Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were always a special girl.

That’s what they said, anyway. Special in that careful, clinical way people speak when they don’t know what else to call someone like you. You were always whispering- soft little nothings into empty air, like you were confiding in something no one else could see. You took your pills without resistance, popping them like sweets, smiling as they dissolved on your tongue. The other patients had to be held down, sobbing or screaming as the nurses shoved their medication down their throat.

You never needed restraints. You were calm and cooperative. At least, when he was around.

Doctor Mori always like you best.

No one said it aloud, but it hung in the halls like the scent of antiseptic- unspoken, undeniable. He always came to your room himself. Always took your vitals, always initiated the experiments, always touched you with that same unsettling, yet soothing, gentleness- like you were something delicate in a display case, and he didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the glass. Maybe it was because you were one of the youngest patients, barely a teenager, or maybe because you were more cooperative.

It seemed like you were always part of one of his studies. Like last week, when he filled a syringe with swirling colors and pressed it into your arm. The liquid had made your limbs go soft and your thoughts even softer. You watched animals—foxes, rabbits, something with too many eyes—dance across the ceiling tiles as if they lived there. You tried to tell him about them, but your tongue felt too big for your mouth.

Then there was the other time. The time with the table. Cold straps across your wrists, a mouthguard between your teeth, and his voice so calm— “This will help soothe your mind when the shocks begin.”

He hadn’t lied.

It had quieted your thoughts—though only during the blackout. When you woke up, he was there, brushing damp hair from your face like a mother would. He smiled at you, proud, and told you that you did perfect . Then he gave you another shot. That one made you ravenous. You ate until your stomach ached and your vision blurred.

Still, it was better than when other doctors tried to touch you. You hated Doctor Tikushi’s hands—old, wrinkled, and trembling with something that didn’t feel like professionalism. The last time he tried to examine you, you bit him hard, drawing blood. You screamed until Mori came.

He never let Tikushi near you again after that.

You think you might have imagined the smile he gave you as the door slammed shut behind the other man. But it felt real. Everything felt real when Mori looked at you.

You sit cross-legged on the hospital bed now, tracing circles on your thigh through the fabric of your dress. It’s one of your favorites—long, soft, the color of lilacs. Thankfully, the asylum you resided in allowed you to wear whatever you wished, as long as you behaved. Otherwise, the rough textured, white gown with black dots was all you could wear.

The door creaks. You don’t look up. You already know it’s him.

His steps are light and deliberate.

There’s the faint rustle of a coat, the whisper of gloves sliding on. You tilt your head slightly.

“Have you been sleeping?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. The ceiling’s been humming again.”

“Hmm.” A pause. “Still the birds?”

“No. Just… the wires now. Like they’re waiting for something.”

He steps closer, his shoes echoing throughout the room.

“There’s a certain method I’ve been testing on a few of my other patients,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “It may help clear your mind.”

He was closer now—close enough that the faint, crisp scent of clean linen drifted into your lungs with each breath.

Other patients?

The words clung to you like something sticky sour. You didn’t like the sound of that at all. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and the shift in your expression must have been obvious. He noticed, of course he did. He always did.

A slow smile curled at the corners of his mouth—amused, deliberate, knowing.

It made something twist inside your chest.

You didn’t ask what he’d done with them. Not directly. But your silence was heavy with the question.

Wanting to know everything— needing to know—you nodded.

Not like you were going to say no anyway.

You would’ve agreed no matter what, even if it hurt. Especially if it meant he’d stop talking about them.

“Lie down,” he said, already turning toward the cabinet-lined desk in the corner, the hem of his white coat swaying behind him. His voice, as always, left no room for doubt.

You obeyed without hesitation, sinking back onto the cushions. This bed was softer than the others—no rustling paper beneath your skin, no sharp cold metal pressing against your spine. He told you once that this room was for you, and only you. A special and private room just for you and him.

You liked the sound of that.

The first time you were brought here, he’d handed you a glass of something warm and honey-sweet. You never asked what it was. It didn’t matter. All that lingered was the floaty feeling afterward—like your bones had dissolved and your body had turned to mist. He hadn’t explained the experiment, he rarely did. But the way he looked at you, the way he only ever brought you here-

That was enough.

Your fingers drifted across the sheets absently. White cotton scattered with soft pink flowers—your choice . You’d picked them out yourself from a catalog he handed you, and he had the sheets changed the next day. No one else got that kind of attention. No one else mattered the way you did.

You heard the sharp tap of his shoes against the tiles as he returned, a faint rattle accompanying each step. He was pushing the metal tray, its wheels whispering across the floor until it stopped beside your bed.

You pushed up onto your elbows, curious, trying to peer at the tools or vials or whatever he’d prepared this time. But before you could see anything, he stepped in front of it, blocking your view with practiced precision.

He noticed your expression immediately and offered you a faint, teasing smile.

“It’s a surprise, dear. Lie back down.”

You let out a soft breath, a hint of a pout in your exhale, but you did as he asked. The pillow cradled your head again, cool and familiar.

Metal shifted near the edge of the bed. You heard the mechanical click, the low hum of adjustment. You knew the sound well—he was extending the stirrups.

Then came the light tap against your ankle.

You looked up and saw them—raised, prepared. Ready for you.

Understanding passed between you silently. You slid down the bed without a word, legs lifting and settling into place.

This wasn’t new, not really. You’d had pelvic exams before—many, over the course of your stay. They were always clinical, always quiet. Slightly uncomfortable, but never painful. Never frightening. Not with him .

Still, you wondered.

Why call it a surprise?

He’d never said that before.

Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the mattress, but you didn’t ask. You never did when it came to his ways.

Whatever it was, it was for you . And that was all that mattered.

You closed your eyes as the fabric of your dress was lifted, soft cotton folding over itself and pooling at your stomach. It blocked your view—left you in the dark. He always liked it that way.

His hands moved methodically, with that practiced, careful touch that made your skin buzz. You’d memorized the rhythm of his movements by now—the way he prepared you for whatever new procedure he had in mind. There was something strangely calming about it. Like being folded into a ritual.

The soft tap of tools on metal, the pop of a bottle cap. You didn’t need to look to know what came next. That cool, thick liquid—familiar by now—was meant to help. It always helped. The first time he used it, he’d explained it so sweetly, voice warm and patient, like a teacher comforting a frightened child.

“You’re doing so well,” he had murmured then. “Just a little longer, dear.”

That voice still echoed in your mind when things got strange.

But this time… something felt different.

You felt a small pressure at your entrance, a foreign sensation that made your breath catch. It didn’t hurt—not exactly—but it surprised you. Your hips twitched without meaning to, and just like that, the sensation was gone.

There was a pause.

Then, his voice: gentle, but firmer than before.

“Dear,” he said, tugging your dress down just enough to see your face. You blinked up at him, confused, startled. His eyes studied you—assessing, measuring. Then the smallest sigh. “Be a doll and stay still.”

Your chest tightened. You hated disappointing him.

“I’m sorry, Mori-sensei,” you whispered, and your voice sounded much smaller than you’d meant it to.

You relaxed again, deeper into the sheets, and felt the cold touch of his glove press lightly against your thigh. A nudge—silent instruction—and you opened your legs further in response, trying to make it easier for him. Trying to be good.

That same cold sensation returned, slower this time, more deliberate. The pressure was unfamiliar, but not painful. Just strange. Like being opened up in a way you didn’t fully understand.

He stayed quiet for a moment, only the soft, rhythmic sounds of the room filling the air—the occasional squeak of the stirrups, the faint scratch of latex. Then, that familiar low chuckle when you let out a small noise.

“How does it feel?” he asked, voice featherlight.

You didn’t know how to answer. You made a soft sound—something between a whine and a hum—your body unsure, your mind trailing somewhere far behind.

The pressure shifted slightly. A strange warmth bloomed low in your belly.

You had no idea what he was doing. But you rarely did. That was never the point.

When the pressure returned, it was deeper this time—more insistent. Something larger than before. You inhaled sharply, your body stiffening at first, then slowly yielding beneath the cold method of it.

The soft, slick sounds were faint but unmistakable. And you swallowed down a noise rising in your throat when he angled his thrusts a certain way.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the mattress.

You weren’t sure what he was searching for. You never were. But you’d learned not to ask. You just let him push a third finger inside of you, stretching you wider than the last instrument.

Your body ached to please him, not from pain, but from his expectations. That invisible line between experiment and affection blurred long ago.

“You’re adjusting well,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “Much better than the others.”

The others .

That word again. It dug at you, even as your chest fluttered with pride.

“I want to be the only one,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His fingers paused inside of you, silence lingering for a bit too long. Then his other hand pressed down on your stomach softly.

“You are, my dear,” he said, smiling faintly. “You always are.”

As suddenly as he’d stopped, his fingers began again—sharper this time, faster. A jolt ran through you, and a startled “ah” escaped your lips before you could silence it.

He laughed—low and pleased—but he didn’t stop.

You tried to bite down on the noises, really, you did. But it was too much. Especially when he curled his fingers upward just right and pressed his other hand down gently on your stomach, holding you there like you were something fragile and breakable.

You cried out again—too loud, too desperate, almost like a sob. But it got lost in the whimpers, in the choked sounds spilling from your throat as he didn’t let up.

“Look at you,” Mori said, low and pleased, voice brushing against the edge of a smile. “Taking my fingers so well. Most haven’t gotten this far.”

That sentence echoed in your mind .

You should’ve been upset by him bringing them up again. Should’ve clenched your jaw, looked away, forced the thought out. But it didn’t stick. Because he wasn’t talking about them . He was talking about you .

You weren’t like the others. They didn’t last. They didn’t know how to stay soft and pliant under his hands. But you did. You always did.

Your chest fluttered, pride swelling under your ribs like a secret, blooming flower.

But that wasn’t the only thing blooming inside you.

Beneath the haze of pleasure, beneath the sound of your breathing and the rustle of sheets, there was something else— an ache. A deep, strange pull in your lower belly that tightened more and more with every gentle rhythm, every repeated motion that Mori gifted you.

It was overwhelming. Consuming. Like something was coiling tighter and tighter inside of you, about to snap. You didn’t know if it was supposed to feel like this. You weren’t sure if this was the experiment or just…you.

You tried to speak—to ask him, to tell him, to say something —but every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words that came out. Just sounds. Sounds you couldn’t recognize as your own. Soft, broken things, full of too much need and not enough understanding.

You could barely hear him anymore. His voice had blurred into the background like a melody you couldn’t quite catch. The only thing you knew was the pressure, the tightness, the overwhelming pull of your body responding to his hands, his movements, his approval .

And then it happened.

That something inside you unraveled. Burst. Broke wide open and spilled through your chest like heat and light and everything . Your hands gripped the sheets, your toes curled against the stirrups, and your head tipped back as a wave of something unnameable crashed over you.

For a moment, there was nothing.

No sound. No breath. Just white.

You existed only in that strange, suspended second—floating.

Then you fell back into your body like a stone through water.

Your breathing came in shaky gasps. Your hands were trembling. Your legs twitched faintly in the stirrups as you stared at the ceiling, dazed, half-aware of your own pulse fluttering behind your eyes.

Mori didn’t say anything right away.

You could feel his gaze on you, lingering.

Then—his voice. Smooth, soft, satisfied.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Your eyes fluttered closed as your breathing stuttered, trying to return to something steady. You felt him pull his fingers out of you, slow and deliberate. A moment later, the faint snap of latex broke the silence, followed by the sharp clang of the metal bin against the wall.

Your legs trembled where they still rested in the stirrups, the metallic frames quivering beneath your weight. A strange warmth pooled beneath you, soaking through the sheets. Whether it was sweat or something from from the experiment that was still dripping out of you, you didn’t know.

You hear d it too, every slight movement, every squelch of his fingers inside you, echoing louder than it should have.

Eventually, your muscles started to loosen. Your thighs stopped twitching. Your grip on the sheets—twisted and soaked—unwound, finger by finger. You breathed in and out. Slow and careful, like you had to teach your body how to function again.

When your eyes finally opened, you saw him.

Doctor Mori, seated calmly in the same chair near your spread legs, legs crossed, one hand resting on his chin in quiet observation. The other holding a pen from writing notes on the pad in his lap. His lab coat was crisp. He looked as serene as ever, like nothing about the last ten minutes had affected him in the slightest.

That was always the thing about Mori.

He never looked changed.

But you were.

You always were.

“I’d say the results were promising,” Mori said, setting his notepad down with a soft clink against the tray. “Your response time was significantly faster than the others. Though…” He glanced at you, his tone unreadable. “We’re not quite finished.”

You tried to sit up. Your arms trembled beneath the effort, and your breath caught in your throat. The room felt distant, like you were watching it through fogged glass. Your limbs, your thoughts—heavy and slow.

He removed his coat, draping it over the back of his chair. The sudden absence of that ever-pressed, sterile fabric made him feel more real. More human. That should’ve comforted you.

It didn’t.

“M-Mori-sensei…” Your voice came out cracked and weak. “I’m… really tired.”

He paused, gaze falling to your legs, still parted, still limp from the earlier test. His gloved hands found your knees, and his touch traveled downward to your thighs.

He must’ve new gloves on , you thought. But that wasn’t the only thing you did.

You felt your body react without permission. An ache pressed low in your belly, like your nerves couldn’t tell the difference between fear and something else, and you clenched around the fingers so close but not enough.

He stepped away suddenly, and your heart sank with him.

“I’d expected more,” he said, cool and measured. “You’ve always shown such promise. Perhaps I miscalculated.”

He turned slightly, eyes distant. “Hana responded more consistently. I had hoped you would surpass her.”

You sat bolt upright. “W-Wait!”

Your own voice startled you. It sounded too loud, too desperate. But you didn’t care.

Your lip quivered as you rushed to speak again, tripping over the words. “I… I’ll do it. I can keep going, Sensei. I promise.”

He turned back to face you slowly, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then—he smiled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, stepping toward you again. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to.”

A lie, of course. But you nodded all the same.

“I’m sure, Mori-sensei.”

That smile widened, just a fraction. The way it always did when he got what he wanted.

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” He touched your knee again, soft and cold. “Now just relax, my dear. There’s more work to be done.”

You let yourself sink back into the sheets, arms limp at your sides while you stared at the ceiling.

You could see in your peripheral vision him walking around your bed to the curtain on the left side and he walked all the way over to the right, closing them together.

You found nothing weird about it, but usually they closed in the middle rather than on the side. You didn’t ask either why the curtains were used when they had a whole room to themselves. But, maybe he needed more privacy for the experiment because of the windows.

You didn’t tell him the windows already had blinds though, you’ve already misbehaved enough.

The faint unbuckle of a belt could be heard and you looked up slightly.

He met your gaze and smiled.

“Scoot up all the way on the bed,” Mori said, now pulling down the zipper.

You did as he told.

You thought it was because he was releasing a bit of tight clothes, like his lab coat. You didn’t know what it meant. You’ve been in the asylum almost your entire life, how could you?

So when you heard the step coming out from beneath the bed, and saw him standing up and crawling onto the bed on top of you, you were confused.

He pushed your legs open more, and you realized that he had something dangling between his legs that made you even more confused. You didn’t know what it was.

He recognized your expression, and spoke softly, stroking whatever it was as he pressed his hips closer to wrap your legs wider around him.

“This is part of the experiment,” he started. “Just relax or it’ll hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The both of you knew that was a lie, but you nodded your head and laid your head back on your propped pillow.

He grabbed it and pressed into you, pushing more and more than last time. It was wider and bigger than the last experiment. And you tried to relax, like he said do it didn’t hurt and it worked for a few seconds as he pushed in further.

There was still more to go and you inhaled again when he told you to. His hand were gripped on your hips and your legs were dangling off his shoulders and he pushed the device even further in you.

You opened your mouth in a silent o shape, yet nothing came out. It moved in you slow and you weren’t sure it was even going to end but you realized it did when he paused and sucked in a breath.

Your lip trembled slightly at the feeling inside of you. So big and full you weren’t sure he could take it out. It made you feel like you couldn’t move, your hands limp resting on either side of your head, gripping your pillow like your life is depending on it.

“S-sensei,” you whined, eyes hooded and teary. He was watching you again- always watching, as if you were some rare and beautiful thing. A specimen.

Mori didn’t respond at first, just breathed in and out deeply. But, when he finished breathing and the hands on your hips loosed just a bit, he spoke.

“You’re doing well,” he said, softly. “The containment pressure is perfect for you.”

Containment pressure. That’s what he called it.

You didn’t understand most of what he said during your time together, but that never really mattered. He just wanted you to listen and obey and trust that he’d take care of you afterwards.

“I’m going to move now,” he said, bringing his hand up to brush the loose strands out of your face. The gloved hand traveled lower, brushing your lips, then lower to your throat where his hand rested for now.

He pulled his hips back slowly and you could feel the full sensation wash away. Though it wasn’t long before he pushed back in and it was back. You inhaled sharply, his thrusts slow as he stared at your face, taking in every expression he could.

You knew he had to make sure nothing was missed during experiment time, so you didn’t mind the way his eyes trailed over every part of you.

He let out small groans as he pushed his hips back and forth, his hand tightening ever so slightly against your neck.

You gasped softly, your hand coming to hold his wrist. You were about to squeeze it and try to pry it off your throat but you remembered you shouldn’t. This is an experiment, you need to act good or else some other patient will surpass you.

You could see Mori eyeing your movements and he almost looked disappointed again before you removed your hand from his wrist.

He sighed softly, his other hand gripping your bunched up dress to pull you down further on him.

“Ah-“ you moaned loudly, though not before the hand around your throat shoved its gloved fingers in your mouth, almost making you choke. Your throat convulsed, but you made no effort to move your hands from where they’re clenching the pillow.

Mori hummed, proud. “Doing perfect, dear,” he purred.

You whined around his fingers. And before you could do anything else, he plunged back into, faster than his fingers before. His hips slammed into you over and over, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room.

You tried to moan around his fingers but you just gargled around them instead, drool dripping down his gloves and your chin.

It felt way too good for one of your usual experiments. The same tightening in you belly was present, and this time it felt like you were going to explode.

The most pathetic whimpers and whines left your throat and you could hear Mori groaning atop you as he moved back and forth even faster.

Your hands couldn’t help themselves, traveling to grip any of his skin that they could. One gripped his shoulder harshly, nails digging into it and he grunted softly but didn’t stop you. Your other went to the arm gripping your hip.

“You can take a little more, can’t you?” Mori said, challenging.

You nodded mindlessly, and you felt the knot in your belly tighten and tighten and it snapped.

Your body convulsed upwards, eyes snapping shut as your legs wrapped tighter around his hips still thrusting in you.

You couldn’t see anything past the blinding white, and then the sounds of skin slapping against skin and your whimpers became a distant echo as you blacked out.

It had only been a few moments for you. But for Mori, it was twenty minutes.

The overhead lights had been dimmed to a soft glow, no longer the blinding white that made your head throb. The curtains remained drawn, casting long shadows over the bed. He wasn’t above you anymore—just seated calmly in his chair, his posture composed, his clothes back on as though nothing had happened.

He looked up from his notepad when he noticed you stirring.

“You did wonderfully,” he said, his smile calm, clinical, almost proud.

You swallowed, your throat raw and dry, but you still managed to speak.

“Better than Hana?”

Your voice came out in a hoarse whisper. Everything hurt. Your muscles ached, especially deep in your core—but that wasn’t what you were focused on.

Mori’s expression didn’t change. He stood slowly and walked to your side.

“Much better,” he said. “You’re the top performer now. The number one in this experiment.”

Then he turned, disappearing behind the curtain with that same unhurried pace, as if what had just happened was merely another item checked off his daily schedule.

He left you there to rest. Thankfully, there were no more experiments planned for today.

You were still in your soft purple dress, though it clung uncomfortably now. Your skin felt damp, sticky, like sweat had dried and settled into the fabric. Between your thighs, there was that same faint stickiness.

You didn’t move. You didn’t care.

It was probably just sweat.

All that really mattered was that you were the best. His best. The one he praised.

He’d never tell you that there were no others.

Chapter Text

Mori-sensei made you feel good.

Way more often than what used to be your experiments as an asylum patient.

He was gentle with you, stretching the place down there that he liked so much with either his fingers or whatever dangled between his legs. You didn’t know what it was.

How could you? You’ve been in the asylum since you could remember. It was drilled into all the patients that whatever the doctors did to you was for experiments.

Though, only Mori-sensei did experiments on you.

What he never did though, was repeat an experiment, save for the round a year checkups. Though, the vaginal exams you had were more frequent than not.

He said it was because he’s been doing experiments on it, so he needs to be sure it’s not damaged.

Whatever that means.

You just nodded, laid back, and spread your legs atop the stirrups.

That’s not what you did today though.

Today, you were in your personal room—the one he let you decorate. The soft glow of fairy lights blinked lazily along the ceiling, and the stuffed bears he’d brought, each scented faintly with strawberries and chocolate, watched from their spots on the shelves. You liked it this way. It made you right. Right that there was always something watching you.

You lay still on the bed, the thin, pink sheet cool beneath you, your body uncovered for the examination. You’d gotten used to these by now—routine full-body checks meant to monitor the outcomes of his research.

Mori’s hands moved methodically, gloved and clinical, pressing flat against your stomach as he checked for swelling, abnormalities, or signs of stress. He worked silently, and slowly for someone who does this on the daily. His expression was unreadable as his palms moved up across your chest, moving to your breasts where he stayed a few minutes; twisting and pulling your nipples as a warm feeling pooled in your belly. Then down to your hips and lower back, stopping briefly to jot something in his notes.

He never rushed. His fingers moved with practiced precision, following muscle lines and nerve paths, brushing over each part of you like a physician mapping out a system. He checked your inner thighs for temperature, pulse points, and possible bruising—any trace left from past procedures.

Finally, his hands reached your feet, where he paused to take your pulse again, two fingers against your ankle.

“No abnormalities,” he said quietly, pen clicking as he wrote in his chart.

You exhaled—almost a smile. That meant no corrections, no recalibrations. It meant you had done well.

And doing well always pleased him.

You’d done your best—at least, as much as an asylum girl could—to stay healthy for him. For your doctor. You knew how much it displeased him when something in your results came back irregular, when your body didn’t respond the way it was supposed to.

Those days meant delays. Postponed experiments. Missed opportunities to prove you were progressing.

And worst of all… disappointment.

You hated that. Not because of what he said—he rarely raised his voice—but because of how it felt. That quiet pause, the cold scribble of his pen, the subtle shift in his tone. Like you’d failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.

And failure usually meant correction.

Painful corrections.

So you learned. You tried harder. You adapted. Because when things were right—when your numbers were clean and your body cooperated—he praised you. And sometimes, those experiments felt like rewards.

And you wanted to be good. For him. Always.

Mori turned back toward the desk tucked neatly into the corner of your room, his footsteps measured and sharp against the sterile white tile. You watched him open a drawer with purpose, curiosity stirring as you shifted upright, the weight of your hair sliding down over one bare shoulder.

He returned a moment later, the soft click of his polished shoes growing louder with each step. In his gloved hands, he held a long black velvet box—elegant, deliberate.

When he caught your eye, his lips curved into a familiar smirk.

It made something in you tighten instinctively. Your thighs pressed together on reflex as you sat in the center of the bed, waiting. Watching. Wondering what gift—or lesson—lay inside. If he could tell, he made no mention of the sticky wetness between your bare thighs.

“Dear,” Mori began, his voice low and measured as he removed the long lid from the box. The container wasn’t small—large enough to fit one of your delicate dolls inside, the ones he’d brought you from overseas.

He reached in and slowly pulled out the object nestled within. It was long and sleek, rounded on one end and tapering into a smooth handle lined with small, deliberate buttons—each likely controlling a different setting or function.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, glancing at you with that familiar glint in his eyes.

You shook your head. “No, Mori-sensei.”

Your voice trembled just slightly, more from anticipation than fear. He didn’t answer right away—just set the object down beside you with a soft click , the velvet box exhaling as it opened.

Then, without warning, his gloved hands closed around your calves.

They were firm, deliberate. You barely had a moment to register the coldness of his touch before he gave a gentle tug, sliding you closer across the mattress. The sheets crumpled beneath you as your body shifted, legs stretching out while your back scooted toward the edge.

You let out a startled sound, hands scrambling to find grip—but you stopped just short of slipping off, his hands steadying you with clinical precision. Now seated right at the edge, your legs hung atop his shoulders, and the weight of his gaze pinned you still.

“That’s alright,” he smiled. His hands traced the inside of your thighs, and then trailed his pointer finger across the wetness of your slit.

You let out a small, breathy sigh at the movement, but it barely had time to settle before he withdrew his hand and reached for the object resting neatly on the tray.

A soft mechanical click followed, then the subtle hum of the device flickering to life—its vibration barely audible but distinctly present. You stilled instinctively, hands tightening in the fabric beneath you, the sheets wrinkling around your grip as you braced yourself.

Your throat bobbed with a nervous swallow as your eyes met his from beneath your lashes.

“Will it hurt?” you asked, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the sterile quiet of the room. Your body was propped halfway up by a pillow dragged down with you, elbows straining to lift you enough to see.

His answer came not in words first, but a laugh—low, composed, echoing faintly against the polished walls.

“Quite the opposite, dear,” he said smoothly, his tone unreadable. “Now, lie back.”

With careful pressure, his hand came to rest on your lower belly. You felt it—calculated, steady—as he guided you gently back down to the mattress, pressing you into the waiting stillness of the bed. The air felt colder against your skin now, somehow more electric, as the quiet hum of the device lingered beside you.

He pressed the device against your clit, and a sharp jolt rippled through your body—an involuntary reaction that made you flinch. Before you could pull away, his hand came down firmly, pinning you against the bed. A soft tut escaped his lips as he quickly switched off the device and withdrew it.

“That won’t do,” he said quietly. The words twisted your stomach into knots, a wave of nausea rising with the fear of disappointing him.

Without another word, he moved around to the side of the bed. Your breath hitched, heart pounding—half-expecting the familiar weight of his hand silencing you like last time, pressing until darkness crept in.

But instead, his hands found something beneath the bed: straps, cold and unyielding. With methodical efficiency, he secured your upper body—arms, hips, torso—holding you firmly against the surface. Your legs still dangled free, exposed and vulnerable.

He returned to face you, eyes sharp and unblinking—like twin blades cutting through any hesitation.

“I trust these can remain still?” His voice was calm, but edged with steel, directing to your legs.

“Y-yes, Mori-sensei,” you stammered, panic threading your voice. “I—I’m sorry.”

A soft, soothing shh came from him, and his hand returned, gripping the device once more.

He came back between your legs, lifting them on his shoulders once more and you could feel his gaze on his favorite part of you.

He pressed the device to your clit again, and your response was immediate—sharp, instinctual. Your body arched against the restraints, legs tensing as the sensation coursed through you. But the straps held firm, keeping you pinned to the bed, forced to endure whatever he deemed necessary.

The device buzzed steadily, low and mechanical, sending vibrations deep into your pussy. A sound escaped you—a breathless, involuntary whine—your fingers twisting into the sheets beneath you as you tried to ground yourself.

This was only the first setting.

A tremble passed through your chest at the thought. If this was the beginning, you couldn’t imagine what the higher settings would feel like. Part of you was certain they would unravel you completely.

It wasn’t pain, thankfully. It was pleasurable stimulation pushed to the edge—overwhelming, relentless, and deeply invasive in a way that left your nerves on fire and your mind struggling to catch up. His experiments always left you this way: dazed, hollow, and wrung out. Sometimes, you couldn’t move for hours after. Often, you slept through most of the day, body and mind too exhausted to do anything else.

But you didn’t complain.

You couldn’t.

This was what he needed from you.

You heard another click and it turned the setting up higher. You let out a loud yelp, your body flinging up against the restraints as your head came up to see what he’s doing.

The device was pressed up against the place where he made you feel good more than once. You could hear the faint sounds of squelching as he rubbed the device up and down.

Some parts made you flinch and moan, others had your legs shaking and twitching, and rarely did he place it on you where it let you relax for a second.

That familiar feeling in your belly came back, it tightening slowly like a knot.

Your body was sweaty, skin glistening as your fairy lights gleamed down of you and your doctor. Small pants left your mouth, chest heaving with sharp inhales, but even louder were your whines and cries of pleasure.

Mori turned it up again.

You cried out, almost a sob as you tightened your ankles from around his neck.

Your belly hurt now.

From trying to sit up against the restraints, and breathing so heavily, but most of all inside you.

That knot tightened more and more and more, your legs shaking and mouth opening in a silent scream.

And it snapped.

Your body convulsed, legs tightening but shaking as he turned the device up again, then pressed it harder against you, pressing it inside of you.

You didn’t know where you were, but you were floating. Your eyes screwed shut and your vision blurred, but you could still feel everything.

The vibrations now inside of you, the loud squelches of you cumming and squirting all over the device, and the laugh of your doctor between your legs.

When you came down from your high, you were already up there again, the vibrations were too much as it shook you from inside out.

You came again, and then blacked out.

When you woke up, your lights were dimmed, but you were still bare and naked on your bed. Your body was slick with sweat, though some parts of your body dried.

Mori stood a few feet away, back turned slightly as he scribbled something into his notepad. The scratching of his pen filled the quiet room, sharp and steady against the sterile air. You blinked slowly, head heavy against the pillow, and tried to lift your arms—only to realize the restraints were gone.

You hadn’t felt them come off.

He must have unfastened them while you were unconscious.

Your gaze drifted to him again, hazy and unfocused. Your limbs felt distant, the ends of your body numb with exhaustion. Breathing alone took effort, chest rising in shallow rhythm beneath the thin blanket draped over you.

Mori glanced over his shoulder, and the moment he noticed your eyes on him, his mouth curled upward into a familiar smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good,” he said gently, closing the notepad with a soft snap. “You’re awake.”

He crossed the room with slow, practiced steps, the click of his shoes echoing faintly against the tile. He reached your bedside and looked down at you, head tilted with clinical curiosity.

“You tolerated the lower settings longer than I projected,” he continued, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead. “That’s promising. We’ll revisit the higher settings once your nervous system stabilizes.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the sheets, your voice caught somewhere between your throat and your ribs. He didn’t ask you to speak. He rarely did after an experiment.

Instead, he reached to the bedside table and poured a small glass of water, lifting it to your lips. You took slow sips as he watched, expression unreadable.

“There’s no need to force movement yet,” he said, setting the glass down. “You’ve done well today. Your body simply needs time to recover.”

His hand rested briefly on your breast, then brought his head down to give you a kiss between your eyes. Then he turned away once more, returning to his notes without another word.

And you lay there, quiet and still, the aftermath of sensation still humming through your skin like a ghost that refused to leave.

Your thighs ached, slick with sweat and whatever he used during the experiment.

He typically left you like this.

Naked on your bed, skin still sticky. But, the one time you tried to dress and clean yourself without his permission, you couldn’t walk for a week.

You were too tired to care about whatever he left inside you.

Carefully, you turned your side, legs squeezing together under the thin blanket.

He’s never left anything inside of you, but you weren’t going to remove it without his permission.

You didn’t know how long that would be either.