orgasm extraction: preparing the nude “subject”

Tami Smithers tried to numb her mind as she walked into Chalfont, ignoring the close inspection of her breasts and bare butt as she passed by the usual gaggle of white-coated nerdy students milling around the entrance. They all knew her weekly schedule and tried to be around to see her come in.  The naked girl adjusted her bookbag strap and walked in, noticing that even the sunny day and fresh spring air did little to change the musty, creepy atmosphere inside.  To insulate herself mentally she thought ahead to this summer, of nice old Ned and Ethel and their accounting office, with her all in snuggly clothes, working the adding machine.  .  .

       The waiting room to Lab 6 was empty.  Tami paused.  Good-bye Ned and Ethel.  Hello, Science.  Bracing herself like a swimmer about to dive into freezing water.  Then she pushed through the door into the lab itself.

       It was very bright.  And very cold.  Tami immediately felt the cold air upon her breasts and felt her nipples get rock hard.  The arctic blast was coming from an air conditioner set into a wall.  As she felt goosebumps rising on her butt and on her arms, she remembered McMasters telling her that the lab would be kept cold to offset her increased metabolism.

       The cold was evident also from the clothing being worn -- by everyone, of course, except her.  She stood with her bookbag on her shoulder, feet a little apart, and suddenly all her mental insulation was stripped away so that her mind was as nude as her body.  Taking in the view, she was scared, mortified, and couldn’t breathe.  Standing at the console was McMasters.  Sitting next to him was Mr. Zipkin, his assistant from that earlier meeting.  And behind them, sitting in the movie-theater style seats, were several men and a couple of women, all professional-looking, all looking at her with what looked like detached scientific curiosity.  Everyone was wearing sweaters over their suits.  It really was cold in here.  That, and her nervousness, made her start to shiver but she suppressed the urge and tried to relax her “shiver muscles”, something she had often done before.

       And . . .Rolling out from behind a desk in his wheelchair was Homer Winant, from the grounds crew!  He was dressed in his usual mechanic’s outfit, with a parka thrown on top.  He nodded to Tami in his courtly way, not seeming to realize how out of place he looked here.

       “Good afternoon, Miss Smithers,” McMasters said.  “Please leave your bookbag in the waiting room.  It will be safe there, don’t worry.”

       With an air of unreality, as if this were just an unpleasant dream, Tami turned around.  When she re-entered the lab she stood in front of these people, dearly wishing she could run and hide or at least use her hands to cover herself, feeling even more naked without her bookbag.  But in the freezing air she bravely stood upright, hands at her sides, legs a moderate distance apart.

       “Ladies and gentlemen, this is our subject, Miss Tami Smithers,” McMasters said by way of introduction.  “In a moment she will mount the apparatus.  Our thanks, again, to Mr. Winant, for his help with the design.” After a second’s thought, Tami realized that Winant wasn’t so out of place after all.  She thought of the times she was trudging on those treadmills at the Dixon Mill, shamed and sweating, when Winant would come in to watch her in silence.  She knew now that he hadn’t been just leering at her sweaty curves and laboring muscles.  He had been studying the angle of hips and her legs, how they bent forward and splayed open, judging the proper angle for her to be stationed and impaled on the ghastly orgasm machine -- the “apparatus”.

       Tami looked sideways edgily.  The bottomless chair was there, the posts with the cuffs for her wrists and ankles.  The shafts for the dildos were not there yet; there were just two large holes in the base of the stage.  She saw that the shafts and dildos were lying on the console.  McMasters picked them up, resuming what had been a lecture in progress.  He said, “We have already discussed these, and will be inserting them in a moment.  .  . For now, Miss Smithers, if you could station yourself on the chair.”

       It was hard for the goose-bumped, naked girl to keep from shaking, as if she were stepping up to a gallows.  She went to the front of the stage where there was a partition in the console and walked up and stepped onto it.  With her second foot the hop wasn’t quite high enough and she tripped forward, causing her to splay her legs out in full view of the audience behind her.  Fortunately her hands broke her fall.  Swallowing and trying to regain her composure she turned and faced her audience, spreading her legs way, way apart and lowering her thighs onto the supports of the bottomless chair.  Mr. Zipkin got up and cuffed her ankles and wrists on each side, taking time to make sure they were secure.

       When he got back down to the console Tami found herself on an upraised stage facing these inquisitive adults, tied and spread out, feeling the cold air inside her pussy and knowing her lower lips were open, knowing that in the bright lights every little detail of her privates was fully visible.  It was almost like a blow to her when Zipkin flicked on the spotlights, which were set below her as well as up on the ceiling, behind as well as in front.  She could actually feel a little heat from the lights on the sensitive skin of her pussy lips and her butthole.  She averted her eyes, looking down at a point on the stage in front of her, wishing the audience was darkened like in a real theater so that she wouldn’t able to see their faces.  But the room was so well lit that she was aware of everyone.  She swallowed again, nerves taut, trying not to show any trace of modesty or shame or any of the mortification she was feeling.  It was obvious, certain, that the Dean’s spies would be here of all places, looking for any little trace, any telltale motion with her eyes or anything else that she had any feelings of modesty whatsoever.

       She heard a door open somewhere in front of her and glanced upward for a split second.  Henry Ross, wearing a sweater under his usual business suit, had just entered, and sat in one of the front seats.  McMasters did not introduce him to the others.  Tami dared not look at him but sensed his vigilant gaze.  She loathed this creepy man and hated the idea that she was so brightly lit and spread out right in his face.

       During another quick upward eye-flick Tami saw her own face, on a monitor in the wall in front.  Her own face, on T.  V.  She noted the stonelike expression as it showed on the screen and was glad that she wasn’t showing any fear or discomfort.  Then she noticed a little red light on the camera front and center, pointed right at her from four feet away. Lights, camera, action.

       “You can see the camera is on, from the console monitors,” McMasters told his audience.  “Let’s check if the audial equipment is on.  “ He walked up to Tami and adjusted the little microphone which hung about two feet above her face.  “Miss Smithers, if you could count to five, in a regular voice.”

       Tami inhaled and knew she had no choice but to obey.  Not wanting her voice to crack, she cleared her throat.  Still resolutely looking down, not wanting to look at the microphone, she said in a tiny voice, “One .  .  . two .  .  .  three .  .  .  four .  .  .  five.”  She blushed as she thought that she just as well could be counting the spasms when she came, like Lorinda walking past her with index finger upraised.

       Mr. Zipkin whispered something to McMasters, whereupon McMasters said, “Miss Smithers, probably during orgasm your, uh, vocalizations would be louder.  We want to get the levels right.  Please count again in a stronger voice.”

       Tami tried not to cry.  He said “orgasm” so casually.  And he was really rubbing this in.  Why don’t I just fake an orgasm while I’m at it?  But again, in a louder voice, “One .  .  .  two .  .  .  three .  .  .  four . . .  five.” Try not to think of Lorinda .  .  .

       “Very good,” McMasters said, looking down at the audio dials in front of Mr. Zipkin.  He then spoke to the audience.  “If there are no questions, I’d like to start with the insertions as soon as our other assistant arrives.”

       There was an uneasy silence.  The onlookers, or at least most of them, seemed uncertain as to what they were about to witness.  One woman, sitting in back, raised her hand and said, “I just want to say, Miss, that you are really very brave and, uh, open in agreeing to demonstrate the limits of female orgasmic response like this.  It’s hard to believe that a young woman could volunteer so freely.”

       “Yes, Miss Smithers is an amazingly uninhibited young adult,” Mr. McMasters said.  “But indeed, yes she did freely agree to this research, in fact enthusiastically so.  She fervently believes that to receive sexual pleasure is a great gift, and she wants others to learn about it so that they can experience it as well.  Right?” he said pleasantly, looking at Tami.

       Tami felt the obligation to look up and saw Ross looking at her with his raised eyebrow.  Further up she saw the woman in the back row.  She seemed kind.  If only she knew!!  Tami wanted to scream out her shame, shout, “Help me!!  Untie me!!  Please!!  Get me some clothes!!  Take me away from here!!”  But she knew she could not.

       She also realized that McMasters was laying it on thick.  She had said none of those things he had attributed to her.  “Enthusiastic?” And what was this about the “limits of female orgasmic response”?  But seeing Ross’s eyebrow, she knew what her rejoinder had to be and knew she had to make it sound convincing.  “Yes, that’s true,” she said with a little smile, and nobody could detect the deep hurt in her pretty eyes as she said it.  Then she cleared her throat and slowly looked down again.

       Just then the door opened and Brendo, that geeky Chalfont student who had been assisting with Dr. Harridance’s experiments, came in wearing a lab coat made more bulky by the sweatshirt he had added underneath.  “Hi, Tami,” he said affably as he sat down next to Mr. Zipkin and fiddled with some things on the console.  Tami, hating every second, hoping it was O.K. not to make eye contact with this clammy-handed dweeb, returned the nod.

       McMasters said, “Well, before the full dildos are inserted, we will ‘open up’ Miss Smithers with smaller objects.  Brendo will do the honors, he helped with the last set of experiments and he has much experience in working with Miss Smithers’s vagina and rectum.”