Part 1: A Perfect Life No More
© 2009 by drkfetyshnyghts
Dr. Sabirah Najwa
My name is Sabirah Najwa. I'm a 49-year old clinical and behavioral psychologist resident in London, though Arabic in origin. In Arabic, Sabirah means “patient” and Najwa means “confidential talk, secret conversation.”
I am a lesbian Sadist. And also a Fetishist. I must add I am neither a Sadist nor a Fetishist in the common misconceptions of those words. I will say only, at this point, that normal clichéd conventions of BDSM and Fetishism bore me. They don’t interest me. They never have and never will. I choose a very different path to very different and totally devastating ends.
Forward by Dr. Sa
If I were to ‘label’ this story, or indeed any of my written works, first and foremost, it would be ‘Fantasy.’ Psycho-Sexual, Psycho-Fetish are also labels that could apply, since deeper feminine issues are explored. Always fiction of course, despite the level of realism applied and levels of inspiration gained from real life -- sometimes verging on the taboo. Always exploring the edges of limits. Peering over the edges into the darkness where others are afraid to venture. Some less open-minded individuals could apply the label ‘Horror’ to my stories; certainly ‘Perverse,’ since, for my ‘victims,’ usually there is only a one-way trip down into a vortex that is really bottomless.
Come.... be immersed in “My” world....
ONE - Petra
It’s probably only once in a Sadist's lifetime that her ideal 'subject' will come along. That is, if she’s lucky; once where all the boxes are ticked. Everything comes together into a perfect 'package': the age of the subject, her physical attributes, her domestic situation, her career status and circumstances, her character and personality; the strengths, the weaknesses and the traits. Every single box ticked. Everything right, so that the hairs on the back of the Sadist’s neck stand upright, erect.
I met Petra by pure chance for the first time at a corporate fund-raising function. She was the PA of a Chief Executive of a City finance group. I was representing my own private clinic attempting to raise funds into research of the extremities of human behavior. Quite ironic, really, given how things were to develop.
Obviously certain boxes were ticked immediately. Striking, stunning looks and vital statistics I was to later find out were a height of 5'10" and curves measuring 38d-25-35. Long, thick, luscious hair a shade darker than flame-red and huge pools of hazel eyes with naturally thick, curled lashes. Her lips, full and delicately shaped and with a natural pout. Her complexion, pale, slightly freckled across her nose and under her eyes. With the addition of impossibly long legs, tapered and shaped in all the right places, Petra caught my eye immediately.
Then there was her sense of style and dress, which quite simply flattered her elegance to the extreme. Featuring designer dresses and suits that enhanced her best attributes. Indeed not a lady of the shy, retiring type. A woman who knows how good she looks, and enjoys that. One who knows her best attributes and how to subtly draw attention to them. And yet also not overtly sexual either. Better described as subtle, mature, and matching her thirty-five years to perfection. I am usually quite good at guessing ages of other women and indeed correctly guessed Petra's age as early thirties.
Petra, before even a word had been exchanged between us, had captured my attention to the fullest. There was a natural grace to her. The way she moved. The way she carried herself. I liked that. I liked that very much. More than that though, there was a confidence. A self-assurance. A self-gratification that suggested that Petra was pleased, and content with the life she had. I especially liked that.
Also, there was more than a hint of arrogance. From a distance it was difficult to finger the source of the arrogance. Just in her stance. The way she appeared to talk to others. The way she looked at others in her presence. Petra was a delight to study from a distance. Any woman capable of such overt arrogance had also to be highly intelligent. Intelligence in a woman, for me, is very desirable. An intelligent woman is a woman who would understand what she was going through. Understand and ‘feel’ the journey she is taken on, maximizing the effect. Maximizing her suffering.
There were more boxes to be ticked once the inevitable introduction had been made. Petra's first words to me tripped from her immaculately glossed lips effortlessly.
"Oh.... so you are the ‘head doctor’? I'm SOOO pleased to meet you."
With those words came a massive, wide lipstick smile. Her accent very English. Very educated. Very sophisticated. As I’ve said, intelligent. Very delicious. Her chosen words, and tone quite, and purposely so, derisive, dismissive even. Falling short of 'rude' and yet barely doing so. Instead settling on patronizing and with her infectious smile and big eyes lingering, it was as though it was the effect she had intended, and desired. And an effect that she was well-practiced at. Well used to obtaining. A thrill down my own spine. Had I found my ‘ideal’ subject?
"Pleased to meet you too, Petra, truly."
My own accent, perfectly measured English and yet with a slightly less than thick Arabic accent. The tone, an octave lower, slightly broken, almost, but not quite, husky. My smile, very sincere. Very real and completely, expertly camouflaging my deep and meaningful thoughts about this woman. I like women content with their life. I like women who are confident, and arrogant. Confidence, Arrogance and Contentment. A delicious combination. Like that of Beauty, Intelligence and Aloofness. All of the ingredients of a perfect subject. Indeed, in the flesh and up close, Petra was a vision to behold. She certainly deserved further investigation.
I waited for the crowd to diminish, having already succeeded in securing a sizeable donation from Petra’s bosses. Buying Petra a drink, suggesting we move to the quiet tables at the back of the bar, much more relaxing. Much easier to talk. All the time studying her. The way she moved. The way she carried herself. All of particular interest to me in my pursuits. Sliding into the quiet tables set out in little semicircular booths at the back of the bar. Breaking the ice, directly and with no prejudice.
“Ok Petra, I have to come clean, I am a lesbian, but I promise I am not hitting on you, ok?”
I smile wide. Even allow a little chuckle. And Petra breaks out in a quite raucous laughter that melts any new-meeting tension.
“Oh.... so, you’re not hitting on me then. I’m disappointed, really I am.”
She keeps a dead straight face for all of two seconds before her stunningly attractive features break into a wide, wide grin. Another display of her intelligence. And some sense of humor.
“It’s ok, really, Sabirah, I have quite a few lesbians in my circle of friends. I prefer female company to male anyway. No worries. Really, I mean that.”
I nod, all the time checking out this delicious woman. The purring in my throat audible only to me.
“Well maybe I should say, not hitting on you ‘yet’.”
Another laugh, another re-cross of the legs required by both of us. Once my initial interest is grabbed, I like to check out women in greater detail. Petra really is a stunning woman. In all respects. If a woman spends time on her appearance , it always stands up to close scrutiny. Her lips, perfect, and she ensures they are always made up thus. Careful lining. Careful color. Careful gloss. The same with the eyes. Absolute attention to the detail. The minutest of detail from brush stroke direction, to thickness of mascara applied. Looking as good as Petra did didn’t happen straight out of bed. Her makeup was applied with a relaxed, yet practiced expertise and highlighted the best features of her face. Her lips and her eyes, and her delicately high cheekbones. Her nails, manicured perfectly, and matching her lips.
Her style of dress, impeccable. The fitted pants suit in the most expensive of silks just oozing a class and education of style and elegance. The jacket perfectly fitted over her flared hips and the silk top underneath, just a tease of sexiness. The pants, silk, wide. They flowed elegantly when she walked. Her high heels more or less covered by the hems of these pants and created an almost effortless ‘glide’ when she walked. Very tall on her own merits but it was obvious she favored the higher heels. It didn’t take that much imagination to see that Petra had the longest of legs under those silky pants. Pity I couldn’t see those legs on this first occasion. But I had quite enough to be getting on with. Another secret purrrr to myself.
Her hair, pulled back tight, quite severely from her face... that striking flame-red plume and secured back in a high, tight ponytail. Barely a loose, wayward hair to be seen. So neat, so perfect. She looked the consummate professional, and was. This had been a business meeting and she had been representing her company so her power-dressing was appropriate. Effective and seemingly effortless.
“So tell me a bit about yourself, Petra. Have you been with the company long? You seem to have the measure of things.”
I make casual chitchat with wide sincere smiles, totally off the cuff.
“Hmmmm, well actually, yes. I moved to London about nine-years ago and got a break with the company. I’ve been so lucky. They were so understanding, even when my daughter came along. My daughter is 18 now but in the early years, the company provided childcare. Everything, the works. Even now I can get her looked after if I need to. I feel my life is right about now. Just about perfect. A place for everything, everything in its place.”
I smile, nod as she speaks, taking it all in, watching her mouth as she talks. Such a delicious mouth. There is no greater pleasure for a woman of my ‘interests’ than to hear another woman speak of her happiness. How content with life she is. Just those basic things telling me already that this woman is so happy with her life. Just the reflection in her voice, so obvious that she wouldn’t want to lose all that. And at the same time obvious that she would be destroyed, and devastated if she did lose, even a little of it. Thank her lucky stars even though she doesn’t have anything to thank them for.
“Oh… so you have a daughter? How old is she?”
I chitchat as I sip my wine, and watch as Petra sips her own. So content with life. She has a daughter! I barely can contain the excitement in my voice, having to clear my throat before I speak.
“Yes, yes I do. Stefani is eighteen, just. She really is the most beautiful thing in my world. I couldn’t ever imagine anything taking the place of the importance she holds in my life...”
Her voice drenched with love and adoration for her daughter. I liked that attachment. That pure mother love.
“Awwww that is so sweet. So cute... She must be heading for those dreaded exams, as well as all the other things teenage girls go through?”
My voice in no way patronizing - just oozing sincerity and a genuine well-practiced curiosity.
“Oh yes, tell me about it. Terrible teens. But I just love having her around. So vibrant and full of life. Everything to look forward to.”
The adoration in her voice almost sickly sweet.
“Dad isn’t around then, I take it?”
Petra nearly chokes mid-gulp of her chilled Chardonnay.
“Oooooh nooooooo, no dad. I have to say that Stefani was a ‘mistake.’ A one-night stand that shouldn’t really have happened. But I wouldn’t be without her now. Not for anything. But her dad has never been on the scene, ever. Doesn’t even know she exists. Didn’t even know I was pregnant... just the way I like it...”
For the first time, a slight hint of emotion in her voice. I just lean forward tap her lightly on her knee.
“Its quite ok sweetie, I understand completely. We all need ‘something’ in our lives, but a man definitely isn’t one of those things...”
She regains her composure very quickly. Almost instantly, and smiles.
“I’m sorry. I get a little touchy where Stefani is concerned. A lot of people draw conclusions about me because I am a single mother. And because I had her when I was so young myself. It doesn’t get to me like it used to though. So it’s cool. Besides I have been so lucky. fallen on my feet, as it were. I have my own house in the country that is bought and paid for. Mostly from bonuses paid by my company. I have exclusive use of a company penthouse when in London so.... I just feel so content, so complete. I don’t know… it’s hard to find the right words sometimes.”
Her voice trails off. Has regained some of its aloof, even arrogant self-gratified edge. All the time I am making mental notes. This woman definitely deserved more of my time. I looked at her jewelry. Mostly gold, all expensive and dripping from all the right bits of her person.
“Well.... you don’t need to worry about me drawing wrong conclusions. I take people as I find them. Or how they want to be found. I don’t judge and I don’t draw conclusions only fact. I do know that Stefani is extremely lucky to have such an intelligent, beautiful mother as you. And that you have absolutely her own best interests at heart always. It’s a joy to meet you, really it is.”
Again infectious smiles exchanged between us. Her smile is glowing with self-pride as she becomes relaxed, and not so guarded in my presence.
“Anyway.... enough about me... what about you, Sabirah. What’s your story?”
Petra has a way of ‘flirting’ that wouldn’t be obvious to everyone. Just a way of using her eyes and her facial expressions. They linger longer that normal. Her eyes pierce deeper than normal. And always with a slight curl of her wide mouth into an ‘almost there’ smile. Petra, a woman used to playing games; getting her own way. Using her femininity, even sexuality, in subtle ways to get it.
“Hmmmm well. Not much to tell. I moved to London 20-years ago. Daddy was an oil-rich Arab. He put me through college and then set me up in my own practice when I got here. I expanded in a short space of time and now have the clinic. It’s a private clinic and that, in turn, funds a lot of the research we do.”
Petra listening intently always sipping on the wine. Nodding seeming deeply interested.
“Oh wow.... so what is the research all about?”
I sip casually coming to the end of my wine.
“Mainly mental health issues. Although we are running a program now studying human behaviors. But all linked to mental health. Or, to be precise, extremities of human behavior... and the darker sides to mental health. All a little deep, but very good for the profile of the clinic. I am also personally studying hypnotism, and something called auto-suggestion in association with hypnotism.”
If Petra faked the interest, she did it well. Very well.
“Wow.... I’m impressed. You’ll have to show me around some day. I would be very interested. Do you know, I’m due a three-month leave period which I can take any time I like. Maybe I should put that on my ‘to do’ list?”
Her self-invite was doing no harm whatsoever. And yet more information pouring from her. I liked Petra more and more with each passing minute.
“Oh... a three-month leave. How lucky are you? Did you plan on doing anything special? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am happy to show you around the clinic of course but I can’t imagine a gorgeously hot thing like you wouldn’t have immense plans?”
Petra finishes up her wine with an exaggerated smack of her lips.
“I hadn’t ‘planned’ anything at all .I did want to go traveling and could. Organizing care for Stefani whilst I was away would be easy. Not that she needs that much looking after at sixteen. But... like I said nothing planned. It’s why I have so much vacation time owed. I never actually plan to do anything so it all just mounts up.”
My mind was beginning to work overtime. A plan. But certain wheels had to be put into motion. Petra, every time she opened her mouth, moved a muscle, flicked her hair, or flirted with me with those huge pool-like eyes, was becoming more and more perfect. However, it was time to bring this initial chat to a close. I had my own checks to initiate. A little more groundwork to complete.
“Well, look... why don’t you book the time off work and you can come to stay with me as my guest at the clinic for a few days. Just a suggestion. You can take a good look round. Give all good reports back to the bosses as to how their money is being spent, hahahaha......but seriously, in the meantime, I have to go. I’m already late for an appointment, so captivating have you been. And I mean that, really.”
Petra takes the opportunity to flirt with her eyes again. And I seemingly play back.
“Awwwwwww well... if you MUST go....but yes, that sounds like a plan. I like plans. Why don’t we take each others cell phone numbers, and meet again soon and we can discuss further?”
“That sounds like a plan too, Petra, yeah! We can do a drink or something, less formal than today, maybe in a week or so?”
We agree, exchange numbers and I give Petra a hug as I leave. It doesn’t escape me that she hugs me back close, pressing her substantial breasts into me and extending her deep red lips into a pout as she air-kisses each of my cheeks. Another of her flirty characteristics. I let her leave ahead of me. I want to see the pure elegance of walk as she glides out. She doesn’t disappoint.
TWO - Seeds Planted
I ran a few checks on Petra. She was who she said she was. No alarm bells ringing. Impeccable credit records, served obviously by her perfect life. A lucky woman in many respects. And yet, due to her looks, her life, her luck, life was closer to dealing her a devastating hand. A cruel, cruel blow. Lucky, perfect Petra was soon to become poor, poor Petra.
I received a text message from Petra the day following that first meeting.
“Sabirah, it was so good talking to you last night. I’m looking forward to our less formal drink in a few days... Petra xxx”
I smiled as I read it. Three little kisses at the end. Almost juvenile in their inclusion in the message. Except I knew that in Petra’s case, it was her little way of continuing the flirt with my lesbianism. I’m not the world’s greatest ‘texter.’ In fact, I do it more under duress than as a normal way of life. In Petra’s case though, I made an exception.
“Petra. Yes, me too. Be sure to dress to impress. I’d love to see those yummy long legs of yours... :) Sabirah xxx PS - not coming on to you of course :)”
Petra liked games, I gleamed that much from her. This was a game I liked. A game which served a higher purpose. A game which would draw her closer to me. A few days later another text.
“How does Friday evening sound? The new wine bar just off Canary Wharf 7pm? Legs and killer heels, just for you :) Petra xxx”
Just that simple text told me so much about her. “Legs and killer heels.” She knew, appreciated the appeal of her legs. And of heels that accentuated them more. I liked her more and more. Poor, poor Petra!
“That sounds divine Petra. I can’t wait to see you, you tease :) Sabirah xxx”
Just a play along, with her flirt. Even a little encouraging it. Teasing it. Coaxing it. It all helps the process. I could almost ‘taste’ Petra already. I clenched my thighs. The second meeting was set. I couldn’t wait. Wheels were in motion.
If the tiniest thought had crossed my mind that Petra might not ‘make the effort’ on our second meeting. It was quickly dispelled. Not just quickly dispelled but absolutely and without question. This was a woman who knew how to look her best in work suits. For an early evening meeting however, with a friend in a stylish city wine bar, she excelled. More than excelled. But she knew that.
Petra wore a shimmering gold dress made mostly of silk, with sequins. But around the low cut front it was edged with delicate gold lace that framed the uplift of her heavy, succulent breasts to perfection, making her orbs partly obscured, and yet teasingly not. The flesh could be seen to move and roll through the silk, through the lace edging and also the bare flesh above the dress material. The dress also had a low cut back that plummeted down in a gradual ‘V’ from her shoulders and the narrowest point ending up just above her tailbone. Delightfully tantalizing. A perfect back, with a natural spinal curve. The dress, a cross between a cocktail and party dress, was short. Above mid thighs but delicate gold tassels hung in a fringe all the way round them hem. These tassels swirled and danced in time to whatever movement she was performing at the time. And which gave teasing little glimpses of upper leg. A totally astounding sight were Petra’s legs and deliciously extended by her shoes. Legs so long, so perfectly shaped and tapered and enhanced more with those ‘killer heels.’ Calves well-shaped, taught from the high heels. Gold court shoes, with stilettos of at least five-and-half inches. Absolute killer heels that at the same time, contrasted and blended in with the sheer, silky dark brown hose that sheathed the seemingly endless legs. My secret purr resonated in my throat when I saw her.
When she entered the bar I was already there. I intended that. I wanted to see her entrance. I had a feeling that this woman liked to make entrances and I was so right. A woman who could turn heads, absolutely with no problem whatsoever.
Her make up was just perfect. Even to the eye shadow with gold glitters matching her dress. Striking, almost trademark deep red lips, lined hard for effect. Not smooth gloss though. Slightly textured, glittery lipstick which just went with her overall dress, totally. And her striking red hair. Looser than the first time we met. Looser, that is, around the back and sides and yet some of the hair gathered from high at the back of her head and banded into a little, high ponytail. This added to her grace and elegance. Even to her height. Drawing attention to it, highlighting it.
As she walked in, looking around for me. Heads just turned towards her, taking her in. She was used to this. Liked it. Practically wallowed in such adoration. I didn’t let her see me at first. Just dodging behind a pillar so I could watch her move. Watch her smile at the men who poured their eyes over her. At their women who seethed through gritted teeth at her. Some of those women would be in total glee at what would be in eventual store for Petra. If they knew. Or maybe not! She loved it. Knew how to dress. Knew how to make the best of her best attributes. Knew how to impress. Indeed I was impressed. I eventually waved through to her and she saw me. A beaming smile across her wide, full-lipped mouth.
“Petra..... my god, you look totally out there, girl. I am impressed.”
Exaggerating my Arabic accent a little. Moving in for a hug and, true to form, she presses herself right into me, crushing her breasts and hugging, then kissing my cheeks, just to the side, but very close to my mouth so that I can feel, and all but taste her hot breath. I feel my own breath quicken. Taken away. But I keep it in check. Regulate it again. Respond to her tease with a wry smile.
“Why thank you Sabirah. It’s so good to see you again, really it is. And you are looking better every time I see you.”
The same smile. I am dressed a little more conservatively having come direct from a business meeting. Fitted suit, jacket, blouse, hose and heels. My own five feet six inches only moderately boosted with four inch heels.
“Awwwww Petra, you’re too kind..... why don’t we get a booth down here. We can talk.”
I point and Petra is only too happy to lead the way knowing that my eyes are all over her from behind as she walks. Heels forcing something of a strut, her bottom slip-sliding and moving inside the silk of the dress. The back view of her amazingly long legs as spectacular as the front and side views. We order a bottle of white on ice and slide into the plush velvet seating.
“Mmmmmm so Petra, what have you been up to? And have you thought any more about that three month vacation period?”
I see no point in delaying the important questions. Petra checks her makeup in a little mirror. At the same time she is nodding slightly, acknowledging what I am saying to her and what I am asking her.
“Oh absolutely I have. I’m doing another week and a bit. Do a little hand-over to my stand in.... and well, the world’s my oyster, as it were.”
She smiles that infectious, gorgeous, still flirty smile and we spend the next half-hour exchanging pleasantries. All the time I am watching her, studying her. I can’t help that. Not only am I lesbian with a penchant for statuesque women, but I am also a psychological professional, with an interest in what makes people tick. It’s the deeper aspect of what makes people tick that appeals to a particular side of my lesbianism. I let her lead the conversation. Knowing that she wants to.
“Sooooo tell me, about this Hypno stuff you’re into then. I’m fascinated truly. I always said that I could never be hypnotized. I’m too self-centered, too self-obsessed. If I am honest, I never believed that anyone could actually, truly be ‘hypnotized.’ No offense like.”
She grins, believing her own words. I just take a sip of wine, nod, showing that I hear what she’s saying.
“Nahhhhhh Petra, it’s the self-obsessed, self-centered ones that make the best subjects. Trust me, I know. But hey, I applaud you for your honesty and no offense taken really.”
She giggles kind of mischievously. I know she’s just teasing me. Kind of refreshing, even endearing in a mature woman. Obviously one who only really lets her hair down away from the office. That’s good, I respect her professionalism.
“Look, I’ll show you. I won’t put you right ‘under’ here. But I can partially trance you. Just sub-trance you. You’ll feel relaxed, chilled but aware of everything. Then I’ll take you out of it as quickly as I put you into it. Up for it? Hmmmmm?”
I look directly at Petra. See her smile fade slightly. But still a fascination, almost too strong to resist. My direct prodding at what really is an inherent fear of being taken out of her comfort zone, obvious, glaring.
“Awwwwwww I don’t know… sounds a little freaky to me....”
“Ok, it doesn’t matter. No harm done. Just wanted to show you that you could actually be tranced.”
I don’t force the issue at all. I don’t need to. I know I don’t. We sip a few more mouthfuls in silence and then Petra speaks again.
“Ok.... what do I have to do?... and not all the way under right?”
I take a long slow sip of the wine. Don’t answer straight away as I sense the anticipation in her voice. Let it linger. Let it dwell. I slowly finger a large ring on my middle finger of my right hand.
“You don’t have to do anything, Petra. Just watch my ring here. Focus on it and focus on my voice. Block everything else out. Just focus on the ring and my voice. Nothing else... ok? Just totally relax. Chill. Focus.”
I look at her, and her at me for a split second before she looks down at my ring.
“W-well, ok then...”
The ring is a clear cut crystal. A large stone that reflects and retracts light in all directions and in all colors. It isn’t a ‘magic ring.’ Just a point of focus. Something to hold the focus whilst my voice filters in.
“Just relax. Look at the ring. See only that and hear just my voice...”
My voice changes from the ‘friendly lesbian’ to a more professional, slightly sterner voice. But softly so. Not forcing itself. Just gently filtering in with stronger more direct undertones.
“You’ll feel slightly sleepy but your eyes won’t close. Just relax. Listen watch the ring. Listen to my voice. Watch and listen. Watch and listen. Watch listen. Listen watch......”
I’m right, so right, and can see the signs as she sinks into a void, halfway between reality and another place. It’s not hard. It never is with women who have Petra’s outgoing, confident personality. In truth, most of her sort, want control taken from them to differing degrees. I continue to hold her gaze. Watch her eyes focusing on the ring.
“Ok Petra, you are there... no dramas... no pain... just there in that good place, yes? You feel good right? Chilled. Relaxed. Good, yes?
My voice almost like liquid silk and it pours into her psyche.
“Mmmmmm yeah, I do feel good actually, yes.”
She smiles a little dreamily. But still acutely aware. She feels ‘good’ because that is what I have ‘suggested’ she feels. She’s sub-trance and very vulnerable to manipulation.
I lean forward, gently at my hips, keeping my own legs crossed, and place one hand on Petra’s uppermost thigh. My first touch of her spectacular legs, Then, so very gently I bend one finger and use the nail to ‘scritch’ against the sheer nylon.
Scritch Scritch Scritch.
“Mmmmm that’s good Petra. Really good. Now can you feel that scritch scritch scritch sound? Hmmmmm can you? And can you feel it... ever so gentle scritching... soooo gentle?”
I’m watching her face all the time. I recognize the part trance in her. No one else would. People in the wine bar, just walking by, taking no notice. Nothing strange going on. Just two grown women having a deep conversation. Could be lesbian. Who cares in this part of the city? No one cares.
“Okkkk.... whenever you feel that scritch Petra, you’ll automatically sink into this part-trance. Do you understand?”
She still has that dreamy smile on her face. Not a care or concern in the world.
“Mmmmmmmm yes ok...... scritch scritch scritch.”
“Yesssss that’s right. Scritch scritch scritch.......The scritch can be through stockings, hose, skirt, pants, or bare flesh. But it will always be a scritch on your leg. Maybe your thigh. Your knee. Your calf. Always a scritch scritch scritch. Do you understand, Petra?”
My voice low, calming, soothing. Hypnotic.
“It can either put you into a trance or take you out if you are already there. Ok?”
I scritch once more before removing my fingers and hand from her leg.
“Yeah, yeah I got that......”
“Good girl. The next time you feel that scritch you will wake up but remember everything as though it’s normal. Ok, Petra?”
She smiles wide and nods again. She fully understands and now the trigger to trance is fully planted in her head.
I sit back again now, totally confident, totally knowing that Petra is one-hundred-percent focused on what I am saying. The gentle hum and buzz of the bar around us had faded to grey for her.
In her psyche. I have used my quite vast and deep experience to render her susceptible in next to no time. Quickly, precisely.
“I have an idea, Petra, a suggestion. I thought, maybe it would be a good idea for you to take part in my program. My program on human behaviors. I think you could benefit from this, Petra. What do you think hmmmmm?”
Petra lets the words filter in but is nodding in agreement even before I have finished speaking.
“Uhhhhh yesssss, yes if you think that would be a good idea, then, then so do I, Sabirah.”
I smile encouragingly at her as I reach into my leather bag, taking out a document.
“Yes, well, I do think it’s a good idea, Petra. You will need to sign this consent form. It simply puts you into our care for the time of your inclusion in our program. Any trials or research is strictly governed. Just details, really. Quite boring legal stuff, Petra. It’s not like anything ever goes ‘wrong.’ This is just a safeguard, for you and for us. You wouldn’t have any objection to signing the consent, Petra, no?”
“Oh, no, no of course not, Sabirah. I’m all too aware of ticking the boxes and keeping the right paperwork.”
I smile as I slip the form in front of her and lay a pen across the top of it. She’s saying all the things she would in her normal day-to-day life, except with added incentive of the planted seeds. Responding to autosuggestions.
“Good girl. You just sign on the dotted line then, sweetie, and I’ll fix us up with some more wine.”
I give her a little ‘wink,’ which serves to massage her mind a little more. I nod to a passing tender, for another bottle of wine. Petra leans forward at her waist. Her breasts heaving under the lace edging of the dress, threatening to spill out as she picks up the pen and scrawls a well practiced signature across the dotted line. I look directly at the shifting breasts, and the nylon sheathed crossed legs, and the shifting silk dress with the tassels falling away to show more of her upper legs. My silent purr tickling my throat.
“You really are a delicious woman, Petra, aren’t you?”
Without a seconds thought and agreeing immediately with my ‘suggestion.’
“Hmmmm yes, I am.”
“That’s right, you are. Tell me, Petra, what do you think are your best attributes? Tell me what you like about yourself. What other people like about you.”
She thinks. Pushes her lips out with her tongue and then answers precisely.
“My legs, breasts, my bottom.... my hair, eyes, lips.....I like them, everybody likes them.”
She shrugs as she hears herself reeling off her best attributes. And she giggles as well, holding up one hand to her mouth in an almost adolescent way.
“I’m sorry that sounds awful, but it’s true. Really it is.”
“Noooo Petra, not at all. I agree with you. Totally. Those and probably more we may find out at some point.”
She shifts on her seat, totally at ease now, totally relaxed, totally in the good place, re-crossing her legs, shifting her torso inside the silk dress slightly, and a wide smile on her gorgeous mouth. This part of the conversation seeming to gratify her, please her greatly. Something that I take careful mental notes on as I take the consent form and slip it back into a folder and back into my bag.
“You won’t discuss your plans or intentions for your period of vacation with anyone. Is that clear, Petra?”
She looks quite casual, quite calm, even with my direct, sterner voice.
“Ok, yes, sure...”
“When you leave work on your last day, just go straight back to your apartment and wait. A car will pick you up.”
She’s nodding, agreeing, taking it all in, as her throat rolls with another swallow of wine.
“You won’t need to pick up or meet Stefani. I will take care of that, ok, Petra?”
Again the casual nod, a complete agreement. Complete trust. The seeds in her growing and growing.
“Also, you won’t need to pack any bags, or change of clothes. Just wait as you are and the car will pick you up. OK?”
Careful to get confirmation she understands. That my suggestions are registering. Once she has acknowledged and agreed, these suggestions are firmly in her head and will be adhered to.
I lean forward again, and just gently scritch one nail against the nylon sheathed calf of her casually bouncing leg.
“You’ll come back down now, and out of trance. But everything will be normal and you’ll remember absolutely everything we’ve discussed. You won’t be concerned about anything and you will be quite looking forward to your vacation period.....”
There’s an almost imperceptible blink of her huge, gorgeous eyes and Petra is back with me. Fully aware. I lean back, smiling.
“You know what, Petra, I think you are going to be an ideal subject for my programme. Maybe we’ll all learn something.”
My smile is wide, sincere. My tone, back to that friendly, off-duty tone.
“Oh god, you know, Sabirah.... me too. I’m quite excited, really I am.”
Absolute sincerity in her voice. I liked that. We spend the rest of the evening small-talking. Girls talk. A chance for me to find out more and more about this woman. Her penchant for high heels for instance. And indications that she is a quite highly sexed individual and how she has worked hard over the years to disguise that. Hide it due to her public, high-profile life. I liked that too. Her almost dripping shame at this admission palpable and failing to make her look into my eyes. I simply nod sympathetically. Understandingly and she looks partly relieved she has got that off her not-inconsiderable chest. Mental notes and more mental notes.
We hug closely at the end of the evening. Now a bond between us and her flirt quite natural to me. An accepted part of her character.
“We’ll talk soon, Petra......”
She turns back, waves, and is gone. The click click of her heels seeming amplified.
THREE - The Clinic and Stage One
With the trigger and suggestions installed into Petra, I didn’t need to do any close follow up on arrangements from her side. And wheels had already been placed in motion from my side. Over the next week or so, I exchanged a few text messages with Petra. Feeding her and encouraging her. Nurturing her. As usual her messages were flirty. I smiled as I read them. Flirted back, deliberately. Deliberate in a clinical sense, that is.
On the day of Petra’s arrival at the clinic, I met her myself on the steps. My personal driver, a tall lithe platinum blonde, by the name of Esther, had picked her up and whisked her into the country. Petra’s ability to stun with her ‘vision’ didn’t diminish, even with her ‘ordinary’ work clothes. She arrived in just what she wore to work that day. A tight-skirted suit. The skirt, black, almost pencil in design practically hobbling her just above the knees. Sheer black nylon encasing her delicious legs and the stiletto court shoes patent, shiny and black. A stylish silky top under her black jacket and her hair, striking, almost metallic-red, in the late afternoon sunlight. The hair, quite blinding and yet tied up high and tight in her trademark work-style ponytail. The ponytail sourced high on her head and seeming to erupt from her crown. The tail itself, swinging across her back as she walked. Her makeup perfect, slightly overdone in the vein of city workers who, quite frankly, were usually just that, ‘vain.’
“Petra.... welcome to my humble abode.”
Not that it was actually where I chose to ‘live.’ But it was a good welcoming line. Petra had established quite a few ‘trademarks’ for herself it seemed, over the years. Her perfect look. The gliding striding strut when she walked, even in tight skirts, Her high, tight ponytail. Her emphasized lips, and eyes. And then her ‘hug.’ Her flirting, almost obscene, hug, in which she presses her torso in, squeezes her breasts into whoever she is hugging. On this occasion, me. Trademark of a perfect women in a perfect life. Comfortable with herself. Confident with herself and within herself.
“Mmmmmmm it’s good to be here. God, this place is so impressive....”
She broke away from the hug, referring to the huge secluded building in acres and acres of its own grounds. Some wooded and some with extensive lawns. The central part of the building led into a huge old stately house but it was at the rear that building works had converted and extended the building into what it was today.
“Why thank you Petra... come now, lets get you inside. Its chilly out here.”
I walked her into the clinic arm-in-arm, chatting to her like we were old established friends. A few faces appeared at the office admin windows above the entrance, curious to see who the new inclusion into the program was. Those faces appearing then disappearing. Others taking their place then fading back out of sight. Petra smiled in her own infectious way at the ones she saw, or caught sight of. There were no smiles back though. Just long studious looks at her. I took her in. Talking to her all the time.
“As usual you look fabulous, sweetie.”
She liked compliments, lapped them up. She smiled puckering her lips and blowing a kiss in thanks. I took her out to the rear of the building on ground level and then to a lift marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”
“The research program takes place in the sub-level of the building, away from the main clinic. It’s quite important that it’s separated from everyday life.”
She nods, understanding totally what I’m saying as we enter the lift. The doors slide closed and it begins its descent.
“Of course, yes I understand. My god, I feel a little nervous all of a sudden.”
She tries to shrug it off with a soft laugh and a giggle. Not very convincing though as I move in close to Petra, nodding sympathetically.
SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH
My fingernail scraping her upper thigh lightly, through the tightness of her skirt and then a split second. A nanosecond even where her eyes glaze and she slips into that partial trance. I recognize it immediately. She needs to feel good in these very early stages. That is of utmost importance.
“There.... is that better, Petra? Just relax. Although it is good to feel apprehensive. That’s a desired feeling, Petra, do you understand? Apprehension is good... very good.”
Another seed firmly planted. My tone of voice changed. The hypnotic voice back again, working in conjunction with the scritches, and the autosuggestions. Her face has changed. The apprehension across such a beautiful face almost painted on like a mask. She nods, nibbles her bottom lip slightly as the lift descends into the uppermost floor of the sub levels.
“Y-yes, yes I understand yes....”
The lift opens out into a reception area. First impressions would be that the reception area is like that in an up-market boutique hotel. Plush, very expensively furnished and rather than a reception desk, a normal low level desk with flat screen pc monitors sunk in and tilted at a viewable angle. Another striking thing, for any newcomers is the lack of sound coming from the upper floors. Or from the outside. The lack of any sound at all. The vacuum effect is such that others visitors have experienced ‘popped ears’ on the way down in the lift. There was no immediate evidence that it had occurred in Petra though.
Behind the reception desk an attractive, petite girl, in her early-twenties. She is dressed in a pseudo-medical-come-nurse uniform. But her face is made up, and striking in attention to detail, just as Petra’s always is. She smiles at me.
“Good evening, Miss Najwa. It’s so good to see you again.”
Her tone and manner are perfectly, even overly polite. I nod and smile at her as she flicks her eyes across and looks Petra up and down very slowly, very deliberately. The smile fading.
“Alyson.... this is Petra. Our latest volunteer. She will be staying with us for a little while.”
The introduction very short. Very curt. My friendly manner and tone fading now. The detachment and professionalism now taking its place. Alyson doesn’t even acknowledge Petra directly.
“She looks perfect, Miss Najwa. Absolutely perfect.”
Again that almost insipid politeness, born out of a total respect for me. And the non-acknowledgment of Petra. It won’t have escaped Petra. She will have been used to being introduced to people at the highest level. Here though, practically a complete brush-off by some sort of receptionist-nurse. And the casual remarks about her as though she weren’t even present. Oh, yes that would not have escaped Petra. It will have sunk into her psyche, very delicately and rested there. Just to the side of the apprehension I had planted earlier.
“I’m sure she will be just that Alyson......Shall we get Petra signed in now?”
It was my little prompt to Alyson to get her little clipboard with the signing in sheet for all visitors. She got it out, placed a pen across it and barely looking at Petra spoke,
“Print name, date of birth and sign..... do you think you could do that for me, sweetie?”
I laughed inwardly. Alyson thought everyone with long legs and large breasts was a bimbo. Her tone was curt, patronizing. Petra would eat her alive in the intelligence stakes but I didn’t intervene. Just watched, listened. Enjoyed. The apprehension, quite palpable now, over Petra’s face.
“U-uhhh yes, yes I think I can manage that.”
Alyson a little taken aback at the educated, obvious smartness that came from the “volunteer’s” mouth. I laugh, secretly inwardly again as Petra signs in with Alyson looking on all open-mouthed. With her all signed in I led Petra round and into a long corridor. The plushness of the reception fades into a stark clinical white. White walls, ceilings and floors with bright strip-lights down the centre. Doors either side at regular intervals. We stop at one door, on the right, labeled “ISO 1” and I swipe my keycard, the door clicking, then sliding open.
Inside the room is bare. Brilliant white, tiled floor. No windows. Just strip-lighting in the centre of the ceiling. A solitary low stool in the middle of the room and a fitted toilet in one corner. Not closed into a cubicle, just open in one corner and diagonally placed facing the centre of the room. And an empty plastic container placed next to the stool. Not unlike a packing box for ring binders. The lid standing inside it on its short edge. The walls of the room bare, whitewashed, almost blindingly so. The door slides and closes as we enter. The electronic lock emitting a little ‘click’ and ‘buzz’ as it reseals.
“Well Petra, this is the first stop on your little journey. I know, I really do know, it’s not much but you will be in here for quite some time. The object is that you are taken out of your comfort zone. Out of your normal world... are you with me so far?”
Petra steps in looks around, just puzzlement over her face as she takes it in but then nods that she understands.
“Uhmm yessss, yes really, it’s fine. I’ll survive. I’m a survivor.”
Her attempt at dismissive humor falls a little flat. My expression remains straight, curt even. And my tone even more so.
“Good girl. Now... we also have to take all of your personal belongings from you. Your bag, watch, jewelry, cell phone, purse.... everything. It’s ok, it will be all in our safe, locked up securely. It’s just a requirement of the program that all things from the outside world are stripped back and taken away. It makes observation more precise. Obviously this applies to all volunteers. Still with me?”
The requirements all filtering in and taking the shape of autosuggestions to Petra in her semi-trance state. This part of the research had always been so difficult, with previous subjects, until we introduced the semi-trance. There had always been resistance and in some cases, we had lost a couple of subjects who had freaked out completely as the requirements unfolded. No such result with Petra. I watch as she computes the words and then responds.
“Uhhhh yes... it seems to be pretty clear to me. I just didn’t realize this was all so deep.”
I continue to talk.
“That’s what I like to hear, honey. And oh yes, this is a really quite scientific study. Very detailed. Very searching........So why don’t we start here? Just throw your bag into the container there. And your jewelry. Watch, rings.. etc etc.”
Even as I speak, Petra begins to remove items and place them in the container. Bit by bit her jewelry coming off until it is all placed in the container with her bag, cell phone and watch. Every so often the apprehension across her face stark. I like to watch that. It interests me. Petra without her accouterments was like a thoroughbred race horse without its tack. Such a simple thing, and yet, to someone like Petra, so disturbing.
“Now, you will be in here for quite some time. But before we move you to the next stage you will need to be naked. It’s part of the stripping-back process but there is no pressure immediately. Why don’t you just remove your skirt, jacket and top for now? You can keep on your hose, heels and panties. Just for now. Later we can get you naked before we move on. Is that ok, Petra?”
My voice all the time encouraging, yet more detached now. And with a professional edge to make progress. Me knowing that the semi-trance state, and my suggestions all being computed by Petra and yet in no way diluting her apprehension. This time she doesn’t say anything just nods and begins removing the garments I have suggested. First her jacket, the delicious orbs of her breasts clearly defined through the thin silk as they press outwards against it. Then her skirt. For the first time, the full length of those stunning legs displayed and accentuated with her heels. She wore expensive lace top stockings that were self-supporting and clung to her fleshy upper thighs right at the top, almost where the inner thigh met her crotch area. A tiny and I mean tiny thong pulled up tight between her legs and bottom cheeks, the tiny triangle covering her most intimate area. Then her top and the full glory of her thirty-eight D cup breasts. Perfectly formed. Perfectly pert and with dark speckled areolas with quite wide diameter button-like nipples in the centre. Quite casually I lick my lips as Petra folds and places the items in the container. Her stance, a well practiced confident stance. But here she was at her most vulnerable so far and the apprehension dripped from her face. Her face had flushed a little to. An acute embarrassment at her slow, dripping away of control. Petra being taken skillfully out of her comfort zone.
“There Petra… we’re all girls here together so don’t be too concerned.”
I step back look at her. My own lips almost trembling with the excitement of finding such a ‘perfect subject.’
“There’s a toilet in the corner, if the call of nature should get the better of you, and a stool for you to sit on. I know, I know, not at all comfortable. But hopefully you will understand the need for the starkness of it all. The absolute need for the very basics only to be retained...”
My voice trails off as I take in the view again. She has taken a few steps still in her high heels, stockings and thong. Even in this environment she moves with a dignified grace and allure. The apprehension on her face belies the naturally arrogant steps and moves in her high heels.
“Ohhh I’ll be alright Sabirah.... j-just a bit of a shock to the system that’s all, really.”
“Well that’s understandable... so I am going to leave you for a while now. There are other preparations to make and you need to settle. Zone-in as it were...”
I smile, but recoil from a hug she tries to give me by holding a hand up, as though holding her away. Keeping her at a distance.
“Ahhh Petra, no… not here. This is professional and not personal or emotional in any way. Ok? We wouldn’t want anyone to think that we were closer than we should be now would we?”
She feels stupid. I can see it over her face and she stands rubbing her arm with one hand, a hip jutting to one side. Long, long legs tapered and akimbo slightly.
“N-no, no of course not. I’m sorry.”
I smile at her, tilt my head sympathetically and with that I leave her, alone, the door sliding then clicking locked. The period of isolation beginning.
The thing about the effects of isolation is that they creep in on the isolated and then settle in delicate folds on the psyche. At first, these folds, or layers have air between them and it feels a little cozy. All warm and bearable. At first it’s just the loss of the sense of time that becomes all too apparent. Then it’s the silence. The silence except that is the, for the beating of the heart. And in Petra’s case the click of her heels as she ‘stalks’ around the room. That silence... nothing out, nothing in, is palpable, quite deafening. Deafening silence is always the worse kind. Her pacing of the room becoming more of a lazy, hip-rolling strut as she slowly begins to forget about her posture and stance. No one to impress or show off in front of in here.
Then the mind just slowly begins to play tricks and ask questions. ‘Have they forgotten me?’ ‘Has something happened and everyone left?’ ‘Who is EVERYONE anyway?’ It’s just a matter of time before Petra tries the door. Of course she does. It’s locked. The hypnotic inducement of apprehension doesn’t help. Neither does her state of almost complete undress. Stockings. High heels that enforce an almost swaggering arrogant strut, and lazy breast roll when she is on her feet, and when on the deliberately low stool, force her knees so high that her long, long legs are almost folded, and awkward. It’s the reason she can’t sit for long. Or walk for long. One of those rare times she would gladly enjoy a cigarette, if she had any. She didn’t have any.
After the mind questions, the exhaustion. It’s mental exhaustion more than anything. Trying to work out how long she has been there. How long she might be there. The complete lack of any home comforts. Or any comforts at all. All designed to slowly subdue her. It works every time. Physical exhaustion also plays a part in that she cannot get comfortable. There is nothing for her to get comfortable on or with. Comfort just isn’t on the menu in any form.
At one point I watch her, go to the toilet, thumbing the thong down to just above her knees and sitting on the bare toilet bowl. No seat or cover just the bare open bowl. She sits with her stockinged knees clamped together, stiletto’d feet splayed, feet turned toes pointing in to each other. There isn’t any toilet paper. She lets herself drip dry and then pulls up the thong tight between her legs and bottom cheeks. I’m pleased to see she’s smooth between the legs. Hairless. Yes I liked that.
Of course there are cameras, tiny ones watching her every move. Recording her every facial expression. Every little mumble that tumbles from those gorgeous lips as time goes on and on. The isolation continuing. Petra trying to cope with it but finding it increasingly difficult. No day or night. Light or dark. Everything the same. Same light. Same temperature. Same silence. Same loneliness.
I watch her succulent breasts, heavy, mature roll and sway as she moves around the room. She really is the complete package. The “One” I have been waiting for for so many years of my life as a sadist. Her long plume of ponytailed hair swinging across her bare back, just about caressing her tailbone as it swings across. Her movements becoming less confident, more unsure as a nervousness invades her. A terrible ,terrible jangling of her nerves as they begin to become shot. It’s written across her face of course. Strikingly so. I recognize the signs and lick my lips.
By the time I enter the room again almost thirty-six hours have passed. She doesn’t know that of course. There’s just a grateful, absolute look of gratitude as I slip back inside.She approaches me to give me a hug. I know it isn’t one of her trademark, flirty hugs she wants to give me but rather just a relieved, joyous hug for just seeing a familiar face. Any face. I hold my hand up with the flat palm towards her to stop her.
“No Petra. Remember what I said. This is professional and nothing else.I just came to take the rest of your things. Its time to leave this room now.... take your shoes, stockings and panties off now Petra and put them in the container.. ok”
She looks visibly, almost hurt at the rejection, and the ice coldness of my voice. And the reminder of her position as a ‘volunteer.’ She just nods, exhaling a sigh as she slips off her shoes with each opposite foot. Then peels down each stocking, folding each several times round one of her hands before placing them in the container. Then placing the shoes in. Then thumbing the thong down and lifting each foot as she steps out of it leaving herself totally naked. A renewed blush, and a dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Slightly distended labia clearly exposed and just peeling apart slightly as she moves her legs and feet.
I watch her every move. Make sure she ‘feels’ me watching her every move.
“There, all set Petra. I know it feels a little strange for you. But well. Just try to settle try to relax and everything will be fine.”
I lead Petra out of the isolation room “ISO 1.” The corridor is empty and it’s silent. Everything on this level is silent.
“It must be a little strange for you walking without heels on Petra? I mean, you adore heels don’t you?”
She smiles, her breasts swaying in front of her.
“Oh yes, I do. I really do adore high heels. But then this experience is completely strange to me. Out of my comfort zone is a slight understatement.”
I just lead her gently by the elbow towards the further end of the corridor.
“Oh well, you know, you won’t be out of high heels for long, trust me, Petra. Get this next stage over with, and see where it goes. You’ll be in high heels again before you know it.”
I smile and so does she. Hope in her eyes. And then a spark, as though she remembered something.
“O-oh... did you meet up with Stefani?.... You said you would..... g-god, I forgot all about that.”
Like an awful shock crossing her face. For a split second, delicious , awful despair. My response is considered. Precise and calculated.
“Its ok, Petra..... Stefani is fine. There was a bit of a drama, but, well, everything is fine. And she is fine. No need for you to worry at all........”
My voice trails off. Petra looks to me, for more information. A bit of a drama? But none is forthcoming and that is something else that settles uneasily in her psyche. We pass a few more doors with various labels on them, eventually stopping at the one named “RIG 1” and go inside.
FOUR - Stage Two and Restraint
The word 'bondage' would never be used. At least not this early stage. That word would imply sexual deviance and would detract from the micro-path Petra would be taken down. The initial 'restraint' for Petra is simple in its design and yet acutely effective in its application. Her sub-trance state, along with her time in preparation, and isolation meant that Petra was very receptive to the idea of mild 'restraint.'
"The point is, Petra, as I have said, that you are taken out of the normal world and its everyday machinations. Your mind needs to be clear and you don’t need, or want to be concerned with what to do with your hands, legs or feet. This mild restraint helps that process. If your limbs are gently disabled, then you don’t need to worry about what to do with them....”
Petra simply stood nodding. Still very lucid and understanding and yet the period of isolation together with the semi-hypnotic state had ensured her relative docility. Her usual, very confident persona had been just slightly curtailed and wound back in. Subdued. Her susceptibility to suggestion was amplified now. In these early days, of the utmost importance. Eventually, she would be taken out of trance. But not yet. The time wasn’t anywhere near for that, yet.
"Oh completely, yes I understand. I signed up for this so whatever it takes, I guess is fine...."
I could tell, still at least slightly that Stefani was on her mind. Another creeping effect of the last thirty-six hours was dryness of the mouth resulting in continuous sips of water. That and a continuous movement of the lips. In Petra's case, and for me, a joy to watch. Her lips so full and mouth so deliciously wide.
"Of course Petra… this is a completely confidential research program. Results are not made public. Nor any details about it. And besides, if you feel uncomfortable at any time we can stop. The restraint can be modified, altered or whatever. It’s there just as an aid and not to make you feel uncomfortable in any way."
My manner with Petra remained cool, calm, professional. Very doctorly. Very bedside manner, which serves as a comfort to her. Albeit a distant comfort.
"Oh.... really its fine. I'm totally fascinated. You certainly sold it to me that night in the bar. Extremities of human behavior, hypnosis the works.... wow.”
Keeping a brave face was second nature to Petra. She did it, but it was becoming less convincing. Not to her, but anyone around her. Anyone who knew her. Me. Petra smacking her lips together between sips of water. Captivating to watch. But also that subdued, reigned in personality. Almost a hobbled personality.
"And, the same applies to the nakedness. It’s about removing everything from your normal life. I guess you could call it 'stripping you bare'. It applies to the physicality, as well as the mentality. I didn’t want you to think I wanted you naked just so I could feast my eyes on you. Although Petra I have to admit you are very beautiful, very gorgeous. I could eat you up for sure."
This time I deliberately purr so she can hear me.I laugh softly, head tilted to one side negating any doubts she could have as much as possible in the circumstances.Petra laughs too. Already fully knowing of my lesbianism, but also having that knowledge negated by my dismissal of any thoughts of coming on to her. Petra’s laugh still infectious even if a little more subdued than normal laugh. The flirting not there any more either. That has been wound in too. She wants to hug me. Maybe cry a little. She knows she can’t do the former and the latter she wouldn’t allow herself to do, Still plenty of fight left under those folds of issolative despair yet.
"ohhhhh no.. it’s fine really. I'm proud of my body. I work hard to keep it in this shape. And besides we are all girls together. I'm only too happy to be part of this program, honestly."
Again that brave face. I nod in agreement. Again so calm, so reassuring. All the time silently, expertly assessing Petra.
"Mmmmm I know all these things, Petra. I know also that we can all benefit from your inclusion in this program.... for sure...”
My voice trails off as Petra's mouth fights with a dry tongue and even drier lips. She takes another sip of water and I watch her throat as it rolls and swallows.
This room is identical to the first. Almost, and at first sight. Clinical bright white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. This time though, the floor slightly sloped from all four walls into the centre. In the centre of the floor a black enamel drain cover. No windows in the room. No sound from the outside. Neither could any sound escape the room. Bright, high-powered strip light in the centre of the ceiling provides a constant light. This room very much identical to the isolation room. Except with added equipment and functionality. Most of this added functionality hidden from view and very much existing on a need-to-know basis. Subjects brought to this room didn’t need to know ‘everything’.
In the dead-centre of the room the restraint rig. Very simple in its appearance.In no way intended to frighten the subject. Quite to the contrary. For ease of use and application this rig begins in the vertical position. Once the subject is secured, the whole stainless steel structure can then be tilted, or turned to any angle.
The naked Petra is secured with her knees eighteen inches apart. The knees are secured via wide, strong, velcro straps. Then the ankles, exactly the same – eighteen-inches apart but with the feet overhanging the padding. Arms raised and parted either side of the head. and secured at the wrists, eighteen-inches apart. Elbows, again, the same eighteen-inches apart. Everything precise, everything parallel. A bar at her hips just presses her backside back a little. Just gently so when the rig is tilted forward, her bottom will be raised slightly. Her breasts hang forward and slide between two parallel bars. Again, when the rig is tilted forward, her breasts will hang under her... Mature, and heavy. Very exposed. Like the privacies between her legs, I make light of as the 'restraint' is completed.
"Hey Petra, I am verrrry impressed with the smoothness down there. Hairless from the neck down. I like that very much....."
I laugh softly, Just flirting a little, chilling her more and more. She laughs to.... her breasts jiggling between the bars of the rig. Her response equally jovial. Her mind already adapting to the restriction. No overtly sexual comments or insinuations. Just little intimate jokey comments that any women could share. She swallows quite noisily.
"Ohhhhhh I'm so glad you approve...........Oh God, I’m so freaking pleased that Stefani can’t see me now."
I laugh with her again. She says it light heartedly but I know that such a thought will be heavy on her mind. Her laugh is forced somewhat and tinged with that apprehension. Not the sexual kind. It’s how the process always begins. Just the start.
"Awwwwww well that’s not going to happen. Stefani is happy where she is and you are happy to be assisting us here. I just know you are..... So don’t be thinking of things like that ok?I'm going to tilt you forward Petra. You'll feel some motion. Just go with it ok. You're in safe hands.... ok?”
"uhmmmm y-yes, yes ok... I'm fine really.... j-just do what you have to do."
She adjusts her gorgeous lips as I move to the side of the room, and pick up a small wireless remote control unit. Staying in Petra's line of sight is deliberate at this point. Firstly she will be always and further reassured being able to see me. Also... even at this very early stage she will have the sense that she is in the hands of the ‘lady in the white coat’ I press one button on the remote and she tilts forward very slowly.
"Your weight will move off your knees Petra. The bar at your hips will take some of it. But in any case your weight will be better distributed. Much better suited to a longer period......"
Petra gasps slightly at the first motion. But nods as she is tilted so that the floor comes into her field of view. The whole volume of her breast orbs slide down between the bars, and are left hanging below her. The bar pressing into her hips, just gently coaxing her rear to jut into the air and back a bit. With this jutting, and leg spread her sexuality becomes viewable and exposed.I tilt her until she is just below the 45-degrees.Just a little too much for her to look ahead. And just enough that she can only drop her eyes to look at the floor. Everything so precise.
I move in front of her. If she could look up she would see all of me. As it is, all she sees are my feet arched into black, patent stiletto pumps. And, the almost opaque blackness of the nylon sheathing my feet, ankles and lower legs. Quite a stark contrast to the absolute high-intensity whiteness of the rest of the room. I slowly circle her then, moving out of her field of view.
"Well Petra, that’s you more or less all set..... do you feel comfortable?"
I let my voice drip into her ears from behind. I am experienced enough to know that by now she will be very conscious, very knowing of her position. Her vulnerability even if this ‘restraint’ is of the extremely mild though secure kind. The semi-trance will be feeding her apprehension and this shows on her face. Apprehensive, yes, of course! I even hear her dry swallow and the smacking of her lips together before she answers in a low barely audible tone.
"Y-yes....yes this feels ok. A little strange.. but ok......"
Again my voice dripping out, thickly Arabic in accent,
"Goooooood.... now let me just check these restraints and we're all done...."
Still out of her field of view but ever so gently running my fingers up and down one arm very lightly.... stopping at the wrist, then the elbow. Verrrry gently and smiling as I watch her loose, free-to-move fingers curl then stretch open again at the lightness of my touch. Moving to the other side. Checking the other arm.
"Mmmmmm these are just perfect...."
Her fingers curling again as I move to the other end. Running my fingers over one foot, to her ankle, checking the velcro fastening. Then slowly dragging the same fingers up her lower leg, over the calf and to the velcro restraint just above her knee. Whilst I do that, and the other leg taking a long, long lingering look at her delicately pouting sex lips... protruding back between her thighs. Not making any comment, but knowing Petra will be able to "feel' my eyes running over her.I allow myself a little smile of satisfaction as when checking the last restraint, just above the knee of her other leg, I rest my finger tips lightly on the flesh of her lower thigh, and feel a definite shudder, a little twitch of flesh that seems to run the entire length of her legs and spine. And the toes, of both feet, curling up. And yet still nothing overtly sexual from me. Not even hint of sexuality. Spoken or unspoken. Anything she feels, or senses coming from her own mind. Completely, totally from her own mind.
"Well that’s just about perfect Petra....."
I move back in front of her, crouch down onto my own heels so I can talk directly into her face. She's flushed up slightly, part of that due to her position. But part also due to a vulnerability she now feels.
"You'll be monitored constantly so don’t worry. All of your vital signs, obs etc., etc. are monitored from within this room. So there is absolutely no need for you to worry at all, ok?"
I smile as I look directly into her eyes. Ever so gently I stroke one cheek as I speak. Reassure her constantly. There is some humility in her eyes at this point. The trance is still working, except serving to magnify all of her natural emotions. More profound. She doesn’t say anything, she just nods. Presses those luscious full lips together. Rolls them in before nodding again, a slight twitchy smile stretching her lips slightly.
"That’s right ... no need to worry about anything here Petra... all girls together here...... I know a little undignified, maybe. But then no worse that those ghastly smear tests we have to go through every year.”
Everything I say making complete sense. Appealing to Petra’s logic, and intelligence and the susceptibility to suggestion that is now established. Another little squeeze of the jaw and chin as I stand up, and move behind her again. This time talking to her out of view.
"This is likely to be quite a long session Petra. Quite intense even. Unfortunately there can’t be a toilet break. I mean you have taken in some water. But that’s ok, whenever you need to relieve yourself... just let it go. It will drain away under you, no worries...... Is that ok, Petra?..."
As I finish talking, I am back in front of her, again crouching on my own heels. Again looking directly into her eyes. A soft smile across my lips.
"Uhhhh god.. I didn’t even think of that... b-but yes, yes if you think that’s ok..... it’s fine."
The subdued, agreeable tone. One of a slow, approaching realization. Again an underlying humility creeping in. I stand back. Look at the vision that is Petra. A little shiver through my own insides. Again that secret purring in my throat. Barely able to believe my own luck. I keep my voice neutral, professional.
"Ok then. May the research begin! I'm going to leave you now for a while Petra.You will feel alone. You will feel isolated but rest assured that you are being monitored and watched. We'll talk again soon.. ok? Just try to relax. Try to focus ok?"
"Y-yes... yes ok....."
All the time reassuring her, getting her responses. Again her sweet voice with a hint of bemusement trails off as my high heels recede, and out of the room. The door sliding closed, sealing.
Silence. Dead silence except for her own heartbeat. Her own pulse. Her own thoughts. Isolation with restraint. Relentless isolation continues, this time she is restrained.
I can monitor Petra (or any subject) from a myriad of hidden cameras. These cameras are absolutely unknown to Petra. Absolutely hidden to any visitor, or onlooker. I always insist on a close-up of my subject’s face. Close up, screen filling. Every blink. Every twitch of the nostril. Every nuance, of every emotion she will feel, relayed to me in vivid high definition. And all recorded on hard disk servers for any future use. As well, many and varying camera angles infinitely adjustable according to application and requirement. The digital age ensures that keeping such vivid recordings is a relative breeze.
This particular room at my Facility looks very simple. Whitewashed, windowless and just the simple restraint rig in the centre, above the drain in the gently sloped floor. It doesn’t just secretly hide cameras. The technology also hidden is state of the art, and far reaching. The rig looks simply roughly placed. Wheeled in and left. In actual fact its positioning is very precise. Minutely fixed. Micro adjusted. Also, the restrained subject, looks quite casually, if securely positioned. But in fact ultra-precise also. The rig and restraint points very accurately, minutely designed to hold the subject, in this case Petra, in a very specific position for a very specific reason. The reasoning behind such micro-accuracy only becomes apparent with further explanation.
The floor, walls and ceilings contain many laser-emitting diodes. Not science fiction. Science fact. Each diode miniscule in size and practically invisible to the naked eye. This invisibility aided by the overall bright whiteness of the room. Each diode slightly recessed into whichever surface it is housed to protect it. Each diode comparable in size to a pinpoint. The lasers these diodes produce developed, and refined over many years. Perfected, and re-perfected. Each diode infinitely adjustable in miniscule amounts according to its application. So many diodes, for so many applications and so many reasons. Very rarely would many of these diodes be in use at any one time.
It is beyond the scope, or need of this story to go into the deeper science behind laser diodes. Just a little information though.Of the number of types of diodes in existence, we chose the Double Heterostructure type.
The advantage of a DH laser is that the region where free electrons and holes exist simultaneously—the active region—is confined to the thin middle layer. This means that many more of the electron-hole pairs can contribute to amplification—not so many are left out in the poorly amplifying periphery. In addition, light is reflected from the hetero-junction; hence, the light is confined to the region where the amplification takes place. These DH-type lasers proved much more suitable for our applications. And proved further more adaptable with greater tolerances to what we wanted to achieve.
I digress. The laser diodes, in my Facility have been infinitely developed, and yet further refined. I hasten to add, NOT into deeply penetrating tissue destroying implements of torture. But rather, deeply penetrating, tissue sensitizing, tissue enhancing, tissue teasing, tissues manipulating, invisible beams of creeping addiction. The beams move and stimulate the tissue as opposed to destroying it. Nerve endings are gently coaxed to stand on end, erect and exposed. The ‘torture’, in the main is a slow sexual stimulation, one with devastating psychological effects. A deeply instilled Hell that is inescapable. The sort of torture and hell, that I, as a sadist, enjoy inflicting on a long-term basis.
In Petra’s case just three of the diodes, housed in the floor, would be used over an extended period of time. One each for her nipples and areolas. Once for her genitalia region, concentrating expressly on her clitoris. Three in total. Petra would be totally unaware of these lasers. Blissfully unaware. Absolutely completely ignorant of their existence. These lasers intimately gradual in their effect. The nipple laser for example would track, and trace the areolas puffing them up slightly. And the shaft of each nipple gently erecting them. Thickening them. Elongating them. The lasers would NEVER caress the very tips of the nipples. This would cause orgasm and this wasn’t the point of this particular exercise. Rather the opposite in denying the orgasm.
Over time, the lasers sensitize each nipple to the extreme ensuring the fullest erection and instilling the deepest of ‘throbs’ into the nipple base. The ‘throb’ would instill itself so gradually in the pit base of the nipple that it would at first be imperceptible. So gradual would this process be. So very slow and with such teeny increasing increments that the resulting breakdown would happen without realization. Remember, Petra is taking part in a research program. Nothing sexual. A bit of a laugh for her. A bit of an adventure, even if a little more involved than she had at first thought.
The laser on her clitoris would be concentrated on the area around the clitoris shaft and again NEVER caressing the cum-inducing tip. The tip of the clitoris, like the tip of nipples, in women is capable of producing intensely focused orgasms. With expert, laser manipulation intense, absolute orgasms result. Unlike anything produced via normal sexual activity. The tissue becomes hyper-sensitized and after extended periods, this becomes irreversible. The objective in this early instant is to create the desire, the need, the desperation for orgasm. The control of the orgasm, or not, is not with Petra. Nor would it ever be. Petra would actually never be the same person again, ever.
From her position on the rig, to the stark whiteness of the room, the miniscule shafts of concentrated light are all but invisible. Very occasionally a spec of dust will flit through the lights and spark like a tiny shooting star. Whenever I see this fed through to my monitors, I smile to myself. A shooting star indeed.
At first, Petra looks comfortable. Dare I say, content even. The first time probably for many years that she didn’t have to ‘think’ about anything. Taken out of her fast city lifestyle. Still color in her cheeks. Her full, deep red lips catch the overhead strip lighting and bounce the light back. Her earlier tiny excursions with humility have faded. I re-assured her. Relaxed her. She’s adapted to the restraint. Got used to it even. Undignified of course. But this is all hush-hush. Her high profile position with her company. The mere fact that she is a single mother. Of course she wouldn’t be shouting from the rooftops about this little adventure.
All the time, the three laser beams, pre-programmed, track and trace the little movements the rig allows. Never relenting, working the areolas, and teasing the hood of her clitoris. Eventually the clitoris hood would be persuaded to peel back, bringing the clitoris out of its hidey hole. But this would be so gradual, so slow. Petra would never imagine she was being manipulated when the throbs eventually became obvious to her. Of course, by that time she would have lost even more sense of time. And more than some sense of logic. The slow creeping disorientation, kind of taking the place of her normal, lucid persona.
That would be a long time away. First, the problem of her pressurized bladder. Her dignity not wanting her to relieve herself. She would hold that for as long as she could. Until she couldn’t hold it any longer in fact. I study the full-face screen. I know what she is going through. God she wants to pee! The odd bite of her lip. Narrowing of her gorgeous eyes. A blow out of her lips. A swallow. The way her throat moves. Rolls as she swallows. Oooohhh so desperate to pee.
Close up views of her nipples. Just slowly being caressed by the beams. And her clitoris. Not yet unpeeled from the hood. But a slight show of wetness on her labia. She wouldn’t be aware of that yet, despite the six hours or so that have passed.
Of course. The silence and isolation will have had yet more effect on her. It’s six hours since she saw me. And before that she was alone in the waiting room, for a further thirty-six hours before I reappeared. During this time, stripped of her personal belongings, then her clothing. All in the cause of research of course! It’s time I went to see Petra. To talk to her, help her along a little in the process.
She seemed a little startled, at first to see me crouched in front of her. Her eyes had been closed but she wasn’t asleep. Her vital signs would have told me if she were asleep.Her eyes were closed, as though she were concentrating. Rising to this strange challenge. I like my subjects to rise to the challenge. Yes, she looked a little tired. A little drained. Normal signs. Her eyes sprung open, and there was me. Then that infectious smile of hers. Genuinely pleased to see me. Relieved even.
“How are you baring up Petra?”
My voice soft and soothing. My smile genuine. Only I know what she is beginning to go through. Only I know that even as I maintain eye contact with her, the laser beams are working her most delicate, and intimate flesh. Petra lets out a tiny groan.
“Mmmmmmm I’m dying to go for a pee. Can’t I just go to the toilet quickly.... and come back?”
Her full lips more than a little dry. Her tongue also. Not making speaking that easy. Obviously feeling the indignity letting go of her bladder contents would mean. Her intelligence and dignity getting the better of her of course. What I liked was that it was a genuine, quite softly spoken ‘request’. As opposed to an ‘announcement’ that that’s what she was wanting to do. A respect for her commitment to the program. A respect for me, as controller of the program. Controller of her.
“Ohhhhhhhhh Petra, honey... if we let you do that, we’ll have to start all over. Such a waste of valuable time don’t you agree?”
I just cup her chin lightly, look directly into her eyes as I talk. Ever so slightly nodding my head to her..... a strange thing, knowing that as my head almost imperceptibly nods, so does hers, agreeing.
“Uhhhhh y-yes, yes I guess so......I’m sorry. Its just I’ll feel so dirty, doing it here.”
Her voice trails off, accepting that if she is to urinate, it will be from the position she is in.Her head still nodding in that tiny way.
“Just let it go here Petra. You’ll feel a lot more comfortable. And be able to rise to this challenge a lot easier... don’t you think sweetie?”
Again my sincere, bedside manner smile. Very proficient. Very professional. Never disagreeing with her own assessment of herself should she pee there and then. Again my ever so slightly nodding head coaxing her to do the same. To agree.
The tone of voice obviously giving away her slight discomfort at this level of intimate exposure. But the sub-trance state helping her through that a great deal. Had she been anywhere near aware of what was in store for her, she wouldn’t have signed the consent form. She most certainly would not have given up even a day of her three-month vacation in this way. In fact, I think it safe to say she wouldn’t have come within a mile of my good self. So it was good that she didn’t know. Or have any inclination at all.
“OK Petra, honey, let it go. I promise I won’t look. Do it now and you’ll feel much more comfortable ok?”
My smile doesn’t diminish. Neither does my ever-so-slight grip on her chin. Holding her head up and holding her gaze looking right into her eyes. The first trickle of urine hits the drain cover. A few initial squirts, and then a constant gush as Petra evacuates the contents of her bladder. The swirl and gurgle as the pee drains away. All the time I am looking into her eyes. She looks away, and then back to my eyes a number of times through the gush of urine. I know she is feeling the humility. It’s not just in her eyes but in the almost hang-dog sulky expression on her face. Across those delicious lips. It’s as though she believes she is ‘above’ this indignity. But she won’t give up. She signed up for the challenge and once it’s over, it’s over. She thinks.
“There... it wasn’t that bad was it?”
I speak as I stand and make towards the back of Petra. The gush has ebbed to a trickle and I know that as her bladder emptied, she will have become just slightly aware of the little irritation around her clitoral area. I say ‘irritation’ because she won’t have associated, nor would she, just yet, with any form of sexual arousal. The ‘throb’ won’t be there yet. Not quite. And the clitoris hood won’t be peeled all the way back just yet. Even when the throb begins, she won’t be aware of it straight away. And now I am watching her finish her pee. She knows I am watching. She closes her eyes, nibbles on her bottom lip as the trickle becomes a drip.
“Hmmmm Petra… you’re looking a little red down there. Nothing to worry about. It’s not uncommon. I’ll keep an eye on it sweetie.....”
My words, verrrry professional filtering in. Instilling now, the knowledge of her reddening sexuality. Focusing her mind on it. With her mind, all but empty of the more mundane, everyday things, focusing on this area of ‘irritation’ would be an aid to the constant incessant work of the laser beams. Already the fleshy clitoris hood part peeled back, the deeper red bareness of the clitoris itself, just beginning to poke through. Peel out all red and slippery.
“Ohhhhhh y-yes... yes I do feel a little strange down there. Uhhhh, I will be ok, won’t I? I mean, there’s nothing to worry about?”
I’m back now, crouching on my own high heels. Petra’s chin cupped gently again, raising her head so she’s looking at me.
“I promise, you’ll be fine. Absolutely fine. This does happen occasionally. But it passes, usually. You’re in good hands, I promise....”
My smile settling her. Her indignity settling back also. I let her head go forward again. Her red hair cascaded around her face and hanging long.I shift on my heels slightly, tilt my head to one side and peer under her, to her hanging breasts. She can see me. She knows I am looking. She is watching me. Knowing I am looking at her breasts. Her eyes peeling open wider as I let out an extended slightly puzzled sigh.
“W-what is it... e-everything is ok isn’t it?”
I don’t answer straight away. Just concentrate my focus on her hanging breasts. Eventually, still looking I answer.
“Welllllll, there is a little puffiness of the areolas.... and thickening of the nipples....... but… it’s ok. Once again, occasionally we do come across this. Admittedly it’s not often. But it has happened. And with you, it’s happened. We’ll deal with it Petra, not problem really, no problem.”
Bringing my head back up, smiling, looking her straight in the eye. There’s concern in her eyes now, a worry over her stunningly attractive face. Her mind’s focus now on her reddened clitoral area, and her nipples. I know now her mind wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. Over the course of many hours, she had been taken out of the normal world and denied any contact with it. No sense of time. No sense of a view of the outside world and her mind slowly receding back, becoming increasingly unable to think logically.
“I a-am, going to be ok, aren’t I?”
Almost a childlike vulnerability to her voice. Genuine concern. Faint worry lines across the tops of her brows.
“I told you Petra. You will be fine. This reaction whilst unusual, is not unknown. It can be dealt with. You’re in my care and I will take care of you.”
I watch her swallow, and nod again, reassured by my calm, almost soothing words. Listening to me now. Hanging on to my words. Petra was becoming focused now. I liked that. Anothersign of progress on a long, long journey. A single delicious focus. Pinpoint focus.
“I will need to change your positioning slightly Petra. Given these slight irritations. You’ll be just a tad less comfortable than you have been. But over a period of time, it should reverse the effects on your nipples, and your clitoris...”
I introduced the word ‘clitoris’ deliberately and directly for the first time at this point, focusing Petra, knowing that just a single seed of guilt will have been planted. A distant thought in her head that somehow, it was her fault that this ‘reaction’ had occurred. The delightful sight for the first time of her face flushing up, slightly embarrassed about this ‘unexpected’ development.I smile, but not in a triumphant way. Tilting my head slightly, the tiniest hint of similarity in the way a mother might cast her eyes over her sickly child. Petra, already thinking that her abnormal sexual appetite was to blame for this. Yet another source of worry.
“Ohhhhhh it’s ok Petra, I know you’re a little embarrassed. There’s no need to be. I’m a professional remember. And above all, we’re all girls together. Let’s get you readjusted. The sooner we can reverse this the better, ok honey?”
My genuine, professional, sincere smile again. The blush across Petra’s face from the neck up, fading slightly.
“Y-yes... please yes let’s do that.”
FIVE - Creeping Addiction
I speak to Petra softly as I work. Working quickly, efficiently.
“I’m going to have to change these velcro restraints Petra. More for safety than anything. Once I change your position you’ll be under a little more physical strain and so the velcro won’t be sufficient. I’m going to change the velcro for, stronger, leather buckled straps ok sweetie?”
My same voice: calm, soothing as though I’m prescribing paracetamol or something. Petra’s head nodding taking it all in. Now she knows I am helping her over an unexpected, and difficult period. I change each strap, one at a time, ensuring each now is buckled more tightly than the velcro could be. All the time I am speaking to Petra.
“I do have to add two straps Petra. To your upper thighs. These will help once you’ve been repositioned on this rig... is that ok?”
I watch intently for her response. Her mind is wandering now, more than slightly worried. But she nods anyway.
“Y-yes, yes of course... whatever you think...”
I smile as I wrap one leather strap around the very top of her upper thigh and pull it tight, buckling it. Denting the soft thigh flesh. Then the other. The activity around her thighs, very near her new focus help maintain that focus. My fingers tips just dragging slowly around the thigh flesh and then down as I finish up. Another delightful slight as I see her thigh flesh twitch, every so slightly sending ripples across and down the pale white flesh.
“I usually ask a couple of questions around this time Petra, just observational questions. Just as an indication of the state of your mind.... is that ok sweetie?”
She just nods as I see her limbs, and sense her mind adjusting to the increased tightness of the replaced restraints.
“Do you know how long you have been here?”
Her voice is dry, almost expressionless in its tone, in response to each question. I can see her desperately trying to think before she answers.
“Uhhhh... I’m sorry, I have no idea.....”
“That’s ok.... its very normal to lose complete track of time. Do you know what day of the week it is?”
“Uhmmmmm, I came in on Tuesday... no, Wednesday.... or was it.... Thursday.... uhhhhh god... I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m sorry.”
An incredulity in her voice that she can’t remember. But the isolation, the restraint, the overall gentle denial of basic human rights were taking their toll. And now, the enforced focus on the developments of her intimacies.
“Petra, really.. it’s fine. This is not abnormal. It’s part of the process of separating you from your normal world. These are completely expected responses. In fact I would be slightly concerned if you responded in any other way. So relax.”
My Arabic-drenched voice only raising slightly an octave as I counter her alarm. And then back to normal. Neutral in tone. Matter of fact in content.
“OK, now you’ll feel some movement as the rig is adjusted. Don’t resist the way it pulls you. Just go with it. Relax and you’ll adapt to the new position more easily... ok honey?”
I move round to the front of Petra to look for a direct response. As it happens just in time to see her tongue swipe, slightly dryly across her lips side-to-side. Although I don’t show it, I am quite taken aback at the length, volume and width of her tongue. The first time my attention has been drawn to it. Inwardly I smile as I pick up the restraint rig’s remote control unit.
There’s a distant whirring sound. Like humming of motors. But it’s very distant. More noticeable is the gasp, and slight increase in Petra’s breathing as she is re-adjusted.
“It’s ok, Petra, I’m here; just relax.”
Deliberately I stay out of sight, watching as the rig tilts and moves and changes its general shape. Her arms straightened at the elbows and brought down slightly, then back, forcing the shoulders back. Not too much to cause pain. Just that gasp. And to ensure the breasts are thrust to their maximum volume through the bars, taughtening the flesh and tightening the already puffed areolas and nipples.
Her knees slightly bent, the lower legs brought slightly back and raised. At the same time, opened wider, spread at the knees and ankles. Not eighteen inches any longer, but thirty inches. The spread just enough of a strain, without any pain. Spread to expose her genitalia a little more. A complete joy to me when I watch her labia peeling open as her legs are spread. The bar at her hips pressing in a little more. And the introduction of a new bar. Right at the small of her back, forcing a dip, enhancing the upward thrust of her bottom, and the backward pout of her sexuality. Accentuating the “S” shape.
The long sigh of exclamation loud… filling the room.
“Yes.. I know Petra it feels a little awkward. You’ll get used to that though. Just try not to fight it and you’ll be fine.”
Petra swallows, her tongue fighting with her dry lips as she nods....
“Y-yes.. ok, ok.”
I stand back, in front of her, admire my handy work. Such is the intricacy and accuracy of the rig and laser diodes, that their points of focus have not moved at all. The lasers throughout the adjustment track and caress the clitoral hood and the nipples. An incessant, constant gentle working of a woman’s most sensitive and intimate flesh.
A wry smile on my face as I pull on a pair of surgical latex gloves that I have retrieved from my white coat pocket.
I’m going to apply some medicated moisturizer to the affected areas Petra. With that, and the air circulating more freely, they should settle... ok honey?”
I watch her visibly swallow some of that indignity again. But maintain my smile. There’s also the tone in her voice. Almost apologetic that she is inconveniencing me. A sure sign that she is baring some guilt now. That’s a good sign. She sighs, keeps looking down at the floor from her newly adjusted position.
“Yessssss, yes, I’m sorry.... for this.”
“Ssssssshhhh Petra... it’s ok, really it’s ok.”
At no point do I tell her it’s not her fault. I let her apologize. Let her feeling of being a burden deepen and work on her mind.
The moisturizer doesn’t have any affect on the laser beams. It won’t have any affect good or bad at all. Its application is just in essence, a ploy to, for the first time, physically manipulate Petra’s intimacies. NEVER stroking the very tips of her nipples. NEVER stroking the very tip of the clitoris. Just squeezing the puffed areolas and nipples slightly and applying a gentle twist, ensuring the slippery moisturizer rides through my latexed thumb and forefinger. I watch her gasping at the sensation. Knowing it’s sexual, but completely acting against that. Professional at all times. Then down to her clitoris. Massaging the moisturizer into the clitoral hood and against the sides of the clitoris shaft that can be seen. Never the tip. Tips of nipples and clitorises are so orgasmic. The areas and sides surrounding the tips simply feed a need. Feed the mind. Feed the most base need. Petra gasps, swallows and blushes again.
“Awwwwww sensitive Petra?”
She nods, but her bottom lip is quivering slightly. And she is blushing this time deeply.
“I know… it’s ok.... we’ll have you sorted out in no time... just relax now, Petra.”
Standing removing the gloves. Peeling them off. Running my eyes over Petra. Her position is no longer gently held. It’s a very unnatural one. Although not extreme. For a start, she is off the floor. She cannot feel solid floor under her. Just the tight leather straps holding her. Her femininity enhanced and yet a measure of her natural grace and elegance taken away from her. She’s aware of that. But she has the new focus now. And a troubled face as I discard the latex gloves.
“I have to leave you again for a little while Petra. We have this little hurdle, this little problem that we have to get over. But you understand that. You’ll be fine. I’ll come back in a little while and we’ll check progress. Give the moisturizer and the air a little time to circulate around you. I’m sure it won’t be too long before we can lessen the strain on the restraints.”
I’ve moved around to her front, crouching again on my high heels. Cupping her chin lifting it. Her eyes reluctant to look into mine and there’s a little quiver of her deliciously glossed bottom lip.
“Awww. I know honey, this isn’t what you were expecting. Well me neither. But we’ll get over it... ok?”
My smile drawing her eyes to mine. Definitely a woman now being drawn out, plucked out of her comfort zone. Teased and coaxed out of her perfect, and contented life. Such intelligence in those eyes. But that was good. I so like intelligence in my subjects. That way, she feels every nuance of every microscopic fibre of what is happening to her. A gentle squeeze on the chin as I let her head forward again and stand up.
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts Petra. Try not to dwell too hard, sweetheart.”
She nods and I know she will in fact dwell very much. Huge eyes looking a little teary and yet none have spilled. Too early for that. My high heels click the floor, the echo loud as I exit, the sliding door sealing back into place again once I am out.
I know now that the intensity of the existing laser will have been microscopically increased as per the program. And another two beams introduced. The newly introduced lasers, one each scanning, and working up and down the length of Petra’s labia. These will have the gradual effect of puffing up the flesh and sensitizing it. Whilst this is happening, the existing lasers will continue to peel back her clitoral hood, drawing out the clitoris. By the time the clitoris pops out it will be a very deep red/purple color and very swollen. Very sensitive and yet still untouched at the very, very tip.
Her areolas will have been puffed up and sensitized to almost catastrophic levels. The nipples themselves will have been coaxed, and drawn into teat-like sizes. Again very filled, very stretched, heavy. And that deep red/purple color. Almost ‘angry’ and yet necessary to feed the very basic need that will be growing inside of her.
But once again I digress. Long before the above state is reached, there will be that ‘throb’. And there will be a constant production and dripping of sexual discharge. Love juice as men often call it. Peasants!
At first she won’t even be sure that she can feel a throb, so distant will it be.Three ‘throbs’ in all. One each for the nipples. And one for the clitoris.It’s difficult to describe these throbs... even for an expert like me. The throbs emanate from the centers of the nipples and clitoris. But from deep at the very core of the base of each nipple and clitoris and traveling up towards the tip but fading short of the tip. Petra desperate for each throb to reach the tip but it never does. Not without the tips being caressed. These sensations are very alien to Petra. She has never experienced this ever. Or anything like it despite her relatively high sexual appetite and experience.
Each throb is continuous. Un-abating. And causes a deep, deep irritation, like a deeply focused itch that just cannot be scratched. Cannot be sated. That itch becomes pure sexual need. Pure desperation. By their very nature, the throbs create a sexual need. A basic, core need. Even a greed. An addiction. During an orgasm, these throbs are intensified and fed through the clitoris tip. All orgasms when controlled in this way are clitoral-focused. Pinpoint focus on the very tip of the clitoris. The resulting orgasm is a hyper-sensitized ‘explosion’ of undiluted pleasure.
Knowing that the ‘throb’ exists is the only given. The only definite result of using the lasers. What can never be predicted, or ever be the same from subject to subject, is the overall effect of the throb. Or the end result. Each ‘subject’ needs to be micro managed in every single way.
With Petra, it became clear, quite early on that a deep-set despair was setting in. Findingflaws in her that could be twisted, and used was fun for me as a Sadist. And relatively easy with her partial admission during one of our meetings, of her high sexuality. Or more to the point, her partial shame of that sexuality. That being a given since she went out of her way to disguise it. Hide it even. And then of course her motherhood and the deep deep joy she gained out of mothering a beautiful sixteen-year old almost dripped from her. A latent twisting point and not the only thing that dripped from her it seemed.
There was the focus on the unusual redness, and reaction within her intimacies. And within a few extra hours of the increased laser beam, and the two extra beams, Petra was becoming quite distressed. Very unhappy looking. Very occasionally she would emit a low guttural groan.
A slight color drain from her face making the striking contrast between her full, deep red lips even more so. A slight narrowing of her eyes. A slight loss of the normal sparkle in her eyes. She would lift her head, look forward then let it drop again. A deeply troubled look on her face. Like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.
The throbs were very obviously there at this point. Three throbs. Also there, written all over her face, the knowledge, the embarrassment, the guilt that this little unexpected ‘problem’, the one that the ‘head doctor’ was going to fix, wasn’t going to just miraculously disappear. She knew that the ‘irritation’ was growing, not diminishing. Was it connected with her secret high sexuality drive? Probably so in her own mind, adding to the despair.
Petra was intelligent enough also to know that this irritation was intensely sexual in nature. Sexual in effect. I do so love intelligent women. Especially the way they can come to conclusions, work things out, see the bigger picture even from points of duress.
I flicked one of the many cameras into life, to get a HD close up of Petra’s genitalia. Thighs nicely spread and out of the way. The clitoris had popped right out from under the hood now and was really quite red and inflamed. It wasn’t quite the size I wanted yet, but Petra would be very aware of the change. She would be able to ‘feel’ the size difference down there, in addition to the throb. It would add very much to the irritation for her. The surrounding tissue also very sensitive, very red. Her focus now very much singular.
The lasers on each labia had begun their work fairly swiftly. Rearranging the molecules, puffing up sensitive nerve endings. Each labia had become puffed, distended and extra sensitive. Their sensitivity would be feeding the throb and the need in the base of her clitoris. Petra would now be very sensitive to what was happening in and around her genitalia. Not least the collection of slippery discharge emanating from inside her, collecting around the shaft of clitoris that had formed with its increase in size... and down the length of each labia. Of added interest to me was the actual amount of discharge being produced. Copious amounts, collecting into two little drip points. Juices dripping from the base of the clitoris and also a stream of juice running down each labia, collecting at the bottom into a bigger drip onto the drain cover under Petra. Each pool of juice finding its own way over the edges of the drain cover, like thick mucous worms wiggling away. Petra was becoming an increasingly obscene sight. A highly desired sight.
Such amounts of discharge usually an indication of high sexuality. Partly known already of course due to her admission at our earlier meeting. A high sexual dependency. Mature women, like Petra, in normal life would keep such a trait well-hidden. And Petra did. Well-camouflaged within their perfect lives. Only the chosen ones would ever normally get to find out how ‘hot’ such women really are. I liked discoveries like this.
I watched this close up for quite some time. Mesmerized by it. It looked very much like the reddened, stimulated flesh was pulsating. Moving, as though it were alive. Indeed it was all moving. Petra’s inner musculature, tensing, relaxing trying to adapt to the stimulation she was feeling. Trying to absorb it. Even at this point she wouldn’t be able to think, or focus on anything except this stimulation. Only occasionally would a frustration show through. Mostly in inaudible mumbles, but then also in very lucid, groaning questions,
“Whhhhhhhhhhat issssssss happening to me? Godddddddd help me!”
The restraint now holding her rigid, tethered and any form of escape from the torment was absolutely out of the question. I would enlighten her at some point that God wouldn't be able to help her in this place. That she was actually beyond his help. But that little snippet could wait. I flicked to other views. Two HD close-ups of her nipples. I liked what I saw. Each nipple now looked almost black, but in actuality a deep blood-purple. The membrane stretched to the maximum. The nipple sacks heavy, grape-like. Each nipple almost bursting. The surrounding areolas, also puffed and raised above the level of breast flesh. These areas would also be feeding the clitoral throb with throbs of their own. That invisible string that all women have between nipples and clitoris.
At no time is Petra aware she is being manipulated in this way. This is the deception. This is the infliction of that deception, that guilt that something is wrong with her and it’s nobody’s fault but her own. And she increasingly thinks something is wrong with her. And because it’s sexual the guilt attached is palpable. Increasingly so. Add to the mix, the isolation, the restraint. All making the whole process go smoother. Time now had taken its toll on Petra. Nothing could be further from her mind now, than the normal, outside world. Her focus is singular and absolute. The throbs. The constant stimulation. The growing inability to think straight or logically. And yet her above average intelligence making her aware. Making her know, making her feel everything she is going through. Expressions on her face telling a story of slow decline. Slow withdrawal to an inner world.
Petra wasn't far from her future defining moment. She didn’t know that of course. Wasn’t aware really, of anything but that constant throb that deep, deep stimulation. She was aware that she could be possibly going mad. And in that she was partly correct. Partly mad, but never completely over the edge. When I swept back into the room, my walk was purposeful; long stiletto strides. The metal stiletto tips echoing in the eerie silence. As I walked in, directly in front of Petra, she lifted her head a little. Our eyes met very briefly, but then her head dropped again as she let out a low, long groan.
I kept my own tone its usual neutral, professional erring toward an accent of pity. As I spoke I pulled on a newly opened pair of surgical latex gloves.
“Ohhhhh Petra. We have a problem. I thought a few hours, and your little ‘problem’ would be cleared up. I think you know it hasn’t?”
I emphasize ‘her problem’ deliberately. Instill the fact that it is her problem. She nods her hanging head. Manages a response of sorts.
“I knowwwww.... w-what’s w-wrong with me?.... p-please tell me.”
I don’t answer immediately. I stand in front of her. Adjust the gloves, make sure they snap around my wrists.
“Myself and my colleagues are not actually sure what’s wrong with you, Petra. Obviously, something is wrong with you and we do need to deal with it. And we will deal with it, I assure you.”
The introduction into our secret conversations, of my colleagues at this point is deliberate and psychological. Up to now, Petra had thought it was just her and me. Slowly it dawns on her that others are involved, as indeed they are. My facility is genuine, legitimate and above board. A private clinic facility with many staff members. Some of these staff members of course have filtered through to the ‘inner sanctum’ as I like to call it. My most trusted, and talented friends. Indeed, most of my ‘work’ here would not be possible were it not for these trusted people. As realization dawns, between the throbs, and between her muscular twitches, she emits a noise. It’s not really a moan. Or a cry. or a sob. It’s kind of an amalgamation of all of them. A delicious concerto.
My voice remains totally calm, totally neutral, totally matter-of-fact.
“Sssssshhhhhhh Petra. I know. I know. Be assured honey, my team are verrry proficient in dealing with issues that arise during research. I mean.... this problem with you is verrrry unusual. Very strange. But, we have located the source. Or the reason behind this strange reaction to a simple research program. So, we can deal with it. It can be fixed Petra. It will just take a little longer. And it does change things slightly...... but we will get there sweety. Really we will......”
My voice trails off as I make to the back of her. Already she thinks she senses a light at the end of a the tunnel and her head lifts… even though she can’t see me, she speaks in broken, slight husky tones that drip with a sexual urge.
“Y-you said y-you’ve located the source... so... it can be put right... m-made better. Pleeease tell me it can be made better. Put right?”
“Yes, yes that’s right Petra. We know the source. We know the basic reasons. And we know how to deal with it....”
Petra’s head hangs again as she seems to let out a sigh of relief. I continue to speak.
“... just relax a second honey. You’ll feel my fingers just touching you down there, slightly. Just a second or two. I want to show you something. Hopefully make you understand. Is that ok Petra?”
Still my oh-so professional voice. And her almost sighing whimper in response.
“Yes.... yes ok.”
“Goood girl. Just relax now.”
I just draw the middle and index finger of one latexed hand down between the distended, slightly parted labia. Down the whole length, then back up again, ensuring that I scoop an amount of slippery, thick discharge. Her sex area moves as her muscles adapt and settle. And she gasps at first touch and then a little groan as my fingers work down then up the delicate sensitized intimate flesh.
“It’s ok.... it’s ok, all done.”
Pulling my fingers away and moving to the front of Petra again. Lifting her head gently by the chin with my free hand. As it rises, the first thing she sees is my other latexed hand. The coating of thick, muscousy discharge from her genitalia. And my thumb gently rubbing and grinding the two coated fingers, making the discharge swirl and stretch. Looking down at Petra, a blush of pure shame has risen from her neck and covered her whole face. Her eyes are wide, transfixed on the fingers, and her own discharge. I keep my voice the same. Pleasant. Professional. And yet still with that slight tone of pity for her.
“This discharge is sexual Petra. It’s the kind of discharge that is produced during sex. Even during foreplay. During sexual stimulation.”
I crouch down onto my heels so she has to look at me. My thumb and fingers still swirling the discharge emphasizing its slipperiness right in front of her eyes.
“That’s a problem Petra. This research wasn’t about sex, or sexuality. It was just research into human behavior. And now this problem has emerged.”
Petra moans again, as the throbs deep inside make her twitch.
Then she swallows deeply. Her attractive face now a mask of confusion, despair and need. She doesn’t manage an answer... at first. Just a forlorn nod. And then another question, as I hold her head up gently by the chin.
“Can’t... I j-just... g-go home. Leave here? Pretend it never happened?”
Her plea was genuine. Very sincere in tone. As though the thought had come to her in a flash. A distant split second flash of self-preservation. I look at her directly. Tilt my head, press my lips together before wording the answer.
“Ohhhhh Petra. That can’t happen. Do you remember when you signed the consent form to be part of this? Well, that consent form also places you in my care. It states that if issues or side effects arise, you are to be taken care of by me, here, until the issues are cleared up...”
I watch her taking in my words. The hope draining from her as my words filter in. The nod. The agreement. The understanding. But also, the humiliation. Not something a woman of her standing is used to. But the whole experience now, melting her mind.
“…But that’s all good, Petra. It covers you and it covers us here. It does mean your stay here will be extended slightly, but thank God for your three-month vacation from your work. It gives me and my team the time we need to correct the issues. So that is all good, isn’t it?”
At that precise point, her eyes open wide, bulge. And her lips part, ready to speak. Like a massive realization, or memory has hit her.
“My daughter... w-what about my daughter... c-can I see her?”
My response is measured; precise and spoken slowly so she can hear and understand.
“Petra, Stefani is fine. Perfectly fine. You remember, when we arranged your visit here, Stefani would stay with me. And be looked after. And she will. And yesssss, of course you can see her. I will have to arrange it, but leave that with me, just for now ok? Remember you did say you were pleased that she couldn’t see you like this, and that was before you reached this ‘state’?”
Accompanying my voice, a huge sincere smile at the same time as I remove the latex gloves and discard them. Petra nods, her eyes briefly lighting up again at the thought of being able to see her eighteen-year old daughter. But then that sparkle fading back again as the laser beams, and the throbs continue their work. Continue unabated.
I know, even at this point that Petra wants to orgasm. Needs to orgasm. Is desperate to orgasm. But she won’t talk about that. Won’t mention it. And the laser beams won’t allow it. Because the laser beams won’t caress the tip of her clitoris, or the tips of her nipples. Just the simplest of caresses would make her orgasm. But that wont’ happen. Not because she wants it anyway.
“We’re going to give you a little longer here, Petra. Just to see if there is a reversal in this reddening and discharge. Just to see if maybe we have been wrong in any way. That’s probably the fairest way to treat you, for now. Does that sound right to you, hmmmm?”
Petra, not really capable of articulate conversation, will be taking in just the important bits and filtering them. That she will stay like this for some more time. How much time? She didn’t know. Time didn’t mean anything to her now. Then nodding, mumbling her agreements as the deep, deep throbs continue, and continue and continue. Grateful for being treated ‘fairly.’
“That’s a goood girl. You try to relax now. Ride this ‘thing’ out. I will start to make arrangements for Stefani to come visit you sometime soon. I’m sure she wants to see Mum. All girls in their teens need their Mums. So that will be good for both of you.”
I give Petra a distant hope.... where really i know there is no hope. At least no hope of obtaining what she wants, in the way she wants.
I never stop watching Petra as I talk. The sexuality seeping from her every pore as her most sensitive flesh is manipulated by the laser beams. The clitoris gradually being coaxed out, made thicker, fatter, longer. The labia sensitized, puffed. The sparkle gone from her eyes, replace by a hunger. Her most sensuous, deep red lips parted, hanging in an almost pornographic pout. The constant stimulation does that to my women. Just one, selfish focus now. That throb. That need for orgasm. Such a deep desperate need.
“Just a couple of questions again... again observational, before I go Petra, ok?
She nods agreement but isn’t really taking anything in.
“Stefani’s date of birth, Petra, what is it?”
Petra lets out a sigh. It sounds like a sigh of impatience. But she answers immediately.
“…Uhhh, I don’t know... I can’t think of that right now...”
How dare I bother her with trivial questions about her daughter when she is focusing, deep, deep focusing on these throbs inside her! I smile.
“It’s ok Petra, it’s not important... just one more question... give me one or two presents you gave to Stefani for last Christmas?”
Petra lets out a deep, deep sigh that vibrates her lips as a particular throb feeds a growing addiction. She seems to take a second to think before answering...
“Oh Goddddddd, I don’t know.... d-do I have to remember now?”
“No, no not at all, Petra.... it’s fine really. I’ll leave you to it for a while.
I slide the door closed after one last look at the tethered, immobilized Petra, wallowing in her new focus; nothing else mattering, nothing else even on her radar, except the throb. The throb. The throb. Not even her daughter right now, at this particular moment in time, is as important as those throbs.
I watch and study Petra for another four or five hours. It would be safe, and fair to say that at the end of this time Petra’s state of mind had deteriorated immensely. Her deterioration is my progress. Close-up studies of her genitalia reveal a much thicker, longer clitoris protruding. Much like its own organ. Her labia, also larger.... and to all intents and purposes, extensions to The clitoris, since its stimulation by laser, feed right back through the nerve endings, right back to the pit of her clitoris. The central throb.
A magnified look on the clitoris - easily achievable via high-definition zoom on the camera, reveals it to be trembling. A constant, quivering accompanied by a constant ever-present dripping of her sexual discharge. A quite startling, almost alien appearance also apparent from the bottom ends of her labia.
Drip Drip Drip.
The drip also dribbling, and drizzling down the very thin membranic piece of flesh between her vagina and rosebud anus. The whole sexual region moving, pulsing, reacting to the deep, deep throbs. Alive. Hungry. Addiction setting in. Settling.
Full screen of Petra’s face reveal probably the truer state of her mental health. She is firstly covered in a thin film of sweat. Her hair has become tangled, and matted. In places it sticks to her face. Her eyes have become permanently narrowed, and glazed. Very distant. Nothing coherent coming from her eyes. Her cheeks expand and contract almost maniacally in time with how she takes deep breaths between the throbs. Her lips, very much like her clitoris, are trembling, quivering. Periodically she will suck her lower lip into her mouth, before any of the copious amount of drool can dribble over. Often she swallows the drool, her sweating, dripping throat rolling gently with the swallow. I purr as I watch. Delicious.
For long periods there is only the sound of her breathing. Not normal breathing, but a little vocal. As though her vocal chords are quivering with the rest of her. Occasionally though she will let out an amplified moan followed by sometimes incoherent mumbles, or indeed very lucid, very coherent ones.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..... PLEASSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEE GOD HELPPPPP ME.”
I tend to clench my own thighs at those coherent pleadings. Those ones are from the soul. The very pit of her being. If she were asked if she wanted to be released, or have an orgasm. Her choice would be immediate. “Orgasm.” Every single time, orgasm. Such is the efficiency of the developed technology at my facility.
Underneath, her breasts hang heavy. They also quiver. The delicate pale flesh quivering in time with the rest of her. And little beads of sweat, collected on the tips of those massively engorged nipples. Deliciously sensitive. Deliciously Large. Thick. Elongated. The membrane over each nipple stretched so thin that it is practically transparent. Little veins visible. And the blood. It’s almost possible, such is the transparency to see the dark red blood inside the nipples. As though they are little blood sacks. Except in this case, hyper-sensitive blood-sacks. The most delicate, and private feminine flesh pieces, hyper-vulnerable; the nerve endings bare; the doorway to the soul.
I study her for a little longer. Laugh softly to myself at my own ability to show some humor. In front of me is a panel housing a huge array of controls for amongst other things, the laser beams. One of the buttons is red. A stark contrasting red compared to the grayness of all other buttons. The button is labeled “*Cum Button*”. I caress it with a fingertip at the same time laughing again softly to myself. The simplicity of the button, and its label hide the absolute technology behind what it does. Once depressed, the button microscopically adjusts all active laser beams. Spreads the beams very slightly so that they caress the tips. In this case, the tips of Petra’s nipples, and clitoris, the labia’s beams would spread and intensify thus feeding the clitoris more.
To give you some idea of the effectiveness of this ‘treatment,’ by simply caressing one nipple tip, gently, with a fingertip, with no other contact to the second nipple or clitoris, is sufficient to give an intense, shattering orgasm. If both nipples, the clitoris and labia are caressed by laser beams together and in unison, as will now be the case with Petra, the resulting orgasm is very, very powerful. Detrimentally so. It’s not just a single massive orgasm. It’s multiple orgasms, all rolled into one. The length of orgasm controlled entirely by myself. The likelihood of Petra ‘recovering’ all of her wits, or recovering at all from such an orgasm is quite minimal. Just so there is no mistake or misunderstanding, I have no wish, or desire for her to recover at all. This journey is one way for Petra.
The orgasm produced by laser in this way is not like a normal orgasm. It is very pinpoint -focused. It emits from the base of the clitoris. It is a clitoris-focused orgasm. But more than that, it rises from the clitoris’ core to the very tip, once the tip is caressed. Once there, the orgasm explodes in intensity to such degrees that passing out often occurs. If I were to illustrate such an orgasm, it would be like a volcano - the volcano itself being the clitoris and with the throb in the base; this would be represented by red-hot lava that rises and rises and then explodes. Only I control this orgasm. The long-term effect of such orgasm, or a series of orgasms, is similar to drug addiction. Nothing else matters. Just the hit. An addiction in every sense of the word.
I laugh again softly at my own Cum Button joke as I casually depress the button, and wait for that split-second it takes to register on Petra’s face. Firstly, her eyes peel open wide, bulge actually as though about to burst. Then her lips… peel apart in a silent scream, just before her actual scream is emitted one long pitch punctuated only as she takes in deep breaths.
The quivering body and genitalia replaced to a violent shaking only controlled by the expert restraints applied, holding her at the mercy of the laser beams gently caressing her nipple tips. And her clitoris tip. And the labia. All throbs coming into one being fed into that clitoris base… into the “Mamma Throb.” That throb rising and rising then exploding as Petra’s head melts. Wave after wave after wave of intense, undiluted orgasm. I watch as she ‘squirts’ juices from her sex right back, a few feet from the rig. That impresses me. Impresses me a great deal. A squirting, addicted mom. Her eyes manic. Face twisted into ecstasy and agony. Fingers curling, stretching. Toes curling, stretching.
Time after time. That noise Petra made, not really human at all. Subhuman maybe. A woman at the height of sexual pleasure and beyond, but also in a pit of despair. And beyond a pit of despair as her orgasms overlap and work her into exhaustion. I look casually at the second hand sweeping round the face of the wall clock. Then back to her. She can’t stop orgasming. For two whole minutes she can’t stop.
Pitiful sounds. Her torso dripping with sweat. Her face barely recognizable as the same Petra from the perfect life. Lips quivering eyes wide as wave after wave of intense orgasm courses through her..... then...... NOTHING! As I press the button again. The orgasm stopped immediately in its tracks as the lasers revert to normal operation. Petra panting, crying. Limp on the rig.
The thing about such intense orgasms is that often, in their aftermath remains a seething, invasive guilt. Especially orgasms given by me. To my chosen ones.
Petra sobbing. Pitiful sobs as she comes down. The sobs only intensifying the further she comes down. Not the other way round. That will be the guilt setting in. Pure, almost putrid guilt. And shame. There is an amount of time between coming down from such an orgasm and when once again that deep, deep throb begins again. The cycle restarting. A vicious circle. In that time the absolute guilt will do its work, reducing her even more.
By the time I re-enter the room, Petra’s sobs have ebbed a little. There are still wracking, heaving sobs. She will have never experienced a depth of despair like this one. Although, little does she know the depths to which she will be taken either.
I have taken off my white medical coat. For Petra, her part in my ‘research’ is over. I am in an expensive designer, fitted suit with heels, hose and distinctive perfume that will come as a welcome reminder of the outside world to Petra. But in complete, utter contrast, there is a slight change in my tone of voice. More formal. More detached. When Petra needs desperately to hear a friendly voice. A sympathetic voice, when she needs to see an encouraging smile, she won’t.
But I don’t speak to her immediately. My heels click the floor so she knows I am there. Her head is hanging. Exhaustion plays a big part. Her breaths are deep, wheezing from her chest. Just about now, the reemergence of those distant, distant throbs. I look at her tethered flesh, satisfied with what I see.
“You are an intelligent woman, Petra. I don’t need to tell you that there is a big problem here. You do know that, don’t you?”
My voice clear, with a stern, professional edge. Completely a different tone to the one previously used. Petra manages to nod her head. Lifting it slightly, then lowering it.
“Yesssss... I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
Another sob racks her as she finishes talking.
“With immediate effect, I am removing you from this research program.”
As my words sink in, she raises her head. Face a mess. Mascara streaks down her cheeks. Lipstick cracked and chipped away by her teeth in her most desperate moments of need and despair.
“Can I g-go home... t-to my daughter... my b-beautiful daughter?”
Genuine, deep, soul-searching pleading in her eyes. My face remains expressionless. Totally unfeeling. Yet my eyes piercing hers, looking deep into her.
“Look at you Petra. Look at the state of you. You’ve turned my research program into a sexual trip for yourself. You’ve made an obscene ‘mess’ all over my floor. You’ve used my facility and this program to obtain sexual gratification in the most depraved, obscene way. At least that’s the way it looks. Our equipment measured a two-minute long, intense orgasm for god’s sakes! Two minutes of solid absolute orgasm! There is most definitely an underlying problem that has been exposed by my research. I remind you, I still have a duty of care to you. Issues that are exposed during the program have to be dealt with. Resolved. I simply cannot let you go like this. It just is not going to happen.”
Her eyes glaze over as I talk to her. Back into that despair state. The blame filtering into her psyche, and resting there. The application of guilt, progressing apace. And those re-emerging throbs. Very important to her now. Helping to soften the hit of guilt and shame a little.
“Let me just ask you something Petra. Tell me, what you think your best physical attributes are? Just tell me, off the top of your head....”
She lifts her head again. Closes her eyes, blows her lips out as she feels another throb travel from the pit of her clitoris and up, just falling short of the tip. The all-important tip.
“I h-have good legs... breasts.... bottom. I like my lips too.....”
Her voice has a broken, but husky edge to it. I just look at her, nodding my head with each attribute she mentions. In her eyes, genuine interest in divulging this information driven by that exposed sexuality and need.
“Yes Petra, yes, I agree with all those things. And there are probably more besides. But now tell me..... Your daughter’s date of birth? Your last Christmas present to her? Who is her class teacher? What is her favorite color? Her favorite pop band?.....”
The blankness over her face. A palpable realization, a knowledge that she doesn’t know the answer to the questions. Renewed shame. Not just shame, but deep palpable shame. Another stream of tears spill from both eyes. It’s not her fault she can’t remember, but she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t realize that her single focus, that single focus, that throb... and that intense beautiful, chaotic orgasm are her life from here on in. She can’t answer me. Her head just moves slowly side to side before hanging down again. Another groan. Another throb.
“You see Petra, I also have a duty of care to your daughter. Yes your ‘beautiful’ daughter. Questions exist, at least in the immediate future of your fitness to be a mother. Your ability to answer simple questions about your own daughter appears to be non-existent. I simply cannot allow you any contact with Stefani until your issues have been dealt with.”
Her head remains hanging but she cries out in despair. A deep, gut-wrenching cry. I like that sound. A grown, mature, intelligent woman crying so bitterly in despair that the hairs on the back of my neck spring to life.
“Y-you can’t d-do this to me. T-this has to be illegal. Against the law.”
She doesn't really believe what she is saying. The throbs are taking over again.
“Oh but, yes I can Petra. The law is very much on my side. My research programs are very much operated within the law. As are the measures in place for side effects, issues found and uncovered during the research. The consent form is a legal document. A binding one. You need help Petra. Serious professional help. You are now my problem and I intend to solve that problem.”
My tone unfeeling, cold all the way through.
“C-can I see Stefani.... p-please just a short visit.”
Once again that desperate, guttural pleading that I liked so much. I don’t immediately reply. Leaving it for what must seem like an age.
“Once you have been moved to the other place. Once I can see your willingness to accept you have a problem. Once I can see your willingness to cooperate. Once I can see progress in your rehabilitation, then, yes I will arrange for you to ‘see’ Stefani. You won’t be able to speak to her. Or her to you. Or touch her. Or have any contact at all, but I will arrange for you to ‘see’ her. Do you understand, Petra? Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
Her eyes brighten again, with that little bit of hope. Any hope in between those throbs. Any slight light of hope in that pit of despair.
“Yes... yes... yes, thank you so much, yes, I understand...”
Genuine gratitude in a broken voice. There’s nothing like a mother’s love. A wonderful tool to create devastation in that same mother’s life.
“.... B-but what other place do I have to be moved to? I d-don’t understand....”
“Just details Petra, just details. You cannot stay in this area of the clinic. It’s not equipped to house someone like you. In the first place I have to Section you under the Mental Health Act and you will be moved to the secure area of the clinic where you can be taken care of and rehabilitated.”
Another cry of despair as what i am saying filters in. I let that sink in, let her respond.
“I’m being ‘locked up’? B-but what about my house, my job..... my life?”
Such gradual, deep shocks to the system often incur flashbacks. Memories. In this case Petra’s memories of her former, perfect life. Sincere bemusement in her voice punctuated by gasps every time a throb rippled through her. My voice a little sterner.
“You have issues Petra. Problems. You can’t seriously expect to mix with ‘normal’ people surely? Regarding your ‘life’ - legalities will be taken care of in due course. That just ensures your finances and property are taken care of. Also a letter of resignation from your position with the company that employed you. This way it can be done quietly with no fuss. This is to save you from the embarrassment of doing it publicly. It also saves the company from the embarrassment. Everything hush-hush. So much better for everyone.”
Petra struggling to take it in. Finding it hard to focus as the throbs increase in volume and intensity again. Her lips blow out as she tries to absorb it. Inside herself hoping that just one of those throbs makes its way, all the way to the tip of her clitoris. She finds if she focuses, just on the throb, she can get the tiniest micro-shots of pleasure that remind her of that mind-blowing orgasm. Yes that’s what she felt she had to do. What she must do. Focus.
“.... One other thing. A letter of consent to the placement of your daughter into my care for an unlimited time. You need to sign this. Obviously its for an undisclosed time simply because we do not know how long your rehabilitation will take. It ensures that Stefani is properly looked after. Taken care of at least until she is of adult age. I assure you, my credentials are impeccable on teen-care.”
I watch the words filter in, taking longer than normal due to her preoccupation with the throbs.
“Do you understand, Petra. This is just legal requirements. Nothing for you to worry about, ok?”
She blows those gorgeous full lips out again before hanging her head.
“Yessssss for god’s sakes yessssss yes I understand.”
For the first time, a greedy impatience over her exhausted, weary face.
“Oh there is no god here Petra. Only I can help you in here.”
I can’t help but smile at my own little joke even if it is coldly, cruelly delivered,
SIX - Beyond The Point Of Return
The changes applied to intimacies during my laser ‘treatment’ is irreversible. Petra’s clitoris will remain 3.0 cm long and 1.0 cm in diameter. Quite a catastrophic, and visible change from its normal discreet, hooded existence. Her nipples will remain 3.5 cm long and 2 cm in diameter at the tip. Between the tips and the bases of the nipples they are bulbous, fat and dark purple, grape-like. Likewise, the labia fattening, distending also a permanent feature of Petra now. Also irreversible is the hypersensitivity applied to these organs. That will not go away. Either with time, or body-clock intervention. The ‘throb’, also now a distinct, important and permanent focus in Petra’s life. Guilt, and shame also a creeping, and increasing hell for Petra. The ‘focus’ the guilt and shame would eventually shift, but remain palpable. Almost putrid on her psyche. At the moment that guilt concentrated on the losing of her daughter, and the intense pleasure of orgasm. All in the mix. All working to soul-destroying effect. I liked that!
“Petra. I’m going to have to take you off this rig now. But it will have to be done slowly so that your circulation can return to normal. Also..... there have been unexpected changes, to your intimacies during your time here. The changes are unexpected and unexplainable which adds to the issues we have to resolve. You need to see what’s happened to you. You will probably be shocked by what you see. But you need to see, to understand that the problems we have to resolve are complex...... do you understand, Petra?”
I am in front of her crouched down, on my heels again. I know those distant throbs will be two or three seconds apart and I know her focus will be on them. But she will hear my voce and understand the words. An example of the multitasking women are good at. It doesn’t escape my notice, the way Petra’s impressive tongue slides out, across her lips and the way her eyes linger on my arched feet in high heels. Pour over the sheer, silky smooth nylon sheathing my own, not badly shaped lower legs. I don’t comment on it at all. Or even give away that I have noted it. I simply stay in position a little longer. Let the vision feed into Petra’s psyche.
“Yes... yes, I understand.”
“Just relax as you feel the rig move. I will readjust you bit by bit. It will then be stopping to adjust the restraint. Effectively as of......... two hours ago, you have been Sectioned. You are in effect a person with mental health issues, so you have to remain restrained. But you do understand that.... don’t you?”
Pouring the despair and hopelessness into her. Piling it on top of the guilt, the shame. And all the time that ever increasing, ever important focus. The throbs... all being fed into the very deep base of her quivering distended clitoris. There’s a groan, or something like a groan, from the pit of her stomach as my words filter in.
“Good girl. It’s important you understand the processes you are going through. Everything that’s happening to you. It can’t be easy, losing your beautiful daughter this way. She has been asking abut you, you know?”
I watch carefully, study Petra’s reaction. She absorbs the throbs, focuses on them. And yet my own ‘understanding’ and ‘concern’ just a mask for the deliberate psychological torture I apply with a chilling expertise. She wracks a sob, as much as the restraint allows. And a noise comes from her. Dripping with despair, almost like a ‘grieving.’
“It’s ok though. I told her you’d gone away for a while and would be back, eventually.”
And then ‘hope.’ False hope. The noise in response to that a little more uplifted with the hope. She absorbs throb after throb focusing trying to get the most from it. Always falling just short of that earth-moving orgasm.
“B-buttttt I d-do g-get to see her.... r-right?”
Her lips puffing out. Eyes still pouring over my legs and shoes.
“Ohhhhhh yes Petra. I told you... if I see progress, if I see cooperation you will be able to see Stefani. Absolutely I promise that.”
Sincerity and authority in my voice. I stand slowly letting Petra’s hungry eyes follow the line of my legs under the tightness of my skirt. I turn to one of the invisible cameras and do the “cut” sign across my throat, indicating that the laser beams can now be turned off. Their work has been done. At least for the time being. This part of the deception is all but complete.
I relieve the restraint via remote control. First the strain on her body. The slight concave arch in her back. The bar at the base of her spine lifted a little. A gasp of relief from her lips. The arms allowed to come more forward relieving that strain. Another gasp. The breasts becoming slightly less stretched, more hanging. The legs slightly less bent but kept spread wide. Another gasp of relief. The whole rig being brought more upright and Petra into a more naturally upright position. Her striking red hair slightly matted and now her whole expression a complete stark, almost frightening change from the attractive, aloof beautiful composure of how she used to be in her perfect life.
“There, that must be a little better for you Petra?”
I can see the continued focus on the throbs as she nods almost vacantly. The focus is there in her eyes.
“Mmmmm yes.... yes, thank you.”
The thanks pouring from her lips very sincere, heartfelt and yet her focus, her true focus never changing. The throb. Three throbs mingling into one deeper throb. In the very deep base of her clitoris. She can’t see herself at this point. Bars and restraint prevent that. But I am not ready for her to see herself just yet.
“I have to put a body belt on you Petra, so that I can take your arms down and secure them to the belt ok?”
She knows the word ‘cooperation’ and the word ‘progress’. These are fresh in her mind. She is also still part-tranced so this too is aiding her cooperation. At the same time the part-trance will be cushioning, just a little, the actual despair she is suffering. Soon I will de-trance her. Take her out of it and watch as she sinks those extra notches.
“Y-yes, yes I understand.”
“Good girl. I’m going to put the body belt on first and then release each arm one at a time. Just your wrists will be secured to the body belt ok?”
I spot that glaze in her eyes as her focus is concentrated on yet another throb.
“Mmmmmmmmm yesssss yes ok.”
My voice for once dropping slightly, to an encouraging, crooning syrupy Arabic thickness.
I work meticulously. Sliding the wide, soft leather body belt around her middle and securing it with double buckles. The belt has the deliberate effect of cinching the waist and flaring the hips. The wrist restraints, just single stainless steel hoops are located slightly behind each hip, and high which results in the wrists being placed back to the restraint and the elbows bent, shoulders back making her 38d cup breasts prominent. I make a slight adjustment to her legs, spreading them wider via the remote.
Petra wallows in her throbs as with the same remote control, I bring down huge mirrors from the ceiling. The mirrors are magnification mirrors. Manufactured to exacting standards. She’s not really aware. Not really compus-mentus about what is happening in effect right in front of her eyes. The angle of the sexual discharge drips altered now. The drip from a single point. From the shaft of her distended clitoris and down into the drain beneath her.
Drip Drip Drip.
I make sure the mirrors are correctly aligned and placed before I break into her world with my voice.
“Petra, I want you to look at yourself. Just look directly in front at yourself...ok?”
There’s possibly two or three seconds where her eyes become lucid and they focus on the mirrors. Flitting over the surface taking in the vision she eventually realizes is herself. I watch carefully, every reaction every nuance. The eyes settling on her nipples. First one then the other. Huge purpled nipples. Raised reddened areolas. Then down, to her exposed sexuality. A section of the mirror super magnified so the minute detail cannot escape her. Extended clitoris. Thick, long, protruding and dripping with her own thick, copiously produced juices. Her fattened, distended labia also thickly coated with her own self-produced ooze. It’s just a frozen moment in time. Maybe three seconds. Maybe four as she takes it in, realizes it is herself she is looking at and then visibly, recoils in the horror of what she sees. Her face a mask of disgust, and revulsion. Her lips parting, peeling from whatever is left of gloss on gloss.
“....W-w-what has happened to me... w-what ISSSSS happening to me?”
The self-revulsion, the self-loathing dripping from her broken voice. The wrist restraint ringlets chinking together as she tenses, tries to move her arms to no avail. Her eyes roaming up to her thick, long, teat-like nipples, eyes opening wider, starker as she takes them into her psyche.
“I know Petra. I wish you didn’t have to be shocked like this. But it couldn’t be avoided. You had to see what you have become. In answer to your question... I don’t know. We don’t know. It’s obvious you are not normal. It’s obvious we can’t just release you. Even more obvious that you cannot be reunited with your daughter at this moment in time......”
My voice trails off. She is hearing what I am saying. Every word. Every meaning, but her eyes are fixed on her dripping sex. So crude. So obscene. And that part understanding now, of those throbs inside her. She can see the musculature movement making it seem like her sex is alive. The roll of the flesh. The pulsating as each throb winds its way through inside her intimacies.
“I’m disgusting.... obscene..... worse.”
All the time her eyes don’t leave the visions in the mirrors. It’s like she cannot take her eyes away. What she says she truly feels and yet she also feels the need of the throb. The hunger. And the guilt and the shame. At this time,
Scritch Scritch Scritch
on her tethered wide upper thigh, bringing her down, out of the part-trance. No words to acknowledge that. Just the widening of her eyes as a deeper shock and despair set it. All the time my voice neutral, filtering in.
“Good girl. And yes, yes you are disgusting. You are obscene. Probably more besides. But, like I told you, our intention is to fix that. Fix you. Everyyyyyyyything will be ok Petra, everything.”
My own voice dripping into her. Agreeing with her own assessment of herself and yet caressing her also. The shock of seeing herself has taken something else out her. The shock is evident, palpable across her face. But also, something else, another tiny little bit of who she was has been taken away. As I retract the mirrors back into the ceiling, I see her focus return to the throbs. Her fleshy tongue lashing across her full lips.
Focus Focus Focus. Throb Throb Throb.
Trying to get the most from them. Greedily doing so. I step back, enjoy this effect for some time before I break into her world again.
“Petra, I have to get you ready for moving to the secure unit. That means we have to leave this room and go to another. We have to get you covered up, made a little more presentable for the hand-over. Do you understand?”
My language now deliberately altering... referring to, pointing more towards her ‘incarceration’ than a clinical environment. This is designed to feed her psyche. Destroy a little more of her old self. I know she will be taking in every word, computing it simply because she is the ideal, perfect ‘subject.’ Intelligence as well as Beauty. The ability to know and understand perfectly, everything that is happening to her despite her diminishing mental state. And now, no part-trance to cushion these psychological blows. The sadist in me loving that.
“Yes... yes I understand.”
A delicious acceptance in her voice. Acceptance dripping with a self-loathing and guilt. And in the background always that
Throb Throb Throb!
SEVEN - Rubbered
There was a soft, utter bemusement in Petra’s voice as she looked at herself in the mirror.
“B-but, why do I have to have, this on..... why?”
She had been taken to the preparation room. Another basically isolated room used for this very purpose. The whole of one wall was a mirror. A curtain existed for whenever required. In this instance that wasn’t the case. Petra could see herself, and the process being carried out. I wanted that very much to be the case.
She had been taken from the abject horror of the rig room, to the preparation room still cinched at the waist. Wrists secured to the back of her hips to the body belt. At first she had been barely able to stand and had stumbled like a long-legged bambi trying to readjust her footing. Just getting used to standing again. Her stance and gait had been altered a little by the changes between her legs. Once in the prep-room the body belt had been removed and discarded. Its work had been done.
I had fitted her with a one-piece transparent latex body and head suit. Slightly thicker latex than that used in surgical gloves. The suit designed to be a tight second skin fit. One that once fitted, bonded to the skin effectively becoming the skin. Completely encasing feet, legs, hips, torso and up over the neck and shoulders. Encasing her head but with her plume of red hair erupting from a tight hole in the crown. The edge of the latex just rimmed above her eyebrows and circling her face and around. Flattening the ears to the sides of her head and with just two small ear holes to allow each to maintain a reduced hearing capacity. The latex then wrapping down around her jaws, around her chin edging just in the dimple of her chin. Her face framed, bizarrely in glossy see-through rubber.
Arms completely covered except for her hands. The latex sealed to her wrists just above her hands. This latex suit, a permanent “under-seal,” as it were. The one and only seam running up her back, but sealed and closed smooth. The whole fit, totally skin tight giving her complexion a strangely glossy sheen and with her face exposed, stark and pale. Vulnerable even.
Indeed the sight of herself in this under-suit would create bemusement. Not least because of the reinforced holes, at the nipples through which, each of her distended swollen teats had been prized and gently pulled until they popped out into the open air. The circumference of the holes deliberately smaller than that of the nipple base so that it was constricted, squeezed ever so tightly. A further feed for the nipple throbs. The transparent latex settling then, pressing to the raised areolas emphasizing them more.
And between the legs. The suit which had appeared sealed but which in fact was slit, from the area just above the crotch right round to her anal rose. This slit prized open and her labia gently squeezed through, pulled so the very bases were constricted by the closing of the skin tight reinforced crotch latex and left to hang under her. And finally, the clitoris.... ever so gently prized through, pulled and tweaked through so that it protruded, erect. And again the latex settling, constricting the genitalia out. Pressing into her flesh and the extended, fleshy bits outside, exposed. The clitoris and labia the most alarmingly obscene sights as they continually dripped Petra’s juices.
Drip Drip Drip
Throb Throb Throb
“Hmmmmmm, Petra... this is part of the diagnosis and treatment. It’s a little complex to go into fully. Basically though it’s about sealing everything that’s good inside. That is inside the latex.....”
I run my fingertip over her smooth latexed tummy as an illustration to her that she isn’t all bad, or wrong. A very soft, almost tender run of the finger.
“....And everything that’s bad is kept outside so that it can be dealt with.....Can you see what I mean Petra?”
To illustrate that I run one single finger around the sides of one of her fattened, thick nipples, amplifying the throb she feels from there. Her pretty face, distressed face, partly framed in latex wincing. Lips puffed out. The use of the word ‘bad’ planting another seed in her head that this sexuality, the sexuality she is replacing all her focus on now, that IS all her focus, is bad and needs to be exposed in order to be dealt with. She hangs her head slightly, but nods as well, that she understands.
“Good girl Petra. It’s always much, much better if you understand. Besides this is just the under-seal. This under-suit will stay on you, keeping you ‘fresh,’ like a shrink-wrapping, for your whole stay here. Petra, you do want to cooperate , don’t you?....”
Cooperation is already ingrained into her substantially deteriorating mind. Cooperation means that she will at the very least ‘see’ her beautiful daughter. Even her receding mind, ever focusing on that ‘throbbing’ won’t let go of the mother in her. Motherly love. The maternal instinct. Something like basic animal instinct. And yet something also able to create a soul-destroying despair so palpable that it drains that very spark from what were once bright, huge pools of eyes. My voice caressing again. Justifying the bizarre look and feel.
“Mmmmmm y-yessss, yes I ‘have’ to cooperate, have to.”
I smile, stroke her tummy again. All smooth and latexed. Just under the glossy orbs of her breasts, sheathed in skin-like latex, and with those deep, angry looking purple nipples. All big fat and throbbing. All the time throbbing and exposed. No latex shrink-wrapping for them. And a glance down, between her long, long shapely legs. Labia distended, fat, hanging, red puffy, very sensitive. Feeding, always feeding the clitoris. Her clitoris also protruding, erect, purple... the same purple as her nipples and the membrane so stretched that it’s almost transparent. No latex shrink-wrapping for her down there either. The centre point of her focus. The centre of her focus. Ever increasingly so. All her bad bits exposed. Left out of the comforting latex shrink-wrapping, and dripping.
Drip Drip Drip
“Yes that’s right Petra. You ‘have to.’ You have to cooperate. So let’s finish getting you ready. The secure unit already knows you’re coming.....”
My smile to her is sincere. Although it is a sincere smile in that I am sincerely elated to be witnessing the breakdown of a mature, intelligent woman. A mother. I clench my thighs but this doesn’t register on my face at all.
Approximately one hour later, Petra was ready for the transfer. The hand-over to the secure unit. Her new home. The vision now changed. Complete.
Totally sheathed in smooth, shiny black latex. The second layer stretched over the first forming a total outer skin. A seal. This hooded cat-suit complete with hands and individual fingers. The latex so tight, so fitting over each finger that the wrinkles of flesh over each knuckle clearly defined, compressed through the shiny blackness of the latex. The suit fitting every contour, every curve of Petra’s statuesque form. And ending in a wide, double latex collar that is fitted tightly around her neck.
Her ‘bad’ extremities still protrude, exposed. A genuinely unsettling sight. Three points in an otherwise smooth, shiny, perfect package, from which such desperately sensitive, stretched, almost transparent, erect, intimate pieces of flesh protrude. Bad flesh! The nipple holes and crotch areas of the latex suit, designed and engineered in such a way that the protrusions are maximized. Totally exposed. Totally vulnerable.
Petra wasn't really recognizable as Petra any more. The second part of the suit, a full head and face hood, secured to the collar of the main cat suit via a delicate zip, secured with a tiny gold padlock at the back of her neck. The hood tight fitting to the head and face. Ears sealed flat to her head. Tiny holes only for further impaired hearing. Her hair again protruding, erupting from the crown, the stark redness a complete contrast to the shiny glossy blackness of the suit. Slightly in front of the hair eruption, towards the front of her head, a fixed gold-threaded nipple. Like something that something else could be screwed to. A strange sight. Almost alien.
The black latex hugging and settling into all of Petra’s facial contours and features. There were eyeholes. reinforced in the same way as the nipple and crotch areas, so that the rubber pressed into her face surrounding the eyes, making them seem like they bulged out, big, stark. And her eyelashes, thick and curled. Batting up and down very quickly as she attempted to adapt and absorb these new sensations. Any communication through her eyes amplified. Accentuated. Little securing points in the rubber surrounding her eyes, for the addition of blanking rubber pads, or differing degrees of transparent latex film in order to debilitate, or deny any sight. The latex compressed over her nose. Two tiny nostril holes that housed little nipples inserted into the nostrils to aid her breathing. The hood shaped around her mouth, allowing her full, attractive lips to protrude out exposed. Again the rubber pressing into the area around her mouth making the lips pout in a more exaggerated fashion. Full, pouting, ‘bad’ lips.
The perfect, line of Petra’s long, long legs had not been spoilt at all by the inclusion of the boots. Far from it, they had been enhanced and extended by the tight -fitting, lace-up boots which edged tightly to just on, or minutely below the knees. The boots, with seven-inch heels, forced her feet to arch. The arch, maximized since there was no platform sole to lessen it. The heels very thin, metal-tipped forcing a careful balance and the height such that her weight was shifted, and forced forward to the balls of her feet. The stance of the boots ensured an accentuated arch of the back, a splay of the magnificently long tapered legs as she tried to adjust and get used to them and a delicious ‘thrust back’ of her bottom.
Her task of adjustment was not made easier. A reinforced latex body-belt, much like the one she wore earlier had been fitted around her middle, except more subtle, more organic. Acting as an over-corset, cinching her waist, and also housing the rings to the rear of her hips, to which her wrists had been secured via clips in the wrists of her cat-suit. These securing points ensured her elbows bent and pointed backwards, her shoulders forced back, heavy latexed breasts thrust forward. I had covered the mirror for this fitting, choosing for the reveal so that her view of herself would create a further shock to her system.
Correct hand-over apparel. Head to toe latex. Hooded. Extreme heels and restraints. There was a further requirement which I had decided to leave out for her trip to the secure unit. It had been agreed that ankles would be hobbled via a chain to restrict the steps taken.This would re-enforce the restraint psychologically. My idea actually. But in Petra’s case, well, I had decided to leave this out for reasons to be revealed.
“O-oh..... my god! L-look at me!
The shock was instant, palpable. A slight miss-step on the heels. I steady her by holding one elbow firmly. 5’10” In bare feet, 6’5” in seven-inch heels, Petra dwarfed my relatively diminutive height even in my own heels. The difference was Petra was in the descendancy. I in the ascendancy.
“Yes Petra.... look at you indeed. In my secure unit, this is how ‘sexual offenders’ are dressed and presented....”
I talk slowly letting my words and tone filter in. Petra is no longer a ‘volunteer’ and she has been sectioned under the mental health act. I had re-glossed her lips and so their movement in contrast to the surrounding black latex is highlighted.
“B-but.... I’m n-not a sexual offender.......”
Her voice trails off in agonizing despair.
“Well Petra, you haven’t committed any sexual offenses that we are aware of. But, your problem is sexual. Clearly sexual and its how you’ll be treated until we get to the bottom of all this. Like an offender. A sexual offender. The sooner you understand, the sooner rehabilitation can progress.”
She lets out a little guttural cry of despair as I continue to speak.
“Take a look at yourself Petra. Your femininity enhanced to the maximum. Shrink-wrapped in a latex double skin.... all of your good bits accentuated and sealed in. All of your bad bits also accentuated but left exposed so they can be dealt with...”
Petra just takes the vision of herself in. The boots enforcing a splayed leg stance due to the sheer height of the thin stiletto heels. Those same boots so accentuating her long shapely legs. The overall vision, like something from another world. A creature even. Every so often this ‘creature’ dripping from between the legs. That dripping and the sheer slippery wetness of her exposed genitalia a permanent feature. Her voice broken, like that of her personality.
“Y-yes, yes of course.”
She can’t take her eyes off herself in the mirror. Even sliding out her tongue, across her lips side to side as another now familiar, welcome, needed throb works its way through her.
“Come Petra, its time for your transfer to the secure unit.”
The secure unit was housed on the lower of the sub-level floors. A short walk to the elevator from the preparation room and then down two levels. I had deliberately left the hobble chain between Petra’s ankles off. The reason for this clear. It took a little while for her to get used to the seven-inch heels, but apart from that, with the lack of hobble, and with no restrictions in her steps, it was possible for her to discover the ‘friction’ her labia and clitoris gained and she would search for that friction with every step. Every little bit of friction, emphasizing the throbs. Dripping labia rubbing together feeding up into the base of the clitoris. The clitoris itself moving with every step, the blood pumped to its tip with every step taken. Her latexed breasts shrink-wrapped and yet moving slightly, sending every small vibration up into the base of her nipples.
My point being... after she adapted to the heels, and became used to her steps, her strutting, swaggering walk, wrists pinned to her hips, made her look like a hungry sexual predator. She wouldn’t be able to help that. She would be quite at the mercy of her own enhanced sexuality. Quite obscene when the expressions on her face accentuated this also. Lips moving, parting. Tongue sliding out and across her deep red lips every time she felt that throb, accentuated with friction.It amused me. It speeded up the drip drip drip from her sexuality. And a little, dirty groan from deep inside the pit of her stomach.
“Good girl.... see I told you you would be back in high heels before you knew it. AND, you are so good in them, a natural. My little treat for you. I never break a promise you know.”
I spoke as we made our way to the lift. Quite an imposing sight. This tall, tethered, latexed wrapped woman, making her way with long, deliberate strides. Me gently holding her by the elbow. Supporting her as she made her predatory way with long purposeful strides. Her basest, latent sexuality on display.
“Mmmmm these heels are so high....I never thought I’d be able to walk in heels this high.”
Her voice is more a lazy, sex-dripping groan than a definite tone. I laugh softly.
“Awwwww Petra, it’s surprising what can be achieved with the right inspiration. You look absolutely stunning... even as a sexual offender....”
My voce trails off and we reach the elevator. We wait a few seconds then into it and down the two further levels. Really, down to the bowels of the building.Petra falls quiet, the sexual offender tag just massaging her psyche, and her despair. Just the odd creak and squeak of the latex and click of the metal tipped heels of her boots.
The lift opens directly into the reception area of the secure unit. This doesn’t resemble a boutique hotel like the research floor. Far from it. This is a secure unit in the truest, basest sense of the word. A solitary wooden desk and high backed chair, in front of floor to ceiling bars that sliced the corridor in two. The space in front of the barred area a basic reception. And then the area behind the bars. A dank foreboding area very dimly lit and with lower than normal ceiling clearance making the vacuum inside seem more foreboding.
No white walls down here. All black and with exposed pipe-work and electric cables running down the length of the ceiling. The vacuum more palpable down here. More acute. The hustle and bustle of the main public clinic seeming so far away. Even the silent but bright research area, seeming like it’s a different building far away. A different planet even. It might as well be.
Shuffling Petra into the reception areas, she would have felt it all close in around herself. The deep, deep intimidating presence of something resembling ‘evil’. It was meant to feel like that. It’s a heavy, acute thing that closes in around anyone who comes down here. I personally don’t spend much time here. My staff here are experts at what they do. I pay them well to do what they do. What they do down here is not described anywhere in the Geneva Convention.
At first there is no one behind the desk. After a few minutes, the sound of heels, coming back up from the gloom the other side of the bars. Emerging out of the shadows, a lady older than myself, approaching sixty. Very slight in build. Pale in complexion. A simple white coat covers her normal daywear. She unlocks the barred door, very slowly very methodically with her electronic key. Opens the door. Comes through it and turns and swipes the key again locking the door. It’s the procedure. All doors are locked and none are left open.
“Long time no see Sabirah..... and what, prey tell have you brought me today.”
Her voice is a very thick Austrian in accent. Almost erring towards stark German. It’s also the tone of a wise woman, experienced in life. Experienced in things normal people are not usually experienced in. Her eyes swing from me over to Petra and then they roam over Petra. From head to toe. Her ‘normal’ appearance makes Petra seem all the more bizarre.
“My God.... this one is special. I can tell just to look at her. Those legs go on forever. Those breasts, wow.”
She licks her lips. Petra shudders, shifts her heels. Her first contact with another person since her ‘problems’ have been exposed. I can see her delicious lips quivering. And I can see in her eyes as she absorbs another ‘throb’.
“Hmmmm yes Debra, it indeed is a long time no see. And well..... this was a ‘volunteer’, but we discovered some ‘issues’, hence her little visit to you.”
Our conversation slightly coded. Debra, a lifelong friend knew that a volunteer who ended up with her had been ‘selected’, well in advance. And it would be kind of a one-way trip for her. The conversation was all for Petra’s benefit since Debra had received Petra’s file, many many days before.
“Welllll Sabirah.... you know I don’t pre-judge down here. Although, by the looks of this one, she needs some ‘special’ help. And I will do my best to give her that special help. Just confirm for me, two layers of latex. The under-one sealed?”
A hint of a knowing smile between us. The non-inclusion of Petra in the conversation deliberate. A further sign of her detachment.
“Debra I have complete confidence in you and yes absolutely two layers. All the good sealed in, all the bad exposed and left out. A clinic Standard! Petra here wants to cooperate, totally. She knows she has issues that need to be dealt with.....”
My voice trails off as Debra feeds her eyes over the shrink wrapped latexed mother again. I can see the delight there, in Debra’s eyes. But also something much, much darker.
“I have some things to see too so I must leave you both. Petra knows that any visits with her daughter, and / or her eventual release from here are all dependent on her cooperation. She understands. Actually she is very intelligent, so your work should hold some special significance for both you, and her.”
Debra smiles. Eyes bright and again roaming over the enhanced form of Petra.
“Be good Petra... I will be kept informed at all times........”
My voice curt. Short. My smile wide then as I bid farewell to Debra. She silently blows a kiss to me as I get into the elevator.
EIGHT - Incarceration
Petra, takes up the story in her own words from here;
I didn’t know what was happening to me. If I was losing my mind, or not! Deep inside I felt grateful to Sabirah for exposing my ‘problem’ and then offering to help me with it. I was tearing apart inside not being able to be with Stefani, my daughter. But that despair was in between the ‘thrumming’ deep sensations that really were sending me out of my mind. There was something very wrong with me. Very twisted and I knew it had to be dealt with. Issues needed to be solved. Sabirah had been so kind to me, so understanding, so willing to help me. I had her to thank for all this. All of it. I felt, even between my fits of despair for my daughter, and fits of despair for this ‘thrumming’ or ‘throbbing’ a pang of sorrow, like a loss, as Sabirah left me with Debra in the secure unit of her clinic.
Even as the hum of the ascending lift with Sabirah in it, faded into the upper levels of a world that seemed normal, a terrible, terrible sense of dread, and stomach-churning feeling of imposing doom poured over me. My feet shifted. The heels clicked on a bare stone floor but apart from that it was silent. Dead silent.
Debra didn’t speak, or talk for what seemed an eternity. She didn’t even look at me, or acknowledge me at all. She had sat behind that wooden desk, pouring over the contents of a folder full of files. I began to feel like I didn’t exist. The smoothness. The warm fuzzy smoothness of the latex caressing my flesh, but somehow diminishing me. And those god awful, fucking delicious thrummings. Making my protruding, deep red lips quiver. And a noise, something like a ‘whimper’ as I tried desperately to coax the thrumming, the throbs further towards the tips of my obscene, exposed extremities. The silence and the dread was breaking my mind down as I stood in front of the desk. My latexed wrists clipped, secured to my own hips. Eventually..... very eventually, Debra took in a deep breath. She didn’t look up at me, she just spoke as she poured over another page.
“So you were a woman and mother, called Petra?”
The question was simple. Straightforward. But it deeply troubled me. I absorbed another thrumming sensation from deep. Shifted on the impossibly high heels and finding some saliva, spoke. But my voice was low, broken. It told of a rising torment. of a depleting mind.
“B-but.... I’m still Petra.... still a mother to my beautiful daughter....”
My voice trailed off. The emotion seeing tears spill from my wide, latex rimmed eyes. And the sound, of Debra letting out a deep sigh of impatience. Then she let her cold, narrow eyes wander up me from my severely arched feet in the boots, all the way up my tightly latexed legs and hips. Torso, breasts. Letting her eyes idle for what seemed an age on my protruding, teat and grape-like nipples... then over my latexed breast mounds and up to my face, resting, unsettling me, deeply on my eyes.
“I know Sabirah will have let you see yourself, as you are now. Never mind what you feel like inside. But what you ‘look’ like. You cannot be seriously expecting me to think, that you think you are a suitable mother? Or even that same woman... Petra.... as you were before your issues were exposed?”
Her voice was as cold as her eyes. The simplest of words from her cut me to ribbons. I knew what I looked like. But more than that I knew what I felt like. Inside. The deepest, deepest despair. And that thrumming. Throbbing. My increasing concentration on that intense sexual pleasure.
“Well? I asked you a question.”
Her voice so cold. Like this place so cold. Hard. Unfeeling.
“I’m s-sorry... y-yes yes you’re right I am sorry.”
“And your, uhmmmm ‘offspring’.... what would she think if she could see you now, hmmm? I don’t say your daughter. That would suggest you are her mother and that clearly is not the case.”
My lips quiver as I lift one stiletto just a little. Another thrumming resonating through my deeper femininity. At the same time, the hurt..... god forbid Stefani ever see me like this. But that wouldn’t happen. I am going to be made well again.... I had to believe that.
“Ohhhhhhh, s-she couldn’t see m-me.. not like this.... not like this....”
My voice trailing off. broken. A stream of tears cascading down shiny black latex cheeks. Debra getting up from the desk coming around to me at the front.
“I’m going to unclip your wrists. Let your blood circulate for a while. We’re going to talk. Or correction I am going to do most of the talking, you are going to listen, and learn. Do you understand?”
She unclips my wrists, which immediately relieves the ache. I seem to dwarf her. Tiny in comparison to me in my accentuated state.
“Y-yes... yes thank you. Thank you.....”
“Do NOT let your fingers anywhere near your extremities. Those obscene ‘things’ hanging out of your latex. Do you understand? If you do... well........”
Her voice trails off in a half-finished sentence leaving me to think the worse if I went against her wishes.
“Y-yes.. yes I understand.”
Debra goes behind me, to retrieve a stainless steel medical container on wheels. At least that is what it looks like to me as another THRUMMMMMMMMING vibrates through me. making me ‘want’ to run my finger over nipple tips, and down over saturated labias, and clitoris tip. I had been so shocked when I saw myself in Sabirah’s mirror. Those things that used to be called nipples. Those things that used to be called labia. That ‘thing’ that used to be my clitoris. And always dripping. Grotesque now.
Drip Drip Drip
“Good, good. You know I’ve been reading over your public profile. Very impressive. Successful city woman who has entertained most of who is anyone in the city. And even tea at the Palace......more than once!’
She talked as she placed the container.
“Like I said I am impressed. Even more impressed because of what you have ‘become’ now. How great has been the fall. How greater will be the continuing fall? Its probably best if we get the ground rules out of the way.....”
That coldness to her voice. And my nodding agreeing. Her seeing my agreement before she continues.
“Here, you are nothing. Less than nothing. Here, that you are allowed to ‘live’ is a privilege. Even the most basic of human rights here is a privilege. Any of the most basic human rights are strictly controlled. Your intake of nutrition will be strictly controlled. Your bodily functions will be controlled. Bladder controlled. Bowels controlled. If you are to be rehabilitated control of any form whatsoever has to be removed from you....”
Her voice matter-of-fact. A shiver down my spine. My lips peeling apart, a gasp as she speaks so coldly. unfeeling.
“What you have become is a disgrace to the female gender. Worse, a disgrace to your offspring. There is no evidence of you committing any sexual offenses, yet. And yet, you are a sexual offender. And, I have to say, one of the worse kind.”
I try to relieve and stretch my arms and wrists but that only seems to exacerbate the thrumming. Speeding up the flow of thrums. Still her words cutting through, debilitating me more and more.
“Yes, yes I’m sorry, truly sorry.”
Biting my full, lower lip as another thrumming resonates through me deep. The guilt now being heaped on me.
Debra opens the container, like a double door that splits it in half. Inside both sides are shelved and hold various things. The central piece of foam cut out, housing what I was to find out was a ‘posture collar.’ Gleaming black and almost organically curved and shaped to fit. Not like the ‘toys’ found in kinky shops and internet sites. This collar designed for a purpose. A very definite purpose. Like an extreme-fit neck corset. No fasteners as such, just the collar in two parts, the connectors of which would be swiped with Debra’s keycard to fit and lock the collar in place. The only other fitments, little D rings either side of the collar and at the front and rear.
She gave it to me. Telling me to place it around my own neck. I was too tall for her to do it herself. I held the both parts of the collar round my neck so that their edge met. Debra swiped with the card quickly from her tiptoes and I let out a yelp as I felt the collar tighten to my neck and throat. Seemingly under its own power. My neck extended, lengthening the spinal curve. Forcing the straight neck posture. Head upright, back.
Eventually, neck and throat constricted. Head held at a permanent angle a permanent poise. My hand going up to it feeling its smoothness. Not just its smoothness, but its eerie organic fit and feel. So smooth and a rigid latex in makeup.
“There, better. Much better.....”
Debra talking aloud, more to herself than to me as she retrieves a stand on wheels. The stand a little taller than me and with various hooks and eyes for the attachment of.. whatever. And Debra, retrieving a silver chain with a silver clips at either end.
“Clip one end to the eye at the top of the pole, the other to the D-ring in front of your posture collar.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order. I took the chain. The humiliation biting home again. It felt like I was leashing myself. A sinking feeling... awful, awful debilitating feeling. And then another of the thrumming throbs... I would kill, just to be able to touch my nipples, or clitoris.It was driving me insane.
“Like I said. You are ‘nothing’ here. Except a number. Your number is “SO-401”. That is, Sexual Offender 401. Not Petra High Powered PA. Or Petra mother of Stefani. Just “SO-401.”Is that clear?”
Debra then standing on tiptoes again to attach my wrists to the D-rings either side of the posture collar. Arms folded at the elbows and clipped, pulse side of the wrists to the smooth, stiff latex of the collar.
“Catching my breath as I listen to Debra, her voice so matter-of-fact. Catching my breath a second time. This time more acutely as I realize Debra has reached between my legs, gripped the thing that is my clitoris and is squeezing and pulling the sides. Using the natural lubricant to rub and rub the sides between her thumb and forefinger and at the same time pull and tug on the clitoris as though milking it. My back extended its arch exaggerating it a little, pushing my pelvis forward in order for Debra to be able to manipulate my clitoris with no hindrance.
“Yessssss yessssss yessssss that is clear... yessssssssssss.”
My heels scraping the floor as the throbs are amplified and coaxed ever towards the clitoral tip. The accentuated thrummings delicious to me, making me want them more and more.
“Of course I can be verrrrrrry nice to you. Make your time here verrrrrrrrrry nice.”
She manipulates my clitoris expertly like she has done it hundreds if not thousands of times before. Tugging it, milking it and rubbing the sides. Never touching the tip just sending me to madness as she does it. I lick my lips, grunt.
Pure sexual pleasure filling every nuance of my being.
“Yes that’s right. You like that don’t you? Mmmmmmmm yes... well go on SO-401, why don’t you orgasm to your heart’s content..... go on, go for it.”
As she speaks she very gently taps the tip of my clitoris with the index finger of her other hand. The all-important clitoris tip. The key to the ultimate hyper-pleasure.
Tap Tap Tap
And the orgasm is instant. A ten-fold increase in intensity to what I experienced in the research isolation rig room. The orgasm the most precious thing in my life as it screams through me making the whole length of me tremble, and vibrate. Debra pulling, rubbing and
Tap Tap Tap
The wash through me intense never abating. As long as Debra rubs, pulls and taps I keep cumming
Ahhhh fuckkkkkk that feeeeeels so gooooooooooddddddd..... so fucking goooooood.”
The obscenities heartfelt. My neck strained in the posture collar. But the release so wanted. So needed. So hungered for.
“MMMMMM yessssss that’s good... keep cumming SO-401… I want you to know how kind I can be.”
Tap Tap Tap
Me shrieking as my latexed legs almost give out. And then
Debra withdraws her fingers, stopping the orgasm in its tracks. Me panting, desperate , so absolutely loving the intense orgasm. She moves into my line of sight, smiling. This little old lady. Just smiling as my distended labia and clitoris dripped, and dripped sexual discharge.
“See? See how kind I can be? I can be cruel too, but I don’t want to display that. You haven’t been here very long.... but rest assured I can be cruel. This is just about you learning. Basic learning skills for you.”
Her voice said it all. She didn’t need to emphasize it. Me panting, almost drooling. A dreamy, orgasmic smile on my face. A lascivious lick of the lips. Almost obscene. definitely pornographic such was the addictive properties of that multiple orgasm. I was learning. Yes I was learning. Learning very quickly.
MMMMMMMMM AAAAAAAAAAA RRRRRRRRRRRR GGGGGGGGGG
AAAAAAAAAAA RRRRRRRRRRRRR AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”
They were my own cries I was hearing. Except they were like, detached from myself. And they weren’t really cries at all. If I had heard cries like this, before my ‘problem,’ I would have thought someone was having their soul ripped out... slowly. Over an amount of time. Time... what is that anyway?
Debra had worked on me slowly, and yet with precision. Demobilizing me. Immobilizing me. Dehumanizing me really. I had never really thought of the word dehumanizing before. Firstly in reception and with my wrists still clipped to the collar of my extended neck, tubes slid into my nostrils, up into my nose and then down into my stomach. A few inches of tube left dangling from my nose to which other tubes could be attached in order to feed me. Or apply medication, as or if required. Only one tube had been used at this time. A clear medibag hanging high on the wheeled stand feeding liquid into my stomach slowly on a drip. The other tube just hanging redundant at this time.
“This is a cocktail of medication. One of the results is that your periods will be stopped. The thought that a creature like ‘you’ could give birth is an horrendous one. No periods. Or no periods of fertility for you. At least for the time being.”
Debra’s words mortifying me. These things that were being done to me so mentally debilitating. I felt truly guilty. Guilty and ashamed of what I had become. I blinked and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and poured down my black latex cheeks.
An inflatable catheter had been slowly but precisely fed into my bladder through my pee hole. Once the catheter had touched the lining of the bottom of the bladder it had been inflated and closed off. This meant it wasn’t up to my body any longer, when I evacuated my urine. Quite ironic really that in the research department of the clinic, I could just relax and pee on the floor. That had horrified me. This mortified me even more and the continuous presence of the catheter gave a distinct sensation, a distinct feeling of the need to pee. The need to pee seeming to add to the intensity of the ‘thrumming’ that vibrated deep inside of me. My senses were being annihilated from all directions and to all extremes. And it was all my fault.
Something inflatable had been slipped with lubricated ease into my bottom. It wasn’t overly large, or thick. Just bulbous ended, and thick enough for my rose to cling to it. Chew on it. Suck on it as it was fed inside me. I had gasped, and cried out feeling my hole opened and stretched beyond its norm. Then cry out more with indignation than pain as Debra had encouraged me.
“Push out. Help me here. Go on push your bum hole out... that’s right.. there, easy isn’t it?”
So much indignation as I push my hole out, against Debra’s pushing of the smooth thing up inside me. Clenching my thighs hard and pushing my anal muscles back so the ring pops out backwards.
And then a gasp, as the thing was inflated with a hand bulb. Just enough to close off my back passage. Feeling it getting bigger inside me. Pressing against my inside walls. Then that being stopped off by the twisting of a valve. Debra talking to me, explaining. The sensation of me having been ‘changed’ down in my intimate regions so much, amplified, accentuated.
“This one is temporary. There will be work required sooner or later...”
My lips, blowing out, trying to adapt physically, and mentally to these additions. My top lip, just used as a rest for the nasal tubes. One of the nasal tubes hanging redundant. And throughout this, an increasing terrible feeling of despair, and hopelessness starting to creep over me in short, but intense increments. Flashbacks to my beautiful daughter, Stefani, fill my head but then fade as another “Thrumming” resonates through me, refocusing me. Altering my attention. Reminding me of a growing priority. Another soul-searching cry from the pit of my stomach.
This cry was fading as Debra attached a hobble chain between my ankles, severely restricting the steps I would be able to take.
I thought Debra was being kind to me. Letting one of my wrists loose from the collar. I guess in a way she was. But the purpose of the partial release, so that I could be brought into the secure unit proper, and wheel my own equipment stand with my free hand. The resulting walk so hard. So much working against me. The thrumms, the throbs. The searching for friction of my exposed swollen intimacies. A friction that no longer existed due to the hobble chain.
The inflatable inside my bottom, slowing my progress as it shifted inside me, altered angles slightly with each excruciating step. Each step so difficult in such pencil thin, extremely high-heeled boots. The pulling of the tubes inside me as I moved. So so hard was the short journey to the other side of those bars. Progress slow, humiliating. The noises from me less and less identifiable as those from a human being. The only comfort, the smooth caressing feel of the latex I was shrink-wrapped in.
The room I ended up in dripped with a despair so thick and putrid that I felt the hairs on the back of my neck, prickle and shift inside their latex encasement. I wheeled my equipment stand through the main part of the secure unit and through some massively thick lead lined doors into a back section. In this section, just what can only be described as a number of individual ‘cells.’ Cells, is the only word that adequately describes these rooms. Cell, simply because, it seemed that one was to be my new ‘home.’ Except it was a cell, or a home without comforts. Or even basic human rights. No bed. No toilet. Nothing. A bare stark black and thick atmosphere of inhuman dread.
There were no creature comforts because there didn’t need to be. There was no basic human rights here because it wasn’t a prison, in the truest sense of the word. If it was a prison I would have those rights. Here I knew I had no rights and was convinced that this was my own fault. All my own fault. The knowledge that this was all my fault feeding a guilt, and a recognition, an acceptance that I would need to suffer for it.
My arms had first been pulled behind me and cinched just above the elbows. Then tightened until the elbows themselves touched. I had gasped first. Then screamed with that initial pain. A sharp darting pain across the shoulders and down each arm.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHH FOR GODSSSSSS SAKES IS THIS NECESSARY?”
It had been a stupid question. I know deep down that I was guilty and in deep shame because of this problem of mine. Obviously an incredibly stupid question since Debra chose not to even acknowledge let alone answer the question.
My arms below the elbows cinches had been left to dangle awkwardly, loosely. That is until the tight latex sheath had been brought up over both arms. A V shaped sheath that brought my hands together, fingers knitted into a little ball. This sheath then strapped in placed around the upper arms and around my shoulders to prevent the whole thing slipping off. Quite simply, my arms and hands had been immobilized. Rendered useless and dangling as a single entity behind me. And their position, so cruel and painful, saw my latexed breasts thrust out... exposed teated-nipples angry, feeling like they were visibly throbbing out on front of me. Shoulders immediately aching. Shoulder blades all but touching behind me. The posture collar secured around and extending my neck, continuing to do so.
I had been secured to the floor, standing in the middle of the room. Just a bare concrete floor. My feet secured to it about twenty-four inches apart, via heavy-duty packaging straps around ankles and stiletto’d feet then pulled tight to floor rings until moving my feet was impossible. Above my knees, a spreader had been attached. Spreading my knees the same twenty-four inches as my feet. This in itself, and the bound tethered arms created an extended spinal curve, and a spread leg squat that together with the high heels, began, almost immediately to cause an intense discomfort. An ache first in the base of the spine.
The most true, absolute agony and discomfort was to follow though. A vertical hydraulic pole had been pulled down, from directly above me out of the blackness. The end of this pole was screwed into the nipple attached into the crown of the black latex hood, just in front of my erupting ponytail. This had the immediate effect of holding me rigid still in position. But more than that, as Debra adjusted the pole, it was lengthened, pushing me down. Forcing me into a semi-squat. My spine forced into an enhanced “S” shape, the downward force of the pole straight down, through the centre of the “S” and forcing an absolute grotesque stress on my spine and the backs of my taught thighs. The bends in my knees. My calves, trembling, quivering in the latex. And my feet, forced to arch severely in the heels and forced to support the downward pressure of the vertical pole coming from above.
Debra seeming to know exactly and precisely how far to make me semi-squat, just by the pitch of distressed scream I let out.
“There.... perfect. That-s you just about installed. Your new home.”
She spoke with a ‘delight’ in her voice as I was descending into hell. But even through my hell, there were the “thrummings” emitting from my exposed intimacies that now found no friction. No additional encouragement to send those throbs to their tips. Just teasing, addictive thrummings. Throbs. My sexuality dripping. I could feel it. It wouldn’t drip for long though.
Another medical bag, this time strapped with latex straps to my upper thigh. The protruding tubes, transparent, fixed into another device, somehow leeched to my labias and clitoris but without providing additional stimulation. This device collected my leaking, oozing juices into the bag. I could hear those leaking gurgling and bubbling up the tubes and into the bag in between my cries of anguish. And my screams of pain and despair. My mind and body desperately trying to adjust to this new hell. The pain truly was hell, and yet all the way through that pain, my focus, always my true focus was on the thrumming throbs and the thought, the knowledge the hope, the prayer that Debra might treat me to another one of those fucking incredible orgasms. I needed one of those just to help me through this. Just to get me through it. Just to help me survive. Please God I would get more of Debra’s kindness.
I could hear a drip drip drip from somewhere. Between my sighs, cries and squeals of anxiety. Liquid medication fed into my bladder. but I couldn’t evacuate that. My bottom squeezing and sucking on its invasion. My full red lips, stretched into despair as Debra made her final checks before dimming down the already subdued lighting.
She didn’t say anything to me before she left. She just left. The door clanging shut. An almost ear-popping vacuum being created. Then silence. Except for my own noises. Those constant noises. inhuman noises.
Words fail me. I cannot describe the amount of pain I was in. Or how utterly impossible it was to escape the total pit of despair I was sinking into. Despair caused by my continued isolation. Despair caused by the inescapable pain and discomfort of the inhuman position I had been secured into for what was an immeasurable amount of time. Despair, that even through all the nagging, intense pain and discomfort the “thrummings” the “throbbing” still penetrated. Still made me focus so much, still make me try with my mind alone, to coax them to the tips of my nipples and clitoris just to gain some sexual pleasure. It could only be with my mind I tried since I couldn’t ‘use’ any other part of my body. I needed an orgasm so badly. Always, always needing the orgasm. The memories of that intense sexual pleasure keeping me alive. Keeping me ticking.
Despair also, because of the fading memories of my life before my ‘problems’ had been identified. I tried to remember, I really did. What company did I work for? Where did I live? How old was I? Is it Autumn or Winter? Am I going mad? Insane? Worse? Actually I feared it was the ‘worse’.
Utter despair that my entire focus was on the thrummings, the throbbing and not on my daughter Stefani. Desperate despair that even memories of her were fading. And yet when they did turn up in flashback, they were lucid, almost like I could touch her face peering up at me out of a mist. It was then I suffered the most terrible, soul-destroying guilt and shame. I was beginning to know, to accept that it was ‘my’ fault I was here. No one else’s fault. Just mine. My fault. Everyone, Sabirah, Debra... were helping me. Helping me overcome this problem. This creeping hell that was slowly thrumming away at the base of my clitoris and nipples, breaking me down. Ever down.
NINE - Devastation
Sabirah narrates from here
“The seeds have been laid and obviously ‘rehabilitation’ is not an option. The laser treatment did its job. She has a very desperate need there now. That won’t go away. She believes truly it’s her problem and the guilt and shame is practically breaking her as it is. She is more than beginning to feel at ‘home’ in the smoothness and the warmth of the latex. All hardly emotions of a completely sane, well-balanced woman.”
Debra stops talking and both her and Sabirah exchange gratified smiles. Then Debra continues.
“We need her to believe, very soon, that rehab for her isn’t going to happen and that other options must be explored. Almost immediately she needs another deep, deep emotional shock to her system........How is progress with Stefani coming along?”
Both ladies sit back, cross nylon sheathed legs before Sabirah replies.
“Hmmmmm, Stefani and myself are getting along famously. I don’t foresee any problems with her whatsoever and, I think the time is right for Mum to see her offspring again. Just a little jolt for her. A blast from the past. Although frankly I suspect what she sees will all but tip her over the edge.”
Both ladies smile again quite casually as they discuss the utter destruction of an attractive, innocent mother. Debra cuts in,
“Welllll isn’t that just about the result we want? Not quite mad since we WANT her to KNOW and FEEL what she is suffering. And not quite sane, because, well..... her complete sanity won’t help her either way. Kind of sane enough to know how insane she has become.”
“Hmmmmmm yes and besides, she is the most gorgeous creature. It was fate that she would suffer in this way.”
As they talk, SO-401, previously known as Petra lets out a full cry. Her partly silhouetted partly spotlighted, bondaged form striking a lone, quivering figure in her semi-squat, latexed state. The transparent collection bag strapped to her upper thigh, almost full now of her own sexual discharges. That would need to be changed soon. Very soon.
Sexual Offender 401 narrates from here
I couldn’t help making the noises I made. I didn’t used to make them, before my problem had been discovered. Just so much discomfort, and pain. And so much focus on the thrumming. The throbbing. The noises I made were constant and came from the pit of my stomach. Or even deeper than that. I was just so grateful to Sabirah, and Debra, for helping me. I just knew they had my best interests at heart. Everything was for my own good. Even the removal of my own name. It was the right thing to do. I didn’t deserve an ordinary name. I wasn’t ‘ordinary.’ I knew that now.
I don’t know how long I was kept in that “black room.” Forever as far as I could tell. I know that whenever Debra came to see me, check on me, in person, I felt lifted inside. Even grateful. When eventually, very eventually both Sabirah and Debra came together, I felt very ‘special.’ Like I hadn’t been forgotten and was very much in both their thoughts. The sound of their high heels, coming into the room was loud.. and sent a shiver down my enhanced S-shaped spine.
“Is it in much pain.”
It was Sabirah asking Debra. I knew I was the ‘it.’ I just accepted that. I felt like an ‘it.’ The thrummings, the throb, the need and greed. And the pain, discomfort and creeping hell was down to my sexuality. My abnormal, sick sexuality.
“Intense and constant. It’s the pole screwed into the head nipple of its hood. Forces it down into the squat, and then the spine to bend. Absolutely murders the spine, the thighs, knees and calves in agony. But nothing deadens the throbs it feels. Actually, it’s just the focus on the throbs that gets it through the pain. It’s a case of being cruel to be kind. Basic training really... basic training.”
The words filtering in weren’t spoken to me. But I computed them. Understood them. Even agreed with them. Sabirah coming round to the front of me, looking up at my pained, stressed face.
“Can you hear me? Are you with me?”
I nod, blink even as those noises emanate from me.
“I can see you have been cooperating... and progressing. I told you if you did that you could see your offspring. Would you like that?”
I blink a tear, nod.....
Sabirah’s tone not like she knows me now. Or knew me. Rather that I am just a part of her working day. I am on her ‘rounds’ But also something deeper than that. Darker, more sinister that I can’t finger. Can’t finger because of these thrummings. A growling purrrrrr escapes my throat.
“Well I have arranged that. But, also something extra for you. I think we can see ourselves clear to letting you have an orgasm or two... would you like that?”
Almost whinnying with joy.... the chance to have both of thethings I dearly want to have most in the world. I groan from the deep deep down.
Sabirah’s voice again, neutral cold.
“What is it to be first.... the orgasms, or seeing your offspring, hmmmmm which is it to be?”
My desperation for an orgasm was so great. All that time with just the thrumming, never reaching the tips of my nipples or clitoris. I needed it so badly soooo badly. And the groan and gasp rising from deep and then gurgling in my throat as I feel fingers lightly pinch my exposed clitoris and tug. Rub and tug. Rubs and tug.
RUB AND TUG.
“ORGASMMMMMMMMM PLEASSSSSE ORGASMMMMMMMMM PLEASSSSSSE.”
At the same time, other fingers, lightly pinching both nipples, rubbing the sides, and tugging them stretching them teasing the throbs, and the thrummings towards the very tips. The very important tips. Sabirah and Debra working on me together.
“Well now that’s goooooooood. Just focus now on the orgasm.... just let it all go, ok?”
Even before Sabirah’s words are out, due to the duel working of hers and Debra’s fingers I am exploding in an all-in-one multiple orgasm that is fed from both my nipples and clitoris bases into the very tip of the clitoris. That, then erupting into an intense earth shattering orgasm that has surpassed all others. I can feel myself squirting juices into the tube that is fed into the bag strapped to my thigh. It’s more like a gush as orgasm after orgasm all mould into one. My tethered, latexed body can only quiver. It can’t move. Most of the result can only erupt and explode from my mouth in a gurgling, drooling full-cry as wave after wave of undiluted sexual intensity rides through me.
“That’s right let it all out... let it all out..... mmmmmm that’s so good isn’t it soooooo good? Mmmmm yes more important than anything... feeeeeels so so good doesn’t it.”
“YESSSS YESSSS THANK YOUUUU SOOOOO MUCH YESSSSSSSSSS.”
Debra’s voice massaging my mind. My own voice seeping in desperation, greed and hunger. Time after time I am taken to the limit. There and there again and there again as the two ladies tug and pull and tap and rub the tips of my teats and clitoris.
Then they bring me down but only eventually. Very slowly, the orgasms becoming less and less intense. Moving their fingers to the outer edges of the tips, and then to the sides until they are once again only feeding the thrummings and the throbs. Slowly, rubbing and tugging and rubbing. Orgasms slowly fading back. Squirts of juices into the tube becoming less and less. Returning to the steady drip drip. A sweat film making the latex slide, smoothly over me. Warming me. Comforting me.
With that come-down, the guilt. The pure undiluted guilt. And the shame. I chose the orgasms before my own daughter! What ‘mother’ would do that? Debra and Sabirah were right about me. Right to get me sectioned. Right to have Stefani placed in care. That guilt like a tight wrap around my mind. I was just so grateful for the warm, smooth caress of the latex. I could see the logic of the latex now. It all made sense. Or, at least it felt like it made some kind of sense in my diminishing mind. The only comfort as despair weighed down heavily. And then weighed down some more.
That same guilt and shame lingered. Even as the downward pole was loosened and risen allowing me to come slowly out of my enforced squat, the guilt and shame lingered, chewed at me. A grunting groaning sigh of relief as my spine and legs are partly relieved.
My sigh of relief deep, from the belly. My body so aching, so filled with stress and distress. Sabirah had gone, to prepare for me seeing Stefani. Debra unlocked my feet from the floor. removed the spreader between my knees relieving me a little more. I was able to gently lift one stiletto boot, replace then lift the other. All the time the skintight latex creaking in the blackened, dim silence. It seemed like so long ago since I did that. Lifted my feet. Such relief. Grateful relief.
But she left my arms secured behind me. Tethered at the elbows, so that the elbows touched inside the tight latex shoulder-length mitten. This still forced me to bend slightly at the waist. My breasts heavy in the latex shrink wrapping. The teats exposed, thick, angry looking. But me being able to stand a little more upright, My eyes narrowed just divulging a permanent distress as well as a deep-seated hunger from those thrummings. Still those thrummings, Those throbs. Even through them the guilt and shame pouring through.
I knew I couldn’t talk to Stefani. Or touch her. Or even be in the same room as her. God forbid she see her mother in the state I was in. But just seeing her. Remembering her would be enough for me.
The tortuous walk to another part of the secure unit proved an ordeal. Hobbled steps in such feet-arching boots. Arms and shoulders still forced back, enforced a somewhat crouched, stunted walk. Slow and cumbersome through corridors. Every so often a door opened and someone would peer out, looking for the source of the short stiletto’d steps. They would see me - mostly administration staff within the ‘inner sanctum,’ Sabirah’s inner-sanctum - and they would stop, to watch me pass them. Looking me up and down. Some with pity. Some with disgust. Some with a knowing, almost mocking smile. The freak of nature. The former volunteer. The former high-powered PA in the city. Now the sectioned, detainee known as “SO-401.”
Eventually reaching the door through which we would go. Inside a viewing room. One wall a full one way mirror. I would be able to see into the adjoining room, but anyone in there would not be ale to see into the room I was in .At first there were electronic blinds covering the see-through mirror, so nothing could be seen either way. I hobbled in. Groaning, and crying as ever. My usually full glossy lips, dry, cracked with big bits of gloss missing, chipped away. Guided slowly, ever patiently by Debra towards the centre of the room, facing the mirror. Placed carefully. My long latex legs able to splay only as much as the hobble chain would allow. Discomfort and pain now part of my life. Did I ever know anything else?
When the electronic blinds into the other room opened, it was ‘instant’ as though someone had turned on a bright light in there. I tried to focus, and did wanting to see my beautiful daughter so much. She was my only real link to the past now. Everything else had faded. Almost gone.
I took in the view of the other room and for what seemed like an age there wasn’t a sound. But as the view registered I was aware of a noise. One that a distressed animal would make. It was only after this noise had been happening for some time that I realized the noise was coming from me. Sabirah was in there. And so was Stefani. Except it wasn’t the Stefani I remembered. What numbed me so much was the bizarre, mock-up of my old school uniform she was wearing. It was identical, even down to the tie colors. Except the whole uniform was made out of skin-tight ultra latex and hugged the form of my sixteen-year-old daughter, like my own latex hugged me. A blast from my deeper past and Stefani a mirror image of my younger self.
Just the one solitary word that kept pouring out of my mouth. My eyes wide fixed staring through the one-way mirror into the other room. The blouse was transparent latex and her still developing (current 36 c-cup) breasts could be clearly seen. Right down to her nipples that pressed and distorted against the latex. The tie. Even the tie I could see was the sheen and gloss of latex. The skirt, the same color green as my old school uniform, but it was micro short barely covering Stefani’s bottom. Her legs were glossy transparent latex. Even the knee socks were latex. Black latex.
I could feel my own heartbeat. My own pulse. And through everything the thrumming and the throbbing ever present as the juices from my genitalia were sucked into the bag still attached to my upper thigh.
It had often been said that Stefani was a younger version of me. Just a little shorter at five feet eight inches. But she still had some growing to do. A final spurt.
In that room her heavy makeup made her look even more so like me. And her slightly darker red hair pulled up into its own ponytail. She didn’t have a hood. Her face and head were totally uncovered, but the sparkle was gone from her eyes. Even though her eyes were still huge, saucer like, the sparkle wasn’t there. The high-heels she had on definitely weren’t from my school uniform, I would never have got away with heels like that. Patent court shoes. Shiny and with spiked stiletto heels at least six inches in height.
Stefani was sitting on a chair, her long gangly legs crossed, facing me through the mirror. She didn’t know that. Sabirah was sitting next to her on another chair, very close. She was talking to her. Softly. Very softly. At the same time she was stroking her cheek. Delicate strokes with the back of her index finger.
“You remember, I told you... your mother has gone away and won’t be back for some time?”
Stefani not really answering. Just nodding her head. Her tongue from time to time slipping from her mouth and across her thickly reddened lips.
“Well.... the truth is that she is sick. A very sick woman and won’t be back for some time and so you have to stay with me. You do understand don’t you?”
Again the almost complete vacant nod of the head.
“Good girl.....Obviously we have discovered that you could possibly be ill like your mother and so we need to deal with that....”
My own voice. My own noises of despair and yet Stefani sitting so calm. Almost an arrogant reflection of my younger years. Sabirah drops her stroking finger down to Stefani’s latexed thigh and prompts her.
“Uncross and open sweetie. Open wide, let Aunty Sabirah see...”
Stefani uncrosses her legs, and opens wide. My noises of torment and distress magnify as clearly, her sex had been relieved of any hair. It’s smooth, and glistening through a tight slit in the latex hose. But more than that, her labia are swollen, distended like mine. So is her clitoris. Wet, swollen, dripping to the floor of the room. My world finally falls apart in its entirety. My eyes fixed.
“You know you have the same problem as your mum. At least the beginnings of the same problem. It’s actually her fault that you are this way. But it’s ok. She’s under lock and key now and we can deal with this.”
More vacant nodding then as Sabirah runs her fingers to Stefani’s labia and begins to stroke, and pull gently. The tiny little gasps from Stefani. The hunger and greed in her eyes. The guilt raging through me. Destroying me molecule by molecule. My heels shifting. The hobble chain just chinking slightly. My latex now the only source of comfort. Hugging me. Keeping me safe inside. Stefani then screaming her own orgasm as Sabirah taps the very tip of her clitoris.
TAP TAP TAP
Stefani cumming and cumming in front of me. Nothing I could do. Out of my control, as my own thrummings and throbs resonate through me.
“MUMMMMMMMSSSSSSSSSSS FAULT.. ALLLLLL HER FAULTTTTTTT.”
Stefani spitting, drooling between waves of her orgasm and then her eyes flickering blinking increasingly slowly as she is brought back down by Sabirah. Just rubs and pulls of the thickly engorged clitoris at its shaft. Sabirah just peeling up the skirt slightly, to her very upper thigh and looking at me through the mirror because she knows I am there. Then looking up at a camera. Debra draws my attention to a small monitor under the mirror glass and I see a close up of her thigh. A tattoo. Just simple in thick black ink.
And again my world sinks deeper. The electronic blind snaps shut. Instantly. I no longer see Stefani. This new knowledge this new hell sinking into my already tortured mind as I am led back to the black room. Terrible, terrible squatting, debilitating bondage re-applied. Except the vertical pole, screwed into my latex hood, this time adjusted a little more. My squat lower. More intense. The pain and discomfort more intense. The throbs and the thrumming more intense. And the knowledge that somewhere in the building, Stefani was beginning to suffer too.
Sabirah’s voice dripped into me. Even through all I was suffering, every word was lucid. Every word clear.
“I think rehabilitation for you, is out of the question, don’t you?”
I answer with my eyes. Nodding eyes. Since I can’t move any other part of me.
“So we will need to discuss other ‘options’, won’t we?”
Again the nod of my eyes. The receding noise of Sabirah’s high heels and the sealing of the door as it closes. Left with my thoughts. At least those, at this moment, I was capable of having.
And my noises..... those noises. An addiction growing.
TO BE CONTINUED...
© 2009 by drkfetyshnyghts