Do you think if I leave a little, umm…trail of breadcrumbs…doctortease will start posting again?
doctortease
Not the worst tanning setup I’ve seen.
But she’s going to get the worst, most embarrassing tan-lines ever.
This reminds me of someone who can probably come up with a significantly better caption for this than I.
The vitals monitor on your wrist indicates that you are frightened, and I can think of a number of reasons why that might be. You are here increasingly against your will but cannot effect any articulate protest: that might be one. You don’t even know where “here” is, for that matter. You have been stripped and strapped down, only able to move your hips and thighs when I adjust these stirrups. Oh, and you’ve just felt the speculum slide inside you to open you up for my inspection.
Cold, isn’t it? Poor thing. Let’s apply a little clit stim to distract you.
There. Now, as I was saying: those things really shouldn’t be at the top of your list of concerns. (Sensitive there, aren’t you? Interesting.) What should concern you is the blindfold—not the fact that you can’t see, but the fact that those two patches each fit perfectly over one of your eyes. The fact that this collar is sized just so to the length of your neck. The ball gag, and the way it fits into your mouth with no gap.
These straps were made just for you, girl. You’ve been watched. Stalked. Measured. Certainly, they can tighten—but that’s for control, not fit. This bondage is bespoke. And now, with you wide open and helpless on my table, I’m going to take one final measurement for my records.
Don’t worry. I promise, it won’t hurt a bit.
Oh. My god.
This reminds me of someone who can probably come up with a significantly better caption for this than I.
No matter how you dress yourself up or what airs you put on; no matter how you control your body or hide your past; no matter how icy and aloof and self-possessed you may seem, I know the truth. Where you started. What you were. What you are.
Pillowfucker.
Needy, greedy, desperate little grinder, ever since you were young, maybe since before you can remember. Squirming around trying to figure out what your body wanted: curl up and clench, sweaty forehead and sore knees in the darkness of your room. Never let your hand creep down there, or couldn’t figure out what to do with it if you did. And then you tried shoving the big soft lump down between your legs, and squeezing. And oh.
Did you ever get caught? Not more than once, I bet. Some things you learn to hide quickly. But you’ve always had a hungry body, and you never could quite rein it in. Sneaking off whenever you could manage it, calculating how long it would be until you’d get to try again. Your mind wandered in school and church and family outings. Couldn’t help that. Your pussy kept leading it astray.
This is what I mean when I call you “little girl,” little girl. You haven’t really changed at all. You’re the same wet flushed sullen frantic humping pillowfucker you’ve been your whole life, and all the roles and rules and pretty words you use are just attempts to conceal it.
They don’t work. You’ve been caught a second time, and there’s no playing it off or hasty excuses, not with me. I can see what’s inside of you, little bouncer, little secret keeper, little burning ember. No point in hiding anymore.
Now show me what you can do.
They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.
They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.
Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.
Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.
“Good afternoon, Annika,” said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. “You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up.”
She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.
“Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan,” he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. “Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings—areas you instinctively try to protect—are exposed to me.” He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. “I’m going to work on those areas—stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time.”
Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.
He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage—and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch—just a hunch—that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.
“And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins.” He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.
“Annika!” Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. “Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!”
“That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold,” said the monster brightly, turning it off again. “Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?”
Did you…
Did you just…
Did you just what I think you…
“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.”