A Journey into BDSM

By the morning of D-Day, keeping my composure had become a physical impossibility. The suit’s randomized sensory protocol was working overtime; every spike in my frantic pulse triggered a fresh, crackling jolt directly across my clitoral piercing and internal probes. Flushed, trembling, and unable to focus on a single thought, I decided to take a walk through the quiet streets near campus, desperately hoping the crisp morning air would cool my skin and steady my nerves. I turned down a narrow, alley behind the university dorms, pulling my scarf tight against the chill. I took a deep breath, and then, without warning, a sharp, localized zap crackled at the base of my skull. My vision dissolved into a flash of blinding white before instantly cutting to pitch black.

When I groggily returned to consciousness, my head felt heavy and thick, as though floating in dense fog. I was lying on a cold, smooth surface with a firm, leathery texture. All around me, the soft, rhythmic hum of electronic beeping echoed in the quiet space. My eyes felt open, but I was met with total, impenetrable darkness. I tried to flex my fingers, to lift an arm, to twitch a toe, but nothing. My nervous system was completely disconnected from my muscles. My body refused to obey a single command, locked in absolute, heavy immobility. Along with the paralysis came a strange, hollow sensation deep inside me. I felt utterly bare, stripped, and strangely empty.

As my mind raced to piece together my surroundings, a voice cut through the darkness with calm, surgical clarity. "Seems like you have woken up." A cold spike of dread shot down my spine. There was no mistaking that voice. It belonged to Dr. Nina. "Let me explain the basic procedure once more while the system boots up," Dr. Nina said smoothly, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. "Because you have chosen the High-Intensity Complete-Submission protocol, an IV line was established while you were unconscious. It is currently administering a continuous cocktail of motor paralytics and central neuro-exciters. The paralytics induce total voluntary muscle block, while the neuro-exciters heighten your sensory nerve pathways by roughly two hundred percent." A sudden wave of horror washed over me. The memory hit me like a physical blow, sitting in Dr. Vance's office two weeks ago, dazed in various thoughts, blindly nodding my head just to make the conversation end. In my haze of excitement, I hadn't paid attention to a single word Dr. Vance was explaining. I had carelessly signed off on full-body paralysis and hyper-sensitization without even realizing what I was agreeing to. I cursed my foolishness internally, but locked in total paralysis, my regret came far too late.

Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the darkness inside my eyelids as something like a screen powered on directly before my eyes. A high-definition, live video feed filled my field of vision. I was looking down at a room from a high, ceiling-mounted angle. Lying on a stainless-steel surgical table beneath a constellation of overhead lights was my own body, draped in sterile blue sheets. The chastity suit had indeed been removed, explaining the hollow feeling in my core. Affixed tightly around my head was a sleek, lightweight VR headset. Beside the table stood Dr. Nina, dressed in immaculate scrubs, adjusting parameters on a large touchscreen terminal. "This room was specifically constructed for administering the High-Intensity Complete-Submission protocol," Dr. Nina explained. "Because your motor functions are paralyzed, we have equipped you with a high-frame-rate VR system so you remain fully aware of your environment. You can shift your view simply by moving your eyes. Cameras are positioned at multiple angles around the room to give you a complete three-hundred-and-sixty-degree live feed. Rest assured, the feed is routed directly to your visor and is not being recorded."

"The system is fully online," Dr. Nina said, her soft voice carrying that familiar, uncompromising edge. "The field team successfully retrieved the contents of your handbag upon capture, and handed me the list of options you have chosen. I have already decided the best order for this session to give you the most out of this session. Let us begin." My heart hammered frantically against my ribs. Remembering my past sessions with Dr. Nina, I knew her signature style all too well. She didn't believe in breaks, lulls, or relief. Whatever mystery options I had blindly drawn from that bowl, Dr. Nina was about to run through them in a single, unbroken upward ramp of escalating intensity, driving me straight toward my absolute threshold with nowhere to run.

The first procedure of this session would be "Mammary Activation and Induced Lactation." Hearing those words, a vivid memory flashed through my mind. I remembered sitting at my desk weeks ago, staring at that section of the catalogue. Deep down, I had always held a quiet, distant curiosity about what it felt like to be a mother, to experience the physical bond of nursing. I had chosen this option on a whim, thinking it would offer a temporary, harmless glimpse into a sensation I had never known. "Before we start," Dr. Nina explained with detached, surgical precision, "let me detail the exact procedure. A specialized hormone-inducing serum will be injected directly into the glandular tissue of both breasts, starting at the center of the areola and radiating outward. High-voltage electrical pulses will then be transmitted directly through the guide needles into the tissue to activate the lobules and induce immediate, rapid lactation."

She reached over to a nearby trolley and lifted a sterile stainless-steel lid, revealing a tray of pre-filled syringes containing a clear, slightly bubbling liquid. Beside that tray sat a secondary mobile apparatus holding a heavy vacuum pump unit fitted with two massive acrylic suction cups. Looking at those giant domes, my mind registered a sudden flick of confusion. Those suction cups look way too big for me, I thought, looking at my modest chest. There's no way those will seal against my skin. I didn't realize yet just how dramatically my body was about to be forced to adapt.

Dr. Nina selected the first syringe and positioned it over my exposed left breast. Without hesitation, she pressed the needle deep into the center of my left areola. A streak of searing, white-hot pain flared through my chest. Holding the hub steady, she carefully uncoupled the syringe barrel, leaving the hollow needle shaft anchored directly inside my flesh. With practiced, mechanical speed, she repeated the process, placing needles in an expanding circle around my left areola before moving over to my right side. By the time she finished, my entire chest felt agonizingly hot, raw, and throbbing with a deep, burning ache. She then wheeled over a specialized stimulation unit equipped with a thick bundle of thin black leads. One by one, she clipped a lead to each of the exposed needle shafts resting in my skin, before flipping a toggle on the console. A violent surge of white-hot current shot through the embedded needles, radiating directly into my mammary glands. I watched my chest begin to rapidly expand. The current forced my glands to activate and swell at an unnatural pace, pushing my breasts outward until they were visibly two full cup sizes larger than my baseline, finally making sense of those massive suction cups.

When Dr. Nina finally cut the power and pulled the needles free, the agony inside my chest was unbearable, a dense, tight, excruciating pressure that felt as though my skin was on the absolute verge of tearing open. She then brought over the vacuum unit, taking those oversized acrylic cups and placing them securely over my newly engorged breasts. This time, they fit perfectly, forming a tight, airtight seal. The negative pressure pulled at my swollen nipples, and almost instantly, warm streams of milk began to draw through the clear tubing, pooling into the collection canisters below. As the fluid drained, the agonizing internal pressure melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, surging wave of profound physical relief and intense pleasure. Despite the sharp pain of the injection phase, which I knew had been made tenfold worse by my careless agreement to the High-Intensity Complete-Submission protocol, the sensation of the extraction was so exquisite that my dazed mind registered a thrilling thought: I might actually want to try this again someday... perhaps even with an extended, forced milking session.

Once the vacuum cups were detached with a quiet, hollow pop, the cool, circulating air of the surgical suite struck my freshly milked, swollen breasts. Traces of warmth lingered on my skin, but as the room air dried the dampness, my flush deepened and my nipples instantly hardened into rigid, hyper-sensitive points, throbbing with a raw, electric ache. Dr. Nina carefully set the milk collection canisters onto a lower shelf of the trolley, snapped off her soiled gloves, and pulled on a fresh, sterile pair. "Standard Bilateral Nipple Piercings," she announced smoothly, reaching out for another trolley. As those words echoed in my ears, the memory of writing that card surfaced clearly in my mind. Right... I wrote that one. Weeks ago, sitting at my desk with the catalogue, I had remembered the thrill of getting my clitoral piercing. I had wanted symmetry, a matching set of shiny silver barbells in my chest to complete my physical transformation. I wanted something permanent that I would feel every time my clothes brushed my skin during lectures, a hidden, daily anchor connecting me to the clinic even when I was miles away.

Dr. Nina reached for a fresh bottle of iodine disinfectant and a heavy gauze sponge. She saturated the pad and began scrubbing both of my engorged, hyper-sensitized nipples in firm, circular motions. The freezing orange liquid was a violent shock against skin that had just undergone intense stimulation. The neuro-exciter IV amplified the cold into a biting, chemical burn that sent a fresh wave of panic through my chest, causing the heart monitor beside my head to accelerate into a rapid, frantic rhythm. She aligned the notched steel jaws of the clamp over my right nipple, squeezing the handles until the ratchet lock clicked tightly shut. A choked, silent scream died in my throat. Even the dull, pinching pressure of the steel jaws was magnified tenfold by the serum in my bloodstream. The weight of the clamp pulled down on my sensitive tissue, dragging my nipple taut and exposing the base where the metal was locked fast.

Then, Dr. Nina picked up a thick, hollow guide needle with a blunt end. I watched the scene unfold with terrifying clarity. It was a bizarre, out-of-body horror: seeing my own paralyzed frame lying completely still beneath the yellow overhead lights while simultaneously feeling every raw, screaming nerve signal inside that body. I could see Dr. Nina's gloved fingers hovering over my right breast, aligning the gleaming, bevel-tipped steel point against the side of my clamped areola. She didn't plunge it through with a quick, merciful flick of her wrist. True to her uncompromising, methodical nature, Dr. Nina rested the blunt point against my skin and began pushing the heavy needle into my flesh with excruciating, glacial slowness. Millimeter by agonizing millimeter. A sharp, blinding agony flared through my entire chest as the steel broke the surface. Because my body was completely paralyzed by the motor blocker, I couldn't flinch, gasp, shrink away, or clench my toes. I was trapped inside an immobile shell, forced to lie utterly motionless while my nervous system registered every single microscopic tearing of muscle fiber and nerve ending. The needle moved so agonizingly slow that I could feel the cold, rigid cylinder creeping through the core of my swollen tissue. It wasn't just a prick, it felt like a white-hot wire being pushed through a deep, open wound, but my facial muscles were so thoroughly locked that not even a twitch betrayed my agony.

The telemetry monitor spiked violently as my heart hammered against my ribs. After what felt like an eternity, the gleaming point of the needle finally burst through the skin on the opposite side of the clamp. But Dr. Nina didn't offer a single second of respite. She immediately reached for a pair of fine electrocautery leads attached to the low-voltage unit on her trolley. She clipped the wire leads directly to the exposed steel ends of the needle still buried in my flesh. A sharp, crackling wave of localized heat shot straight through the needle shaft. The steel acted as an internal heating element, cauterizing the dilated blood vessels from the inside out with a crisp, stinging burn. A faint, ozone-tinged scent wafted through the room. My internal organs seemed to recoil, a low, silent tremor running through my chest as the heat sealed the channel from within. Once the bleeding was controlled, she unclipped the leads, smoothly withdrew the steel guide needle, and slid a heavy, polished silver barbell through the newly minted channel in its wake. She threaded the silver ball end onto the post and torqued it tight.

Without stopping to let my nervous system recover, Dr. Nina unlatched the clamp from my right side and immediately locked it onto my left nipple. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain itself. Knowing the exact sequence of agony that was about to occur made my mind fracture with dread. Dr. Nina aligned the second guide needle. Once again, she began that slow, relentless, millimeter-by-millimeter push. The second pass felt even more agonizing than the first; my central nervous system was already overwhelmed by pain signals, making the slow creep of the cold steel through my left breast feel infinitely more intense. Every fraction of a millimeter burned like fire. She executed the cauterizing pulse sealing the inner channel, before pulling the guide needle away and sliding the matching silver barbell into place. She screwed the ball end shut, anchoring the heavy hardware permanently into my chest.

She unlatched the clamps, cleaned away a tiny stray bead of blood with an antiseptic wipe, and stepped back to inspect her work. I looked down at my own body from the ceiling camera's vantage point. My breasts were flushed deep crimson and still visibly larger from the lactation procedure, now crowned with two gleaming, heavy silver barbells. They matched the barbell anchored in my clitoris, gleaming under the bright surgical lights, a complete set of silver hardware permanently marking my body. My chest was radiating a deep, furious, heavy throb. But just as I thought I might get a moment to process the pain, Dr. Nina turned away from the table and announced, "Let's start with the next procedure then, Deflowering".

I was surprised. I remembered choosing it as one of the options. I knew fully well that with my unique sexual preferences, it will be nigh impossible for me to get a boyfriend or get laid. When I saw this option in the catalogue, I thought that i finally found a path to losing my virginity. Not everyone will get a chance to lose their virginity in a medical clinic, but this was beyond my expectations, losing it on a surgical table in an operation theatre. But then I started wondering about how would Dr. Nina go about achieving it? Will a male doctor be administering the procedure or will she be using a strap-on, though I guess the latter would mean I would still be a virgin.

However, when I saw Dr. Nina reaching out for the electric scalpel instead, my mind went blank. "Proceeding with the surgical removal of the hymen" she announced. I should have thought that it would be surgical deflowering given that it's a medical clinic. can't even fathom why I thought it would be anything otherwise. She used some alligator clipped spreaders to keep my vagina wide-open, providing her clear access to my hymen. The stretching of my vaginal lips was agonizing to say the least, but that was just the start of my worries. Once she was satisfied with the size of the opening, she proceeded to insert the scalpel inside and slowly proceeded to cut the hymen out, making sure not to puncture it during the whole process. The process was agonizingly slow and the simultaneous combination of the cutting and burning pain was utterly unbearable. The smell of ozone has completely filled my nostrils by the time she was done with the procedure. I was also dreaded about the next procedure as I know that it would be even worse given the style of Dr. Nina.

Dr. Nina discarded her gloves and started putting on a new pair of gloves while announcing, "Let's start with the clitoridectomy." I could still remember the time when I chose it. This is one of the more daring options that I chose. I knew there was a chance that it could get picked when I wrote it down, but I was feeling a lot more daring at that time. I felt that having a much more smoother top would look unique and amazing. It would also let me enjoy future pleasure sessions at a much more deeper level. Though it would be sad that the piercing set is no longer feasible. Now that I think about it, I never got to properly enjoy it's looks as I was in the chastity suit since I got the piercing making it impossible to access the piercing. But suddenly, I got out of y thoughts when I remembered that High-Intensity Complete-Submission would mean that i would be awake for the whole procedure, and not under an aesthesia, as mentioned in the original description. I desperately tried to scream out with no avail.

Dr. Nina pulled a sterile tray from the lower shelf. On it sat a small, transparent acrylic suction cup which she then promptly connected to the vacuum pump apparatus that she previously used for milking me. I watched as Dr. Nina stepped between my legs. There was no pause or adjustment period. She applied a generous layer of cool anti-septic gel over my center, surrounding my clitoral piercing. The temperature contrast against my hyper-sensitized skin sent a sharp, electric jolt up my spine. She then positioned the small, clear acrylic cylinder directly over my clitoris, pressing the silicone base firmly against my skin to create an airtight seal. The motorized pump whirred into motion. Almost instantly, the atmospheric pressure inside the tiny acrylic chamber dropped. The negative pressure pulled my tissue deep into the clear cylinder. Under the relentless vacuum, blood rushed into my center, swelling my clitoris and hood rapidly outward. The tissue expanded, filling the suction cup until it was engorged to nearly three times its natural size, rigid, deep crimson, and stretched to its absolute physical limits.

It felt as if my clitoris is being completely pulled out of my body. Because the neuro-exciter IV was still active in my bloodstream, the sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just a physical stretch; it felt like a deep, throbbing, white-hot pressure radiating through my entire pelvis. My silver barbell was held tightly against the expanding tissue, creating a continuous, intense sensory loop. Trapped in total motor paralysis, I couldn't move or flinch, forced to endure every second of the relentless suction as the digital gauge on the pump reached peak holding pressure. To my absolute horror, she then reached out for the electric scalpel once again, and placed it near the base of my clitoris. She slowly started cutting the already stretched skin around the base, freeing the clitoris out of the bounds of my body. The pain was so excruciating that i felt like fainting but even that relief was unavailable due to the neuro-exciters in my bloodstream. By the time, she finished cutting the skin around the base of my clitoris, the roots of the clitoris were already pulled out by the vacuum, and Dr. Nina started to slowly cut-out the roots one after another. When there were only three more root endings still connected to me, the vacuum was strong enough to pull it out be forcibly tearing the remaining roots. Dr. Nina then stitched the skin together to make it seem as if the clitoris never existed. By now, I was on the verge of mentally breaking apart and barely holding myself together.

Just as I was hoping that I have reached the end of the session, Dr. Nina stepped back from the surgical table, placing the suction instruments onto the lower shelf of her stainless-steel trolley with a quiet, metallic clink, and, announced smoothly, her voice echoing with absolute, clinical precision, "Barbie Bottom". I lay completely motionless under the yellow surgical lights, my dazed mind struggling to process the words.

Barbie Bottom?

I scrambled through my memory, trying to match it to the dozens of entry titles I had studied in the catalogue during those grueling weeks in my dorm room. Blindfolded Deprivation... Probed Sensory Overload... Chastity Escalation... None of them sounded like that. A cold wave of confusion washed over my chest, my heart monitor instantly picking up speed with a rapid series of beeps. "It is a combination of bilateral oophorectomy via your vaginal canal and a complete hysterectomy followed by infibulation," Dr. Nina continued, stepping towards a different trolley. Oophorectomy... Hysterectomy... Infibulation... I couldn't understand any of those terms. "To put it simply," Dr. Nina continued, "we are going to completely, permanently carve out your entire internal reproductive system. We then remove the entirety of your outer and inner labia, and fuse seal your vaginal opening to smooth bottom similar to that of a barbie doll."

She retrieved a tray of heavy surgical instruments and placed them on the primary trolley beside my head. "First, we will slice through the tissue to remove both of your ovaries, via your vaginal canal" Dr. Nina explained, her voice as calm and matter-of-fact as if she were giving a lecture. "By taking your ovaries, we permanently extinguish your body's natural hormone production. You will instantly enter violent, irreversible menopause. Your natural female cycles will cease forever, leaving your body unable to produce its own hormones, completely dependent on external synthetic medication for the rest of your life." She reached for a sleek, gleaming set of scalpels and long surgical clamps. "Next, we will cut away your fallopian tubes and detach your uterus, pulling the organs out through your birth canal. Once your womb is completely gone, we will double-suture the top of your inner passage tightly shut, sealing it into a seamless, dead-end vault. You will never bleed, you will never carry life, and your lower core will be permanently hollowed out and locked into an empty, sterile state.

"We will then surgically slice away and completely remove the entirety of both the labia majora and labia minora. We then flatten the underlying soft tissue across your pubic mound, pull the surrounding skin tight from your inner thighs, and fuse it closed using thermal cautery and medical adhesives. You will have no folds, no lips, no clitoral hood, and no natural external anatomy whatsoever. Your lower groin will be transformed into a entirely flush, seamless, and porcelain-smooth surface, leaving your body looking exactly like the featureless, solid plastic between the legs of a barbie doll. The only thing left behind is a microscopic, hidden silicone port concealed near the base, existing purely so your bladder can release urine."

Hearing it broken down into such raw, horrifying reality—carving out my organs... artificial menopause... permanently hollowed out... slicing away every fold... fusing the skin flat... a continuous plane of unbroken skin like a plastic doll, a wave of pure, suffocating terror slammed into my mind.

The crimson sheets.

The memory hit me with crushing clarity. Sitting in Dr. Vance’s office, I had tucked those forbidden red pages—the restricted menu meant strictly for seeking more extreme thrills that I am not yet ready for, directly into my handbag. And on the night before my capture, when I had cut up my index cards and randomly thrown my selections into my bag, I had completely forgotten that those folded red pages were still resting at the very bottom. When the field team initiated the kidnapping, they hadn't just taken a list of chits, they had retrieved every single sheet of paper inside my bag, logging those extreme, restricted protocols directly into Dr. Nina’s hands. My heart hammered frantically against my ribs, the telemetry monitor beside my head dissolving into a continuous, high-pitched chime.

I had only ever glanced at the top line of the first red sheet weeks ago. I had never read the pages beneath it. I had no idea what other irreversible, permanent procedures were printed on those crimson sheets, what other horrors or thrills were queued up next, or what my future even looked like from this moment on. I was completely trapped inside my own paralyzed body. Because of the motor-blocker IV and the High-Intensity Complete-Submission option I had blindly authorized while dazed, I couldn't speak, couldn't move a single finger, and couldn't vocalize my safe word. My own carelessness, my total lack of attention during consent, and my foolish game of chance had all combined into a silent, inescapable trap.

Dr. Nina stepped up to the table, holding a heavy tray lined with gleaming scalpels, cautery leads, and skin-contouring clamps. Her expression remained completely serene, her eyes fixed on me with unflinching, professional focus as she reached for the primary scalpel. I could only close my eyes, suspended on the razor-thin edge of terror and complete, helpless surrender, waiting to find out what fate had in store for me.