Your teeth and throat and bitten lip.
Your tongue, so sharp and tart.
Your muffled sounds. Your quickened blink.
Your stutter-skipping heart.
It won’t be long, this little wait.
You try so hard to hold
Your hands and feet and gaze and breath
As still as you’ve been told.
You squirm. You shift. You can’t resist.
You never could. You sigh.
You’re here because of what you are,
And why you catch the eye—
You burning wick, you emberglow,
You drifting little spark.
You are a pulsing point of light:
But oh, the night is dark.
Galleries
“Hi, baby. Can you hear me?” He squinted at the screen, looking at the little mirror image of himself in the corner, then tilted it so the camera wasn’t pointed directly into the light.
Her face appeared, frozen for a second, then block, then moving, grinning. “Hey!” she said. “Is it working? Is it there?”
“Yeah!” he stepped away from the monitor so she could see their surrogate, kneeling on the bed, lace mask pulled over its face and implant status light pulsing slowly at the nape of its neck. It was nude and still but for its breathing, curled slightly in on itself, waiting.
On the monitor, she bit her lip. “Fuck. You got a cute one.”
“Aww, you like it? I tried to pick one as close as I could get to you.” He looked down at it, tugging at his lip, his eyes hungry. “Wanna try it out?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” She picked up the collar and its trailing wires, fastened it, and made sure the cold contact metal patches were touching her throat. “Okay, try something.”
He reached out and ran the backs of his nails down the surrogate’s chest, around the side of its breast to its inner arm. Goosebumps rose on its pale skin. Through the speakers, she gasped.
“Fuck. Oh man. I didn’t think it would be that clear!” She wrapped her arms around herself and giggled. “Do it again. God, I miss you. It feels so good to have your hands on me again…”
He squeezed its arms, its shoulders, then settled his hands on its hips and pulled it in close to his chest. She let out a little hum of pleasure, feeling the heat of his body against her back. “Should I, like… move it so it’s sitting like you are?” he asked.
“I think you should move it so it’s sitting on your dick,” she said, hand stealing down into her shorts.
He laughed. “You sure?”
“Baby, I have been fucking starving for you,” she growled. “We can cuddle after. I wanna see just how much of you I can feel…”
Needing little encouragement, he wriggled out of his shirt and pants, springing out hard and lifting the surrogate’s yielding body up to part its thighs. It was wet, of course, warm and slick, and if it didn’t feel exactly like she did, well…
“Oh fuck,” she gasped, arching a little on the screen. “Oh my god. Oh fuck, I didn’t think… I can feel how tight it is AND how hard you are, baby… you don’t have to put on a condom or anything, right?”
“Nah, the service takes care of all that,” he grunted, pushing deeper inside it. “God. This is so much better than jacking off to your snapchats, I can’t believe we didn’t try it before!” He picked it up and started to rock its hips back against him, and she groaned and lifted herself a little off her chair.
“They must be so well-trained–there’s no way I’d be able to hold that still if you were really inside me.” She bit her lip. “Can you make it move some more?”
“I think there’s a command, yeah. Um. Kivirmak?”
It had already been trembling a little, holding back, but now it arched and bucked and–he thought–barely contained a whimper of its own. He grinned with pleasure, slowing his thrusts, and both she and it squirmed with frustration.
“You playing with yourself, baby?” he said, panting a little.
“Yeah, why? Are you–oh my GOD,” she said, eyes going wide as he reached down to roll its clit between finger and thumb. “Holy fuck! I can feel–you and it and me–all on top of each other–”
He moaned, grabbing it by the shoulder and settling back on his heels, pulling its weight down on top of his cock and making it bounce a little. He could feel its breath hitching; he gave it a playful slap between its legs. Both of them jumped, and she let out a little squeak.
“Is it close, baby?” she managed. “Because I am.”
“Sure feels like it,” he said. “Mmmmfuck. But I don’t think it can have an orgasm unless I give that command too.”
Her eyes were dark and glittering, and she had one finger between her teeth as she rolled her hips against her other hand. “Do it,” she said. “Make it come.”
“Hadi,” he said.
The surrogate definitely did let out a little noise then, legs shaking, gripping the sheets. On the monitor, she caught her breath and rubbed herself faster. “Fffffuck,” she whispered, “it’s like I can feel it but not actually go over–oh God–can you–can you make it go again?”
He did, and that time, watching it and feeling it clench and writhe and shudder, they both came with it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said lazily, afterward, running his fingers over its goosebump skin again, “but I kinda wanna rent one for when we actually do this again in person too.”
“Fuck yes,” she murmured. “Let’s get two.”
The thing about the Institute is this: it’s no secret, what we do here. It’s common knowledge, both locally and online, and while the details of patient files and therapeutic methods are of course confidential, you’d be hard pressed to find a girl who knows where our complex is but not what happens inside. No one who enters emerges the same person. Many don’t emerge at all, as a person or otherwise.
Yet nearly all of them come to us of their own accord.
Why is that? Why would you, in possession of full knowledge or at least wild rumors about the treatment we plan to inflict on you, walk through our doors and sign away your life to our tender mercies? It seems counter to every instinct of self-preservation. Most of our clients are financially stable, and all arrive in good physical health. Your complaints are little things: bad habits, flaws of character, shames, mistakes and regrets. What drives you all to surrender voluntarily to the slow, thoughtful cruelty of men, women and machinery bent on breaking you?
It’s likely you couldn’t articulate the answer if you tried. But we can. We’ve seen you before, you and every girl like you. We know you’ve spent your whole life alone inside, frustrated, aching and empty, trying to smother the roaring fire of needs you do not and cannot understand. You have been hiding it so long that everything in you hurts. You are already suffering.
You want to believe that your pain can be fucked away.
Whether that’s true is something you’ll have to see for yourself—but only we can show you. You know that. So you’ll take a deep breath, step into our parlor, and hand over your body in the hopes that we’ll break it open to fix your soul.
That’s the thing about behavior correction, you see. It only works if you really want to change.
The airbrushing in this picture is pretty flagrant–her lower belly, most of her chest (right to a weirdly clear line diagonal above her nipples), and most noticeably on her mons, I suppose to hide the texture of her skin and maybe some stubble. I am not surprised, I guess; I’m sure I have posted photos here before that exhibit similar artifacts.
But… just… like, okay. It’s pretty universally acknowledged that stubble on men is sexy. Can we all just admit that stubble on women is fucking hot too?
Basically me.
This is actually my favorite kind of message to receive. Subs, littles, fuckbuddies, just-good-friends: you have no idea how satisfying it is when you admit the little ways in which you need us.
They were always carrying equipment into the half-constructed house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Sawhorses, power tools, coils of rope and cases of bolts and fasteners. Big long crates, too, heavy enough that they needed two men to carry them, or sometimes to stack them on a forklift.
They left the floodlights on inside all night, and ran heavy machinery at odd hours, grinding or shrieking or clattering and bothering the neighbors. Eventually they complained enough that a man came out from the county to talk to them. He stayed inside for a couple hours and then left, returning several more times over the next week. His final report was that he couldn’t find any evidence of a problem.
Kelly used to bike by the place all the time when she was younger. Now, at nineteen, she’s finally seeing what it’s like inside. You wouldn’t expect a normal house to take years of building, would you? Who would wait that patiently for their home to be completed? Who knows. Construction projects always take longer than you expect.
Lots of trigger warnings on this one. I want to talk about Jian Ghomeshi, a Canadian musician and broadcaster who abused women. When a number of those women began to come forward about his having assaulted them, Ghomeshi was fired from his job at CBC, sued them for fifty million dollars, and posted a defensive manifesto in which he attempted to claim, more or less, that he was being kink-shamed out of the industry.
The reaction from many people has been to point out that Ghomeshi was not engaging in the kind of BDSM activity we all hold up as an ethical standard: private, safe and consensual. That’s true. The reports of abuse consistently point out that he acted by surprise, engaging in violence first–serious, dangerous violence–and then attempting to use pressure to steer the interaction toward sex and further violent acts. It’s clear that he believes that insufficient objection is the same as consent.
So the BDSM community has largely rejected his line of defense and attempted to separate themselves from him. Fine. That’s what you should do when a sickening person tries to take refuge in your ranks. But the next thing you should do is question why he tried to hide among us in the first place.
In his Facebook post, Ghomeshi used variations on the word “consent” nine times. (He used the word “safe” only once.) He’s clearly looking at his own activity from some kind of pseudolegal standpoint, where his right to privacy supersedes all others and pre-agreement is the highest standard of ethical behavior. This is a pretty common tactic among people who would like to simplify complex situations until they resolve in their own favor: insist that if you display perceived agreement to anything, the responsibility for what happens afterward lies entirely with you. This ignores the fact that silence or lack of knowledge is not consent. This ignores the fact that consent can be withdrawn. This ignores the fact that, in the real world, all negotiation takes place in a complex web of pressures that are often equivalent to duress. This is one of the roots of rape culture.
Informed consent has long been the Holy Grail for scientists, kinksters and armchair ethicists. Here’s the thing about the Holy Grail: it doesn’t fucking exist.
Ghomeshi claims he has evidence that he obtained consent from at least some of the women speaking out about him. I am vastly more inclined to believe the people he assaulted than I am to believe him, but even if he has bulletproof contracts drawn up and signed by every one of them, it doesn’t matter. Even if it wasn’t the case that people who say they were attacked deserve the benefit of the doubt over their attacker, it doesn’t matter. Because in his own words, in that tragic victimized narrative of a Facebook post, Ghomeshi never displays one bit of empathy for the people he claims were his willing partners.
He describes himself as “in deep personal pain,” “harassed,” “demonized,” “smeared,” “defamed,” “damaged,” “piled on,” “hated” and “laughed at.” He writes in the hopes that he can “bring an end to the nightmare.” That’s his nightmare, to be clear. He describes the first woman to come forward about him, and the journalist she worked with, with words like “jilted,” “upset,” “her anger,” “colluding” and “vengeance.” The part where he describes her as “painting herself as a victim” displays a stunning lack of self-awareness.
He never once gives a moment of consideration to the idea that anyone has a reason to be traumatized by his actions, and Jian, buddy, that alone disqualifies you from the ranks of people who can ethically participate in dangerous sexual activity. That disqualifies you from being able to participate in sex with other people at all. People who cannot conceive that their actions have consequences are not allowed to take those actions. You can’t understand another human being if you can’t understand another human being.
Years ago I read a moving, brutal piece by the amazing journalist Mac McClelland called “I’m Gonna Need You to Fight Me On This.” More trigger warnings for rape, mental illness and violence on that one (and, notably, some appropriation). You should read the whole thing, if you can.
The conclusion of the story is about McClelland engaging in violent nonconsent roleplay with an ex-boyfriend that, at her request, involves him choking her and punching her in the head with a closed fist. This is the kind of activity Ghomeshi engaged in with unwilling people, then “joked about” as “being like a mild form of Fifty Shades of Grey.” That’s not how McClelland describes it.
I did not enjoy it in the way a person getting screwed normally would. But as it became clear that I could endure it, I started to take deeper breaths. And my mind stayed there, stayed present even when it became painful. My body felt devastated but relieved; I’d lost, but survived. After he climbed off me, he gathered me up in his arms. I broke into a thousand pieces on his chest, sobbing so hard that my ribs felt like they were coming loose.
Isaac pulled my hair away from my wet face, repeating over and over and over something that he probably believed but that I had to relearn. “You are so strong,” he said. “You are so strong. You are so strong.”
When I draw this comparison, I’m not saying there’s no fun to be had in rough kink. I am saying that there is a huge difference between a dominant partner wanting to inflict pain and a submissive partner wanting to receive it. I am saying that sexual violence is always close, in one way or another, to trauma. If we are unwilling to acknowledge that connection, then we’re complicit in its exploitation. If I, the person writing this, don’t address that first with empathy, care and humility, then Jian Ghomeshi and I are the same.
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.
Jason Momoa for Men’s Health UK October issue (x)
Okay, on the one hand: I don’t talk about this side of myself much, but lord, “Jason Momoa” + “manual labor” has startling results in my downstairs area.
On the other hand, that second gif loaded last like a punch line, and now I want to read sweet and funny fanfic about Jason Momoa haplessly trying to make friends with a train.
I have an appointment with the gynecologist today.
I’m not saying this is how I’d want it to go.
But I certainly wouldn’t complain.
“Worst case of female hysteria I’ve ever seen,” sighed Dr. Kadam. “At this point, her weekly ‘appointments’ are barely enough to keep her in stable condition. We have to come up with additional treatment options, and soon.”
“It’s progressing?” asked Dr. Isley.
Kadam handed her a thick sheaf of papers. “See for yourself. I had hoped a change in her home environment would be helpful, but the fact is that she can’t be trusted to control her own behavior when out of the office.”
Isley nodded, scanning the charts. “Well, we could ship her off to a specialist. I hear they’re doing good work in Zurich. Given appropriate travel restraints and in-transit therapy…”
“I’ve had similar thoughts,” sighed Kadam. “I just hate to take the risk.”
“Well, we do have that offer from the Institute,” said Isley slowly. “They’d loan us equipment and an in-house technician on an ongoing basis, in exchange for the occasional… referral.”
Kadam tugged at his chin, glancing back through the one-way glass at the squirming girl on the table. “If that’s what it takes to help her, well. I suppose we take the devil we know.”
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.
I’m so busy lately that the only reason I write porn is to feel like I’m getting something ACCOMPLISHED while I masturbate.
I was thinking about this earlier. It legitimately terrifies me and I want to say I don’t want to do this because it’s so frightening or too dangerous. I look at this and start to get a taste of the sort of things I would experience in this situation, a hint of that primal flight response, the struggling, the panic. And I get turned on. Of course I want to do this. It’s frightening and dangerous.
The interesting thing is that from the other side, it’s not about the fear, not about the danger—at least for me. You’re completely safe. There’s no way I’m going to let anything serious happen to you, no matter that you’re naked, bound and completely helpless. If you didn’t trust me, after all, there’s no way this scene would even have started.
The water and the ropes serve the same purpose: they constrain you, remove your options and your ability to choose what happens to your body. They reduce you to reactions. They make you an instrument, to be stimulated or denied, no matter how you fight. (They also make you wet.)
You can always go limp, when I make you fight me. You can always refuse to react, or at least muffle your reactions. Not when I drop you into the tub, though. The reason I put you in there is because I can make you panic. You’re back to a thrashing, panicked thing beneath me, your body struggling even though it will make you run out of oxygen faster.
In a moment I’ll haul you out, turn you over to cough, watch your chest and back heave with your frantic breathing. And then maybe I’ll play with you, in your dripping, helpless state, before I drop you in again. It’s a shortcut way to create a specific behavior. The struggle is what I want from you, and right now, it’s what you’re going to give me.
The uniform inspections at St. Tantalus Academy For Wayward Young Ladies are mostly about how fast an inspection can proceed without a uniform.
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’s your property. Make her show you what you own.
Teach her to strip like this when she finds herself alone with you automatically.
Even if you are alone because someone just left the room. She should start to strip like her clothes are toxic. You can always signal for her to stop.
This is hot, but I keep getting distracted by how James appears to be wearing a rental suit sized for his dad.