bondage – Page 2 – Not A Real Doctor

Behavior correction case file #834: NAME EXPUNGED. Subject shown after being fitted and prepped for custom travel unit. Our half of the exchange for #833, she proved reluctant to fully engage with our therapies here, despite the certain fact that we had only her best interests at heart. It is our hope that our Austrian colleagues will find her more receptive.

Subject has had all previous forms of identity removed, not merely from the Institute’s databases but from all public records as well. She is now identified only by a bar code tattooed inside her right wrist, and is legally nameless, stateless and essentially without rights. This should ease her transition across borders, since she is shipping classified as livestock.

The transport rig has been tested for rugged security and will withstand even a prolonged struggle to escape, even if the subject demonstrates the rather vigorous thrashing she has been known to display during orgasm. The underside of the platform is loaded with high-capacity batteries, which should power the Hitachi for eleven minutes out of each hour of the trip. Subject has previously shown time to climax of 5-15 minutes at full stim. The pressure gauge probes fitted into both of her lower holes should provide a useful graph of orgasmic activity over time at the end of her trip.

The batteries will also power the electromagnet manipulating subject’s nipple chain, as well as her headphones, which are playing a 400-minute loop of her previous therapy sessions in the Problem Patients wing. Subject was required to confess to her own flaws, willful attitude and aberrant desires after each session, but would inevitably later recant. It is our hope that listening to herself for emphasis will drive the point home.

While all of us at the Institute will miss working with NAME EXPUNGED, we believe this trip will be good for her and for our relationship with the Austrian facility. They have promised to spare no expense or method rehabilitating her, and will keep us up to date with regular video dispatches.

Behavior control case file #214: Sam. Subject was recommended to the Institute by a number of former partners, as part of our new pilot program to identify undiagnosed problem patients at large in the community. Subject has reportedly been manipulative, dishonest and selfish to a pathological degree, particularly in her sexual dealings with others.

Sam needs to internalize the lesson that attempting to simply take what she wants will lead only to pushing it further away. The most obvious reward to be withheld is orgasm, of course; upon admission she is to be strapped down and stimulated to edge four times per hour by orderlies for forty-eight hours, at which point sleep deprivation and denial should make her more pliable. However, food, water, and pleasurable bathing rights (as opposed to the nightly hose-down) should also be used to demonstrate this principle.

Regular treatment will consist of a series of frustration bondage scenarios like the one depicted above. In addition to regular exposure bondage, subject’s hands will be wrapped in duct tape to reinforce the uselessness of manipulation. Electrostim pads will be applied to the inner thighs to keep muscles jerking and prevent the subject from sitting still; a powerful vibrator will be lowered to rest against the subject’s vulva, but any movement–such as the jerking produced by the stim pads–will cause the wand to bounce and swing away before gradually returning, then beginning the cycle again.

Orgasm under these circumstances is extremely unlikely, and Dr. Y has a hypothesis that the subject will remain at high edge in this manner for potentially weeks. Subject will be given opportunities to apologize, recant or beg only after at least ten days of treatment; until then she is to be tape-gagged, with a small cloth scented from her cunt and stuffed in her mouth, replaced at one-hour intervals.

When the tape-removal process reveals that the subject has become an incoherent, desperately begging mess, she will be permitted to request forgiveness from each of the former partners she treated poorly; only upon their unanimous consent will she be moved into recovery. Otherwise, return her to the treatment cycle, possibly with added nipple or anal stim.

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.

It takes at least a few hours to stop heaving and shaking after the unfreezing process; Maris had no chance to protest, much less fight back, when they pulled her out of the hissing cryo chamber and bound her taut in the echoing warehouse.

“Wh-what the fuck is g-going AUGH!” she managed, before a sharp smack landed on her bare pussy. You’d think being frozen would numb you, but no: every nerve in her body was tingling as if she’d been naked in the snow and then thrust in front of a fire.

“Interesting thing about cryogenics,” said her captor, a blurry face and a dangerously soft voice. “Did you know that if you’re frozen 364 days out of the year, you’re legally dead? A strange little provision for experimental treatments, I understand.”

“But I’m–I don’t even know why I was–let me G-GO!” Maris hiccuped, squirming in the ropes. Condensation dripped down her shivering body as she felt her legs drawn slowly farther apart.

“Oh, I don’t know why you were frozen either.” A shrug she could read through her blurry vision. “All the records for this facility were destroyed in a terrible accident. Isn’t that awful to hear?”

“Look, I can tell you, my n-name is Maris–” And with that, before she could react, she felt the ball gag forced between her chattering teeth.

“Ah ah ah! Don’t want to use your real name in this kind of video. Not while you’re being streamed live.”

“STMMMED?”

That vicious little chuckle again, as one finger traced a droplet of moisture from her throat to her stiff nipple. “Oh yes. You’re our twenty-third show of the year, ice princess, and people pay quite a lot of money to see what we do to popsicles like you.”

Maris was finally starting to recover, but that sentence set her pulse to an alarm-bell pace. She cast her gaze around wildly, trying to make her eyes focus on what must be cameras and spotlights.

A hand drew itself down her body, gathering the slippery lube that had been used to keep her skin from freezer burn, and then slowly began to push up into her. Maris squealed as she realized the nerves inside her cunt were just as oversensitive as the rest of her. She tried to buck and jerk, but all her body would do was slowly writhe.

“There’s a good little dead girl,” laughed her captor. “Don’t worry–it’s only twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes before your time is up and we put you back on cold storage. In the meantime, we can do anything we fucking want to your perfectly preserved and helpless body, and no matter how many screens you appear on, no one’s going to do a thing about it. So settle in and enjoy yourself. You’ll get a year off to rest soon, after all.”

The click of a buzzing vibrator; the testing whistle of a whip. “Of course, I suppose it’s going to SEEM like every waking day is like this now. But don’t worry, sweet icebox. The novelty’s not going to wear off for me…”

The rope around her waist and under her crotch goes over a pulley. At the end of the pulley is a bucket. On the wall is a large television. On the television is all the hidden camera footage of her room for the last week.

Her Daddy already watched the tapes, and he’s marked certain time codes and synced them up to a mechanical hopper just above the bucket. Little Nessa was supposed to be on no-touch while Daddy was traveling on business, you see. And oh, little Nessa was naughty.

Each time the time-lapse video reaches an instance of Nessa sneaking a hand into her little cotton panties, the hopper drops a marble into the bucket. Each time it reaches a time when Nessa misbehaved in the extreme–when she humped the pillow, or the furniture, or her little playmate girl from next door, or worst of all, when she came–it drops a billiard ball.

There is one other complication to this setup. Strapped tight to the rope, above the bucket, is the big fat magic wand vibrator, set to high. The more the rope digs into her crotch, the more intensely the vibrations travel through it, into her aching lips and helpless clit.

Nessa knows she is not to come today. She needs to be a good girl, a very very good girl, no matter how much the rope makes her arch and squeal and squirm. No matter what, until Daddy gets home.

After all, if she can’t make it through this one simple task without indulging her greedy cunt, the hopper will drop its last prize: the bowling ball.

Trembling, tiptoed, slowly working herself back and forth against the painful-pleasurable-cruel taut rope, Nessa wonders exactly how heavy that ball’s going to feel, and whether Daddy will drill her three holes afterward too.

lightningbugjune1:

femsubdenial:

nanking-decade:

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

=-O That’s just evil!!!

(hmmm… but what if…)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up on the auction stage it’s all glamor and clever lighting, the audience in their finest formalwear and masks, the occasional gasp when two or three of them get into a bidding war over a particularly enticing new slave. The girl in question is pinned down by a spotlight, slowly turned and displayed as the auctioneer murmurs “seventy… eight… one hundred thousand to the gentleman… one ten to the lady in green…”

Down below it’s more utilitarian. These are the house trainers’ last remaining moments with the girls they’ve spent weeks breaking, and there is no particular incentive to treat them kindly, or like anything but chattel. They want you tired and obedient for your new owner. They want you to tremble appealingly as you’re packaged up and trucked away.

These four won’t ever get to see the world upstairs; they’re being sold as part of a bulk lot of five, probably to a competitor’s house that thinks they can be assessed and tracked into specialty training. One girl from the lot is on stage now, representing them; these four will simply be slid farther down along the track when the purchase is made, strapped into their new owner’s transport, and shuttled off to a similar dingy storage area in their new home.

The girl on the left was a promising young tennis player; the one next to her was her coach. The others were a PR intern, a camgirl and an au pair. They would never have had much in common except that the house decided that this was how they’d bring in the most value. Now their fates are temporarily bound together, as they wait, squirming and helpless, to find out if they’ll be given to a relatively gentle life of domestic slavery or–more likely–something considerably crueler.

“One forty,” says the auctioneer. “One forty going once… going twice…”

“These are called travel straps,” he said, not without a hint of kindness, as he cinched them up around her tense limbs and torso. “The extra loops are for the suspension system in the–well, you’ll see. It’s mostly to keep you and the others from hurting yourselves by struggling while we’re in transit.” He stood back and smirked a little. “Although they are not without aesthetic appeal.”

She’d been compliant, so far; he’d showed her his weapon when he woke her, told her quietly that he wouldn’t be violent if she didn’t make him, and aside from her fight-or-flight anger and a series of verbal barbs about his manhood she’d obeyed his instructions. The fact that she was being kidnapped–and professionally so–seemed to be setting in now, though. She’d been more and more quiet as he’d efficiently stripped her and buckled her up.

“One more piece,” he said, flipping open part of his matte black case and taking out the thick posture collar. “Normally I’d gag you as well, but you don’t seem to have much to say at the moment. And I don’t think you’re going to try screaming. Are you?”

Silence.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “See, when you don’t answer me–when we can’t have a dialogue at all–that actually makes me nervous.” He reached down and grabbed the rings at her sternum and belly, lifting her up; she couldn’t stay entirely silent at that, gasping at how easily he shifted her, and at the way the thick strap suddenly dug into her crotch.

He carried her over to the faux fur rug he’d brought in with him–she’d already figured out that he planned to wrap her in it, then carry her out in broad daylight–and set her down again. She sagged against her bonds, trying not to let him see her face, but he ran two fingers down the thick strap to her little patch of fuzzy curls.

“Now, all the other girls on this trip have a little company to keep them amused,” he said, slowly pressing the flat leather against her. “A little battery-powered friend underneath here.” She kept her eyes turned away, but he could see the flush spread over her chest, see the subtle shift of her hips. Her lips were swollen around the edges of the strap, and moisture beaded on them. “But that wasn’t a kindness. That was a punishment, because none of them were quite as well-behaved as you. Are you proud of yourself for avoiding it, Alexis?”

“You don’t get to call me by my first name,” she said, in a low, cold voice.

“Perhaps I don’t,” he said, amused. He tipped her chin up with one finger, gathered her hair and picked up the collar to work it into place. She was breathing fast through her nose, jaw clenched, swallowing with a little difficulty under the d-ring as he got it locked shut.

“But I have to call you something,” he said, giving each of the straps a final tug to make sure they were secure. “And you’re… unusual, so far. Not quite deserving of the usual pejoratives. Not a pet. Not a slut. Not a slave… yet.”

“Call me your opponent,” she said, looking up at last with suppressed defiance in her eyes.

“Oh my,” he murmured, a grin crooking his mouth. “As you wish.”

Behavior correction case file #440: Ivy. Subject is regressive, and struggles with denial and reluctance to acknowledge her own sexual needs. Subject has also demonstrated a marked difficulty with remaining still.

Ivy is to be restrained at all times until she has internalized the basic fact that struggling, while rewarding in the short term, has long-term consequences. Orderlies are advised to use consistent manual contact in order to accustom her to being handled, as one would a small domestic animal. Restraint position should be changed regularly to keep the subject from relaxing too far into subspace. To prevent excessive struggle during rope changes, consider use of toys: subject may respond to a combination of oral occupancy (finger/pacifier) and clitoral stim. Use a gentle tone of voice at this time and keep up a stream of verbal praise–again, as one would soothe a small pet, or a child.

Subject is expected to maintain a high baseline level of lubrication and should be manually stimulated to edge at random intervals; color and temperature of facial surfaces and throat provide a useful gauge of current arousal. The promise of orgasm will be used to motivate behavior, but should be largely withheld even when subject behaves properly (this is not expected). Provide spurious reasons to withhold orgasm: minor infractions of unspoken rules, embarrassing observations from case file, and so on. Upon objection, alternate spanking with further edges.

Once per day, subject is to be blindfolded, partially declothed (panties at ankles, etc), and brought to an observation chamber via nipple clamp leash to answer questions about her progress. Phrase questions in degrading, belittling ways, and use anal stimulation to reward answers in the same idiom. Discourage silence, impertinence, or other attempts at dignity via freeform means. Observers and questioners will rotate: it is considered important that the subject know she is humiliating herself verbally in front of an ongoing series of unknown people.

If subject should maintain a full week of proper behavior, good conduct and appropriate self-degradation, set her existing conditions as a new benchmark and impose new ones until she reaches failure state (aka “tantrum”). Suggestions: display orifices for sexual partners until such time as they choose to acknowledge and make use of them; insert tail, apply bondage mitts and serve food and water in floor dishes; installation bondage in lobby to allow exploration/stimulation by guests waiting for admittance.

Admittance of this subject is open-ended and therapy is set to end only when subject herself believes that she is “cured.” Division D has prepared her cell for an indefinite stay and will document and, if helpful, publish each step of her correction online.

Behavior correction case file #763: ~~Dr.~~ Ellie ~~Graves~~. Subject was formerly the lead therapist of Division G, a promising young doctor with a great future at the Institute ahead of her. Surveillance of her personal Internet traffic, however, revealed plans to take certain concerns about Institute policies to federal authorities. Subject was admitted as quickly as possible and it is not believed that she was able to disclose any sensitive patient information at this time.

Ellie completed an extensive personality profile during her application process, which provides a number of insights into a proper treatment plan. Subject fears but is fascinated by electrostim and predicament bondage. Subject can deal with nudity, but is easily embarrassed by slow, gradual removal of clothing. Subject has had mostly female sexual partners but reported intense responses to forceful sex with men. Subject has speculated about being conditioned to climax on command.

As might be expected, subject has employed the listed techniques on previous patients, several of whom (case files 188, 242, 439 and 751) have responded with enthusiasm to the prospect of being personally involved with her rehabilitation. They are to be given a large degree of autonomy in working with her, but sessions should be monitored to make sure the subject is not in excessive danger.

While some of the staff of Division D have what would be considered an existing relationship with the subject, and would normally recuse themselves under Institute rules, this is a special case and the division heads have given permission for her handlers to indulge any previous speculation on the subject’s sexual ability.

Hypothesis: while knowledge of our standard practices should provide the subject with a modicum of resistance at first, within a month of commencing treatment, she will be malleable, fully sexually activated and compliant with all standard training guidelines for a female patient. While she will unfortunately no longer be useful as a colleague at the Institute, she will be in no danger of reporting anything to anyone, which will mark a successful rehabilitation.

When all involved are satisfied with her correction, Ellie is to be placed on fucktoy rotation, level 9.

Behavior correction case file #34: █li███. Subject admitted und██ ████ █y for kn███ █████ █████y. █████ to Dr. ██████ █or ba████.

███████ ██ to previ███ █wn██, but init████ ██sts produc██ █████ ████ss. Instead, Divi████ █ ███ds decid██ to engage in an exp██████ ██ur██, det████ed ███lo██

█████ is consi████d a distinct requirem███, in addit██n to ██urly stimul██ ██ ████oris, “g-█████ █nd nipples; ana█ ███████ ██ ████mended. Should subject reach a ██████, discou████ ████ ███ █ENS unit. Also consider appl███g su██ ████████ if subject brin██ ██ "re█████," ███ghts” or “██████.” Verbaliza███n of any kin██, ██ ████ ██ █o be puni█████

Under NO circum███nc██ is the subj███ to be ███mitted orgasm. ███itor vita███ at al█ ██mes and be sure ██ forc█ ██ █east 24 edg██ ███ day, ██ting that su███ct respo██s to tradi██████ █████chistic implem███s as well as forc██ ███asure.

NOTE: Drs ██████ and ████████ are known to ha██ ███sonal histo██ with th██ ████ct and sh████ recuse them██████ fro█ any con█████████ ██ ███ █████ment plan. The Ins██████ is a place of ████y and tr███████, not cru███ or ███geance.

████mended durati██ ██ ██████ is fo██ █o six ██████. Any l████r and we will lik███ see per███████ ████ges to subje███ █████ ███ █████ █ell-be███.

(Ah fuck, another one of these? We have GOT to improve our backup policy. Just… keep doing what we’re doing, I guess? Her current handler certainly seems to enjoy the work. –DT)

Behavior correction case file #413: Katrin. Subject is a part-time lifeguard during summers between college terms and has been repeatedly caught by pool owner engaging in surreptitious masturbation, high-risk sexual activity and other inappropriate behavior on the grounds. Rather than risk a mark on her employment record and possible misdemeanor charges, subject agreed to behavioral therapy at the Institute.

Katrin is a less complicated case than subject #328 and will likely respond to straightforward aversion therapy. She is required to wear a swimsuit similar to her lifeguard uniform at all times, though this one is fitted with microscopic body monitors and electrical stim units to aid in analysis and reinforce direction of guidance.

As per standard Institute policy, subject will be shackled to bed when not in treatment and woken each morning by an orderly who will provide manual stimulus until her monitors indicate sufficient arousal. She will then be taken to our own swimming pool and, while in an environment similar to the one that has caused her such problems, be treated with Hitachi therapy as per standard orgasm control/induction regimen B. (You know how this goes–make her beg to come then make her beg to stop–pretty straightforward. DT) The obvious potential for breathplay and cold-water shock should be explored as well.

A week of such treatment should be more than sufficient to reform the subject. However, subject has already agreed to spend two months at the Institute voluntarily. Division D has expressed interest in continuing treatment and observing subject’s behavior on a daily basis. What are her reactions to an extended forced pleasure regimen? Will temporary aversion become a more permanent fetish related to the environment, clothing, or bondage in use, and will this fetish affect normal sexual function? Will the subject bond with a single handler or grow accustomed to rotation through a group of staff? The Institute stands to learn a great deal from this case.

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.

–

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

Behavior correction case file #253: Chrissy. Subject is a “screamer,” unable to control the volume or pitch of her voice during sexual activity. While vocal enthusiasm is a highly prized trait here at the Institute, it comes second to self-control when so ordered.

Chrissy will first be conditioned to associate being gagged with arousal and a need for stimulation–a common course of reeducation for new subjects. Once complete, we will begin building the idea that the gag is her own responsibility, and must remain in her mouth in order to reach orgasm. Opening her mouth to scream (or biting the gag too hard) will result in a series of bouncing, weighted tugs on her nipples, and cessation of clitoral stim.

After the first failure, she will also receive a series of punishments of ascending intensity to her vulva, and will be required to beg–in a whisper–for the gag to be replaced between her teeth.

Subject is not a quick learner. Reassess case progress at two weeks or two successful orgasms, whichever comes last.

(Tip of the hat to Z.)

“You checked in the back?”

“Yeah, that row is all empty, they’re bringing in a new line next week. Sorry.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. I really was hoping to take one home today.”

“Well, I can sell you the floor model–obviously she’s seen some testing, you know, she’s got a few scuffs and marks, but she’s in perfectly good condition.”

“Hmm… I don’t know. I don’t want to get her home and find out she’s not going to last me.”

“She’s still under warranty, same as the others. Look–I’ll give you ten percent off.”

“Fifteen?”

“Yeah, fine, it’s been a slow week. Pull your van around to the side door and we’ll get her loaded on. You want her boxed up?”

“Nah. I have a feeling I won’t be able to get all the way home without stopping to test her out.”

yourbadgrrl:

Is this how you imagine me, Sir? Stripped, then bound tightly to the horse, every hole vulnerable to your abuse, your caress. Dripping and aching for your touch, subject to your whim, your need, your demons…

There are a dozen identical benches in the long, dim corridor, all currently occupied with a taut, arched girlslave. It’s almost always full, here; this is the holding pen, where acquisitions who have had basic testing and conditioning are placed for a few weeks, between the dark cattle-cages below and the bright, sterile niche-training units above.

If it sounds a bit like a purgatory, it is one. The days there certainly blend together into an endless blur, with feedings, cleanings and lubrication staggered to keep any of them from guessing how much time has passed. It is a place intended to break girls. It is utterly, brutally effective.

They are edged, of course, by a bored higher-class slave on her turn in the chore rotation. They can hear her clacking down the aisle in her heels, heavy vibrator swinging in one hand, picking a victim at random and grinding its bulbous head against her clit for exactly the length of time scrawled on her lower belly. (Basic testing, you see.)

They’re also used. As you can see above, any trainer who needs a quick break can hop in, find a hole to his liking, give it a quick test for wetness (rarely failed) and fuck away until he’s satisfied.

The girl in the picture was once named Alice. She will someday be renamed Slip, for the ease with which her cunt takes penetration, but for now she is only Station 8. At this point, her initial captivity in the cages is a hazy blur, and her life before that a dreamlike memory. She clenches the moment she feels a finger push into any orifice, and she is almost incapable of orgasm without command.

It’ll be another month before they unstrap her and carry her squirming, dripping vessel of a body upstairs.

You’d be surprised how easy it is to find an unused storage room down in the subbasement of the theater and communications building, and even more surprised how easy it is to fill it with scavenged materials. A bench. a clip-on scoop light. A rolling cart. A wheeled frame. Padlocks. Chains.

Of course, Kelly couldn’t borrow everything–some of it she had to order through the departmental Amazon account, furtively tapped out during her work-study shift and snagged from the office before anyone could open the boxes. Cuffs. Lube. That ridiculous dildo.

Not that any of the equipment ever got much use. She just snuck in there to stare, fantasize, shove a hand down her shorts, and have massive, fist-biting orgasms.

It was hers and only hers, and as the semester went on she grew more and more daring. She started spending the night there, just smirking when her roommate asked curiously who she was hooking up with. She played with cuffs, tightening them around one ankle, then both. She challenged herself to see how fast she could wriggle out of her own ropes.

It was addictive, but, Kelly told herself, it was harmless. None of the stuff was actually stolen–it hadn’t even left the building. And she wasn’t one of those sick sadists who actually hurt people for pleasure. She was just having a little fun.

She discovered that if she locked her wrists AND her ankles, she could come just by squeezing her thighs.

It was in just such a situation that she found herself, late one Friday night after all her classmates had drunk themselves into stupor. She liked to hide the key in the laces of her shoe, so it couldn’t possibly get lost, but she really had to work to get it up in range of her–fuck. Was that the door handle rattling?

No. No no no no no–

I know how gifs work, but stick with me a second: the little skip between cycles on this one made me think of a dungeon with a time trap. Sci-fi, fantasy, whatever, just some method of consistently snapping the contents of one room back… say, thirty seconds or so…

See, Kiri here is a synthdoll: she’s wealthy, very wealthy, wealthy enough to have had a remote body custom-fabricated from the DNA on up. They’re legal, mostly, as long as you have a visible registration marker (like, say, those gorgeous fractal tattoos). Her original self is resting peacefully in a chamber, safe at home, her mind linked to this beautiful puppet via quantum entanglement.

The thing about diving synth is that it makes you reckless. There are automatic switches to cut out pain if it goes above a set threshold, and a maintenance contract to repair any damage you can imagine, to the point of growing an entire new doll if necessary. Rich girls like Kiri can taste the choicest poisons, cliff-dive without hesitation, seduce or be seduced by anyone they like and fuck away the consequences. Her synth doesn’t develop any bad habits, but Kiri is addicted to risk, the rush of danger with the safety of the automatic killswitch if anything goes bad.

So when a beautiful stranger at a glass-sheathed bar bet her she’d break in his little one-room chamber of delight and torment, she laughed and laughed and took him up on it.

He didn’t mention the chronoswitch, but then, she didn’t ask, did she?

They had the usual fun at first–dragging her in through the heavy door by her hair, letting her fight it a little, a rough kiss to bruise her lips and a grip on her breast to make her arch and gasp. None of it really hurt though, certainly nowhere near the safety cutoff level. Kiri was enjoying herself.

She squirmed and bit his tongue for fun, and he tore her very expensive little red dress getting it off her. Kiri bucked against him, and he had his wrists in her hand, pinning her back over a cheap block of plywood as his cheek brushed the tattoo under her arm. She was surprised to discover that she was sensitive there, very much so, but not unpleasantly. Somewhere, on a cushioned bodyrest, she smiled a little.

Then he flipped her over and slapped a little lube on his hand, pushing a couple fingers into her, letting her squeal in mock dismay as he spread her lips and thoroughly, efficiently wet her inside and out. She was starting to wonder if he’d played with dolls before, and let her tart little tongue make a joke to that effect, which is how she got the ball gag.

She was breathing fast, pulse pounding, riding exactly the kind of risk she loved as she felt his cock nudge through his pants against her slippery pussy. Then he hauled her back away from the block, cuffed her hands up above her head, and kicked her ankles apart until autoshackles snapped onto them as well.

He stepped back, letting her glare at him as she shook her hair down over her eyes. What was he going to do? Whip her or something? That would end things quickly, kick her out and drop the doll limp until its retrieval company showed up. Not much fun… but no, he was doing something else, sliding a piston dildo under her and flipping it on.

The buzzing fuckrod slid into her easily, and she gasped and curled her fingers over the cuffs, letting herself enjoy it in the role-play of victim, damsel, toy. His hand traced her hip down to the little patch of fuzz, then found her clit, making firm circles in time with the machine as she struggled to tilt her hips.

It didn’t take long to bring her to the edge. She was panting around the gag, arching, dollbody stretched taut and trembling, certain she was going to come any second…

He stepped back again, just beyond a small ring of lights embedded in the floor. She was puzzled, but maybe he just wanted to watch. There was no stopping her orgasm now anyway. Fuck, she thought, oh fuck, oh fuck, here it was–

Then a skip, a hiccup, and her body twitched in a way she didn’t understand.

She was back on the edge, exactly at the point where he’d stepped away from her. The machine thrummed and thrust upward, stretching her, pushing her toward the edge–closer–closer–

Skip.

The edge reset and rose again, making her ride it. She was definitely going to come this time, no question. Oh my, oh god, her body just starting to clench and then–

Skip.

It began to dawn on Kiri that something wasn’t right.

He grinned at her from beyond the boundary marker and tossed a little ball of paper. Just as she arrived yet again at the point of no return, when the paper was about to touch her skin, it

Skip.

vanished.

Oh shit.

“How many edges do you think you can take?” he asked conversationally. “Me personally, I’d only last a few dozen before I snapped, but you’re a tough little double, aren’t you, girl?”

Skip.

“See, if you were really in there, your memory would reset every thirty seconds with the rest of your body, and this little trap wouldn’t have much of an effect at all. But you’re not. You’re tucked away somewhere nice and safe, ready to retreat at the first onset of pain. But I didn’t say I was going to hurt you. I said I was going to torture you.”

Skip.

Somewhere, Kiri was panicking. The pleasure was as real to her as anything, and the desperate need rising in her over and over again was unavoidable, the synthdoll reacting exactly as it had been when he first threw the switch. But there was no release, there would be no release: her doll wouldn’t get sore or tired in the timetrap, wouldn’t get thirsty, wouldn’t trigger any of the safety cutouts to get her back out. Not for hours. Not for days.

Skip.

FUCK, she had been close that time! No no no no, she didn’t think she could take two more of these, much less a dozen, but here it was again, the pulse inside her and the flood of electric need rushing up her spine before–

Skip.

“Takes a lot to afford a doll that flawless,” he grinned, “and I think you’re going to share it with me, girl. I think that before very long, you’ll break, and you’ll be willing to give me anything to unplug you. Your mind, your money, your cunt–this one or your real one, whichever I please. But you won’t be able to tell me where you really are with that gag in. Which means I’m going to have to get a list of registered dolls in the city and knock on doors… one… at… a time.”

The thought of actually being found did something to her, closed a short circuit in her dollbrain, and oh FUCK that was it–she was coming–the first microsecond of a massive, crashing–

Skip.

She screamed through the gag, thrashing, the machine still buried inside her as she was dragged back over the edge like a raw nerve, her orgasm ripped away before she could taste it.

“It’s going to be some time, I’m afraid,” he murmured, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her sobbing body once more. “But I’ll find you, girl, don’t worry. And by the time I finally let you out of this trap, you’ll be more than ready to be MY puppet. Once and for all.”

The door slammed closed on another desperate edge, and she was left staring after him, tears leaking from her synthetic eyes before they vanished as if they’d never been.

Skip.

There wasn’t actually a bed in the house. The owners slept on a big slab of Ikea foam right on the floor, which was probably just as comfortable anyway, except that the lack of bedframe made it hard to tie someone down. That was the third complication the burglars faced. The second was that they hadn’t realized Cassie would be housesitting at all.

She’d been a couple days late–so what, the plants would be fine, she thought. Unfortunately, she timed her arrival while the three thieves were still in the house. They grabbed her before she could figure out what was happening, made it clear what would happen to her if she screamed for help, and improvised.

Tacks, hammer, scissors and an old nylon tie-down from the garage. Cassie found herself stripped quite efficiently and pinned down at twenty-four points, right in the middle of the living room where they could keep an eye on her. Then they went through her bag, and her misfortune doubled.

Cassie had planned on having a little time to herself at the house, so she’d brought her Hitachi, along with the rubber gag she liked to bite down on when she came. She hadn’t expected anyone to see them. She definitely hadn’t expected her captors to see her visible trembling or the flush that crept up her neck when they stuffed it in her mouth. She hadn’t expected them to figure out quite so fast what this situation was doing to her flooding cunt.

The owners would be back in five days or so. Nobody really expected to hear from Cassie in that time. Nobody would be coming by the house. The burglars had several days to do whatever they wanted to her taut and helpless body, and the nice thing about a Hitachi is that it doesn’t have batteries to exhaust.

Because the first complication they’d found–the one they were pretty sure Cassie could help them solve, once sufficiently persuaded–was the safe.

They had plenty of time to try combinations themselves, while they kept her pinned down and squirming, the vibrator thrumming against her aching pussy. They could hear it every time she came–the straining against the nylon, the squeaking of her teeth against the ball. Over a day of forced orgasms, well into the dozens, and Cassie was more than ready the combination–

If only she knew.

If only she could say so.

If only she wasn’t afraid of what would happen if they found out she lied…

Ashlyn’s been a “patient” at the facility for six months. Every day, they clip a long pole to her thick collar, make sure she’s wearing the proper footwear (and nothing else), and drag her into the treatment room to strap her down.

Only once she’s inside, secured, tied tight and completely exposed, do they unlock the belt and remove the fitfully buzzing toy attached to it. (Batteries need charging, after all.) The first time they unplugged her, Ashlyn gasped with relief from the constant teasing, but that was before she knew what they’d do next.

It’s amazing, the number of things you can find to do to a girl who can’t squirm away or close her legs. They fuck her, of course, when it suits them, and they punish her needy pussy with the crop or dripping wax or the horrible snapping wand. They’ve had every other girl in the facility in the room, at one time or another, eager tongues lapping away at her swollen clit, chins and noses and fingers and cheeks–Ashlyn never knew she could distinguish between so many different sensations on her lips. They’ve used overpowered vibrators and water jets to drive her to the edge (and oh, it’s cruel when the water is cold), and they’ve held her there with feathers and oil-wet paintbrushes. The only thing they have never, ever done is permit her to come.

She screams and thrashes, of course, begs and bargains, not that she believes it’ll do any good. But it’s all she has left. That, and the skylight.

The treatment room is the only place in the facility with an open window to the sky. At her deepest moments of desperation, cunt pulsing, raw with broken need, she can look up and see the deepening blue of afternoon, or the red underbellies of sunset clouds. Ashlyn clings to it. She believes it’s their one remaining mercy.

She’s wrong, of course. By now the conditioning is almost complete, the association locked. When she is finally released from the facility–perhaps transferred to another training center, perhaps to the tender care of a private practice–Ashlyn will never be able to look up again without remembering that she is helpless, and wet, and owned.