The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Cutting Edge

Sharp light shone through Helen’s eyelids, pain her first conscious sensation. She groaned. How much, she wondered, would the light would hurt if she opened her eyes? This had to be a hangover, from the Christmas party. She hadn’t drunk that much, had she? It was so hard to open her eyes, perhaps it was better to keep them closed. Her body felt heavy, lassitude covering her. Thoughts drifted through her foggy mind. She tried to remember leaving the party. She could remember looking at her phone, deciding it was just about time to go. She’d considered not going to the party. Yes it was a chance to celebrate another great year, but Helen was worried that her boss, Professor Matheson might try something. He’d done nothing since she’d turned him down when he’d asked for a date a couple of months back. But you never knew what might happen at a party. She’d been so surprised when he’d asked. Yes, they worked together, and he was brilliant, but he had to be at least twenty years older than her. Men that old just didn’t do it for her.

Helen knew that, if Matheson pushed it, she’d have to quit. She didn’t want to. This was her dream job. And it wouldn’t look good, leaving just as the money was coming in. The royalties were going to start flowing, the money from their ground-breaking work in treating patients with damaged nerves. Helen had to admit Matheson had been generous. He’d given everyone who worked at their start-up more than they’d expected. Yes he kept the biggest share for himself. But there was nothing wrong with that, they were his ideas after all. Helen had joined partway through her residency in neurosurgery. It would look mercenary to leave now, money in pocket. But Matheson hadn’t tried anything at the party, Sure he’d been all smiles and praise. But he’d been the same to everyone.

An odd feeling distracted Helen from her reminiscence. A familiar odour, but somehow wrong. It didn’t smell like her apartment, the comforting scent of her bedroom, maybe not as well cared for as it should be, but the fragrance of the jasmine and patchouli pot-pouri that she loved made it feel like home. She didn’t smell that. It was the tang of the operating room, the laboratory, just as, if not more, familiar. She might have recognized the scent, but that was not where Helen expected to be. After she’d left the party she must have gone home, so where was she?

Memories fluttered past Helen. She remembered being in a bed, not her own. Feelings of movement, without any volition on her account, of being lifted and moved and rolled over. Only snapshots, meaningless without context. She recalled strange noises, buzzing and whirring at the edges of her awareness. She remembered confusion giving way to panic as she couldn’t place where she was, the thread of existence lost as she flitted in and out of consciousness, time passing without understanding. Disorientation and helplessness making her want to cry out as she had lapsed back into blackness.

Thoughts jostled for Helen’s attention but dissolved as she reached for them. Nothing made sense, Her head felt fuzzy. She forced her eyes open, then shut them immediately as she found herself looking into the bright lights of an examination room. She tried to get up, but couldn’t. She realised that there were restraints at her ankles and wrists. She tried to struggle against them, shocked. Her body barely respond, her movements a slight stirring, not the violent thrashes her panic demanded.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. Happy new year, by the way.” That voice. Helen recognised the voice. It was Matheson! What the hell was going on? Slowly, a millimetre at a time, Helen turned her head. Why wouldn’t her body respond properly? Helen could feel her heart start to race from panic, but her breathing remained oddly even. Fear ripped through her. What had happened to her? Had she been in some kind of accident? Maybe on the way home from the party? Was she paralysed?

When Helen thought she was safe from the glare of the lights she risked opening her eyes again. She could see Professor Matheson, intently studying a computer monitor. Around him she could recognise other equipment from their work. Oh God, she thought, if he’s here and using that sort of equipment I must have nerve damage. Desperately she searched her memory, trying to recall anything that might explain why she was here. But she her clear memory ended with the decision to leave the party. After that all she was fragments.

Matheson looked up, a frown creasing his face. “Hmm, I’ve rehearsed this a few times, not sure I’ll remember everything. Memory like a sieve sometimes. But let’s give it a go.” Helen knew his attempts at dry humour well, though she never found them particularly funny. She’d always thought they wouldn’t make for a great bedside manner. Now she was certain. She didn’t want bad jokes, she wanted to know what was going on. Fear and doubt and confusion raced through her. None of it showed on her face. Whatever had happened to her had left her features a neutral mask.

Matheson tapped a finger on the top of the console “First, It’s the ninth of January.” Panic, raw and sharp, cut across her mind. January the ninth? The party had been December the 23rd. If whatever had happened was that night she’d been out over two weeks. If it had happened after that then the memory loss was worse than she thought. Either way she knew, as a surgeon, that this didn’t look good.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be up and around again. Not too soon, but in a few weeks. Bit of work to do yet.” Helen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. Matheson’s words implied both hope and fear. Hope that everything had would be okay, but fear over her condition. She was a surgeon herself, damn it, he could tell her what had happened. She tried to form words, but apart from a slight movement of her jaw nothing happened. Silently she cursed in frustration. Why wouldn’t any part of her body obey her? Even quadriplegics usually had more control of their head than she did.

Helen wanted to hold on. She needed to know what had happened to her. But she could feel the world slipping away. If Matheson said any more, she didn’t hear it.

Helen didn’t know how long it was until she was properly awake again. She could remember more fragments. She though they had happened after she had been in the examination room with Matheson. It was hard for her to tell. Little separate them. Sometimes a bed, sometimes movement. She was sure that she remembered other people. She’d tried to communicate, talk, make a sign. The fear and panic that had gripped her as realised she couldn’t, that her body wouldn’t respond, was clear in her mind, blotting out the other details.

Matheson’s voice again. He was leaning over her, shining a light into her eye, checking for, something. “You probably think you’ve been in an accident and want me to tell you all about it and your prognosis.”

Helen wanted that. She needed to know how bad it was, to have some hope that she would recover. Something bothered her. A frown would have appeared on her face, had her body still answered to her. ‘You probably think you’ve been in an accident’. What did that mean?

“Well, you’re prognosis is excellent. But this was no accident.” Matheson smiled, a look possessive and triumphant. Helen quailed, she could feel a tear forming in one eye. What was going on? What had Matheson done to her? Through her fear she tried to tell herself that none of this made any sense. Matheson had said that she’d recover, that she had an excellent prognosis. If he’d done something to her then he couldn’t risk that, he’d have to know that she wouldn’t keep quiet. What was going on?

Matheson chuckled, clearly amused. “You’re probably tying yourself in knots trying to work it out by about now.” That at least was right, Helen thought, even if it didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.

“So, my dear,” Matheson continued as he walked through a gap in the equipment and headed towards her, one hand carrying a thick file of documents. “Let’s begin. I’m going to make you mine. You didn’t think I was going to let you go that easily did you? You should have just said yes. Then none of this would have been necessary. Still, it will be an interesting experiment. I do love a silver lining.”

Helen could barely think. Make her his? Experiment? Fear choked her. Disbelief would have etched her features, if they could have moved. Things like this happened to other people, not her. Matheson was obviously mad, and she was at his mercy.

Matheson pulled a chair over next to the table Helen was strapped to. “You’re probably wondering how I’m going to ‘get away with it’” He delivered the last few words in a lowered, stupidly melodramatic tone. “Haven’t spent my whole life on nerves you know. Bit of government work a couple of decades back. Probably about the time you started school.” The smile on Matheson’s face made Helen feel ill. “Brainwashing, of course, those government types are so unimaginative. Didn’t work. Not back then. But I’ve worked out the kinks. You’ll only remember what I want you to.” Helen felt her eyes go as wide as she could manage. Which, in her present state, was about one millimetre wider than their relaxed position. Matheson couldn’t be telling the truth, could he? If he was, then he could do anything to her he wanted. The fear made her want to curl up into a ball. Not that she could, even without the restraints she doubted that her body would answer to her. Whatever Matheson had done to her left her totally helpless.

Matheson sat down next to her, opened the folder. “Let’s start discussing your treatment, shall we? What’s that? You’re happy to let me make all the decisions? Very wise.” He held up some printouts so that she could see them. She recognised the layout. She’d looked through hundreds like them in their work on patients. Mapping out pathways in the nervous system. Then remapping, allowing patients with disabilities to feel and control parts of their body to which the normal pathways had been damaged. It wouldn’t work for everyone, as it needed enough nerves left to replace those that were damaged. Complete spinal breaks, for example, couldn’t be helped. But if enough connections still existed then anything was possible. Matheson’s team regularly helped paraplegics and even quadriplegics walk again.

Helen forced herself to listen as Matheson continued. It still didn’t make any sense to her. She wasn’t in need of treatment like that. At least she hoped she wasn’t. And what would Matheson gain by crippling and then treating her? “As you can see I’ve already started mapping out the relevant pathways in your brain and nervous system.” Yes, yes, Helen though impatiently, but why? Then stopped herself. She recognised the type of chart, but not the details. It didn’t look anything like the printouts from their patients. It had to be from a different part of the brain.

Matheson’s voice faded away as another, horrifying, thought struck Helen. To get reports like that needed detailed scans of the patient’s brain. And attaching the probes needed naked skin. All the patients had to be shaved totally bald. She could feel her head quivering at the thought. If she hadn’t been drugged she’d have probably been howling. She loved her hair, gorgeous, thick dark hair, that was almost straight until just above her shoulders, than continued past them in stronger waves. It was impractical in the labs, but she was sinfully proud of it. And now she knew that it was gone. The memory of a buzzing sound near her head now made sense. Hair grows about six inches a year. It was going to take years to get back to what she had. Helen couldn’t understand herself. She was at the mercy of her boss, who was one of the world’s leading neuro-surgeons, obviously quite insane and threatening to do who knows what to her, she had no control over her body, couldn’t even speak and she was worrying about her hair? I’m panicking she told herself. Helen knew that a stressed mind would reach for something manageable, ignore the bigger threats that it couldn’t deal with. How long, she wondered fingers of self-doubt poking at her mind, until I’m as mad as he is?

Helen’s attention was caught by a quick “Ahem.” She made herself focus back on her captor. “I could see that your attention had drifted. Pity you won’t remember those thoughts. I’ll never know what they were. Now, pay attention this time. I’ve done all the mapping I can with you in la-la land. I need you conscious for this bit. And if you’re not going to pay attention some of it will have to be a surprise.” His tone was that you’d expect someone to use towards a misbehaving child.

Matheson rose. Helen could hear him walking down the table, along the length of her body. She tried, but couldn’t move her head so that she could she what was happening. She felt her legs start to move, spreading away from each other. Resignation, mixed with desperation, filled her. Of course it had to be about sex. Men and their power trips. Her thoughts were frozen by icy tendrils of terror. If Matheson had been telling the truth then she’d been unconscious for two weeks. All that time at his mercy. Had he, had he already raped her? Her throat tightened, repugnance filling her. Helen fought her thoughts into some kind of order. It didn’t matter if he had. She’d beat this. She was intelligent, her own person. Matheson had said she’d recover. Well, when she did, she’d see that he got everything he had coming to him.

Unfamiliar sensations across her body assaulted Helen. From her head, down her back, other places that she recognised. Matheson must have her wired up, be testing the connections. Then, far worse, a feeling of fingers, latex-covered, on her most private parts. Tiny shakes ran through her. Whatever had stopped her voluntary muscle control wasn’t dulling her feelings of physical sensation. She wanted to scream at the assault, but still no sound came out. The feeling wasn’t rough but smooth, almost liquid, slightly cool. Then the fingers were slipping inside her. Panic rose again as Helen realised that Matheson was lubricating her. Was he going to rape her now? Tears came from her eyes, not streams, but slow steady drops, heavy.

Then, terrorifed, Helen could feel it. Something hard at her opening, parting her vaginal lips, forcing its way inside. She was being raped but she refused to see herself as a victim. Whatever was inside her stopped, it just stayed were is was, filling her. Helen made herself think. She realised that it was probably a vibrator, not Matheson. Something brushed her clitoris, probably some sort of attachment to the vibrator. Not good, but at least he wasn’t raping her. She clung to what little consolation there was.

She could hear Matheson on her other side. “And something to help things along,” he muttered. Slowly, so slowly, Helen turned her head. She could see Matheson making adjustments to a drip. Then he headed back to the equipment. The vibrator came to life as he started typing on a keyboard. Despite herself Helen could feel the start of arousal lapping at her. Angry at her body’s reaction she tried to push the feelings away, but they continued to rise.

“In case you’re wondering, I just added something to the drip to lessen your self-control. Not much. Wouldn’t want anything to spoil the results.” After a last look at the equipment Matheson turned to leave. “You enjoy yourself,” he added, looking at her over his shoulder.

Helen fought against the rising feelings from her vagina and clitoris. Whatever it was Matheson was trying to record she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. Then she cursed herself for using that word. Much as she wanted to she couldn’t deny that her body was reacting to the invader. Her thoughts became fuzzy as physical sensations over took her. She tried to concentrate on other things. The cool air of the room on her skin, the feeling of the restraints, her vain efforts to produce anything other than small movements. Nothing could compete. The more she tried not to think about it, the more she couldn’t help thinking about the sensations coursing through her. She was becoming light headed. She hated Matheson, hated what he was doing to her. She tried to focus on that. But it wasn’t enough, the feelings insinuated themselves, wormed and crept their way through her, tugged at her brain. Her pussy was loving what the vibrator was doing to it. Helen cursed the way her language slipped whenever she was turned-on. She didn’t need more proof of what was happening. But it just felt so good. Her clit was pulsing and her pussy hummed in just the right way. She could feel an orgasm building. Desperately she tried pushing it away. She tried thinking of anything she could to dampen her arousal. Mud and traffic jams and how she was a prisoner. They all shrank away, like shadows running from the sun. Helen fought until the last, but it was no good. In the end she gave up, and came. She hated that she’d come like that, at her captor’s control.

Helen hoped that once might be enough, that the machines would shut down, that Matheson would have whatever results his demented plan demanded. But there was no respite. The vibrator kept up its relentless assault, insidious and unwanted. Helen tried to clinging to her hate, her humiliation, anything to stop her arousal. Everything failed. Her thoughts broke into a million glittering shards. All that she could feel was the need and pleasure and want radiating from her pussy. She came again, fighting it less this time. And again, and her fight was gone. Coherent thought fled and Helen lay there, she didn’t know how long, as the vibrator pushed her to orgasm after orgasm. Helen tried to imagine the machines, silently recording the pulses of her nervous system. The firing of neurons, the connections in her brain. She tried to lose herself in the science, retreating into her intellect. The raw, throbbing insistent pulses from her pussy dragged her back, howling. She tried counting her orgasms, but even that was beyond her long before she passed out.

Helen’s eyes opened without any effort on her part. She was in a different room. The light was muted, the walls a pale off-white. There was a small table by her bedside, with red flowers in a crystal vase. She could turn her head just enough to see out the window. It wasn’t a great view, sky partially obscured by the bland architecture of a corporate building. She knew these rooms, that view. She was in their facility! Was Matheson arrogant enough to keep her in plain sight? Incredulity warred with hope. All she had to do was get up and she was free. She pushed away the memories of what had happened to her as best she could. She could feel tears start to well in her eyes. Through the pain, the humiliation, she told herself she’d deal with that later, after she was free.

To her horror Helen found that she had no more control over her body than she had had in the examination room. She could turn her neck, slightly, could move her limbs a fraction, but that was all. She could feel her face, expressionless, refusing to show the terror she felt.

Helen heard the door open, then close, as someone entered the room. Was it Matheson? Fear caught in her throat. A nurse, one Helen recognised, came into view. Bridget, the woman’s name was Bridget. Desperately Helen tried to speak, to make some kind of sign, but her traitorous body wouldn’t respond.

“Oh, hello Dr. Vaughan, good to see you awake. Just let me check your drips and we’ll see to your exercises.” The nurse’s voice was friendly, reassuring. In any other circumstances Helen would have been proud of the professional attitude of the staff of the facility. But now it was simply infuriating. Couldn’t the woman see that Helen wasn’t a proper patient? That there was nothing wrong with her? That she was a prisoner, not a patient? Helen guessed that the drips Bridget was checking contained drugs that caused her paralysis. She watched helplessly as Bridget checked the drip, willing the nurse to find something amiss. In her mind she cried out, despairing, as Bridget cheerfully announced her satisfaction.

To the insult of whatever Matheson was doing to her was added the humiliation of the care needed by the totally incapacitated. The exercises to prevent muscle wasting, bathing, all the routine that Helen had observed, even prescribed, she was now subject to. At least Matheson was making sure that some attention was paid to her health. But that didn’t help Helen’s feelings of despair at her predicament.

Helen couldn’t communicate with the nurse. She tried to speak, tried to move, even tried spelling out SOS in Morse code by blinking. Nothing worked. She could feel the loneliness and isolation eroding her hope. What made it worse was the way Bridget spoke of Matheson.

“Professor Matheson insisted that you get the best of care after your accident. No surprise, I suppose, as you work here. But it’s good to know he thinks like that. He’s been looking in on you every day. ” Of course he has, you idiot thought Helen. She was out of ideas. All she could do was keep trying. Hope Matheson misjudged a dose of the drugs making her look like an accident victim, or she developed a resistance to them or somehow some opportunity materialised. Helen’s frustration rose as the nurse continued with her patter.

“All you had was a couple of bruises. Still, I suppose a fall down some stairs isn’t like a car accident.” So that was the story Matheson had put about. Whatever it was, it was obviously enough to keep their work colleagues fooled. “But I’m sure you’ll be ok”, Bridget continued as she tucked Helen in, propped up in bed so she could look out the window. “Professor Matheson insisted on handling everything about you himself, won’t let anybody else do anything but the nursing and physiotherapy.” I’ll bet thought Helenly, sourly, he wouldn’t anyone to find out what’s really going on. Helen wondered if this was all part of it. She was so close to escape, yet helpless to take the chance. Was the added frustration intended by Matheson to grind her down? Helen could do nothing but gaze out the window, the occasional tear rolling down her cheek, until she fell asleep.

The next time consciousness returned Helen could sense that she was moving. She could see the lights of a corridor slowly flashing past her. She had to blink as she passed under each one to prevent the light hurting her eyes. Blink. White featureless roof. Blink. Roof. Blink.

“Oh, hello Dr. Vaughan.” This time Helen recognised the voice of one of the orderlies, Dillon. “We’re just taking you to your examination with Professor Matheson. Oh God, thought Helen, as she tried yet again to make her body obey her, not that, please, no. She didn’t know what Matheson had planned this time. It wasn’t going to be anything good. Fear ate at her resolve. She wanted to fight, but she was beginning to think that she didn’t know how.

Matheson was waiting for them. He stood silently as the orderlies moved her on to the table and strapped her in.

“Thank you, that will be all.” Matheson’s clipped tone hovered over her head. Helen knew it was hopeless, but she tried to call out to the orderlies, beg them to stay. Her mouth refused to obey.

Matheson’s face loomed over Helen’s. “I haven’t been able to finish with the data from your last session, but I can see that you enjoyed yourself.” He paused, then smirked, “Naughty little girl.”

Matheson continued to talk as he moved out of Helen’s sight. She wished that she could see the equipment, their readouts. If she could she might be able to work out what Matheson was doing, what he wanted to do. The unknown is always the greatest fear. She knew that he intended doing something to her, he’d said as much. And it had to be something sexual, or what was the point of the previous session? But she didn’t know. She wanted to know, no matter what it was. Knowing had to better than not knowing. Not knowing placed no reins on her imagination. He might be trying to have her permanently turned on, his own private sex toy. Isn’t that what men always wanted? Maybe he was going to leave her permanently damaged in some way. Nothing he’d said ruled that out. Was he going to damage her mind? Please god, not that. A neuro-surgeon would know exactly what to do to leave her a drooling vegetable. Death would be better than that. Maybe she could kill herself. Maybe she had enough control over her body to do that. The edges of her vision grew black as the prospect grew more attractive. But she couldn’t work out how to do it. Even that escape was denied her. Her thoughts grew listless as she realised that she had no options, no control. By taking control of her body away Matheson had left her with nothing but her thoughts. And they now chased each other around in more and more ragged circles.

“This time,” Helen quailed away from Matheson’s voice but couldn’t stop herself from hearing it, “probably won’t be as much fun but should be quicker.” Helen could hear him coming back. What was he going to do? Her mind trembled, but her body wouldn’t even do that.

Helen could see his hand reach towards her face, feel her mouth being opened. Something was being placed inside. A vibrator, maybe the same one as before. She felt her stomach heave at the thought. Matheson pushed the device deep into her mouth, not far enough in to make her gag, but close. “Now,” Matheson chuckled, “try not to choke.”

He didn’t leave her this time, but stayed as the vibrator began to work. It was an odd, uncomfortable feeling, against her tongue, her teeth, the edges of her throat. After a while she could feel her lips start to go numb from the vibrations. Unlike the last time this she wasn’t betrayed by her body. Giving head had never been one of her favourite activities.

The vibrator stopped, the suddenness leaving her confused. Now it was Matheson moving her, rolling her over. The feel of his hands on her body making her despair, wanting to retch.

“One last test.” She heard Matheson say. Helen didn’t know what he intended. The realisation dawned in a stroke of horror. She could feel his fingers, cool again with lubricant, at her rear. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Not there she thought, please not there. She’d never let any of her lovers have anal sex with her, though more than one had asked. The idea revolted her. As the vibrator slipped in the pain and humiliation chopped away at her resistance. It was hopeless. She couldn’t stop Matheson doing anything he wanted. She was just something for him to play with. Push and prod and poke things where he wanted. She couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t even protest. She tried to send her mind away, simply give up thinking. But the pain from being filled where nothing had ever been before kept her awareness locked in the examination room. The only consolation, small and bitter, was that the intruder in her arse gave her no pleasure.

Another sharp pain signalled its removal. She could feel Matheson wiping her down, removing any signs of his assault on her. Putting her hospital-issue night gown back in order. Soon after she could hear the orderlies arrive.

“All finished Professor?”

“Yes, all good. Should be ready for some trial runs next time. Dr. Vaughan should be back with us soon.” What did he mean by trial runs? Panic fluttered through Helen’s mind. Whatever Matheson had in mind couldn’t be good.

Another day, maybe more, passed as Helen fluttered in and out of consciousness. Rounds of humiliating bed care mixed with the boredom of lying in her bed unable to move. And then she was being helplessly wheeled through her workplace, back to the examination room. She could feel her resolve weakening. Being taken to that room, unable to resist, to call out, paralysed her thoughts as effectively as Matheson had paralysed her body. She raged, despaired, at the hopelessness of her situation.

Even before the orderlies left Matheson was talking to her “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that everything has gone swimmingly, and that we can start the trial runs today.” Trial runs? If she could, Helen would have been screaming. Trial runs were where they wired up the patient to test the pathway mappings. It was only temporary, but matched the end result. Whatever Matheson had in mind she was going to find out today.

She could hear Matheson tapping a finger on the desk. “Now, do I tell you, or let it be a surprise?” Helen didn’t know which would be worse. She was sure Matheson had something awful in mind. Part of her wanted to know, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. Part of her worried it would be worse.

“You haven’t been a great listener lately, so I think we’ll leave it as a surprise.”

Helen’s despair grew darker and darker as Matheson worked on her body, attaching the probes and circuits that would imitate whatever permanent procedure he had planned. Mostly he worked on her head and lower back, preparing to override and reroute nerve signals. Helen almost became used to the slight pressure and sting as he worked. Fear hovered in her mind. He was going to do something to her body. Something that he would then make permanent with surgery. Something she didn’t know about and couldn’t control.

“Done” Matheson announced at last. “Let’s see how it goes.”

Helen could feel her jaw tremble in fear. Why that when she couldn’t speak? It was worse than no movement at all. What was about to happen to her? She heard Matheson stroll over to the equipment. Could hear the switches being flipped and commands entered via the computer keyboard. What was happening to her? Something must be, but she couldn’t feel anything different. Maybe it hadn’t worked. Hope leapt. Maybe he couldn’t do what he was trying to do.

And then her hope withered, as she heard her tormentor say “Good, and now for the first test.” Again she felt his fingers at the lips of her vagina, the cool touch of the lubricant. Well, if Matheson was trying to make her some sort of sex toy she’d know soon enough. She pushed her mind away, trying to stop any reaction. It was some time before she realised that Matheson had slipped the vibrator inside her again, he was back at the equipment poring over the readouts.

Helen felt nothing. She felt hope rise again. Her body wasn’t going to betray her like last time. Well, it wasn’t exactly nothing. She could feel the vibration, the sense of being filled, the slight pressure on her clitoris. But she wasn’t turned on, let alone on the way to orgasm. The vibrator may have been resting on her shoulder for all the arousal it was giving her. But that wasn’t right. Even in a situation like this, frightened and despairing as she was, she should have felt more than that. After what happened last time she should have felt a lot more. Helen tried to give in to it, to rekindle the pleasure from the other session. Nothing. Just an annoying buzz. Fear trampled her thoughts. What had Matheson done to her?

The aching void of sensation continued for what Helen realised intellectually was a few minutes, but which felt much longer. There was something wrong. What had he done? He’d done something to her most private, personal parts. Somehow he’d turned off the sensations that she should be feeling. Matheson had violated her on a level she hadn’t thought possible. What could be worse than this?

“Good, good,” she could hear Matheson mutter. Then he removed the invader and she could hardly tell the difference.

“Let’s have you over” He said, as he rolled her on her stomach, careful not to dislodge any of the probes. Again she felt the cool touch of latex covered fingers lubricating her anus. Mentally she tensed against the coming pain. And then felt none as Matheson eased the vibrator into her arse. Instead she was gripped by a flash of arousal, hot and irresistible. Before she could process what was happening, Helen was cumming. And cumming and cumming. Her world was ripped apart from the sensations coming from her arse. Tossed between terror and arousal her thoughts came in short, despairing, fragments. Matheson had turned her arse into an erogenous zone the like of which she’d never contemplated. The feelings overwhelmed her. Humiliation, arousal, need. The pleasure radiated out like a star. Despite her fear, her despair, Helen couldn’t resist. She wanted the sensations to keep coming. She hated herself, hated Matheson. The humiliation burnt deep. She was cumming and cumming from a vibrator in her arse. She hated the thought of anal sex. But the way this felt she wondered if she could keep up that hate.

Helen shuddered with relief as the vibrator stopped. But even then, simply filling her arse, she could feel yet another orgasm building. Then that too was gone as Matheson removed the vibrator. In its place was a yawning void, a sense of loss, left by the absence of the most delicious, hot, sensations she’d ever felt. Inwardly Helen raged at her traitorous body. Again she was turned over.

Hands this time, on her nipples. Her tips were hard as rocks, still erect from the feelings of a moment before. As Matheson tugged and pulled on them she could feel her arousal building again. Helen liked her breasts played with as much as the next woman, or so she imagined, but this was different. This was like someone was playing with her clit, sending sparks through her brain. Except there were two of them and they were on her chest and oh, ah, conscious thought dissolved as orgasm after orgasm rolled from her nipples.

Then Helen was left, her breathing deep and uncontrolled, as Matheson again examined his readouts. Thought again surfaced, fear-laced and addled. She knew something of what was being done to her. The connections of her pleasure centres were being rerouted. She could recognise the dopamine release. Matheson was expanding her erogenous zones. Could he do it? Could he make this permanent? Helen tried to tell herself that he couldn’t but she knew his skill, realised the implications of the pleasure that had coursed through her body.

Her despair reached new depths with every step that Matheson took back towards her. Every click of his shoes on the hard surface of the floor bringing doom closer and closer. This time a vibrator was placed on her lips. It couldn’t be the one that had just been in her arse. There was no smell. She was thankful for the small mercy, than cursed herself for any gratitude that might stop her hating Matheson with everything she had.

Terror flew through her mind at the feelings from her lips. It was like a cock on her pussy lips. Matheson slowly rubbed the head of the vibrator across her lips. Despite everything Helen felt her arousal rise again. The sensations were a torment, teasing and arousing. As he slowly pushed the vibrator into her mouth she came, again, hard. And then again, before the first had subsided, as the vibrator ran along her tongue. It was if he’d applied it to her clit, as if her tongue had become a giant, pulsating clit. The sensations from her mouth, her lips, her tongue, so close to her head, were too much and Helen was soon lost in climax after climax.

As the vibrator was withdrawn from her mouth Helen could feel that she was lying in a pool of her own juices and sweat. She’d never known anything like the experience she had just been subjected to. Her thoughts were dazed, she couldn’t focus. She wanted to hate Matheson, but the energy for it was beyond her.

“One last test than we’re done for the day. You’re doing very well.” Matheson’s patronising tone made Helen want to vomit. She couldn’t process everything he’d done to her, made her feel. She was his toy, his puppet, his lab rat. The future offered nothing but despair.

She could feel the vibrator entering her pussy again. And yes, yes! This time she could feel it. At least that was allowed her. A normal sexual reaction. Not something perverted and twisted. Maybe he would at least leave her with that. She didn’t resist the orgasm. Probably couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to. She was allowed only one before the intruder was removed.

Helen heard Matheson approach. She didn’t have the energy to turn her head.

“I hope you enjoyed that last one my dear.” He said, casually. “I’ll have to give the results a thorough going-over, but if everything from today has worked as I expected then it will be the last vaginal orgasm you’ll ever have. And nothing from that clit of yours either.”

Helen quailed, shrank. He couldn’t be serious? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Ruin her sexuality like that? Leave her twisted and broken? How could she have a normal sex-life if her pussy and clit gave her no pleasure?

“I’m guessing you found the other ones better though. And you’ll be getting lots more of them. I’m sure you can understand what I’ll be doing. You of all people. I’ll be re-routing the links to the pleasure centres in your brain. Breaking the ones to what you used to regard as your main sexual area. Replacing them with links to other parts. Yes, I’m taking away the function of your actual clitoris, but I’m giving you three new ones in return. As for your pussy, well, you’ll get no more sexual feeling from that. But, as you can see, it’s being replaced, by your two other openings.” Helen’s mind flailed helplessly. He couldn’t could he? She knew that answer to that. He could. And she knew that even if she escaped Matheson it would be permanent. No-one else had the skill to undo what he was planning. She was going to be left sexually damaged for life.

“More than just replacing,” Matheson went on, his self-satisfaction evident. “The new connections will be far more intense than the old. I think you’ll find the results, hmm, compelling. We should be right for surgery soon. I think it’s time to start phase two.” Phase two? Helen had thought her despair couldn’t be any deeper, but she realised she’d been wrong. What Matheson was doing to her was bad enough, but there was more? What more could he do than leave her as sexually dysfunctional as he planned?

“Ever since I met you I wanted to fuck that arse of yours. Really, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You won’t remember. Oh, that’s right.” A finger raised, as if chiding himself for forgetting. “Because It’s fun.”

The pointed cruelty was enough to have Helen silently whimpering in terror.

As she approached the examination room for her next session, wheeled along by the unknowing orderlies, Helen could feel her sanity start to dissolve. She was helpless, at the mercy of a madman. Trapped in her own body, a body he could change and warp as he liked. She cringed, wanting to run, but her body still wouldn’t obey. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. A little while ago she’d been in control of her life. Smart, professional, her life unfolding as she had planned. Now she was just a thing for Matheson to use. With every turn of the wheel of the trolley, with every light that flashed by, she could feel her resistance melting.

To her surprise Helen felt her upper body rising after the orderlies had laid her out on the examination table today and left. She could see Matheson preparing a drip, feel the sting as he stuck the needle into the back of her hand.

“Time for something new,” he said, cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the results from the last session were perfect. So your pretty little pussy,” Matheson reached in, cupping Helen’s groin through the hospital nightgown she wore, “has had its last orgasm.” Hating herself Helen made herself enjoy the sensations of his hand on her pussy. It was a tiny victory, against what Matheson had planned, but Helen would take what she could get. She rallied what she could of herself to fight whatever he had in mind.

“I’ll be ready for your surgery soon, so we need to start preparing you for your new outlook on life.”

A screen was placed in front of her, so close it almost blocked her view of the room. Headphones were placed over her ears. Helen could feel whatever drug the drip was feeding into her start to take effect as the room started to fade away. The lights and colours on the screen sucked her in and words began to form, echoed by a voice on the headphones. It told her things she knew weren’t true. That she knew that she shouldn’t believe. But it was so hard to refuse. The screen was telling her and the voice was telling her and she couldn’t concentrate and she couldn’t remember why she had to fight. The screen was telling her that she’d never had any pleasure from her pussy. That it had never worked right. It told her that she should trust Professor Matheson. That her clit was just like her pussy, useless. That Professor Matheson would look after her. The screen and the voice told her so many things that Helen became lost in them and she didn’t know which was sound and which was vision. The voice was showing her things and the screen was telling her things and she knew that she should fight but she couldn’t remember what she had to fight or why.

For an unknown time after that Helen couldn’t remember any long periods of wakefulness. She guessed that there must be, because she knew that there were hours in front of the screen, listening to the voice, mixed with times in her hospital bed. In the end she didn’t understand why she was looking at the screen, because it was only showing her things that she knew were true, that had always been true.

Her pussy didn’t work properly, it had never have worked properly. Oh, in a functional sense it worked, she could have children if she wanted, but she’d never got an ounce of pleasure from it, no matter what she’d tried. She’d just had to fake it with her partners. It was her mouth and nipples and arse that she got pleasure from. Stupid pussy. Same for her clit. Useless thing. Maybe she should get it decorated. Being pierced and having something hanging from it was about all it was good for. Yep, soon as she was all better and out of here she was having her clit pierced. Maybe some pussy lip piercings as well. Even if her pussy was no good to her a lover would appreciate the piercings. Help them get finished with her pussy quicker and onto the things Helen liked. Stupid pussy and clit. She’d never bothered with their proper names. They didn’t deserve them if they weren’t going to work properly.

Of course, it had taken Helen years to work out something was physically wrong with her. All through her teen years she’d thought her (lack) of feeling was normal. She was lucky that the other feelings, in her arse and nipples and mouth had only developed slowly. She had to be careful when she ate. Having an orgasm at the dinner table simply from rolling her food around in her mouth wasn’t really socially acceptable. And sometimes the sensation from whatever top or bra she was wearing would leave her breathless. But she’d learnt how to cope while wondering how every other woman did. Then the fabulous day when she’s finally summoned the courage to talk to a doctor and been told something was different about her. It had been hard to accept, but at least her body made sense to her now. There’d been tests and therapies and treatments, but nothing made any difference. In the end Helen had accepted that for her sexual pleasure came from anywhere but her pussy and clit. They were the least erogenous zones on her body. She got more sexual arousal from her little finger than from them. She couldn’t complain about her love life. She might occasionally let her partner get off in her pussy, faking interest in the total absence of any sexual feelings, but most men could be easily convinced to use her other holes. Which was just as well, because by the time she entered university she couldn’t function without something up her arse. If she wasn’t full back there the need, the wanting, just left her too distracted to think straight. But a nice dildo up her arse and she was fine. She had quite a collection now. She preferred vibrating ones with a remote that she could set off when she needed, if she wanted more than the spontaneous orgasms she occasionally had just from being filled back there. But the added stimulation wasn’t necessary more than once or twice a day. Just having something filling her up was enough the rest of the time. She learnt how to suppress the obvious signs of her climax if she wanted to. It didn’t do to let patients or colleagues know that she was coming right in front of them. And if she took it out for sex than her need, her animal hunger, was nothing any partner had ever objected to. And then she forgot about the screen and the voice. They were only telling her things she already knew, so why remember them at all?

At some point she heard someone say that her surgery had been a success. That was good, she thought, successful surgery had to be good.

Of course, as she trained to be a doctor Helen realised her issues probably lay in some unique problem in her nervous system. That was why she had so wanted to work with Professor Matheson. He was such a great mind and maybe he could help her with her problem. Helen thought she’d seen that on a screen somewhere, but that didn’t make any sense. Maybe there’s been something on the television in her room about him. She’d seen him on documentaries. That would make sense. His mind was one of the greatest in the world. Truly admirable. Of course, Helen admitted to herself. She liked him. No, it was more than that. Blink, screen, voice. Must be the television again, glimpsed in her room in moments of wakefulness. She was head over heels about him. Helen didn’t care about the age difference. If there was a man for her in this world it was David Matheson. She knew that she fantasised about him, him taking her arse, using her mouth. Hell, she’d even let him cum in her pussy if he wanted. She wanted to stop being Dr. Vaughan, she wanted to be married to David, to be Dr. Matheson. Dr. Helen Matheson. That sounded much better than boring Dr Helen Vaughan. But she hadn’t told him anything, fearing rejection.

Gradually Helen had longer periods of consciousness. It was hard, though, being particularly coherent at first. She remembered one of the nurses, Bridget, asking her how she was. All Helen could do was mumble in reply. But even that seemed enough to send Bridget into raptures. If all the patients got the same care she did Helen couldn’t help but be proud of their facility. But she couldn’t really hold a conversation. Her arse was empty. She needed something in it. Feelings of loss, despair, feelings she hadn’t felt for years, when her need had first become this great and she didn’t know how to fix it, tore at her.

Helen knew from what Bridget said that she’d had a fall at the Christmas party. That she’d been badly hurt, but Professor Matheson had healed her with their techniques. Of course she’d had a dildo stick up her arse then, she wouldn’t have been able to function without it. But it was gone. She was nervous about who must have found it in her, what they’d thought. She couldn’t ask about that one. But she always kept a spare or two with her. It was difficult to form sentences, bereft as she was. Somehow she made Bridget understand, asked where her purse was.

Helen could barely restrain herself until Bridget left the room. She’d almost shouted at the other woman to get her out. As soon as the door shut Helen yanked her purse open. “Yes” she cried, exultation mixing with relief. Her spare was still there. And the lube. Helen hastily smeared some lube over the dildo, tugged up her night-gown and plunged the dildo into her waiting hole. And, oh, the wonderful, delicious, naughty, sensations. An orgasm crashed over her as she cried in relief. She lay there basking in the feeling, and the ability to properly form coherent thought.

A noise at the door had Helen quickly checking that nothing about her looked out of the ordinary. She smiled as Professor Matheson, David, entered the room.

“How’s my prize patient?” he smiled.

Helen felt like bouncing up and down on the bed. With her little helper back in place she felt good enough to take on the world. A slight waft of regret washed through her. She’d seen what they’d had to do to her hair. In place of her glorious crown was a half-inch fuzz. She was determined to grow it back, but she really didn’t want David seeing her like this. She always wanted to look her best for him. “Great,” she said, hiding her embarrassment at her less than glamorous appearance, “when can I get back to work?”

“Well,” Helen could tell something was bothering David. There couldn’t be anything still wrong with her. She felt too good. “There’s no more problems from your injury. Funny break, a bit selective, but left me with plenty to work with. Shouldn’t give you any more problems, but you know the signs to look for.” Helen nodded.

“But in the scans I found some odd things.” Helen knew what he must mean. He’d noticed some the faults in her nervous system, her strange sexual wiring.

“Oh,” she swallowed, in embarrassment, “that.”

David looked at her, sympathy etching his features, “Anything you want to tell me about?”

Helen didn’t know what it was, maybe it was that David was her doctor now, not just her boss. Maybe that her accident had made her re-evaluate her reluctance about her feelings for him. But it all came out. Her problems, how she was different, how she’d hoped their work might give her some answers. By the end she was crying, holding on to him. David was reassuring her, telling her it would be ok, that of course he’d look into it. Something like this could only help their work.

Helen told him everything. All her wants and needs and how she even had something up her arse right that minute and how she couldn’t function without it. She thought he’d be horrified, push her away. All she could she in his eyes was concern for her.

Helen couldn’t help herself. She lifted her face towards his and, before she could stop herself, kissed him long and deep. After a few minutes David pulled back and, with that dry wit she loved so much said, “Well, so much for proper doctor patient behaviour. We’d better make sure no one comes in hadn’t we?”

And he was rising, and putting the do not disturb sign out. Then he was coming back and undressing himself and her and turning her over. She felt the dildo come out of arse and her world became one of primal need. She felt David taking the dildo’s place in her arse, and he was long and hard and everything she wanted and the world dissolved into pinpoints of light as she came and came.

Helen was in one of her favourite positions, bouncing up and down on David’s lap, his cock impaling her arse. Her skirt, short as always for his easy access, was bunched about her waist and her thin blouse was unbuttoned. She’d long ago found that wearing sheer blouses without a bra was the outfit least likely to have her nipples make her cum, even if the almost see-through material could cause occasional embarrassment. Not something she’d wear to work, she had to be professional there even if the tightness of her a bra across her nipples could be distracting, but any other time it was her preference.

She and David had been going over wedding plans. But they could never go too long keeping their hands off each other. Of course, it didn’t matter much as the wedding wouldn’t be for a while yet. Helen had insisted on waiting until her hair grew back. She’d worn a wig for a while, but her own hair almost reached her shoulders now. Not as long as it had been, but getting there.

David had been so disappointed when they’d traced the strange course of her nervous system but found that there was no way to reroute enough nerves without risking complete sexual disfunction. Helen’s pussy and clit would never work like other women’s. Still, she thought, David seemed to appreciate the piercings she had got, so at least they were good for something. And he seemed almost as found of oral and anal sex as she was. Right now, her arse impaled on David’s cock and his fingers twisting her nipples, orgasms radiating from three parts of her body, Helen thought that whatever she was missing couldn’t possibly feel as good as this.

The End