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All the warning you get is someone stripping away your blankets, leaving you bare and exposed to the cool night air for a panicked moment as you snap awake. The next moment two pairs of strong hands seize your arms and legs, while I stand watching, a dark and shiny bundle in my arms.
“Wha–” you manage before one of your assailants stuffs a ball gag in your mouth. It tastes of rubber and sterilizing alcohol. With humiliating ease he buckles the strap behind your head, reducing any further protests to muffled grunts and whines. Your aunt is sleeping just down the hall, but now you can neither scream to warn her nor cry for her help. Your no doubt perverse dreams just turned into a nightmare, didn’t they? But oh, my sick little slut, this is all too real.
Your wild eyes dart between the men–the ones grabbing you are some sort of orderlies, going by their medical scrubs, though you’ve never heard of a hospital where the staff wears shining red and white latex before. No, we tend to operate away from the public eye, as we specialize in a very particular list of ailments. Next your eyes leap to me; I wear a matching red and white latex coat over my scrubs. Light from the streetlamps coming through the windows reflects off my glasses, hiding whatever thoughts might otherwise be visible via my eyes. Some sort of doctor, you wonder? Before you can ask, the orderly holding your arms pulls them forward. I unwrap my bundle: a black leather straitjacket, just for you.
No amount of thrashing will do you any good, but I smile to see it all the same. The orderlies are just too big, too strong. Buckles jingle and straps rub against the goosebumps exploding across your skin as I force you into the jacket. You try to scream, beg around the ball gag as we force first one arm and then the other into these suffocating closed sleeves. Those sleeves pull tight beneath your breasts as I fasten the buckles along your back. Yes, you might be thinking most straitjackets don’t have open spaces for your breasts to hang free, exposed even as your arms disappear in those tight leather sleeves. What does that suggest to you? It’s always fascinating to hear what a new patient thinks about her first night. You try again in vain to kick the orderlies away, to wriggle free from the bed where they have you pinned, and sob as you hear the first of several padlocks snap shut to hold the jacket’s buckles shut. There, now those sinful hands won’t be able to touch that filthy, sick cunt anymore. That jacket isn’t coming off now without a great deal of work… and the key in my pocket. You may as well lie still and accept your fate. Though of course, they never do at first.
The orderlies step back, watching you with amused smiles as you thrash and weep on the istanbul travesti bed. Do you have any idea what’s about to happen to you, slut? Only as you settle do you notice your aunt, who you were no doubt crying to for help all this time, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded–freely folded–in her nightgown.
“You really think you can cure her?” she asks.
“If we can’t, we can at least keep her in a place where she’ll never come to harm, nor harm anyone else ever again,” I assure her. “You’ve signed all the papers?”
She nods. “She’s all yours. Are you sure you don’t want to take any of her things?”
“She won’t be needing them. Her treatment will be quite enough to keep her distracted. Besides, we find it’s best that our patients not bring in anything that will remind them of their lives outside the asylum. That only serves to encourage… problematic behaviors. We need to strip her down to her core till nothing’s left before the treatment will take.”
As your aunt and I continue to speak about you as if you weren’t there, the orderlies do their best to make that so. To ensure you can’t kick, one of them wraps shiny tape around your thighs and ankles, pinning your legs together. Then they each take one end of you, and carry you from your bedroom like so much luggage. You scream against the ball gag while they manhandle you down the stairs and out the front door, to a blocky red van waiting in the driveway. One orderly opens the back doors, and the other shoves you inside. With your legs wrapped and your arms in the sleeves, you can’t catch yourself and thump hard against the cab floor. Before you can right yourself, I climb in behind you and pull the doors shut.
“I’m sure this is very confusing for you.” I help you move into something like a sitting position, though without freeing any piece of you already bound. “From now on, you will refer to me as Doctor. No need for more than that. Your aunt tells us you are quite sick, though you won’t admit it to yourself. But we specialize in… disorders… such as yours. You’ll be staying with us until you recover.” I smile. “If you ever recover.”
All your renewed attempts at thrashing accomplish is throwing off your balance so you wind up on your side again, sobbing around the ball gag. Intrigued, I pull out my pad and begin taking notes while your cheeks run red and wet. It does no good to indulge tantrums, I find. The van starts up, the orderlies joking in the front seat as we begin our journey to your new home. Possibly your forever home, if the report your aunt gave me is accurate.
Welcome to the slut asylum. Know now that there will never be any fixing the corruption deep within you, even in as scientifically advanced a facility as this. The best travesti istanbul we can do is treat your malady, and hope if we do ever release you that you don’t have to return to us too often. And of course, it should go without saying that no treatment we can provide will ever work if you have a say in the matter. By decree of the state–and thanks to your aunt–you are in our medical custody now, and we will be deciding what is best for our newest patient.
Yes, we have a special room for filthy sluts like you, and it’s time I took you there. No need to struggle as the orderlies haul you from the van, slut. With my hand gripping your hair and dragging you down the sterile halls, it’s not like all the wriggling in the world will do you a lick of good. Past rooms containing other patients we go; you catch glimpses through the windows in the doors as we pass, but never enough to have a good idea of what’s happening inside. Not until we arrive at your room; I pull open the thick steel door, and the orderlies shove you inside. One of the orderlies hands me a briefcase with a wicked grin. I follow you in, and the orderlies shut the door behind us.
“Your aunt tells me you are a pathological masturbation addict,” I explain as I drag you by your hair to the center of the room. “That’s why you’re here. We can’t have you wasting your life touching yourself a dozen times a day. You are a very sick girl, so addicted to all those orgasms. There’s only one treatment that may work, and it will take a great deal of time to take effect. Now hold still and I’ll free your legs. That’s a good girl.”
Sensing a smidgen of relief to come, you obediently sit still while I unwrap the tape from round your legs, and take in your new surroundings. See the padding on the walls? No one will hear your screams, even after I remove the ball gag from your mouth. See this thick steel door, with the little plexiglass window that allows our staff to look in on you? You’d never force it to move a centimeter in a thousand years. This is where you’re going to be staying from now on, until I decide otherwise.
“Now, no need for this anymore,” I say, and pull the ball gag from your mouth. Instantly you begin to beg, plead to be released, insist that you’re not sick and this is all some sort of terrible mistake. All it takes to silence you is for me to set the gag against your lips and gently press. “That’s a good girl. You can be quiet on your own accord. How promising.” I open the briefcase and pull free its contents. “See this device? This is a chastity belt. I’m sure you’ve seen them in history books. But this is a special chastity belt… see the inside? That part goes up your ass–I know, it is so big–and this part slides inside that needy wet cunt… it’s shaped istanbul travestileri that way so it will rub your g spot, that’s right. And then this round part… see how it’s vibrating and flicking the air? This part will sit tight against your clit once the device is properly locked on you.”
Again you try to resist, and I have to stifle a laugh. Oh, it’s much too late to get away, no matter how you kick your legs. I’m so much stronger than you, my cum-addicted whore. Yes, see? There goes the first lock of the chastity device, and you barely managed to wriggle along the rubber floor at all. Three more locks click into place, and your new pelvic prison is secure.
“Just one more thing…” I reach back into the briefcase. “I’m going to give you a shot. It will only hurt for a moment.” Did you just pout when I said that? I knew you belonged in here. Yes, that’s certainly worthy of a quick jot in my notebook. “Hmm, what does it do? It’s the most wonderful drug on the market–it prevents orgasm. That’s right, no matter how long or hard you’re teased, you’ll only reach that edge just a split second before you cum. Yes, you’ll never quite be able to get there. Oh, that needy slit will drip and pulse and turn purple, but she will never find relief.” Your wail communicates everything I need to know about the nature of your filthy addiction. “Shh, it’s okay. It only lasts 48 hours.” I allow you to hang on that statement before continuing with a wicked smile, “I’ll have to give you another shot after that. That’s right: there is no cumming in the slut asylum. Ever. This is your treatment–to be edged, and edged, and edged, all day, every day, with your holes filled and only the echoes of your wails off these rubber walls for company, until one of us decides to use you himself. Oh, but you won’t see a dick for the first week here, mind you. We need to monitor you before we move on to further treatment options, you see.”
As I turn to go you cry out what I’m sure you consider a pertinent question. “What about sleep, you say? Oh, it’s so much easier to break you when you can’t. Before we can treat your illness we have to prepare your mind, after all. Maybe in a couple days we’ll allow you to sleep, if your treatment seems to be taking. Now enjoy, my filthy edge slave. Your Doctor will see you in the morning.”
The steel door slides shut behind me, and you hear a series of locks engage… but before you can even think of how you might open that door yourself with your arms trapped in the straitjacket, all three devices within the chastity belt engage at once. Any hope of rational thought slides from your mind.
This whole situation is horrifying… and the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Maybe you really are sick. Maybe you really do belong here. After all, there is no hope of any lasting cure for the girls at the slut asylum. But oh, as your body ramps up to an orgasm that will never come, the treatment feels so good… do you really want to ever get better?
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