Saturday, January 28, 2012

'The Clinic' V

The chief therapist returns to her desk, her smug look seeming to radiate. One girl caged, another bound, well stressed, cunny well displayed, another mentally stressed, sinfully spread to exhibit feminine charms.

She is in her element.

A matron returns to the office to release me from the straight backed chair. It is lunchtime and in leading me to join the group I spy a number of horizontal lengths of padded wood, stanchions holding such at waist height. Numerous, there are short cords with clips, similar to that on my cot, suggesting that a girl can be instantly secured.

I am to later learn the position is assumed upon the command ‘belly to the board’, uttered whenever a tending matron has the whim to inspect a girl’s cunny.

As described, with belly resting on the padding, the ankle and thigh loops are secured to the stanchions, offering a good spread. The girl is bent over, face towards the floor and the wrist loops are then tied off above.

The pose exposes all a girl normally seeks to cloak, cheeks parted, labia splayed. Is a girl so restrained for punishment... or amusement? I suppose it does not matter.

With elbows again connected behind me, the matron leads to the dining hall where my compatriots sit at a long table in wait. All naked, all with arms and hands fettered in some manner, the naked trusty offers lunch. Before each girl is a small bowl. The trusty steps from client to client, spooning a large glop of mush into each bowl. Two matrons stand in watch, the duty of serving beneath their status.

I am seated at an empty chair and in seeing no one move, assume a similar pose, just silently staring down and forward.

Finally, with all bowls filled, I experience another form of clinic discipline. A bell rings. All heads collectively lower, face to the bowl. We’re fed like dogs, no hands or fingers to be used. I quickly join, my head lowering in kind not to delay.

Lips and tongue work. I am surprised to find that the mush is not objectionable, seeming to be nutritious food ground to facilitate the unorthodox method of ingestion. However acceptable the offering is, however, I find my nose is soon coated and certain morsels stick to unreachable parts of my upper lips and chin.

Within moments the bell rings twice. All heads rise... I follow suit. It is amusing to see the soiled faces, no girl able to neatly partake, I must assume mine is similarly decorated with glop. Yet in noting that all girls freeze I dare not move my head to further survey.

Such obedience! Not a word spoken. Not the slightest attempt to move. The trusty returns, wet cloth in left hand. She one by one tends to the faces, the fingers of the right hand scooping visible remnants of the meal and pushing such into receptive mouths. Then the wet cloth of the left hand cleanses.

The trusty works quickly, stepping from girl to girl. I see that as she leans she lets her breasts freely brush, rub and abrade the backs and shoulders of the clients. It would seem to be a reward, the matrons permitting the limited teasing contact, smiling in seeing the nipples harden, the tits firm in pressing warm skin.

Being last, I feel her glands firmly greet my right shoulder. There comes a subtle shake of her upper torso, her left nipple grazing to bring herself a brisance of joy. Then an index fingers instantly smooths about, collects excess sustenance from nose and lips and introduces such to my mouth. I ingest. As the wet towel cleanses, the bell rings three times. The girls rise and I again mimic and stand.

Afternoons are therapy time. Our group parts, each girl to receive individual ‘counseling’. I am led to a small room. Within is a straight backed chair. A matron quickly secures me, spread widely open, just as in the office of the chief therapist. Before me is a small table with a simple chair, more comfortable than mine. I cannot help gaping at the collection of short cords and clips about the perimeter of the table. A ‘client’ can easily be restrained on the surface.

I wait, several moments. The door opens. It is the trusty. She carries a tray, an empty bowl, scissors.

In silence, she cuts my hair. I dare not protest. I cannot move.

Caring not to conform to any known style, the long locks surrender quickly and in large clumps, summarily tossed into the waiting bowl. It takes not more than two minutes for my remaining head of hair to resemble that of every other client. Short... horridly short. Does she cut evenly... with a hint of decorum?

It matters not. She finishes, momentarily plays with my nipples, and quickly departs, smiling smugly in having stolen an unauthorized copping of my glands.

More waiting. The door again opens. In walks the woman who will change my life.


I am to find at the clinic that the psychological stress to be endured can greatly exceed the physical.

My new girl friend of color, for instance. Which is to challenge the most, having to stand, presumably for hours, on the toes of one foot? Or posed to so salaciously exhibit a very ripe and wet quim, oozing with evidence of stimulation, the scent of feminine arousal filling the room?

So the cutting... chopping actually... of my long prideful hair... concurrent with the introduction of my therapist is no coincidence.

As I sit in self pity, sensing the conflicting need to assess my new look versus the horror of discovery, Dr. Ann Roberts... Miss Ann... introduces herself. I am in the depths of despair, the timing superb. I so need to talk to someone.

"Welcome to the Clinic."

Voice smooth, I look to appraise. Relatively young for having an advanced degree, I judge her to be early thirties. Professionally attired. No starched blue uniform. Long hair dark, similar to mine, that now residing in the trusty’s bowl. Handsome, even features, confident, knowledgeable, in my state of vulnerability her demeanor brings a degree of comfort.

"When in this room you may speak... in response to my observations and inquiries of course."

She carries an over the shoulder bag, extracting a note pad with a fountain pen. Long since practicable, it appears to be a treasured gift... perhaps an heirloom.

"Lana Morehouse aged 21," she reads from her pad, leaning back against the table. "Shoplifting, first offense.

High school graduate. Dropped out of college after three semesters."
She looks up, judging my reaction. But also glancing down to where my shaven mons is so thoroughly displayed.

"The matrons here do tend to enjoy themselves do they not?" in apparent reference to my naked vulnerability.

She steps around the table, grasps the empty chair and slides it before me, sitting such that her knees brush mine.

"You’ll find that they like observing the pink flesh of young girls. It is best for you to be obedient and let them feast their eyes. When it’s time to be masturbated... just relax and enjoy. Within, girls such as you enjoy the humiliation. There is no point to resisting."

Her right hand extends to gently smooth along my inner left thigh, slowly approaching my ‘cunny’. I shiver... in fear... in delight?

She withdraws as my nipples firm in response. She sits back, apparently learning what she needed to know.

"So let’s begin. Start with your childhood... speak chronologically."

I do.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

'The Clinic' IV

"Enema time girls," a matron calling out, standing at the only egress from the courtyard.

The girls obediently trot to reenter the building.

"Line up... tits to shoulder blades... cunny to buttocks... nice and tight for me."

Returning to the hallway, the naked girl, she who picked the bowls and smeared our labia and vaginas, beckons from a far door. She is unfettered, though with many loops in place, easily restrained should the need arise. I am to learn the girl is a trusty, offered relative freedom in order to perform tasks too lowly for a matron.

The lead girl knows to prance then humbly stand before her in wait. And sure enough the next girl presses against her...then the next and so on to form a chain. The girl of color, somewhat enthralled with my posterior, makes it a point to get behind me, now able to frottage against my globes without fear of discovery, pressing such that my mons in turn is thrust into the girl in front of me more then I’d like.

It feels good... and I am most chagrined. My heated ‘cunny’, as the matron terms my sex, attains a degree of satiation.

Yet I need more.

As we girls collectively squirm, absorbing the modest thrill, the matron smiles in squalid delight. I feel the rock hard breasts of my new friend, the nipples rubbing with enthusiasm against my back. The behavior is not only acceptable, but welcomed... the entertainment appears to be mandated... and no one disappoints.

Then the scent of women in need wafts through the hallway air. It is strong, so many wet love canals, and the matron begins to cackle depravedly.

Over the months of ‘therapy’ I am to find that douching is prohibited... totally denied. And whereas my relatively fresh, new arrived ‘cunny’ is not overly ripe, some of the girls are in need of hygiene... hygiene they shall not have.

"Enough," comes the matron’s command, the grinding hips and jiggling breasts instantly brought to stillness.

The naked trusty reaches to the neck loop of the first girl, slips her finger beneath and pulls, guiding her into the ‘enema palace’, the ironic name for the clinic’s chamber of concrete walls, well drained tile floor, plumbing and water... much water.


I sit in the office of the chief therapist. Elbows clipped together, a tending matron secured me to a straight back chair facing a large walnut desk. Restraining my thigh loops and ankle loops to the sides, she assured that I sit well spread, exposing the mass of feminine pink flesh between my thighs.

Despite the massive enema administered earlier, normally tending to induce torpor, I feel apprehension.

The chief therapist sits behind the desk doing paperwork. Being ignored, for now, I visually examine the large office. Most notably in one corner to my left sits a sizable steel cage. Within a naked girl rests on knees and elbows, her cable ties secured in such a manner that her legs and arms cannot straighten... ankles to the waist... wrists to the biceps. A slack leash is attached to her neck loop and is tied to the bars. Beneath her head is a bowl, presumably that intended for a dog, filled with water.

Opposite to the right, restrained to a vertical pole, is my new friend, the girl of color from the courtyard. She forcibly stands on the toes of her left foot. The right foot is raised, leg bent back, the ankle loop secured to her waist loop. Arms tethered behind her back, her neck loop is attached to the pole to assure she does not topple.

As with me, to assure she properly displays her feminine charms, the right thigh loop is tied from above in such a manner that she in turn much offer a spread shot. The pose is awkward and challenging. She perspires. I can see the glistening moist pink of her splayed inner labia, the slow torture seeming to bring arousal as vaginal juices slowly ooze to her left thigh. I am sure the matrons are to be greatly entertained.

"Your friend was talking this morning... in the courtyard. Against the rules. I trust you did not respond to

The therapist speaks for the first time, evidently noting the direction of my gaze.

I must assume my response to the girl was not noted on the camera. Otherwise I am sure I too would be placed in an unending stress position.

I prevaricate, shaking my head to deny.

"Good. You’ll note that we like to have naughty girls display themselves in such licentious ways. It’s good for the spirit, don’t you think? Makes a girl aware."

I nod. Whom am I to disagree. Yet... aware of what?

"And that one, over there. Therapy revealed a rather telling penchant. Makes for a cute little pup don’t you think?" the woman nodding to the cage.

I shrug my shoulders as best I can.

"She’ll forever either be caged or leashed. In time, I tire of my pets. So at some point she’s to be kenneled. But for now, leading a girl about on a leash can offer quite the thrill for a woman of my ilk. And it so placates her needs."

The woman stands. I begin to tremble, now more than ever understanding her power... and her enjoyment in exercising such.

"We all have fantasies... desires we prefer not to divulge. Held deep within, never to be shared... at least by the outer self."

She approaches as she speaks, something indiscernible held in her left hand.

"Here we delve into the inner self. And we discover such fascinatingly secret things. The curious desire to be leashed and fed from a bowl, for example... to be mated and forced to breed," gesturing to the cage.

She steps to my girl friend of color. The right hand extends and toys with a pinkish brown left nipple. Then her hand lowers and a finger dabs at the flowing vaginal juices.

"Well bound... yet aroused. Plus do you find anything distinctive about the muscling on this one? You may speak."

"She’s... she’s in good shape," my quaking voice stuttering, the extensive muscling indeed tending to ripple in the stress position.

"Oh, better than good. She runs and runs. Extremely strong legs, good endurance, the limited breasts those of an Olympic track star... or better perhaps, those of a girl who’d like to spend her life harnessed, bridled and responding to the crack of a riding crop."

The head of my new girl friend of color slumps to the degree the neck restraint permits. The downward cast of the eyes suggests the observation is appropriate.

"Yes, this one would like to serve me, the power of my psyche subduing hers, forcing her physical strength to yield to me. So physically potent, yet she so much desires to mentally capitulate, cede to a woman’s whip hand."

The woman approaches me to stand close, gazing downward at my pinkness, again offering the look of a fine chef planning a meal. She drys her wet finger on my upper lip, the scent of the juices quite strong.

"One cannot help comparing the glands," her right hand lowering.

She palms and cups my right breast. Soft yet firm, as stated I am well endowed there. Normally I ward off such advances, particularly from women. But I am helpless to resist and the woman plays without compunction, moving her hand to give equal credence to the left breast as well, smiling wickedly.

"Quite the set of mammary glands. Have you ever thought of lactating for us?"

"No, ma’am."

"Well we have our puppy girl... we have our pony girl. Why should we not have our cow girl? I think you would enjoy entertaining us."

I shake my head in denial.

Then comes, should our tete a tete be considered a duel, the coup de grace... finally presenting the contents of her left hand. My trembling transforms to outright shudders of concern.

"Caught shoplifting this. You had the money with you to pay for it, but you just did not want to be seen purchasing it."

It is the evidence of theft from my trial... a breast pump! And the chief therapist is correct. Before me is divulged the deep dark secret fantasy... my deep dark secret fantasy.

The woman leans. There comes again that look of Schadenfreude, her warm breath felt on my nakedness

"Your secret need to nurture. I think we know how to make your stay here... your therapy... very enjoyable."

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Comment on Comments/Spam

Just found some appropiate comments in the 'spam' box which I released to be posted.

It seems the 'spam' detector has been turned up a notch, so I will be more diligent in making sure stuff gets through. If you find that a comment is delayed that is the reason.

As stated, I do not block or edit anything unless a comment is nothing more than a commercial attempt to advertise a product, site or service.


Saturday, January 14, 2012

'The Clinic' III

I awaken to commotion. A high barred window is faintly aglow, suggesting daylight. The firm voice of a matron can be heard in the hallway. Keys rattle in the door of my room... my cell.

"Wake up, new girl."

Matron four, starched blue uniform of course, enters, releasing the many clips with noted alacrity.

"I will verbally guide you through morning protocol once, thereafter you will follow the snaps of my fingers."

I look into the face of a dour middle aged woman, the tending personnel seemingly to have all gestated in the same womb.

"To the floor, all fours," barked with a single snap of her fingers.

I obey as she steps from the small room.

"Come, on hands and knees," another single snap of her fingers.

I crawl into the hallway, aghast to see a bevy of girls assuming the same position, every head touching a wall, naked bottoms well exhibited and thrust toward the center of the hall. Beneath each is a bowl, pressed between the knees.

"Over your bowl, quickly, press it between your knees," another single snap of her fingers.

A bowl awaits me and I comply as the matron departs, crossing the hall to unlock another door. I hear more snaps, no words, as a pretty young girl crawls out and positions herself over an identical bowl.

Meanwhile, a night’s build up of excretions provokes a need. In recalling the directing words of the chief therapist, not daring to soil the linoleum or the bowl, I squeeze, assuring no release of my bladder.

Two more doors, more snaps. I do not move my head to dare count the kneeling naked forms, but there are more than a dozen, each assuming a kneeling position over a bowl.

Then there comes silence. Moments go by. At last a door at the end of the hall opens. Boots tap a leisurely cadence on the linoleum.

Tap, tap, tap, there finally comes the sound of a stentorian voice. It is the chief therapist.

"Good morning girls. You will greet me like this every morning as the more experienced girls know. It is good to begin the day on all fours. It offers the proper mindset. Quite demeaning to have to crawl. Quite a struggle to hold what nature urges you to release. But you’re here to learn discipline, and I like to begin with the control of the most basic of functions. For the new girls, the demand is that you hold until you hear two snaps of the matron’s fingers. Then you will lower your head to the floor, further part your knees and mentally prepare. With the next snap you will release. The girl finishing last will be punished. Meanwhile those Kegel muscles will work and strain, but hopefully not let you down."

I glance to the side noting the look of Schadenfreude, the chief therapist slowly marching, boots authoritatively tapping, as she speaks, her eyes glowering as would a bird of prey, seeming to imaginatively devour well exposed feminine flesh.

Meanwhile listening to her words causes my mind to focus on the urge which I must not indulge.

The speech ends. The silence seems to make it more difficult. My muscles below indeed strain. I cannot imagine the punishment for early release, but in being naked, the many loops of vinyl offering the capability of instant restraint, I am vulnerable to anything the matrons desire to mete.

Finally, two snaps. Heads collectively lower to the floor, including mine. I further part. The shift renews the dire need. The pause further tormenting, yet I dare not release.

Finally comes the single snap. My heart leaps, but more importantly my muscles know to relax as I open myself. The hissing sound and the splatter join that of some dozen other girls in the collective demonstration of institutional authority.

I finish, thankfully not last. In noting that no one moves I remain kneeling, now realizing for the first time how obscenely spread open I am.

‘It’s just us girls’... I tell myself.


"Remember... silence. No touching unless instructed by a matron."

Spoken as yet another matron works and my elbow loops are closely clipped together behind my back, returning my arms and hands to uselessness.

Next I feel a brisk slap to my buttocks, somewhat playful, somewhat in an earnest expression of control, and I know to rise from the floor, emulating the other girls.

For the first time since my arrival I am not being handled and am free to gaze and survey.

Every girl is naked, limbs, torso and neck encircled with identical cable ties. One by one each is bound... some as am I, others with wrists to the waist loop, one girl more cruelly. Yes, she who finished splashing into the bowl last has her arms pulled behind and folded at the elbows, wrists brought up between the shoulder blades and tightly secured to the back of the neck loop. Then the elbows are pushed together and secured as well.

Bound in such a tormenting fashion... yet so quickly... so easily. I note tears forming as I tell myself never to be last in emptying myself.

Continuing to survey, I note all hair is short. With mine draping to my shoulders I am an outlier.

Curious we are all approximately the some age, post adolescent, judging none to be more than early twenties. And though not an afficionado of the female form, there is youthful attractiveness. All are shapely, non overweight, non to be considered overly lean. In observing the lustful looks of the matrons, the chief therapist appearing to mentally prepare a meal, there comes suspicion.

Then my thoughts are diverted as below, there comes tingling... a degree of warmth... and then a most acute need to disobediently touch and rub my love nest.

With hands secured I can do nothing, but the cause of the sensation is apparent.

In completing the morning task, we all remained kneeling as a naked girl pushed a cart down the hall. One by one the filled bowls were removed, placed on the cart, and a rather experienced, tissue laden hand wiped dry the many quims. But fingers then briefly returned and wiped to apply an unguent.

Having had my rectum set afire in the infirmary I am aware of the clinic’s penchant. And sure enough, though pleasant the warmth spreads. The need amplifies. I look to see other girls apparently experiencing the same.

Such wickedness!

A matron opens a door at the opposite end of the hall. The girls begin to filter out and I follow, my mind transforming to that of a sheep. We step outside. The sun is chasing away the morning chilliness. Still I note many pairs of nipples firm and crinkle in the cool air.

"Get some exercise girls. Enemas and breakfast soon."

With that, the door closes behind us, leaving the naked group milling about in a high walled courtyard.

Some girls, obviously feeling the effects of the unguent more than me, walk about briskly. I recall an occasion where I applied depilating cream to my mons and in direct contrast to the instructions, inadvertently smeared some on the tender pink inner labia. The burning, much more severe than this, would not diminish, no matter my attempts to relieve myself of the intensity... not water... not soap... not skin cream.

I had to wait out the effect, and judging from the manner in which the girls walk about, it appears their application of whatever exceeded that of mine.

Not knowing what the day will bring, but aware of the propensity for strict bondage, I decide to move about, my muscles welcoming the chance to limber after a long night and a challenging morning kneeling in wait for the whimsical snap of fingers.

As I circle about, I once again survey and note a video camera high above on a pole. What a libidinous scene to be recorded, I think to myself. Nothing but T and A... spiced with some bondage.
A girl of color seems to follow me. Reaching a certain point I hear her voice, in direct violation of the rules.

"New girl," she whispers. "Stop and turn to the wall."

Being new indeed, I comply, not daring verbal response.

"There are no microphones. They just look to see if your mouth and lips move," the girl explains, stepping closer but not too close.

"Don’t nod or do anything to indicate we’re speaking. And make sure you face away from the camera... and away from me."

Apparently the girl of color has been in ‘therapy’ for a while.

"Your cunny a little hot?"

I mumble soft words of affirmation.

"Nasty stuff. Drives a girl crazy. A special spice, some concoction which brings a need every morning, lasting most of the day. It’s part of the discipline. You’ll be able to handle it today. Maybe tomorrow. But then as the need grows you’ll be begging. I can help you."

I say nothing. Is this a plant? A set up?

"Move more to your left."

I step. The girl, tall lean and muscular moves with me. Then I am shocked to feel her warmth abrade mine.

"It’s a blind spot," she explains as I feel the heat of her well shaven mons press against my right cheek.

"You’ve got the perfect ass for this. Push back against me. I’ll do the same for you some time."

Though well aware of the my firm roundness there, I blush.

"I don’t go that way," I rather demurely protest.

I hear a slight chuckle, perhaps my words amusing but more likely my smooth cheek bringing a welcomed degree of satiation.

"You will girl. You’ll soon be going any way they want you to go."

Saturday, January 7, 2012

'The Clinic' II

No clothing... ever... after all it’s just us girls.

Clothing it seems, emboldens. I am to be kept humble.

No unauthorized touching... myself or any of the other clients.

Silence. When spoken to, the matrons are ‘ma’am’... as in ‘yes ma’am’, ‘no ma’am’, ‘if it pleases you ma’am’, and so on.

Obedience at all times. Instant obedience.

Overall, me and the other girls... clients... are here to learn discipline.

‘The fact that you are here means you are lacking self control. That will change.’

Listening to stuff like that... rules... commands... directives... is probably why I am so rebellious. One has a tendency to refute such diatribe.

‘Learn obedience and you’ll earn privileges.’

In completing the lengthy list, most not worth repeating... to be summed up as ‘don’t do anything without permission’, Matron Two reaches to the cloth belt about her waist. I had not before noticed, my eyes instead inquisitively following her busy binding hands, that dangling about are dozens of small clamps.

She releases one, steps forth, draws my arms behind my back and in a very disconcerting instant clips together my elbow ties. Quick and amazingly simple, my arms and hands are rendered useless.

But I must admit... standing naked before this imposing woman, donning the many tethers, simple yet not to be resisted... there may be lack of self control... but not the control afforded others. Humbled indeed.

"Time for your physical examination. Do be a good girl for me."

The chief therapist... chief inquisitor?.. departs. Matron Two grasps my left arm and brusquely draws me out a separate door.

Walking about naked, room air wafting over intimate pink parts, both dismays and oddly thrills. Bare feet on linoleum, I note the interior temperature is kept comfortably high. And as I am paraded under the auspices of Matron Two, the need for warmth becomes evident. Like me, girls are pacing about naked, all bearing the many encircling cable ties, most with limbs clipped in some manner. Few, I assume to be very, very good girls, are unfettered but with cable ties in place remaining vulnerable to the instant attachment of a double ‘D clamp.

One girl has her feet attached together, energetically shuffling and moving as would a penguin. I note a matching one foot length of vinyl connects the ankle loops. As she struggles, her boobies flop about, most comically... for me. But I note the lustful look in the eyes of Matron Two, as one of hunger would ravenously gaze at a feast.

"She’s being disciplined. In a few months perhaps she’ll again be permitted to walk normally," comes the succinct explanation.

All young, teenagers, possibly older, all well shaped. I am heartened that there are no bruises, scars, bandages. Whatever discipline is meted, it does not appear to involve harm... physical harm.

Led to a medical facility, there are the obligatory white metal cabinets, white uniformed nurses, tables, chairs, devices. There Matron Two departs and I am once again amazed with the alacrity with which I can be restrained. Two young nurses guide me to a gynecological chair. My elbows are released but just as quickly ankles, thighs, waist and wrists are connected to clamps embedded in the chair.

I cannot move.

They depart. Do I detect giggling?

An older nurse enters. Apparently in charge. She begins a standard physical examination. Questions about diet... last time I defecated...last period. I am chagrined when a gloved finger enters my rectum, wriggles about and obtains a stool sample. Then a jar is held and I am encouraged to produce a urine sample.

"Any shyness will soon dissipate," the nurse explains as I cannot summon the urge. "in time you’ll be begging to urinate for us. It’s the only permitted manner of emptying your bladder."

The thought brings consternation. The nurse’s free hand presses my belly. She makes sibilant sounds as if encouraging a child. Finally I manage a brief spurt. She captures it in the jar and is satisfied.

She steps away. I hear again snaps of latex, soiled gloved removed. A new rubber glove invaginates the right hand. A second glove is slipped onto the left. Curiously, it is soft, covered in fur... delicate and flowing, as of that comprising an expensive stole.

"A little treat for you. Our way of welcoming a new girl to the clinic."

The nurse stands between my well parted knees, most proximate to my closely shaven mons.

"You may feel a little uncomfortable being publically masturbated... at first. But in time you’ll be imploring for more."

In public indeed, the giggling young nurses return to the examination room to observe. I am then introduced to the masturbation gloves... so wickedly pleasurably... so exquisite.

I am to find that such will become the food of Pavlov’s dogs. I will drool at their sound and sight... and not from my mouth.


Embarrassing... outright humiliating, I lie well befuddled by the day’s events.

From the examination room, matron number three, another knock off in starched blue, led me to a small chamber... really a cell... and summarily secured me to a cot. Neck, waist, biceps, wrists, thighs, ankles... every encircling cable tie clipped to a waiting restraint, cords very short.

‘These people are bondage freaks,’ I think but dare not say.

Notwithstanding the bizarre events, I stare at the dark ceiling, reposed, the hormonal release of an intense climax bringing an ironically relaxing end to an otherwise stultifying evening.

The nurse proved to be an accomplished masturbatrix, seemingly sensing precisely what I could feel. Her actions where mechanical but effective. It began with a lotion smeared about my rectum. It first warmed then brought intense heat. Next the palm of the latex glove, the design leaving the middle and index fingers uncovered, pressed firmly to my clitoral hood. The applied pressure was perfect, not painful, but enough to suggest the woman was in control. The fur covered left hand slithered up my belly, spurring a rash of goose bumps, and ever so gently caressed my breasts, tickling to bring my nipples to pencil points.

This all began a flow of feminine essence of course, the nurse quick to point out to the young nurses the scent of my arousal. In so doing, the humiliation of hearing her words further intensified the stimulation which of course increased my wetness.

Vagina sopping, the uncovered digits glided facilely within my quim, the nurse snickering in sensing the ease of entry.

And then she began in earnest, the warm uncovered fingers finding the urethral sponge, there circling to knead, pressing, the nurse lecturing as the pleasure slowly heightened and I squirmed against my bonds.... rectum heated... love nest rapidly rising in temperature.

The young nurses were offered an anatomy lesson... at my expense?.. perhaps more aptly described as at my behest.

"Notice how complacent they become," more authoritative words as the fingers worked me. "In time she’ll be trained to more appropriately use the Kegel muscles... communicating her need for more... and she will always want more."


Staring at the dark ceiling, neck restraint making it almost impossible to look elsewhere, thinking of the intensity of the resulting orgasm brings a wry smile. Yes, I was publically masturbated, forced to come to a riveting climax, Kegel muscles indeed clenching, most embarrassed to observe a spray of feminine essence erupt.

This brought a knowing smile to the nurse and to me a degree of bewilderment. My own furtive attempts at self pleasure had never brought such a reaction. The nurse drew more delight from my loins than I ever had.

"She’s a squirter, ladies. They can be quite entertaining."

The words offered as if I had become a trained circus animal, no purpose in life other than to amuse.

Such would become a more apropos notion than initially thought.

A tag was attached to the loop about my waist at the left hip. Later I was to find it indicated my release date and menstrual cycle, no embarrassment in having that known to all, it’s just us girls.

As slumber beckons I think of the turn of events that brought me to this clinic... the foolish shoplifting, the frightful judge, the threat of five years of incarceration, concurring to accept two years of ‘therapy’. And now lying naked and in extreme bondage. No prison would dare offer a regimen of such degradation.

Yet here I am.