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pushed to her limit

Orgasms: 23

       Contractions/Last Orgasm: 9

       Total Contractions: 255

       Time Elapsed: 50:48


       The girl’s voice, now hoarse, rasped airily through the lab.  “Oh -- God -- please -- ohh -- please -- help -- please -- OHH! -- uhhhhh -- ”  Her body bucked back and forth as her eyes stared out of her gaunt, sweaty, exhausted face at Hilda, a nerdy girl with cat’s eyes glasses, the last student in line.

       “Notice the vocalizations,” McMasters said loudly so that everyone could hear, even Tami.  “During orgasm, certainly during a extended session like this, ideation of reality becomes problematic.  A person could imagine all sorts of things, say all sorts of things, the cognitive process temporarily unhinged.  That, I think, is why she seems to be praying the last few times as she reaches climax.  Maybe she thinks she’s in church.  Religious ecstasy and sexual ecstacy can be two sides of the same coin.”


       Her eyebrows pleading at the nerdy female student as if begging her to release her from this agony of endless ecstacy, Miss Tami Smithers once again exploded into orgasm.  The nerdy student’s glasses steamed up a little as she beheld the unfocused eyes, the dilated pupils of this amazing girl who she had heard about, this girl who wanted to be always naked, this girl with the tremendous sexual capacity.


       .  .  .

       Orgasms: 48

       Contractions/Last Orgasm: 12

       Total Contractions: 522

       Time Elapsed: 1:25:22


       “So the main hormone released during this extended plateau phase is endorphin,” Mr. McMasters said, pointing to the large chart on the wall, a schematic of the body’s endocrine system.  The students, sitting in the movie seats, obediently wrote this down, trying hard not to notice the console and stage to their left where the sweating girl was still being double-fucked.  They had all had their turns looking into her eyes and now, after twenty minutes of lecture, they were getting a bit uneasy.  Shouldn’t the girl be let down now?  How much can she take?


       Of course, Tami was not listening to the lecture.  She was in her own little Hell, glad that she could close her eyes and didn’t have to open them any more.  Not that her situation was any better now.  An unobstructed view of her face no longer being needed, the suction cups had been drawn down from the ceiling and clamped onto her nipples.  When the suction was turned on it seemed like her breasts were pulled up by the long tubes, supporting her like a bizarre and cruel form of bra, and with the slight sagging of her body in her bonds the effect became more pronounced.


       No longer did she cry out when she came; her voice gone, she kept her eyes closed, her face tilted up as if meditating, her body still sweating but looking thinner now, as if life was being sucked out of her through her nipples, her tummy almost freakishly concave as her breath coursed in and out.


       In fact she was meditating, or trying to, with a mind that was by now almost completely disorganized.  She could put some thoughts together now and then.  She was aware of her surroundings and a little aware of the lecture; McMasters’s words to the class bounced around in her head, uncomprehended.  She thought of a word she heard in psychology class -- “hebephrenia” -- the most disorganized and hopeless type of schizophrenia. Was she headed there?  Was she there already?

       Above all, she was praying for strength, trying to accept these orgasms as they came, one after the other, trying to get used to them.  Please God, make me get used to them.  But it was hopeless -- each time a crest came, she was going over the waterfall again, onto yet another emotional roller-coaster.  She wondered: was Hell like this?  She was not coherent enough to ponder how she had done nothing to deserve it.


       The class, of course, could suspect none of these thoughts.  All they saw was a tired, sweaty, meditating teenager who was getting fucked by metal dildos and whose nipples were undergoing constant bristly suction, and whose body, every few minutes, would jerk around limply but crazily like a marionette on strings.


       McMasters went on with his lecture, the class taking notes, as if Tami were just a wall decoration of some kind, something off to the side not worthy of attention.  Finally he said, “Thank you, class, I know this has been a very memorable and instructive experience for all of you.  You can go now.  Class is over.”


       The nerdy girl, the last one to look into Tami’s eyes, said, “How long is she going to be .  .  .  like that?”


       “Miss Smithers?” McMasters said, as if there were any doubt who she meant, as if he had temporarily forgotten about her.  “Don’t get the idea she doesn’t like this.  She has freely consented to this research, and is in fine shape, don’t worry.  People in extreme stages of sexual excitement often look like they’re suffering, but of course she is not.” Everyone looked as Tami started jerking around again, finally coming to a rest with the last contraction.  Her head dropped.  There was no denying that she had fainted.


       With a quick signal from McMasters, Brendo and Mr. Zipkin, sitting at the console, moved some levers.  The dildos stopped and the suction cups relaxed and for the first time in an hour and a half the room was in silence.  The naked girl had sloped forward at the part of the cycle when the front dildo was fully buried in her pussy, and the rear dildo was fully withdrawn except for the tip, which kept her anal ring widely stretched, perhaps inducing some interesting dreams.


       “I see she’s finished her session,” McMasters said, as if the whole thing were under Tami’s control and she had simply decided it was time to stop.  “Brendo, start detaching her.” McMasters smiled.  “I’m sure she’ll have a nice long sound sleep,” he said.  Some of the guys chuckled as the students gathered their notebooks and left.  Brendo and Mr. Zipkin remained at the console.


       A few seconds after the last student left, McMasters signaled again.  Mr. Zipkin approached the naked girl with ammonia capsules and placed them under her nose, reviving her wearily but instantly.  Brendo carefully fed her a straw coming from a bottle of water, which she sucked on thirstily. Then the two assistants went back down to the console and in a few seconds the dildos started sawing away again, the tubes from the ceiling stiffening as the suction cups again drew the girl’s breasts upward.

       The girl’s eyes opened wide in agony.  “Noooo .  .  .  please .  .  .  noooooooo!” she said in a hoarse voice.  She shook her head violently.  “No morrre .  .  .  don’t .  .  .  wanna .  .  .  c - c - commmmmm.  .  . ”  In a few seconds she was grunting rhythmically as she began another journey up to the crest .  .  .


       .  .  .

       Orgasms: 95

       Contractions/Last Orgasm: 15

       Total Contractions: 1087

       Time Elapsed: 2:43:07


       Outside, night was falling, something barely noticeable in the nearly deserted, humid, brightly-lit Lab 6.


       The sterility of the setting only made what was going on more incongruous.  Brendo and Mr. Zipkin sat idly at the console, McMasters in one of the theater seats, his elegantly shod feet propped up, skimming through a magazine.  Up on stage, the naked girl, gaunt and no longer sweating, barely reacted as the dildos, going a little slower now, plowed in and out of her, the tubes sucking rhythmically on her nipples, which were hidden by the cups but were now an inch and a half long and as thick as a man’s finger.  What would have been horrifying to an outside observer was her face -- gaunt, pale, like the face of someone dying of fever, hair plastered to the sides of her head and onto her bare back, her eyes rolled up so that only the whites were visible between her slightly-parted lids.


       But the assistants were not concerned by this; knowing that the girl was tired but in no danger, they were engaged in quiet banter.


       “That was a good one, Brendo,” Mr. Zipkin said.  They had developed a schedule.  Brendo would go for ten orgasms, then Mr. Zipkin would take over for the next ten.  They discussed techniques.  Mr. Zipkin preferred the deep-and-rough method, adjusting the settings so that the dildos went in extra far, plunging in and out extra fast.  This tended to result in shorter orgasms with big, convulsive contractions.  Brendo, on the other hand, had perfected a gentler technique, which resulted in long, rolling orgasms. He had just gotten the hang of an extra refinement, timing the thrusting of the pussy dildo and the suctioning of the nipples just ahead of each contraction, which made the contractions go longer.  Orgasm #92, a few minutes ago, lasted 22 contractions -- the longest yet -- and caused the naked girl to open her eyes in amazement for the first time in 25 orgasms. Brendo pointed out that the ridges on the vaginal dildo were key, those ridges that bumped past the girl’s clitoris and once inside massaged her G-spot.


       This last orgasm was another long one; hence Mr. Zipkin’s words of congratulation.


       The girl heaved on, staring sightlessly into the recording camera.  McMasters put down his magazine and wondered what condition of mind the girl was in.  They had considered the possibility of psychosis.  Watching the tapes of her last session, studying the facial expression, the readout of the brain waves recorded by a special sensor below the camera, it did seem like her thoughts became deranged as she reached each climax, the more so the longer the session went on.  Now, after almost 100 orgasms, was the psychotic state continuous?  How long would it last, if at all, after the session ended?  That would be a while from now.  .  .

       Though the girl had had to be revived three times so far, McMasters was confident she could go “all the way”.  As in, establishing the record for most orgasms in one session, which according to his best sources now stood at 134.  She would reach 135 today.  And it would be entirely verifiable, caught on tape.


       McMasters’s thoughts were interrupted by an unusual and quick lurch to one side.  He stood up and saw the problem.  “Her foot, it’s cramping,” he said.  “Zipkin, go fix it.” His faithful assistant crawled to the side of the stage and carefully grabbed the girl’s toes, spreading them and flexing them, then massaged the whole foot and then up into her calf, working around the cuff on her ankle.  Of course it did not occur to him to loosen the cuff; by now they thought of the cuffs as part of her natural endowments, along with the cuffs on her wrists and the dildos in her vagina and rectum and the cups on her nipples, the only clothing she was allowed to wear.


       The crisis passed, Tami’s foot relaxed, and McMasters said, “We’d better keep a close lookout for cramping muscles.  Whoever’s running the orgasms, the other two of us let’s be ready to jump in.” And so the men gave the naked, suffering girl their renewed attention, though all this time the camera had been recording her face, the brain wave sensor below it had been recording her mind .  .  .


       Inside her mind, her thoughts, if they could be called that, were a jumble.  Images passed by.  Were they real?  Middle-aged men taking photos of her in her distress.  Wanda shouting in anger and frustration, “Confess, you stupid bitch!!” That leering guy from the bank looking right into her eyes as she came.  People congregating around her, looking at every part of her heaving body, commenting on the excellent design of the thrusting dildos.  Jesus, talking to her from the Cross . . .

       .  .  .

       Orgasms: 135

       Contractions/Last Orgasm: 10

       Total Contractions: 1502

       Time Elapsed: 4:03:21

       It could have been a painting by Hieronymous Bosch called, “The Martyrdom of St. Tami”.

       True, she no longer had the capacity to open her eyes and, in the face of the camera and the closely watching male observers, look up to God, beseeching him to deliver her from this crucifixion of unceasing orgasm, of this grotesque agony in which her tender sense of modesty was being totally smashed, obliterated, wiped out.  Her eyelids slightly parted, nothing but whites showing in between, her gaze was now internal, directed on some spiritual plane, slowly becoming one with the angels, somewhere inside thinking the number 5, 5, which if she had been lucid would recognize as meaning “5 more days”.  And there were hands, grabbing her flesh, helping her up to heaven .  .  .


       Back in the external, quotidian world, for McMasters, working the levers as he watched the stretched-out, naked, slightly quivering figure, the number was “134”.  As in, he now had proof of a record number of orgasms.  He also admired this amazing female specimen for her stamina.  True, she needed some help, he mused as he watched Brendo and Mr. Zipkin massaging her legs on each side so as to prevent cramping.  Brendo even was encouraging her, saying, “C’mon Tami, you can do it,” though they all knew that Miss Smithers was beyond responding to his words and almost certainly could not hear anything.

       Twenty orgasms ago -- they had come to measure time according to Tami’s orgasms -- Tami had fainted and the ammonia capsules did not revive her.  The dildos were stopped and retracted, allowing the men to examine her gaping orifices for signs of chafing.  But everything looked O.K.; the constant application of lubricant through the tiny holes in the dildos had made sure of that.  The subject was then doused two or three times with ice water.  This woke her up, though when McMasters asked her how she was feeling, her face contorted and she gave a quiet, agonized, unearthly squeal that was so weird and so deranged that it shook him.  Then she began crying, though her sobs were taken over by tortured moans as the dildos were re-inserted and the stimulation began again.  She seemed to have a second wind, going another ten orgasms before rolling her eyes up again.


       But now, this was it.  McMasters could tell the girl was about to pass out again and it would be pointless, and maybe impossible, to revive her again.  This session had served its purpose.


       Leaving the levers on the settings for medium thrust and speed, McMasters stepped up to the stage and stood face to face with his subject as Brendo and Zipkin continued massaging.  In a loud voice, he said, “Miss Smithers, can you hear me?  Miss Smithers?”


       He didn’t really expect any response but noticed perhaps a slight turning of her head.  And her mouth, which had been gaping open, closed halfway.  It was probably an autonomic reaction to sound, such as one might see even in brain-dead patients.


       “You will have one more orgasm, then we will stop.  Again, on behalf of the Institute, thank you very much for your participation.” He knew it was important, for his own interests, to mention the Institute.  His words, as well as everything else happening onstage, were being recorded.


       He sat at the console and worked the controls.  It took a few minutes but he did manage to bring Tami Smithers to her one hundred thirty-sixth orgasm, a slow, rolling affair much in the style of Brendo.  By this time the girl’s orgasms did not look typical.  There were no moans, her voice having left her, and barely any tensing as she crested.  The nude body lurched slightly forward, heaving back and forth on the dildos, and her hips then spasmed gently, slightly.  There was no other reaction, but McMasters was lucky to time the thrusts and the surges of suction on her nipples so that, as Brendo had showed him, the orgasm was prolonged.


       Indeed, there was something special about this one.  It went on and on and on, and just when McMasters thought it was about to run its course, it went on some more.  Finally after fifteen quiet spasms it began to die down, and in the final jolt McMasters was surprised to see the girl smile, a crazy little smile like from someone who had been driven insane.  Then she fainted.  This orgasm lasted 18 contractions, longer than any except for #22, #61, #92, and #107.  1,520 contractions in all.


       All activity was stopped.  The dildos were carefully detached.  The girl’s body fell to the stage.  Brendo poured a pail of ice water over her, a great relief to the girl’s external senses.  Then they reverently turned out the lights, like a funeral director closing up a wake, and left.


       The girl slept for ten hours.  She woke up to find herself on the stage and the room dimly lit.  She was hungry and thirsty and through groggy eyes she saw a tray of food in front of her, a big meal, two sandwiches, potato chips, a big glass of juice, pie .  .  .  and a flower in a vase, a big white chrysanthemum, with a card next to it saying, “Thank you.  You will always be remembered,” signed by McMasters, Brendo and Mr. Zipkin.

       She crawled over to it and began to eat slowly and gratefully.  Twenty minutes later, her stomach full, the naked girl staggered through the halls of the Chalfont Institute, her pussy and ass sore, her nipples still grotesquely large, and then out into the dawn chill.  She made it halfway across the field before falling to the wet grass and going off to sleep again.  When she woke up again it was well into the morning and students were looking across at her from the pathways.  She got up, feeling better now even though she was stiff and cold, and walked haltingly to her dorm. She was in a fog the rest of the day, telling Mandy and Jen that she felt a little under the weather; but as McMasters knew, it was finals week and she had nothing scheduled that day.

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