Doris

The sound of the lock turning was a death knell. Arthur stood in the center of his cell, his heart hammering against his ribs, the coarse uniform scratching his skin. He had no concept of how much time had passed before the lock disengaged again with a heavy clank. The door swung open to reveal not one, but two women, both dressed in the same stark, severe uniform of white tunic and trousers. They were expressionless, their faces professional masks. Just outside the doorway, the massive silhouette of Rex stood like a sentry, a silent promise of violence.

The two nurses entered, carrying a metal clipboard and a medical kit. "Please, lie down on the cot, Mr. Collins," the first one said, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

"This is insane. I demand to speak to whoever is in charge," Arthur blustered, his voice trembling slightly.

"I am in charge of your induction," the nurse replied, not even looking at him. "Now, lie down. On your back."

When Arthur hesitated, the second nurse simply took him by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and guided him towards the cot. They weren't rough, but their touch was unyielding, and he found himself pushed onto his back. The first nurse began to ask him a series of rapid-fire questions, ticking boxes on her form without looking up. Name, age, medical history, allergies. As she spoke, the other nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, her movements efficient and impersonal. A thermometer was thrust under his tongue, then a cold stethoscope pressed against his chest.

"Roll onto your side," the second nurse commanded. "Cough."

Humiliation burned through him as he complied, feeling the nurse's prodding fingers during the invasive hernia test. He felt like an animal at a veterinary inspection.

"We are administering a mild sedative to help you relax for the next phase," the first nurse said, holding out a small white pill in a paper cup and a plastic cup of water.

"I'm not taking anything," Arthur said, his defiance flaring weakly.

At that moment, Rex shifted slightly in the doorway, filling the space with his intimidating presence. The message was clear. Arthur's resolve crumbled. He snatched the pill and swallowed it with a gulp of water, the taste of defeat bitter in his throat.

They handed him a clear plastic jug. "Urinate. We need a sample."

His bladder, tight with fear, rebelled, but a stern look from the nurses made him try. He managed to fill it a quarter of the way, his cheeks burning with shame as he handed it back.

The pill began to work quickly, a pleasant, floaty warmth seeping through his limbs, taking the edge off his terror and replacing it with a detached calm. They moved him with ease now, positioning him to stand beside the bed. One nurse produced a bowl of warm water and a can of shaving foam. "Legs apart," she ordered.

Arthur watched in a daze as they lathered his genitals, their hands clinical and sure. The scrape of the razor was a strange, intimate violation. They were removing his hair, stripping away another layer of his identity. When they were finished, he was smooth and bare, feeling exposed and childlike.

Then began the true torment. One of the nurses took his flaccid penis in her hand and began to stroke it with a practiced, rhythmic motion. Arthur gasped, his body betraying him as blood rushed to his groin. He hardened instantly under her expert touch. Waves of intense pleasure built, coiling in his stomach, his hips beginning to move instinctively. Just as he felt the edge of release, the moment before the point of no return, she stopped.

He let out a frustrated groan, his body aching for completion. They waited for a moment, letting him calm down, and then the second nurse took over, her technique slightly different but just as devastatingly effective. Again, they brought him to the very precipice of orgasm, only to deny him. They did it three times, a cycle of excruciating pleasure and maddening denial. By the end, he was panting, his body slick with sweat, his mind a fog of desperate need.

While he was dazed and trembling from the third denial, the first nurse produced a gleaming stainless-steel cage. It was a series of rings and a barred tube, designed to imprison him completely. With a few deft movements, she fitted a ring around his testicles and slid the tube over his now flaccid cock. there was a small, ominous click as she slid a tiny padlock into place. He was locked away, his arousal a constant, frustrating pressure against the cold metal.

"On your knees," Rex's voice rumbled from the doorway.

Arthur sank to his knees, his legs weak. One of the nurses approached him with a heavy, black leather collar. She placed it around his neck, the leather cold and stiff against his skin. Another click, and it was locked in place. It was a weight, a brand, a constant reminder of his new status.

Rex stepped forward and handed the nurses a manacle and a length of heavy chain. They locked the manacle around Arthur's right ankle and fastened the other end of the chain to the cot’s metal frame. He was tethered.

Finally, they laid him down on the narrow bed, his movements clumsy and restricted by the chain. He lay there, naked, shaved, collared, and caged, a prisoner in his own body. The two nurses packed their kit, their faces still blank, and walked out of the room without a backward glance. Rex gave him one last, contemptuous look, then followed, pulling the heavy door shut.

The lock engaged for a second time. And then, the light went out, plunging Arthur into absolute, suffocating darkness.