My thanks both to Donnylaja, who invented the Mark 1 Retainer, and to
Artyeleven, who produced the Mark 2 version, for so freely permitting
me to borrow (and further modify) that fiendish device.
CADUCEUS CLUB
by
C. Lakewood
"So, what do you think?" Carol grinned at me while the waiter
was still serving us the entree.
I waited until he'd gone back to leaning against the wall and
looking bored. I sipped my wine.
"Well, I'm not really interested in that sort of thing...."
"By 'that sort of thing' I suppose you mean public nudity,
embarrassment, voyeurism, exhibitionism, humiliation, dominance and
submission, bondage and discipline, etc., etc., etc." She chortled.
"Don't forget I know what you download from the Internet; that's
exactly the 'sort of thing' you're actually most interested in."
Carol Willis is my best friend, but she's 4 years younger than
me and much more of an uninhibited free spirit. She can be quite
annoying at times -- especially when she's right. I could feel myself
blushing.
"Be that as it may, I've got my reputation to consider. I mean,
there is a Morals Clause in my contract, and I'm sure school officials
wouldn't tolerate a teacher who v-volunteered to...model...for this...
um...this...."
"Caduceus Club." Carol finished my sentence, as she often did.
"Selected medical students and their advisors, interns, residents,
etc., as I said. All quite respectable...well, maybe a little risque,
but basically respectable. And you know you're dying to do it.
Aren't your nipples stiff? Isn't your pussy drooling at the very
thought?"
I squirmed in my chair and looked around the restaurant nervously,
hoping no one was eavesdropping. Carol did keep her voice reasonably
low, but she went on and on and on in the same vein, until I finally
agreed just to shut her up (as she knew I would).
She even stuck me with the check.
***************************
Several times during the following week, I thought about calling
Amy Robyns, my 20-year-old niece, to see if she knew anything about
this Caduceus Club. But she and I had not been on good terms for
more than a year, ever since she'd announced she was going to forego
college and enroll in nursing school instead. (I'd disdained the idea
as foolish, and she'd retorted by characterizing my alma mater as a
"third-rate teacher's college.") In the end, I decided just to let
sleeping dogs lie.
At last I was called in to the Caduceus Club headquarters for an
interview. It was conducted by a nice looking young man in his
mid-20s, wearing a white lab coat (of course). He introduced himself
as Guy Guisburn, current president of the Club.
After I filled out a questionnaire, he looked it over and smiled.
"'Constance Leland Moss, divorced, age 34....' I see you had a
complete physical exam less than 4 months ago, so we can waive most
of the standard tests. However, there are a few things we'll need to
do today. So, if you will please take off your clothes...."
"But, Dr. Guisburn, why...?"
"Please don't quibble, Connie. I don't wish to be impolite, but
I do have a busy schedule. We can take care of these formalities
much more efficiently if you just go ahead and do as you're told."
I guess I blushed, but I nodded and stood up.
"Where? I mean, a changing room...or at least a screen...please?"
"That's hardly necessary." He made an impatient gesture.
I didn't argue. Red-faced, I took off my shoes, blouse, and
skirt, hesitated a moment, and then stripped off my pantyhose, too.
After that, I just stood there, nervously, half-hoping I'd be able to
keep my underwear on....
He looked up from his desk, raised his eyebrows, and gestured
again. I felt like a dilatory adolescent, but did manage to whine,
"A gown...?" He merely looked askance and shook his head. So I
hurried out of my bra and panties -- now unable to hide my stiffening
nipples and moistening pussy....
First, he told me he was recording the interview and examination
so he wouldn't have to bother taking notes. (Naturally, I assumed he
was referring to audio tape.) Next, he had me sign a contract and a
waiver of confidentiality. Then he measured my height (5'6") and
weight (131 pounds) and blood pressure (normal). Finally, I had to
crouch on the examining table while he put on a latex glove, greased
me up, and took my temperature -- with a fancy electronic rectal
thermometer. By the time the thing finally beeped, I was so turned
on that my pussy was a swamp. I was surprised the thermometer didn't
show I was feverish.
And then I had to wipe the excess lubricant off my bottom, while
he supervised.
After I'd done that -- to his satisfaction -- and deposited the
tissues in a "hazardous waste" bin, he had me stand next to his desk
and answer some additional questions. I was very self-conscious
about all this. But he was an authority figure -- and I was naked --
so I felt compelled to obey and to tell him the truth. Besides, I
HAD volunteered..., and I did find it exciting.
"Before your divorce, Connie, how often did you have sexual
intercourse in an average month?"
"I-I suppose...um...8 or 9 times. My husband -- ex-husband --
often...um...couldn't get an erection...."
"And since your divorce?"
"Oh, well...none.... I haven't been...um...'intimate'...with
anyone."
"No men, no women?"
"No."
"While married, did you engage in anal intercourse?"
"Oh, no, neither of us wanted to do that.... Well, he didn't."
"Oral sex?"
"Yes."
"Was it mutual?"
"No, I just did it to him...."
"And did you swallow or spit it out?"
"I...um...s-swallowed...."
"You always swallow all of it?"
"Y-yes."
"Do you like the taste?"
"I-I don't see why you n-need that...."
"Please don't be childish. Just answer the question."
"Well, n-no.... It really didn't have much taste, but I-I didn't
like what it did have."
"Then why did you swallow it?"
"Well, I just...thought I should."
"Did you engage in extra-marital sex?"
"Oh, no."
"Did you ever fantasize about having extra-marital sex?"
"Y-yes."
"Often?"
"Yes."
"What else do you frequently fantasize about?"
"Oh god...about...being forced to do...th-things...humiliating
things...made to m-masturbate while people watch and not being
allowed to cum...or having to cum over and over and over...being
naked and d-disciplined...and...and...oh god...." I climaxed, just
talking about it. Caught on tape.
"Do you 'surf the Net' and download pictures and stories?"
"Yes."
"On what subjects?"
"Ex-hibitionism, humiliation, bon-bondage, s-spanking...um...um...
wa-water-sssports...."
"While married, did you masturbate?"
"Y-yes."
"How often?"
"Maybe...um...half a dozen times...or so...a w-week...."
"And now?"
"More...probably 12 to 15...possibly...um...20...."
He regarded me for a moment, then nodded. "Good," he finally
said. "Now, stand over there against that blank wall, and we'll take
some "Posture" photos for the file."
Oh, god...naked pictures of me....
He positioned me with my back to the wall, arms at my sides.
"Stand up straight, but relaxed, natural. Face me. Right." He
spoke peremptorily while smoothly setting up tripod, camera, and
lighting. "Now, a neutral, passive expression...no smile, no frown.
Okay, that's good."
I marvelled that I could stand up at all. And then....
CLICK! Full frontal.
CLICK! Again.
"Now a quarter turn to your right."
CLICK! CLICK!
"Turn again, so your back is to me."
CLICK! CLICK!
"Another quarter turn."
CLICK! CLICK!
Then he did a number of shots, full-length and medium and close
up, in various poses: in an "X" position, in a "T," squatting, and,
worst of all, "bending and spreading." (I wondered how many sets
of these pictures would be printed....)
And then it was over, at last.
"You'll be assigned a supervisor, who will meet you here, latish
Saturday afternoon -- about 4:00, okay? -- to finish prepping you for
your debut. She'll also work out the scheduling. The Caduceus Club
thanks you for what I'm sure will prove to be a mutually satisfactory
experience," he said, as I was getting dressed again.
"She...?"
"Oh, yes, a female...of course." He gave me a look of dismissal,
so I stuffed my pantyhose into my purse and left.
***************************
On Saturday, I made a point of being exactly on time. I was
promptly escorted to another, similar, exam room and told to undress.
It was a little easier, stripping when I was alone in the room.
I found exhibitionism just as exciting in real life as it was in my
fantasies, but also a lot scarier. I sat on the exam table, the stiff
paper liner crinkling under my bare bottom, and, after a few minutes,
began to fidget. Suddenly the door opened, and there, complete with
lab coat and clipboard, was my niece, Amy.
I just sat there, stunned.
"Good afternoon, Connie," she said, briskly.
"Omigod, Amy, b-but...."
"Let's get started off on the right foot, shall we? I'm your
supervisor, and, as long as that's so, I'll call you 'Connie,' and
you'll call me 'Miss Amy.' Okay?"
"O-okay, M-iss Amy, but...."
"Things will go much more smoothly if you will just pay attention
and follow orders. You will be 'modeling' a device first developed
as a possible means of controlling dangerous prisoners in transit.
(There is a male equivalent.) But its usefulness in the study and
treatment of orgasmic dysfunction quickly became apparent. What you
need to know will be explained to you in due course. Now, the first
thing to do today is to get rid of all that hair between your legs."
No. This was just too much. I slid off the table and started for
my clothes. "I'm sorry, AMY, but I've changed my mind."
"Well, that's not a decision to be made lightly. You realize that
there are SEVERE financial penalties for breach of contract -- not to
mention the bad publicity...."
"What?"
"Oh, yes -- compensatory damages, punitive damages, legal fees,
court costs..., and, of course, the media will lap it all up. What
will the school board make of it, I wonder?"
Oh, god. I could envision being ruined -- assets, reputation,
and career destroyed. But I could prevent that if I just obeyed
orders. How bad could it be?
And I might even enjoy it some. Oh, god! How could I even think
that?
"Okay, NOW shall we get on with it?" Amy sneered.
Outwardly, she was businesslike, but it was clear she was
thoroughly enjoying our reversal of status, as she marched me through
a number of preliminary steps.
She proceeded to trim my pubic hair quite close with scissors,
and ordered me into the adjoining shower, with instructions to
scrub my crotch clean. Then she shaved me close, afterward applying
some sort of thick green goo (an "inhibitor," she called it). While
the goo was working, she gave me two large enemas -- a soapy one
followed by a saline rinse. Then I had to shower again, to wash off
the green goo. Next, she found my "G-spot" and carefully noted its
exact location. (I hadn't even been sure that I had one -- but was
convinced when she put her fingertip on it.) And, finally, I
suffered through the rather complicated process having a urinary
catheter installed. During this entire time (well over an hour), my
clitoris was fully erect, and Miss Amy, who had her fingers in the
vicinity continually, often "accidentally" brushed against it,
nudging me to the brink of orgasm, again and again -- but never quite
over the brink.
(That was the laundry list of what happened physically. But it
doesn't even hint at how devastating it all was. Little Amy, my big
sister's child, whom I baby-sat for years, was now in authority over
me -- and exercising that authority with relish -- rendering my pubes
as bald as a pre-adolescent's...preparing me to receive my enema by
giving me a "lube job," goosing me more than thoroughly with her
damned greasy fingers...watching with a smirk as the water flowed
s-l-o-w-l-y into me and I labored to contain it...later, essentially
finger-fucking me to distraction...and then, merrily worming that
catheter tube up my pee-hole...little Amy, precocious and disdainful,
my supervisor.)
All the preliminaries at last concluded, she set a slim cardboard
box on the table beside us, opened it, and took out a thick, flexible
piece of transparent plastic, shaped much like the crotch-piece of a
thong bikini. Its inner surface was covered with an array of nodules
(of various sizes and shapes), as well as a prominent probe both fore
and aft. The front probe was a slightly contoured cylinder, about 4"
long and almost 2" in diameter; the rear one looked like a standard
flared butt-plug design, also about 4" long, more than an inch in
diameter at the flare, and then necked down to half that.
"The Mark 2* Retainer," she beamed. "You'll be demonstrating this
tonight. The original...."
"T-tonight?"
"Yes. Shhh! As I was saying, the original 'Retainer' was
developed by a group of doctors and engineers, under the direction of
Prof. Nevada McMasters. The Mark 2 version was refined and
significantly improved by Dr. Arthur Leven. McMasters' device was
opaque, for example, but this is quite transparent, as you can see.
That not only makes it easier to fit the device properly, but also
allows us to monitor physiological changes visually when it's in
operation. Dr. Leven also re-designed the electronics and
incorporated additional functionality. In turn, we've made a few
relatively minor additional changes in this Mark 2* model (which I'll
explain at the proper time, as needed)."
The chastity belt goes high-tech.
Amy made some adjustment to the vaginal probe and applied a
lubricant to the inner surface of the device and to both probes. She
told me to stand, with my legs spread, knees slightly bent, and feet
well apart. She knelt and eased the thing into position, threading
the end of the catheter through a small hole in the front panel.
Lining up the probes properly required some dexterity on Amy's
part. But the vaginal probe slid into me quite smoothly, and the
clitoral stimulator settled into position. Next, she had to fiddle
with my vaginal lips to make sure they were well separated and
slotted into their intended grooves on the inside of the device.
This was the worst yet. I blushed hotter and trembled. I was so
humiliated...and so aroused.
Amy sniffed loudly and smiled. The smell of my heated pussy
drifted up to me.
She then pulled up the back-strap and pressed the tip of the anal
probe against my cringing pucker.
"Push," she said. "Like you're trying to pass a turd."
I obeyed her and sighed as I felt the probe slither into place
and my sphincter embrace it.
After a few minute adjustments, she had me hold the device in
place while she removed a heavy plastic belt from the box, slid it
through loops on the device (two on the front and one on the rear),
tightened it to fit, and locked it closed.
I stood up straight and groaned slightly as I felt the probes
shift within me. Even naked, I was less exposed than now -- exposed,
invaded, and subject to the whims of others. How much so, I had no
idea, but was about to learn.
Amy picked up a small remote control, pressed an orange button,
and the retainer went live.
It suddenly felt as though I were carrying a melon inside me. It
It didn't hurt, but it just seemed to be touching me everywhere.
Meanwhile, Amy went on, didactically.
"The inside of the device is lined with electrodes. These carry
both sensory information to the CPU (located in the anal probe) and
stimulus pulses from the CPU to the wearer's primary erogenous zones.
You will have felt the vaginal probe extend and open out into a sort
of pine cone shape, to ensure close contact with the cervix and other
areas within the vagina, including the one commonly known as the
Graffenburg (or 'G') spot."
She switched the thing off, and I felt the probe subside.
"De-activated, it's waterproof," she explained. "I won't trouble
you with too many technical details, but, if you're wondering, it is
quite independent of any external power source. It uses body heat
and movement to keep the internal batteries charged.
"It's very flexible now, but it'll stiffen up quite a bit once
we're through here. Each person is different, not only in gross size,
but also in minute contours, so there is an initial fitting process,
and then the device is customized for an individual; the plastic
material is 'set' by using the shower spray. As long as you're
careful and thorough, it's really not difficult. You just have to get
the water temperature over 40? centigrade. That's about 110?F.," she
added patronizingly. "And make sure the water gets all over, inside
and out.
"So get in the shower again -- you should know your way around it
by now -- and I'll spray you down." That shower was very up-to-date;
it even had a thermostat to control the water temperature. Amy set it
to 45?C/120?F., waited a moment, and started to spray.
She was pretty skillful with that spray -- but I couldn't help
wriggling when the hot water flooded my crotch. It wasn't too long,
however, before Amy nodded and shut off the water.
Drumming her fingernails on the outside of the device, she was
satisfied it was done.
"Hardened nicely," she observed. "Now we dry it off (and you,
too, of course). At this point, we could fit a set of nipple
stimulators -- there are several different kinds of those -- but we'll
leave that until later and just re-activate and calibrate your
probes."
I stepped out of the stall, and she played valet, though she
seemed a lot more conscientious in toweling the device than in doing
me.
"We need to wait a while, to make sure all the water inside has a
chance to drain out, so I'll continue your briefing.
"The retainer can be turned on and off either by a switch on the
device itself or by this small remote control. On the remote here,
the power button is this orange one; the little light beside it is an
on/off indicator. There are also six buttons in three rows, each
button corresponding to a different level of arousal, 0 through 5."
She pressed the orange button, the light began to glow, and I got the
stuffed sensation again.
"Until an arousal level is selected, the device will simply
collect data; it won't issue any stimuli. Press one of these six
buttons, however, and it will take you to the corresponding level --
and hold you there until another command is input.
"Level 0 is really a misnomer; even switched off and completely
inert, the retainer is still mechanically stimulating to a degree.
Level 1 is "slightly aroused"; levels 2-4 are low, medium, and high
plateaus; level 5 is orgasm.
"The only other control is concealed." She opened a sliding cover
to reveal a small red button. "This starts the retainer's self-test
and calibration routine. You have to trigger this the first time you
fit someone new. The process takes about five minutes.
"In the first phase (the 'self-test'), each separate stimulation
device and electrode, one by one, will start up at its minimum
stimulus setting and rachet slowly up to its maximum. This phase will
last 2 minutes and include both positive and negative stimuli.
"In the second phase ('calibration'), the device will bring you
to orgasm three times, each time refining its control of your
erogenous zones. The first orgasm will be achieved very quickly and
will be of short duration, followed immediately by a flurry of small,
precise electrical pulses that will drop you back down to level 0.
The second 'calibration orgasm' will plumb the depths of your
responses -- and it will be incredibly intense. Then back to 0 again.
The third one will be the ultimate test of the device's control over
you. It will step you through each arousal level, holding you for 10
seconds at each stop from 0 through 4. When it goes to level 5,
though, it'll keep you there for a long 30 seconds."
Her tone was dry, but there was an undertone of barely repressed
glee.
She paused and smiled sweetly. "Oh, yes. I must also tell you
that, once the device is on, it's almost impossible for the user to
be affected by any external stimuli -- either positive or negative.
Therefore, it will keep you at whatever level and for however long it
is commanded to. So my advice is: don't try to fight it; just go
with the flow. Now, lie back on the exam table."
She winked at me and pushed the red button.
As she'd said, each separate component activated, one by one,
starting at its minimum output and accelerating until the stimulation
became somewhat painful. For the most part, I was able to remain
stoic, not wanting to give Amy any satisfaction; but when the clitoral
and urethral stimulators kicked in, I couldn't help doing some
gasping and twitching. All in all, though, the 2-minute self-test was
tolerable...barely.
The calibration phase hit me like a thunderbolt. It took me from
0 to orgasm in much less than half a minute, and then it zapped me
back down to 0 in an instant. It was a breath-taking experience.
Then it started building toward the second orgasm. This one was
more insidious, serpentine, wriggling through the very guts of my
arousal. It seemed to go endlessly on and on, though it couldn't
have been much more than 60 seconds. I became incapable of coherent
thought. The orgasm, when it came, was devastating. If I'd been
able to, I'd have pissed myself.
When I bottomed out at 0 again, I felt physically and mentally
drained...and totally humiliated. But there was still one more
"calibration orgasm" to go.
The retainer held me at 0 for 10 seconds, and that was painful,
because the thought of another climb up the scale was itself arousing,
and the device had to keep zapping me to keep me down. Level 1 was
pleasant, almost idyllic, with an occasional fairy kiss from the
device.
Level 2 was more intense, and I began to have some difficulty
concentrating. Rational thought started to blur into fantasy.
Level 3 was all fantasy...black, with crimson flames, as an army
of sex-fiends attacked me in all the ways I hated...and loved....
At level 4, thought gave way entirely to pure feelings; my
formless fantasies overwhelmed me, even more powerful now that I
could no longer visualize them....
The 30 seconds of level 5 were heaven and hell in equal measure.
When I finally went back to 0 this time, I was dazed, but, even so,
I realized that I'd enjoyed the trip...in a perverse sort of way.
Eventually, I sat up, dizzy, and let Amy towel off my sweaty body.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Very tired."
She eased me back down onto the table. "You can sleep for a
while."
Was the little bitch concerned...or envious? I smiled...and went
to sleep.
****************************
I must have slept like the dead. Too soon, Amy was shaking me
awake again. She thrust a large glass of some thick orange liquid
into my palsied hands and ordered me to drink it.
"It's just what you need: fluid, electrolytes, carbs, protein,
and a mild analgesic. On your application, you mentioned a Carol
Willis as your emergency contact. I took the liberty of phoning her,
and she's agreed to attend tonight's meeting and see you home
afterward. Okay?"
I finished the foul-tasting drink and nodded.
"Well, speak up. Okay?"
"Yes..., um...yes, Miss Amy."
She smiled thinly, the look of one whose patience is rapidly
running out. It was one of my sister's favorite expressions.
The retainer was removed and my catheter drained. I was given a
hospital gown and flip-flops and led upstairs. I went docilely,
though I was seething with ambivalence inside.
At the end of a circuitous route, we entered a large room through
a side door, stage left. The place was filling up fast -- 40 or 50
people (most of them men). A gyno-exam chair was front and center,
within a semi-circle of electronic equipment. There seemed to be
video monitors everywhere.
Guy Guisburn (the young man who had interviewed me two days and
half a life-time ago) stepped to the front and called everyone to
order. I stood there passively, only half-listening to what he was
saying -- it seemed to be an expanded and jargon-filled version of
the briefing Amy had given me. I tried to relax, but that proved
impossible, with my fantasies beginning to close in and my pussy
already swollen and wet with anticipation.
At last I heard him introduce me as "Connie X," and it was
show-time once again, time to turn back into the guinea pig that I'd
volunteered to be. And I walked out on trembling legs, my revealing
little hospital gown eddying about me, my flip-flops slapping against
the soles of my feet with each step.
I looked out at the audience, but couldn't make out individuals --
I just couldn't focus.
I then had to take off the gown, give everybody a good, long look
(front and rear), and then get into the exam chair. I had to spread
my legs really wide to fit the stirrups. I lay there, knowing that at
least two video cameras were focused on my throbbing clit and
dripping pussy -- no, I guess I should call it a "cunt" now -- and
fearing that everyone in the room would soon know all my secrets.
There were only a dozen or so actual students in the audience,
and they were invited to come up, in groups of 3 or 4, for a closer
look and some "hands on" experience examining my intimate areas.
They each had a turn, 9 or 10 males and 4 females. At first they
seemed cool and clinical, but I soon discovered that was a veneer of
"Dr. Kildare" over an "Animal House" carcass. In the end, it became
a sort of contest to see how often they could ALMOST make me cum
without actually allowing me to do so. The women students were worse
than the men; they already knew how to manipulate female anatomy to
the greatest effect, and I guess they didn't want to seem less
"dedicated" (i.e., "macho") than their male classmates. It was very
difficult for me to stifle my moans as they played games with my
hair-trigger clitoris.
But Act I finally ended, and we moved on to Act II: The Retainer.
I was actually relieved to be able to get up and be put back into
that fiendish device. It was quicker this time. No need for an
enema, shave, or shower, and I was already catheterized. As I
settled back into the chair and, ominously, was strapped down, I
glanced over at Amy, already fondling the damned remote. I prayed
she didn't want to demonstrate the calibration process.
But there was a new element. Dr. Guisburn pointed out what he
termed "a Chalfont peripheral." It was a smallish grey box, maybe
8"x 8"x 4" high, sprouting two black rubber tubes, each ending in a
shallow socket a couple of inches in diameter. Amy plugged the box
into an outlet on the console and flipped a switch. The box began to
hum.
"Air is sucked in through the sockets and vented from the control
box. The sockets, of course, fit over the subject's nipples."
My nipples, which should have been trying to hide, stayed at
attention, instead.
"The sockets are lined with bristles," he said. "Aside from the
air suction, these bristles will increase the stimulation by gently
oscillating at a variable speed."
Amy proceeded to attach the socket things. A bit of some sort of
adhesive on the edges kept them in place. She adjusted a dial on the
control box, flipped another switch, and I felt a tug on my nipples.
She twisted another dial, and the suction began to pulsate gently. I
supposed it would have a cumulative effect, but, at this stage, it was
actually quite relaxing. All the same, I was glad I wasn't lactating.
Amy then demonstrated some of the capabilities of the retainer
and soon had me whimpering and writhing and sweating. After a while,
I got a breather during a much too brief question-and-answer period.
Then came Act III, the "climax" (as it were) of the presentation.
It turned out to be one last, huge, seemingly endless orgasm
orchestrated by Amy, while she smiled down at me supercilliously. It
would take a total of 20 ghastly minutes -- 3 minutes at level 1, 4
minutes at level 2, 5 minutes at level 3, 6 minutes at level 4, and
2 minutes at level 5!
Her thumb hovering over the 1-button, Amy leaned down and
murmured to me, "After this trip, I'll bet you call me 'Miss Amy' for
the rest of your life."
She gave me that thin smile again, momentarily, and then thumbed
the button.
At level 1, I felt an occasional feathery touch or minute
vibration. During calibration, it was pleasant, though rather
distracting. Now, it became maddening, as the device kept me
precisely pinned at this opening level. Long before the 3-minute
period had expired, I was squirming in frustration.
At level 2, the stimulation was still gentle and intermittant, but
less so. It caressed my labia somewhat more urgently; the probes were
undulating enticingly; my G-spot began to receive attention. Now the
sensations were getting stronger, and I felt myself rising toward
orgasm -- and then, I stabilized. I had achieved level 2 and would
not be allowed to advance or retreat until the device received a new
command. I was totally helpless. I trembled as I felt the device
lick my erected clitoris and kiss my burning urethra.
"Oooooohhh!"
At level 3, I became a sweating slave to the machine, utterly
helpless to stem the rising tide of my arousal. The fantasies came
back, legions of them, and I was the focal point. I wriggled and
moaned, consumed by lust and shame. Four minutes of this, and I was
desperate, but still almost rational....
At level 4, the stimuli were monstrous and overlapping. Coherent
thought was impossible. My mind drifted, the world around me dimmed,
and my perceptions were all centered about my crotch and the awful,
unsatisfied hunger that now dwelt there. I was vaguely aware that I
was grunting and moaning like an animal in heat.
I just hung there, continuously tormented by that merciless
device, a prisoner on the brink, never allowed release. Sweat ran
into my eyes, and I barely noticed it. In the distance, someone was
keening piteously. It was me.
Finally, at level 5, I was helplessly swept up into an
interminable, 2-minute orgasm. Not a "serial" orgasm, for that has
peaks and valleys, and this was just one continuous peak. As far as
I could tell, there were no pauses, no valleys, no respite. I had
no breath, even to scream.
And then, at last, I began to drift downward, like snow on a still
night. Eventually, I realized that I was feeling pain -- small,
painful electrical shocks. It was not like falling snow at all, but
like being dragged downstairs by the ankles, your butt hitting each
tread on the way. I was being gradually scaled down, descending
through the lower levels to a so-called "soft" landing at 0. I saw
the light on the remote wink out. I was back among the living.
I heard applause.
When I finally revived enough, they disconnected the nipple stims,
unstrapped me, helped me out of the chair, and released me from the
retainer. I felt sort of semi-detached -- exhausted and humiliated,
but certainly well-satisfied. I glimpsed myself in a mirror with
mixed emotions; I was both giddy and dismayed to see the slightly
silly, orgasmed-out look on my face. And I was fascinated by the
reflection of my nipples. They were red and impossibly erect -- and
must have been over an inch long. I was deformed. I giggled.
"Never mind," Miss Amy said. "That's only temporary. They
should be back to normal within a couple of hours."
I didn't even notice when she removed my catheter.
After I'd sluggishly gotten dressed, Carol helped me to the car,
gushing over the show.
"Wow! What a debut! And you've got another 5 weeks to go...at
least."
"F-five weeks? And w-what do you mean, 'at least'?"
"Oh, yeah...the club's got options. You could belong to them for
years. It's spelled out in the contract you signed.... You did read
it, didn't you?"
"I m-must have o-over-looked that part.... S-s-so that means
that...Miss A-my...she could be m-my supervisor for...oh, god...."
