masturbation – Not A Real Doctor

A simple game for one player.

To play a round, masturbate to edge, using whatever media or tools you find appropriate. Hold your breath, and the edge, for ten seconds. Then take your hand away and flip a coin.

If it’s tails, you don’t get to come. If you wish, you may wait five minutes without touching yourself, then play another round.

If it’s heads, you do get to come. Get yourself off and say a silent thank you. Then take a permanent marker and draw a small tally mark somewhere private on your body–say, the inside of your thigh.

The next time you play a round of the game, you have to flip the coin one extra time for each mark you’ve made on yourself. If any of those coins are tails, see the “if it’s tails” result above. If all of them are heads, you do get to come… and add another mark.

Those of you who can do a little quick math have already realized that the odds of your being permitted climax will rapidly diminish. If and when you get desperate, there are two ways to reset the count. First: if you wait long enough that the marker washes off your skin, to the point where a given mark is actually no longer visible even if you’re looking for it, that mark no longer counts toward your total. Second: if you have sex that involves your being penetrated, you may draw a line through any one cluster of marks, and ignore them from then on.

There’s only one more rule to this game, and I’m afraid it puts the lie to earlier, when I told you it was for one player.

Once you’ve started playing, you aren’t allowed to quit until you ask.

Sick Day, Part One

She jumped a little when she heard his key in the lock, yanking her hand out of her panties and leaning forward to click the tabs closed as quickly and quietly as she could. It hadn’t been that long already, had it? She checked the clock–12:30. No, he must have just come home for lunch. Since when did he come home for lunch? She grabbed the quilt off the back of the couch, pulled it over herself, and tried to look tired.

“Still asleep?” he called softly from the entryway, but before she answered he was rounding the corner from the entryway and smiling when he saw her face. She offered a little wan smile of her own and stretched out her arm. “I was trying to nap on the couch,” she improvised, “but I wasn’t sleepy enough. You didn’t have to come home!”

“What, and leave you to suffer through a sick day all alone?” He walked over and squeezed her hand, just as she glanced down at the computer screen and noticed that–oh shit–she’d forgotten she had a window minimized. A window she’d intended to come back to. With evidence that would definitely, definitely give her away.

He kissed the part in her hair and touched her forehead. “Hmm, you do still feel a little feverish,” he murmured, and looked carefully at her face. “And flushed. But you’re damp, too.” She tried to control her reaction to that word as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks and temples. “See? So maybe your fever is breaking.”

“Yeah, I feel a little better,” she managed, trying to keep her eyes off the incriminating laptop screen. Why hadn’t she just shut it? Dumb!

“Did you take an Advil already?” He said. “I can fix you something to eat. Comfort food. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, maybe.” He smiled again, and she nodded, attempting to express frailty, innocence, affection and exhaustion at the same time. When he went in the kitchen she could close the window and be home free. Any second now.

But when he got up, he reached down and picked up the laptop, and she swallowed a sound of startled protest.

“No wonder you couldn’t sleep, if you were staring at a screen,” he chuckled. “Checking your email, huh? I know it’s hard to control that impulse.” He started to lean down and set it on the coffee table. She held her breath. “Hmm.” He paused; she bit her lip. “And… checking tumblr too, I see.”

FUCK. How did he always know what she was trying to hide? “Oh, is that still open?” she mumbled. “I must have forgotten…”

“Still open and still quite active,” he said dryly. “As is this chat room, I see. And a couple of your favorite stories.” He turned back, his mouth quirked, a tiny glint of dangerous amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well. So not feeling too sick to play after all, are we?”

She couldn’t meet his gaze.

“So now I begin to understand your flush,” he said thoughtfully. “And the dampness of your brow. And elsewhere…?” He gathered her blanket and pulled it down her body; embarrassed, she drew herself up into a little ball, but his strong, cool fingers pulled her legs down and open, exposing the evidence of her morning activities. “Yes. I see.”

“I was just–” she started to protest, but couldn’t actually think of what she wanted to follow that up with. “Trying to doze off?”

“Mm hmm. I count at least three infractions. First: shirking, taking a sick day when in fact I don’t think you were ever feeling sick at all.” He watched for a sign of protest; everything she thought of to say sounded so weak and transparent, and the blush was creeping up her ears to her hairline. “Second: playing with yourself without permission. Third: lying to me about both of the above. Am I wrong?”

Pulse pounding, throat tight, she said “I really did feel bad. This morning. I wasn’t lying.”

“But you’re better now, yes? And you lied about it after the fact, which renders that irrelevant.” He stood, pulling off his blazer, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves. “I think, young lady, that we’re going to have to establish how you feel in a more concrete manner…”

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.

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,

fucking

mean it.

“It’s a lovely little thing,” he murmurs in your ear as you rest yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. “Warm to the touch, and yielding. Find it for me.”

Shyly at first, then with some enthusiasm, you reach down into the pretty sparkly band of fabric and brush your fingers over yourself: smooth where he shaved you, velvet-soft where you can feel the beginnings of just a little swell.

“Don’t be shy,” he grins, and then both his hands are there, pressing to rock you back against him and pull you up a little bit under his fingertips. He doesn’t go underneath the panties, not quite, but the pressure is perfectly clear. You inhale.

“There. Try it like that. Like Daddy showed you.” You follow his movement, hand on the outside and pressing against your mound, then deeper under to rub the seam against your clit. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, not exactly, but it’s different somehow–like you’re acting as his hands, even as his other pair roams up and down your tingling back.

“A good girl knows how to play with the toys her Daddy got her.” He’s settling into the rhythm of his words, calm and low, his voice rumbling a little through his chest against your back. “You wouldn’t want me to think it’s not being put to good use, would you? I might have to take it away…”

Spurred on, fumbling a little with excitement, you slide your hand underneath again and spread yourself, wet your fingertips. It’s a lot easier than it was a moment ago. His hands move down to rub your thighs, encouraging you to spread a little wider. You feel yourself contract, pulse, hunger, and the sudden heat in your belly makes you lean your other hand on his knee for support.

“There we go,” he says, and the pleased tone in his voice is as effective as a vibrator. You’re rubbing yourself in earnest now, humping his leg and your hand–no, his hand–as your wetness begins to seep downward into the sparkly, lacy, glittery pretties he got to decorate his toy.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he whispers. “Beautiful little puzzle, little heat pump, the place I enter to bring you home.” You can’t quite stay quiet at that, all shyness gone now, rocking your throbbing clit like a clumsy teenager flooded with need. “You’re shiny and new every time I touch you, my present. And as long as we both want to play together, I’ll never need any new toys.”

“And all the girls in this dorm have had a standard dose?”

“An average of 10 ppm in the drinking water, yes. It took eight days to build up to steady-state accumulation. There is some natural resistance–about three of them haven’t displayed any effects at all.”

“Three out of two hundred. Not bad.”

“We’ve sequestered them for further study. The rest of the subjects have… well, as you see, largely sequestered themselves.”

“Physical condition?”

“The fugue state only lasts about four hours at a stretch, so they seem to be able to take care of themselves. Eating, drinking, sleeping, all sufficient if a bit groggy. Then we play the trigger frequency and… this… begins again.”

“She’s really incapable of stopping, isn’t she?”

“And rather frustrated, from the evidence. We plan to verify when we can, but if they are capable of orgasm, it certainly doesn’t seem to satisfy them.”

“Have you seen any effects of… how do I put this… physical restraint?”

“Tie her hands, she’ll hump anything within reach, animate or otherwise. Bind her completely and… well… we think the effects are harmless, but I’ve never seen anyone quite so desperate. I think she would have agreed to just about anything to be touched.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes.”

“We may have to add a new protocol to the test. See what their behavior is like if they’re all, say, frogtied, and locked in a room together.”

“Noted. And do you still want to reserve the most promising two or three subjects for your personal tests at the lab?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Behavior correction case file #328: Maura. Subject masturbates compulsively, to the point of interference with social life and career, seclusion, and possibly self-harm. Subject known to spend multiple hours per day on Tumblr.

Maura has already undergone one round of treatment for her disorder at a similar facility, but the results of attempts at aversion therapy were impermanent, and she was referred to the Institute as a special case. The course of treatment proposed relies on overcompulsion instead.

Subject will be fitted with a small pacemaker-like contact implant at the base of the spine, supplying a regular electrical stimulus to the nerve but interfering with normal signals from the pelvis. Past experiments indicate that this will both keep the subject physically aroused–almost unbearably so–and inorgasmic. No amount of pleasure, physical or otherwise, will allow her to climax.

Subject will stay in an apartment on the Institute grounds similar to her own home, permitted toys but not clothing, and will have pornography from her own browser history selected and played on screens in each room. She will be monitored in this environment until she reaches a point of desperation considered dangerous for her own safety (estimated time: 36 hours).

She will then be informed that, if she chooses, she may enter an adjacent closet-sized chamber, crouch, lock her hands and ankles into a stockade, and present her orifices for use. Doing so will deactivate the implant. Subject will then be available for use by any staff member, visiting colleague, or other patients with grounds privileges. The rate of such engagement will obviously be variable and random. After sufficient begging, polite thanks to her partners, and 10-12 orgasms, the stockade will unlock and the implant will reactivate. The chamber will not reopen until subject once again reaches a level of extreme desperation.

NOTE: it is possible this course of therapy will require several months to take effect. All staff in Division E are encouraged to make use of the subject during her availability periods and discuss her progress at weekly check-in.