Broodcomb
Chapter 3
She walked nervously but helplessly through the corridors of the madhouse. Other patients sprawled around her, either lying around or muzzily fondling each other. Some smiled at her and reached up to brush her ass or her breasts as she walked past.
She ignored the silent invitations. She had been a bad patient. She needed to be punished.
She brushed past a junior nurse, who was hauling a heavy case filled to the brim with some sort of equipment. Like every other junior nurse, she wore plain white bras and panties, with a little red cross stamped onto her right nipple.
She, herself, was completely naked of course. So was every other patient. Clothing was only allowed for nurses and other faculty, the thought repeated in her head, closely followed by a flash of guilt. She had been a bad patient. She needed to be punished.
A secretary sat behind a desk next to the oaken door that marked the Doctor’s office, discretely fingering herself under the fancy lingerie that marked a senior nurse. She perked up and put her hands on the desk as she approached. “Good morning, patient. What are you here for?”
“I’ve been a bad patient. I need to be punished.” The words came out automatically, guilt lubricating the connection between her deeply conditioned subconscious and her mouth.
The secretary nodded as if that explained everything. “The Doctor’s in, darling. Go on.”
The brass label stamped with ‘The Doctor’ loomed before her like a window full of baleful eyes. She stopped, gulped, caught her breath, and then thumbed the door jab.
The Doctor was a portly man, clad in cloth gowns, who peered at her through horn-rimmed glasses. His desk was, as usual, cluttered. “Good morning, patient. Might I ask what you require?”
For the last time since she committed the crime, she considered lying. Then she squashed that thought. She had been a bad patient. She needed to be punished.
“I found this earring I thought looked pretty, sir. I put it on. Then a nurse caught me and sent me to you.” Even as she explained, another flash of guilt at the magnitude of her crime twisted her face into a tearful, pleading smile. The Doctor looked on impassively, spurring her on. “I broke the rules, sir. The ones on, on clothing.” She started stammering, guilt and trepidation and relief mixing together in a volatile storm of conditioning emotions.“I, I’ve been a bad patient, Doctor, and I need to be punished!”
The Doctor hmmmed. “This is a very serious offense, patient, but you did report yourself to me. That’s a major improvement. So I think we can afford some leniency.”
She interlaced her fingers together, and smiled a little bit more. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Get on my lap.”
The smile disappeared. “Yes, Doctor.” She climbed into his lap without enthusiasm.
The Doctor examined her bare ass with a physician’s eye. “I think...thirty paddles should do it.” He mused.
“Yes Doctor—oh!” The first spank interrupted her train of thought with a stinging painful/pleasurable sensation. The next three followed in rapid succession, followed by a pause that made her wonder if he’d stopped, and then suddenly another. And so on.
Finally, when she was at her wits end, the Doctor patted her back and spoke again. “And that’ll be enough of that. “ He shifted a little to relieve his own sore bum. “You’re dismissed, patient. I believe your next instruction session is in the next few minutes, so chop chop!”
“Yes, Doctor.” She got off the Doctor’s lap, rubbed her sore ass, and exited the office. She walked.
She walked up to the off-white, burnished metallic pole, and tentatively gripped it with her right hand. Beside her, other students did the same to their own poles.
“Alright, people!” Their instructor walked up behind them, wearing the same thing as everyone else—form fitting panties with an improbably large ‘thorax’ balloon strapped to their ass, and nothing else. Even more improbably, she was walking like a normal person with it, and not like someone who had a giant balloon strapped to her ass.
Granted, it was a ‘normal’ that involved lots of rolling motion that bounced said thorax back and forth in counterpoint to her swinging hips and focus, Emily, you didn’t use to be bisexual and now’s a bad time to start.
“We’re gonna start with a chair spin!” As she hauled herself up, she felt her mind click into hyperfocus. Extraneous thoughts ceased. Movement came smoothly, without hesitation.
“Basic inversion!” A muted sense of nausea briefly rattled at her as she twisted herself upside down. She ignored it, and it slunk away.
“And...orgasm!” A wave of sexual pleasure sucker punched her in the clit. Her eyes rolled up. Her grip loosened. She lost her focus.
She slipped. She just managed to throw an arm up and over her face before she tumbled to the mat.
“Damn it, Emily, the whole point of pole dancing is that you stay on the goddamn pole!” The instructor rounded on her. Emily looked around. Every other student had, in fact, stayed on the pole. They waited there, frozen, while new stains on their panties slowly spread.
The instructor huffed. “Alright, fine, it’s your first time here, but showtime’s in only three days so you need to shape up and fast. Now get back up there!”
“It’s these new breasts, ma’am.” She began to protest weakly, holding up her new 34DDs. “It’s throwing off my—”
“You think anyone cares?” The instructor leaned over and brought herself face-to-face. “Get it through your skull, honey. No one cares if you just had hormone treatments—hell, everyone else did—” and she waved a hand at the other students, still frozen there, “—and they’re doing just fine. The only thing anyone cares about is that you perform. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get back up there.” She did.
“Now we’re going to run through that again.” The instructor explained, an exhausting fifteen minutes later. Some of the students protested, their cries melding together into an incoherent blend. Others continued to stay at attention, staring blankly at the wall and absorbing this new information without comment. “No, don’t give me that. We need to get this down pat, so we’re all doing it until we can all get through without making a mistake. Including Emily.” At that, all the protesters shut up and glared at her. She suddenly felt very small, and a little worthless. “Now back to your poles.”
They did managed a no-mistakes run, eventually. It took two more tries, as others screwed up, but the third time was the proverbial charm.
“Alright, “ the instructor said, as they all slid back down their poles, “That was a perfect run, there’ll be no more today. Relax.” The students that had protested fell to the ground like puppets with cut strings, panting and wheezing. The blank ones, meanwhile, simply stood at attention. Emily herself collapsed to hands and knees, trembling like a leaf. “Now, tomorrow we’re gonna run through that performance again, but this time at full speed. Dismissed.” Somehow, Emily forced herself to her feet and stumbled after the others.
“Here you go! Stay hydrated~” A woman entirely covered in a blue, skin tight zentai suit who was way too cheerful for her own good handed out bottles of Gatorade to each student as they left the dance floor.
Emily licked her dry lips, suddenly conscious of the layers of sweat drenching her back. She took a bottle herself, downed half of it as she pushed through the outside door, and nursed the rest all the way to her apartment as she walked.
She walked out onto the runway, strutting along in nothing but gray, translucent silken lingerie as she emerged into a void full of blinding spotlights, flashing camera bulbs and cheers. In her hands were white feather fans big enough to hide her entire body, and a massive red and gray feather plume brushed the floor behind her. Cheers and catcalls thrummed in her eardrums as she strode along the white line.
She paid no mind to any of this, for she had no mind to pay with. The voice in her peacock-patterned headphones was the only one she paid any attention to.
She reached the big white circle at the end of the runway and halted. She stood there, swaying slightly in the spotlights, staring mindlessly into the audience as the applause died down.
Then the music began to play. The voice urged her to dance, so she began to dance.
Slow, basso-like synthetic notes drew the fans in front of and behind her, framing her breasts and her blankly staring face in a bed of eyes and feathers. Then they launched into a twirling, snaking ballet that cloaked her body in shimmering motion, allowing only brief peaks of her skin to show. Her feet slowly stepped around, following the movements of the fans as she lazily spun.
The voice whispered something that she didn’t quite catch, but her conditioning did. She turned around, presenting her ass to the audience, and slowly writhed and wiggled in place like seaweed as she reached up behind her back with both hands and undid her bra. Then she turned on one heel, spinning the bra overhead, and flung it into the audience to the sound of surprised laughter and cheers. Her nipples winked before the fans came down again and almost, but not quite, hid them from view.
The music sped up, synthetic violins joining the bassos. She began to stamp her feet, jerking her around the stage as the fans began to fall behind, leaving her nipples to flash in the spotlight more and more often.
Another instruction wormed its way into her ear. She reached down with both hands, hit the quick release on her panties, and then spun and threw them wildly into the air. They flew out of the spotlights and disappeared into the audience.
The music sped up again. She was flinging herself all over the stage now, barely staying within the bounds of the white circle, fans flying this way and that in a vain attempt to preserve some semblance of modesty. More and more her bare breasts and dripping pussy flashed into view, the fans unable to keep up with her wild leaping and twirling.
Then, as she hurled herself into another twirl, the voice whispered yet another instruction. She stopped with a stamp of her foot, facing the audience, and flung her hands apart, showing off everything as the music wound down and stopped.
Then she came. Her juices squirted out and splattered on the floor, shining brightly in the spotlights, and a hungry cheer echoed off the walls.
Her dripping cunt squelched as she turned around and walked back down the runway, leaving a shiny trail as juices ran down her tail feathers and painted themselves on the stage floor. The next performer pushed their way through the curtain and strode onto the stage, wearing nothing but a single wide, red ribbon and a rose stamped onto her headphones. They walked past each other without so much as a sideways glance, and she slipped through the curtain and into the backstage.
The voice told her she’d done a magnificent job out there, and to report to private booth number five for further instructions. She nodded mindlessly as she acknowledged the order, not realizing that she had been praised, and she walked.
She walked down the rows of cubicles, cradling a manila folder under her arm.
The office floor was strangely subdued, despite the hurried bustle of anonymous drones. Her heels echoed oddly in the hush where human noise should have been.
The cubicles parted to reveal a wooden door to a private office. A secretary sat at a desk tucked to the side, briefly scanning reports and envelopes before flipping them into several piles. She strutted up. “Excuse me? I’m here for the two-thirty?”
“Miss Emily?” She nodded. “Go on in, he’s expecting you.” The secretary went back to sorting mail as she opened the office door and stepped inside.
A man sat at the desk, looking up from a stack of reports. “Your file?” She nodded, and handed the folder over. He flipped it open, scanned the contents, and then pulled a sheet out. A pencil slipped out of a wire basket holder. “Your name?”
“Emily, sir.” She stared at him. She could’ve sworn she’d seen him before...
He looked up. “No last name?”
She shook her head. “No last name.”
He hmmphed and filled in a checkbox. “Age?”
“Twenty five...” Then she looked up at the calendar on the wall. “...No.” She corrected herself, her face scrunching up in confusion. “Twenty-six?” Where had the year gone?
Skritch-skratch, went the pencil. “Occupation?”
The confusion shed off her face as she discarded the question. “Slave, sir.” A thrill shivered down her spine. She smiled joyously.
“Any friends or family?”
The smile slipped away, a little bit at a time. “...No, sir. “ She admitted. “No friends or family.”
“That’s fine.” He reached over and patted her on the head. “You’ll have new ones soon enough.”
“Yes, sir.” She meekly agreed.
He nodded, looked back down at the sheet, and then back at her. “ I believe that will be all, Miss Emily. You’ve made good progress.“ He flipped through the folder again, reinserted the sheet, and slapped it closed. “Miss Dahlia?”
“Yes, sir?” She turned around to find the secretary standing in the doorway.
“I think Miss Emily here deserves a reward. If you could…?”
The secretary grinned. “Yes, sir.” Then she took a long step and forced her tongue down Emily’s throat. Her startled exclamation was lost in the confines of their mouths, just before she felt two fingers pressing at the nape of her neck.
Her head fuzzed over. She moaned into the secretary’s lips, her own tongue going limp and yielding to its counterpart’s assault as it pressed its advantage.
The invading tongue withdrew, drawing a line of drool behind it from Emily’s slack, half-open mouth. She moaned again and stumbled forward, zombie-like. She needed that tongue again...
Fingers gently cupped her chin. “Follow me, dear.” The secretary instructed her as she tugged her along. “We’re gonna find one of the break rooms. And then, we’re gonna have some fun.” She shambled after her, her eyes rolling up into their sockets, her mind dripping out into her panties.
“Boss says this one needs a reward.” Emily’s eyes fluttered open, just long enough to see the other office workers that filled the break room—men and women both, with identical looks of hunger in their eyes. For a brief moment she wondered how she’d gotten here, but then those fingers stroked along the nape and clarity fled her mind entirely. “Just relax, dear. We’ll take care of you...”
She didn’t recall a lot after that. Most of it was intensely pleasurable, though it would have been more so if she could remember the details.
Eventually, enough clarity returned that she could watch herself button her skirt back up. She absently smoothed out some wrinkles, and looked up into the secretary’s eyes. “You have your first internal company assignment this Monday, I believe?“
Emily nodded, listlessly. Then she paused. “Uh—maybe? I, uh, I had a calendar in—” She glanced around frantically. Where had she left the folder?
The secretary stifled a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll handle the paperwork. Go home. Take a break. We’ll pick you up when it’s time.”
“...S-sure.” Emily hesitantly stepped away and turned for the elevator.
As she walked down the cubicles, the hush of the office swelled into a deafening silence. She looked around, saw no one, and quickly walked on.
Halfway back to the elevator, she noticed that it had started to recede. She squinted, and sped up.
The elevator doors accelerated away. The office stretched, crushing the corners of the far wall together into an infinitely small dot.
Then they began to twist. The walls smoothed over, rippled with color, and spun around her.
A sigh hissed out between her teeth. Her head began to lull to one side. Her eyes fluttered shut.
She slept.
She walked.