Saturday, November 26, 2016

Digital Indoctrination III

“Mr. Ross, how are you feeling? Tummy full?” the soft comforting words booming through the headphones.

I am returned to reality... relative reality. Dr. Becky has this chafing speech mannerism, as if addressing a child in need. Perhaps such is apropos.

“I’m... I’m fine.”

“Your latest blood test suggests you have needs. Advanced levels of norepinephrine and serotonin. Prolactin is high as well... as in most males of your age.”

I have no idea what such means, but have no need to come across as questioning her scholarship or authority. I do know I’ve been pricked... the other half of me has been pricked... regularly, blood no doubt drawn.

“You’re becoming fidgety. That’s likely to return the desire for sedatives. I’ll want you hormonally more balanced, Mr. Ross. I’m going to have you masturbated... won’t that be nice?” the tone mother to child.

It’s a degrading notion, restrained naked, my exposure and vulnerability in the adjoining room unbounded. Yet there have been many days... and many times when I sense I am erect.... though I have no manner of confirming my condition... flaccid or tumescent.

“I... I...” somewhat flabbergasted, I stammer, picturing being stroked to climax by one of the dour nurses who stripped, cleansed and depilated me upon orientation.

I am in no position to object. And my bashful silence is assumed to be consent, though I am not sure at the Mills Institute such is ever sought.

“Good boy. As a treat we’ll skip today’s journey. I’ll have you watch in real time instead. It will increase your arousal and you’ll better discharge for me.”

Ah... the clinical verbiage, not being jerked off... but discharging.

The blackness ends, Dr. Becky finally pressing her finger, that which frees me from my mental prison. The goggles alight. The small high tech screen mere inches before my eyes takes me to the ascetic medical chamber where my body resides, strapped in four point restraint to the wheeled padded platform. Not seen of course is my head, thrust through the rubber lined opening. Again comes the term surreal. I am surveilling myself, my bound hairless nakedness.

The camera lens zooms inward, a close up. I am shamed at my complete exposure, my body centerpieced in a room, but for walls of medical devices, that is barren. Hands come into view. My ankle cuffs are released from tethers at the end of the platform. I both feel and see my legs lifted. Then comes through the headphones the pleasant but syrupy voice of Dr. Becky.

“We prefer to have our boys discharge in the decubitus position. Such offers better access to the necessary organs and the effluent is more neatly captured for evaluation.”

Such clinical words for an otherwise sordid male deed. Indeed my knees are brought to my chest. Then the hands work a broad strap about the back of my upturned thighs holding me in place.

Watching from an odd angle... feeling from a different place... is bizarre. I am displaced, my mind and body separated. Adding to the opprobrium is the humiliating exposure, my testicles dangling, covering the bright pink of my rosebud opening.      

Then for the first time I note the hands... meaty, the fingers craggy. Though the touch seems caring and tender, such are the digits of a man! There comes a frisson of consternation. Somehow Dr. Becky is aware, her smooth even voice booming...

“Charles is very good, Mr. Ross. He’s a fixture here at Mills Institute, a long time patient. If this was a prison, he’d be considered a trusty.”

I am horrified. Thoughts of being helplessly stroked to climax by a pretty young nurse were disturbing enough. But this!

“No!” I blurt, my tone of great distress.

“Oh come now Mr. Ross. It’s for the best. Charles is very slow... but tender and thorough. He’ll soon have you discharging for me... when he wants. Just lie and enjoy like a good boy.”


I have discharged... I suppose Charles finally tiring of endlessly teasing... withdrawing those accomplished fingers of his time after time whenever he felt pending climax. Yes, Charles proved to be very good indeed. Despite the anxiety, he brought me to a massive climax.

Such ignominy, spurting into a collection vessel, on cue, like a trained animal. The cue being an index finger penetrating then gently yet energetically wriggling about within my well exposed anus. Charles has before masturbated... but for his gender, the induced sensations sublime.

“See how much calmer you are Mr. Ross. In offering your effluent you’ve unloaded a mass of chemicals. You’ve been depleted of norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, and the hormone prolactin.  This all activates the cingulate cortex and amygdala, calling for peace and calm.”

More clinical analysis, Dr. Becky pleased with my performance. Adding to the frustration of being made to so humiliatingly discharge, the camera never revealed the face of my masturbator Charles. For some reason this adds to the distress. Should I some day some how encounter him on the street, will he know me? Offer some sly glance hinting that he made my penis stiffen and spurt for him.

I console myself... convincing myself that Charles knows not what I look like either. And that as a sexual deviant, his stay at Mills will be lengthy.

“So now that you’re relaxed... nicely masturbated... tell me again about the reason you need therapy Mr. Ross. From the beginning. Tell your Dr. Becky all about your desires and misdeeds... what brought you here to Mills Institute.”

I am inclined to respond that my presence is the a result of connivance... amongst a vengeful wife, a bitch prosecutor and a calloused judge. But I dare not. I am determined to earn my release... be deemed cooperative... be rehabilitated. For that I must play along, putting aside thoughts of the malicious setup.

Her quest comes with what I know to be another press of her finger. The goggles momentarily go blank. Then I am alarmed when there comes the image of stepdaughter Cindy. She is ravishing... as always. Blonde and blue eyed, her biological father Nordic... my wife, her mother, of German descent.

Cindy was athletic in her formative teen years, adding alluring physique to an angelic face. Yet she was... is... far from angelic.

Told of her good looks from the time she was a toddler, she uses such... she teases... games people. Yes, she’s a spoiled child. But for her beauty I often told myself she’d be beaten and punished regularly for her mischief and sauciness. Yet as step father, marrying her mother Vicky well into Cindy’s formative years, I never had influence... not that I cared to have it. Such was exemplified by her calling me ‘Joe’... never Dad or Daddy. And certainly never acknowledging me as head of household.

I suppose her demeanor could partly be ascribed to a successful mother... Vicky a high level pharmaceutical researcher... and that her natural father... assuaging the guilt of his departure...  sends a monthly stipend which offers financial independence.

Thus when it comes to my stepdaughter I have no leverage... no influence... and a spiteful teenaged Cindy harps on it. 

Seeing the image of my obstreperous accuser, smiling at me, her short skirt flaunting legs of exquisite form, brings unease. She sits on the hood of a car. Then I find the image is not a still photo, but a video. Her hand raises, it waves and I hear the voice... most consider it to be sweet and innocent. For me it is vexing.

‘Hi Joe. Enjoying your therapy?’

She mocks, enunciating the word therapy such that she is aware of the acute ignominy. I horripilate, feeling the hairs bristle on the back of my neck. She is the girl... woman... who has had me incarcerated. Yet I have no choice but to gaze at loveliness I know veils such wickedness. 

‘I’m enjoying my new car. My boys have kept it polished for me... but now they’re going off to college. Maybe you can wash it for me when you’re... ah... better.’  

I know her reference to ‘boys’ to be a bevy of sycophantic admirers which she uses for her amusement and comfort. My stepdaughter never carried her own books to school. Does she reward them? And how? Step fathers aren’t empowered to ask.

Cindy slips from the hood, stands, turns and leans, an arm waving about to highlight the shiny red of her new Corvette. Yet there is a subtle undercurrent in her demonstrative gesture. In so moving she thrusts forth her buttocks... a silhouette of her divinely rounded hillocks... shaped to perfection through years of gymnastics.

It is a second message... besides the belittling suggestion that I am to wash her car. It’s in so brazenly wriggling about that exquisite derriere... that which I kissed... well... more than kissed in the night in question. She tempts... she’s a temptress.

“Nice of your stepdaughter to offer her greetings, Mr. Ross... particularly after the trauma you caused. Care to talk about it?” Dr. Becky prompts.

I don’t... but I must...

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