Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2006 20:12:22 +1000 (EST)
From: Country Mouse <dr_country_mouse_top@yahoo.com.au>
Subject: The Centre
Standard Squib: The themes and subject matter in this story are adult,
including but not limited to both consensual and reluctant (including
coerced) sexual acts between persons of the same gender, extreme medical
fetish, mind control, body modification and non consensual sexual
slavery.
Author's Note: Kids, do not try this at home.
This is a fantasy.
In reality, I advocate the principles of Risk Awareness; Safe,Sane and
Consensual BDSM and always observe safer sex guidelines. Safer Sex is a
way of life.
If reading about power dynamics and graphic smut between women is illegal
in your jurisdiction or offends you, please leave now.
In my fantasies, anything is possible.
I am the feedback whore from hell. If you like my tale, please write to
me and let me know. Don't bother lecturing me about my sins. I already
know that I'm a pervert. I rather like that about me. If, on the other
hand, you're a kinky female (over 21) willing to endure a little training
of your own, I'd love to hear from you.
Email me at: dr_country_mouse_top@yahoo.com.au
The Centre - Chapter One
copyright 2006 by dr_country_mouse_top
Story codes: F/g, F^f, F/g, teen2, BD, anal, non consensual , spank, sm
medical fetish, mind control, body modification,
Nifty category: Lesbian/authoritarian/science fiction
The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide,
royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display the
work.
All other rights reserved.
The prisoners were sorted by gender. Their treatment was entirely
professional at the early stages, if not particularly tender. But notes
were made of those individuals who showed particular potential. Most of
them just looked dazed, shuffling along naked in their shackles and leg
spreader bars.
They had been hosed down, examined inside and out, and had all their hair
removed, including the hair on their heads and their pubic hair. I had
the guards pull a woman out at random. Like everyone else, she had her
id code tattooed on her scalp in addition to the microchip implanted in
her left hip.
She was scared, and crying a little around her gag. The guards are
adept. They soon had her bent over, her wrist cuffs fastened to the
spreader bar. "Pay attention," I rapped to the crowd, my voice
amplified and echoing throughout this first station in the processing
Centre. "Life as you know it is over."
As if they hadn't been able to figure that out by the reports of the War
and then finding themselves rounded up out of their homes and force
marched to their nearest prison depot^Å
But I always found that a demonstration was useful. "Yesterday you may
have been soccer moms, trophy wives, dykes on bikes, sorority queens or
prostitutes. You may have had girl friends, boy friends, husbands,
wives, children and grandchildren. Forget it. Forget them."
My victim's legs were spread by the bar so that her feet were
substantially wider apart than her shoulders, her wrists fastened to her
ankles. She was crying steadily, her voice garbling through the o-ring
gag that kept her mouth open. One of the guards kept a steadying hand on
one hip. The newbies had an appalling habit of tipping over, unused to
navigating the world in bondage.
I rubbed the strap over her ass, letting her know it was there. I
didn't bother with explanations. The muscles in her legs were
twitching, probably from fear. She hadn't been off the transport long
enough to be getting cramps from the position. I started lightly,
kindly, letting her sort of get used to the idea before I cut loose.
I gave her a thorough strapping, with no concern for her arousal,
previous experience, or state of mind. It wasn't particularly harsh and
it certainly wasn't cruel and wouldn't leave any mark beyond a handful
of hours. But her ass and thighs had been paddled to a clear and
definite pink.
I gloved up and stroked lube over her ass. She was still crying so hard
that she didn't even flinch when I entered her ass slowly with my finger
tip. It was fear and distress, rather than true pain, although her ass
and thighs were no doubt on fire. I went slowly, testing her responses.
Tight, and abruptly trying to clamp down on my finger in shocked protest,
a sudden wail released through the open rubber ring in her mouth.
The other guard had already run a scanner over the woman's left hip,
checking the display against the tattoo on her skull. "Tight," I
reported my observations aloud, the guard's expert fingers tapping the
little wand over the screen and small keyboard, similar to what's used
in grocery stores to monitor inventory. "Fighting me now," I added
with a chuckle. The woman had begun to twitch and jerk against her
restraints as I very slowly worked my finger deeper into her tight ass,
crying louder, protesting despite the o ring gag. "One for size and
minus five for receptivity," I said for the guard's records, and slid
my other hand over her mound, cupping her naked sex. I just held her for
a moment, twisting my finger in and out of her ass slowly, letting her
tire herself out. "Give me a number two," I decided after another
moment.
It was a definite stretch, although she didn't tear and it didn't cause
her any great pain. She whined as I slowly pushed the smallest ripples
past her ring, yelping a little at the sting as I forced the biggest part
through. Even as tight as she was, her receptivity score was no worse.
The prisoner had responded well to my finger. She didn't like it, but
it wasn't causing her any great pain. The neck was hardly larger than
my finger, so the plug was a comfortable enough fit, but she was
whimpering in distress even before I jiggled the wide base, seating it
firmly in her tight asshole.
"Welcome to the Centre," I continued, my voice amplified over the
speakers throughout the section. "Whatever you knew of life before is
over. The function of this facility is re-education. Here you will be
trained for your new lives. And you will learn, one way or another. How
much you enjoy that experience is entirely up to me."
I nodded to the guard and continued on my stroll through the facility.
Further on down the hall, the inmates were beginning to bunch up again as
the lines backed up a bit. The supervisor smiled at me as the handlers
barked orders.
The women variously squealed and sobbed and swore, depending on their
personality. We didn't have time for the niceties. Processing was
always insane. I would be glad when we had this latest intake safely in
their tanks and on a proper schedule. The first day or so was always
hectic, even if it were all a matter of smooth routine.
I watched a blonde handler expertly spin off the nozzle from her last
subject and dump it in the bucket provided. She spun on a sterile nozzle
and nodded. The guard at the door shoved the next woman in line into the
room.
In swift order, the inmate was bent over, hands fastened to the leg
spreader. The handler scanned the microchip, cross checking the number
with the skull tattoo out of well trained habit. With a distant look on
her face, the handler probed the inmate's ass with a lube slicked
finger, calling out her initial evaluation with how tight the newbie's
ass was, and how much resistance or enjoyment the subject found in the
experience.
She worked the inmate's ass with impersonal expertise, massaging the
sphincter for a moment or two before slipping the nozzle in. Mineral oil
is cheap and readily available and has a nicely laxative effect. Heated
to a precise two degrees warmer than body heat, the oiled streamed into
the inmate's ass with the press of a button, automatically clicking off
when it had delivered precisely one litre into the prisoner's bowels.
The delivery was relatively quick, and often triggered yelps of protest
as various women cramped from the rapid intake. Before her subject had
time to do more than squeak, the handler slipped in the first training
plug and then tapped her report into her small unit. The scanners all
interfaced over the Centre's wireless network, which allowed for
efficient record keeping.
The prisoner's wrist restraints were unfastened from the leg spreader
bar and she was nudged into motion, still making distressed sounds
through her gag. The guards hustled her on and into the section where
handlers with rubber aprons, boots and gloves over their uniforms waited
for their next subjects.
Moving with the pivoting crab legged hobble that the spreader bar
imposed, the prisoner moved to the next empty platform. She crawled up
on the padded rubber surface and the guard clipped the leg restraints to
the anchor points provided, pushing her into position with her head down
and her tail up, draped over a round, padded bar at hip height.
The paddling wasn't harsh, although those women with already well
spanked bottoms may have held different views. It was just designed to
get everything moving. After the paddling, the plugs were removed,
immediately replaced with enema nozzles, adding to the oil already in
each prisoner's bowel. There would be plenty of time to play with their
assholes as we trained them. Right now we just wanted to get them
processed and in their quarters.
The handlers would give each inmate a series of three enemas, using more
of various fluids each time. During the retention phase, the inmates
were paddled, until they lost all control of their sphincters and
emptied, spewing waste and water. Most inmates found the experience
deeply humiliating and terribly distressing and not the slightest bit
erotic.
Regardless of how they felt about it, each woman received three enemas
and ended up with bright red thighs and buttocks. The paddling wasn't
expected to teach them anything or really do much at all other than keep
them off balance and distraught. It was simply good handling, even if
their proper lessons wouldn't begin until each inmate was safely in a
tank.
The final fill was more hot oil, swelling their bellies as the handlers
pumped up the double catheter tubes used for the third enema. There was a
great deal of moaning and crying as each prisoner was prodded into motion
and off the platform, waddling and sweating, hunched over their bulging
bellies as they shuffled on with the awkward gait of one bound to an
extreme leg spreader bar. The catheter nozzles looked like odd tails, the
external balloons riding up between each set of butt cheeks.
With the catheter nozzles safely inflated, there was the luxury of time.
Walking, even the prisoners' awkward spraddle legged waddle, would help
loosen things up nicely. Most of the women were so desperate to expel
the oil that they didn't pay much attention to their surroundings as
they left the first purging hall for the next phase of their induction.
The prisoners stared, wide eyed and astonished, as they were ushered past
one of observation ports. It was their first glimpse of the `tanks'
where they would spend so much of their lives. There were a sudden hush
as they waddled past, seeing the masked and hooded forms, restrained and
resting, their bodies fitted with instruments and implements so necessary
for their re-education.
Between their cramping guts and the rather eye opening glimpse of their
future, most prisoners didn't even notice that they had an audience at
first. There were a small number of discerning patrons that enjoyed
seeing our induction procedures. Although we had a truly generous
budget, the additional income from our little productions earned us both
friends in high places and fat bonuses.
In the next room, the prisoners were forced to their knees, most taking
the appropriate position without further coaching. "Empty,"
The command was unadorned, and immediately followed by further paddling,
setting off a new round of wails and sobs as the women were paddled until
they had expelled the oil filling their bowels. There were new cries of
outrage and distress and despair when the prisoners noticed the audience
waiting at the other end of the room.
The handlers palpated each prisoner's belly, determining if they were
empty enough for the next phase of the induction. Each prisoner was
then fitted with a helmet, the eye pads and ear plugs covered by the high
tech devices, plunging each woman in to a frightening world of dark
silence as the helmet was fastened over the lot, the contacts sliding
smoothly over their naked skuls.
The prisoners waiting for their turn to be fitted with the helmets
watched as the next woman in line was hoisted into position on the
waiting unit known as `the tank'. The helmet was locked into position,
then the chains leading from the wrist restraints were fastened to their
hook, preventing the prisoner from lowering her hands below the level of
her nipples. Her ankles were freed from the spreader bar and the
prisoner's legs were fitted in the stirrups and secured with straps at
the thigh, knee and ankle. A final strap was fastened low on her hips,
pressing her lower back more firmly to the wedged shaped support.
The prisoner was already breathing more easily as she began to listen to
the reassurances and directions. She was old enough to have experienced
routine pelvic exams, and accepted the vaginal speculum easily enough.
The rectal speculum usually triggered whimpers, but the prisoners were
slick with lube, their assholes well prepared.
After everything they had been through, the insertion of the catheter
always seemed to be the most stressful event of the induction, even if
the staff members performing the procedure were expert and experienced
and adept. The IV in their arms wasn't something they even appeared to
notice.
At each stage, the handlers entered notes in their scanners, all of which
was efficiently routed to the individual prisoner's files. The next
room was quiet, except for the occasional whimper through the o ring
gag. The prisoners were calming under the soothing influence of the
drugs in their veins as well as the hypnotic murmur of the Voice in their
ears. Handlers carefully positioned the drinking tubes and I watched
tongues hesitantly poking out through the o-ring gags as prisoners
searched for the water the Voice told them they would find.
Of course, once they had been through their initial orientation, they
would learn how to use the feeding ports in each unit. The tanks really
were a most ingenious device, and the key to our ability to not only
retrain and re-educate prisoners, but also our ability to simply manage
the enormous numbers presented due to the recent War.
The reason for the audience soon became apparent as the drugs and the
hormones began to take effect. The whimpers continued but they soon took
on a new urgency as the Centre's methods began to prove themselves once
more.
It was actually rather entertaining to watch the prisoner's bodies begin
to change, softening, easing, the scent of arousal heavy in the air as
their open cunts began to ooze. Betting was fierce as the audience tried
to decide which of the new prisoners, if any, would orgasm without any
futher stimulation, simply because of the drug therapy and the Voice
coming over the headphones as their entrances were steadily dilated by
computerized speculum inserted in each vagina and anus.
Despite the Centre's cut of the betting, the program wasn't designed to
produce orgasm. It was simply the most efficient way to open them up
sufficiently to fit them with the final attachments. Any orgasms this
early in the procedure were the result of sheer luck and the variables of
individual need and psychosexual development.
Over the next few hours, more and more women were fitted into their
individual tanks, the units stacked and racked and waiting for the final
fittings before being loaded into the pods. Bells chimed and monitor
lights flashed as one by one, the women reached the required dilation
levels, handlers making the required adjustments, expertly replacing each
speculum with the plugs as the monitors indicated that each prisoner was
ready.
The plugs had multiple functions. The core of each plug was similar to
the old Hirshfeld speculum, with the removable central core. The
exterior was surgical grade silicone, with electrical contact points
running down the sides as well as around the narrow neck, each portion of
the entire arrangement capable of expanding or contracting
independently.
As soon as the plugs were in place, the handlers finished up by attaching
the contact pads on the required spots. There were squeals of protest
and more than a few orgasms as the clitoral stimulation units were
clamped into position.
Sensory deprivation has been used to re-educate prisoners since the
beginning of time. Many of the world's religions and philosophies had
elements of it in their meditations, practice or prayers. It was an
integral part of the Centre's re-education programs, although the tanks
were fairly simplistic.
These first days and weeks were brute force programming, with all the
subtlety of a sledgehammer. Drug therapy, sensory deprivation,
electrical stimulation and the Voice would all conspire to help the
prisoner begin to adapt to her new life.
* * * * *
One of the Centre's guests wanted to see the current development of the
breeders. The extreme body modifications and extensive behaviour
modification the prisoners went through was unique to the Centre, and a
vital part of managing the population.
The flip of a switch and a quick authorization code changed the
configuration of the Visitor's lounge. The viewing ports opened to
another section of the Centre.
Number 98274 was well advanced in her training. She was built well for
childbirth, which is why she had been chosen. The Centre's methods had
then further modified her body and her psyche.
Advanced hormone therapy had started milk production and greatly
increased the size of the subject's breasts. Her records indicated that
she had begun the program with a modest B cup, but they were now at least
a DD cup, the nipples engorged from repeated sessions with the milking
machine. For thirty minutes out of every two hour time block, the
suction pulled her nipples up the interior tubes, while the outer cup
sucked and massaged her entire breast.
The exercise program ensured that the breeders were in prime physical
condition. Number 98274 was lean and limber after months of breeder
training, long muscles rippling under the optimum level of body fat to
ensure maximum conception rates and milk production volumes. She was an
athlete preparing for an arduous physical ordeal, a marathon that would
push her body to its limits.
The subject was a model resident, responding beautifully to the Voice,
cooperating with guards and handlers. Of course, she was still in
training, although she had already learned to handle dildos as large as a
big man's fist. She was in the middle of a reward cycle when the view
port opened on her tank.
The instruments told the tale. The milking machine was drawing white
fluid up the tubes, the flow encouraged by highly pleasurable electrical
stimulation of the nipples each time they were sucked up the milking
machine. Her vagina was dilated to its current maximum capacity with a
dildo that both vibrated powerfully and spun at high speed, creating a
pleasurable sensation as the clitoral stimulator ensured that she
climaxed repeatedly throughout the reward session.
She was still working on developing her endurance. The Centre would not
administer drugs during birth, so the subject had to be conditioned to be
able to continue to orgasm over a very long period. The most advanced
subjects experienced drug induced cervical dilation on a regular basis,
conditioning their bodies to accept, welcome and rejoice in the
experience.
The Voice was vital to the success of the breeders' conditioning
program, mental conditioning at least of equal importance as the
physical. By the time Number 98274 was fully trained, she would easily
accept both cervical and vaginal dilation sufficient to permit the
passage of her offspring through the birth canal, and she would
experience the most intense pleasure of her life during labour and
delivery.
It was a primary tenant of the Centre's philosophy that the
neurotransmitters released in response to the breeder's pleasure passed
the placental barrier, along with the maternal hormones. As the
offspring developed in the breeder's uterus, its brain architecture was
influenced by the biochemical cocktail released by the mother.
Conception, pregnancy, delivery and nursing of the offspring were all
handled in various departments of the breeders division. The education
of the offspring, once weaned, was another division. There was much
anticipation in the creche these days, as the first crop of the Centre's
breeders division approached puberty and menarche.
* * * * *
Leaving the visitors in the capable hands of the Centre's public
relations officer and her staff, I continued my rounds, stopping in the
personally observe the operations of the Centre's various divisions. I
laughingly referred to this little supervisory task as management by
walking around, a useful remnant of my own days wearing pin striped suits
and swimming with the corporate sharks. My habit of randomly appearing
in any department kept my staff on their toes, anxious to meet the
rigorous standards set by my administration.
I spent a few minutes observing various tank blocks engaged in their
exercise routines, the difficulty and duration of which was determined by
their intake date and progress in retraining. The inmates were kept
grouped according to the lots established on their arrival day. They
would stay with their initial tank block for the first twelve months of
their residency.
It wasn't long before a discreet chime let me know that the day's
shipment had all been processed and locked down in the tanks. The
wireless computer network merged each tank block's records and the
biochemical conditioning discipline began. The IV drip in each
inmate's vein began to feed tranquilizers, muscle relaxers and serotonin
reuptake inhibitors directly into the blood stream. They were mellow,
relaxed and the Voice told them they were safe.
The Voice was gentle and coaxing and hypnotic, an effect encouraged by
the mix of hormones and mind altering drugs flooding their systems. Each
drug had been chosen for its ability to make the inmate more receptive
and open to brain washing and hypnotic instructions.
Each tank held a woman in sensory deprivation as the Voice provided
instruction. Today it praised and reassured them, even as the drugs
promised pleasure and satiation. Many would begin to try and work
themselves on the computerized nozzles penetrating each hole. The Voice
encouraged an erotic response, teasing and promising as the drugs
flattened brain waves and shattered resistance to the inescapable
hypnotic instructions.
As each tank block advanced through the program, the Voice would become
more demanding, correcting and praising, instructions and orders
delivered with high expectations. The rewards were correspondingly
larger as a few individuals from each tank block were selected for
further training.
But for today, the Voice welcomed them to the Centre and introduced the
basic principles of their Service. Obedience was arousing, willing
Service rewarded with endless pleasure. For seventy-two hours, the new
inmate would be kept in the sensory deprivation tanks, listening to their
own heartbeats and the Voice. Each woman received precisely the same
amount of vibration and electrical stimulation though all the various
contact points, nozzles and clamps.
There were endless eternities of silence and sensory deprivation and no
input followed by long periods of the Voice whispering the basic
catechisms of their Service. They drifted in the endless dark, waiting
for the unendurable pleasure that was fed to them through the nozzles,
electrical stimulation, clamps and vibration.
Every rest period for the rest of their lives would be much the same; the
Voice and the rewards and praise. I inspected individual tanks at random
through the monitors, doing a visual check on the resident, observing as
stimulation produced the first orgasms. But for this particular tank
lot, their first hour of the seventy-two had just begun with a bang.
They were fed a glucose saline drip, also ensuring a continuous serum
level of biochemical conditioning. The instructions, or Prime Orders as
they called it, were simple. The stimulation of various types was
chosen for its ability to tease and seduce the body into a greater sexual
response. Patiently, the computer programs coaxed the new residents
through the cycle of arousal, anticipation, orgasm and afterglow. Their
bodies were drained of waste through the catheter and the anal-rectal
nozzle, blood sugar levels and brain candy maintained by the IV drip.
After a few more spot checks of the day's intake, I moved on to the next
point of interest in my wanderings. I took the lift up a dozen levels
and over into the southern quadrant of the Centre. I peeked in on an
early Feeding. This tank block was being rewarded for nursing on breeder
candidates. Each hopeful breeder had a woman nursing strongly on each
nipple, nozzles and clitoral stimulators rewarding the candidate for milk
production. Those nursing were being rewarded as well.
After several months in the program, breeder breast size had swelled and
milk production had begun. This lot were producing an average of 250 ml
per breast during each nursing. The caloric value of the feeding was
fare less important than the hormones and biochemicals that were
delivered through the breast milk, perfectly designed to meet up with
human brain cells, encouraging synaptic sculpting as the Voice never
ceased.
They were being rewritten, their personalities shattering under the long
hours of drugs and carefully programmed sexual stimulation. They were
being reshaped into sexual athletes, perfectly tuned for sexual
submission. Through the inhuman precision of computer controlled sexual
stimulation programs, drug and hormone treatment combined with sensory
deprivation flat-lined their sense of self.
There was no attempt to remove memories or rewrite what had gone before.
It was simply flattened under the enormous weight of the brain cocktail
racing through their blood streams. Their world became defined by the
Prime Orders and the instructions from the Voice, reshaping them and
preparing them to offer their Service.
There were prisoners retrained as a sort of attache or butler, capable of
organizing events for up to 5000 people or intimate dinner parties for
two, running domestic matters, the executive assistant for the House.
They were gracious escorts to social, cultural or political events,
expensive and exclusive ornaments on the very wealthiest Citizens.
Others might be kept by syndicates of the wealthiest hoteliers and
private clubs, sharing the Service of one graduate of the Centre's
hospitality training. The glittering salon society of the Inner Worlds
sprawled across galaxies, densely populated by the wealthiest and most
jaded Citizens. The Great Houses were competitive in their quest for
elegant perversions, and it was not uncommon to pay a small fortune for a
single hour of Service, offered as the high point of the evening's
festivities, the decadent climax of the night.
I spent a few minutes in one of the lecture halls and stopped by one of
the labs. The research wing was always a popular stop with our patrons,
and I wasted a few unhurried moments charming the wealthy and the
powerful. There were entertaining demonstrations of truly creative
deviance but I didn't linger.
One of my support staff was lying in wait for me as I turned the corner
into the West Corridor in the southern quadrant. Several new inmates of
particular interest had arrived recently and some required a more
intensive approach. With a small sigh, I cut short my rounds and headed
back to my offices.