apart for him, wrists crossed behind your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The slow, calm, methodical humiliation of your naked vulva.

He’s had to wipe you down several times, using the wadded wreck of your own panties to sop up your wetness as the heavy clamp stand keeps the Hitachi in place against you. There’s a dimmer switch on it, of course–you can’t decide whether that’s for kindness or cruelty–which he adjusts occasionally, always a microsecond before you think you’re about to go over the edge. Or lose it.

He likes to keep you here, almost delirious with need, where he can watch you pulse and throb under the gentle brush of his probing finger. It’s almost dissociative. It reminds you that the cunt in question just happens to be attached to you: his property in your helpless, trembling body, to be tested and explored at his leisure. To be subject to pleasure or punishment in precise increments. To come, or not to come, only when he decides as much.

Of course, realistically, you know this is the easy part. Eventually he’s going to get bored and spin that dimmer all the way up. He’s going to paddle that pussy with his hand until it splashes, as is his usual manner. And he’s going to wait for you to start begging, between squeals and gasps, for your orgasm.

Then he’s going to turn on the camera and make you repeat yourself.

You think you’re blushing now?