Yet another pic with lots to like including the head restraint, serious hood, potential gag, sensory deprivation, straitjacket, tight straps, and electro CBT on top of apparent chastity. My kinda scene!
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@dark-kink
Yet another pic with lots to like including the head restraint, serious hood, potential gag, sensory deprivation, straitjacket, tight straps, and electro CBT on top of apparent chastity. My kinda scene!

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Am I the only one that thinks this is sexy as hell?
I need a straight jacket.
And I need to be fucked in it.
That’s all, that’s the post. Happy Thursday yall
being cared for but in a medical setting. having my hair washed by gentle hands in a basin, while im strapped down. being stripped and wiped down, forced to expose my self to be touched all over by the hands of strangers. certain areas of my body getting shaved or marked for later examination. getting dressed in one of those thin medical gowns, getting a faint pat on the shoulder whenever i sob or wince.
a distinctly kind but completely detatched care, looking after me only to ensure my validity as a subject.
dad teaching me how to rub my little aching clit 🥺 showing me where to rub and encouraging me when i find the right spot

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a fakeboy being packaged up to be sent to the re-education centre... note how her testosterone-swollen clitoris makes it much more painful for her than most other girls...
Just thinking abt coming home my own gyno chair… in my bedroom maybe, with a big mirror, in front of a screen to watch “educational videos”.
Naked, legs spread and secured to stirrups. An ecg on my chest… milkers on my nipples. On my nose a pretty feeding tube to eat while i spend my weekend there strapped. A catheter tubing my pussy too. Electroplugs on both my pleasure holes. My pussy pumped soft and sentitive first. E stim all around. Legs, clit, tits, ass, belly…
Then a c-pap on my nose and mouth. Straps on my cheeks and forhead, hugging my face. The thick tube running down my body. Starring at myself in the mirror, helplessly covered in wires and tubes. Then switching on the screen, get some nice medfet videos… Switching on the electro. Off into two entire days of inpatient treatment in my own room, cumming nonstop, just all alone in a room full of machines and wires. Not in charge of my feeding, going to the badroom, care about the house, not even in charge of pleasure. Just my own medical toy.
It was so degrading being made to lay down in front of a young nurse so she could pull down your pyjama bottoms and carry out the morning nappy check.
She would inspect my nappy and plastic pants for wetness or semen stains.
"Have you wet yourself?
Okay, and what about touching yourself. Have you been masturbating again?"
You may have heard, we use diaper discipline on our patients here in the hospltal, even if they are not bedwetters.
*We even have special, cutesy medical diapers custom made for arrogant pattents, especally men."
"Im sure wearing those for a few days in our adult nursery. will turn your attitude around."
Aww don’t cry like a little baby. Now just lay still there so I can put this diaper on you
And you had better be good or I will be doing all kinds of unnecessary stuff like administering a daily s enema that will cause you painful tummy cramps then plugging your hole with a slow dissolving plug before wrapping you in double or even triple diapers and protective plastic pants.
Oh yes. I can do what I like to you while you are here in the Clinic and there is really nothing at all you can do about it except do as you are told. Understood?
Image credit ABDreams
Model - the wonderful Goddess Kat Marie
Of course you're too old for diapers, honey. You're a big, brave boy who can keep his undies dry all night. You can even be trusted to make it to the potty all by yourself without losing a drop!
Yes, I know, you really don't need diapers. Of course I believe you. I'll just check your big boy undies this once for old times sake.
Look at that cute little wet spot! Did someone leak? Aww, it's okay, baby, even big boys who definitely don't need diapers have accidents from time to time. No, you're right, it's absolutely not an accident. Still, we wouldn't want you wearing wet undies all night long! Let's get you into something more comfortable.
You know, I really think you should at least wear a diaper to bed. Although you're fully potty trained, they're just so much more comfortable than your undies, aren't they? Don't you love how soft the padding is, especially when it becomes warm and wet?
I hear you saying no, but your little prince parts are making the most precious bulge before I've even done up the tapes! If I didn't know any better, I would think you want to be Mommy's potty pants forever.
I'll tell you what. If you can keep this diaper dry while you have special playtime with Mommy's buzzy toy, you may wear your little underwear to sleep. But if I see even one drop--
Oh. Oh no! Did you have an accident already? I barely even turned it on. I guess you aren't such a big boy after all.
It's okay, little man, there's no need to cry. We can always try again tomorrow. And if you're never big enough to wear undies again, Mommy will be here to change your diaper forever.
The fact that reading this is making me all leaky says a lot 🙃
doctors who specialise in gradually whittling down the resistances of lesbians through routine appointments 3-5 times a week
the lesbian is stripped naked and restrained to an examination bed/chair, legs spread, ankles clamped in stirrups, wrists shackled above her head, while the doctor, so gently and tenderly the sensitivity is infuriating and irresistable, examines their pussy and vagina
the doctor takes his time to check it for an effective response to stimulation using his fingers, medical instruments, mouth and tongue until the lesbians defiant shouts have melted to whimpering pleas for him to stop, that she'll do anything for him to stop. but the doctor last check is the most important one
once the lesbians cunt is gushing and twitching, dripping wet and their clit is swollen to pain, the doctor stands and begins undoing his belt. the lesbian's eyes widen, as the doctor sweetly says he must now check the effective response of her womb to sperm deposits.
the lesbian starts to cry and shout again as the doctor slowly inserts his cock into her eager cunt, and thrusts deep and slow into the warm wet socket of female purpose. the lesbian melts to whimpering cries, even the accidental occasional moan at thw feeling of a man's cock inside her, filling her like her girlfriend's or wife's fingers never could, reaching her g spot more perfectly than every strap on she owns
the doctor gently caresses her clit with one hand and her nipples and breasts with the other as he fucks her, praising and encouraging her submission to the natural pleasure and desire for a man's cock. he edges her, rocking her back and forth on the edge of orgasm until her eyss roll back and she's drooling. and only then does he rush towards his own well earned release, holding her birthing hips as her breasts bounce until he cums deep inside her womb
he fills her with every drop, not letting a single sperm go to waste and even after he's empty, he remains in her, rubbing her clit to make her orgasm again so her womb pulls in his seed as it contracts with pleasure
this goes on for years, of course, because by their next appointment the lesbian is determined to make it clear that she is and always will be a lesbian. but the doctor is patient, and knows it is his duty to attend to the needs and healing of the unwell.

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i wake up wearing a paper hospital gown and strapped down to a medical bed with my feet in stirrups. i’m disoriented, so it isn’t until i try to thrash around and get free that i notice there’s an IV in my arm and a catheter between my legs. alerted by my movement, a nurse comes over to check on me.
“i’m glad you’re awake, how are you feeling?” he says.
“i’m fine, what am i doing here?”
“you don’t remember? that’s not good. i’m going to take care of you, then i’ll get the doctor for you. he’ll be able to answer more of your questions.”
the nurse takes the catheter out, and i feel a relief from a pain i hadn’t fully processed. as soon as it’s out, though, he pushes another one in—one that’s a size up.
“hey, what are you doing?” i ask indignantly.
he smiles regretfully at me. “i know it hurts, but i promise it’s for the best.” after finishing with the catheter, he swaps out the bag attached to the IV drip, and i feel myself start to get drowsy again.
the next time i wake up, the nurse is already beside me. “hey, welcome back,” he says with a light smile. i’m groggy and confused, so he keeps going. “it sounds like the doctor is really busy for now, but he’ll come see you when he gets the time.”
he heads between my legs, pushing them just a little further apart than they were before to get better access. he pulls out the catheter, but again replaces it with something larger. “this one is a plug,” he explains, “which we use because it has some additional functionality. but of course, that has its drawbacks, so let me know if you ever need to relieve yourself.”
he leaves the room, and i’m left just to sit there bored and think about the pain between my legs. slowly, the memories from the night before start to come back to me. i was out dancing with my friends, and i remember clocking a man who was staring at me the whole time. it wasn’t until much later, when i’d had a few drinks in me, that he approached me and handed me a cup.
that man, come to think of it, looked a lot like the nurse. and isn't it strange, that no one else has come in to check on me? even if the doctor is busy, hospitals usually have multiple nurses.
as i start to panic, i feel the plug in my urethra start to... oh my god it's expanding. that's the "additional functionality" he was talking about. the beeping from the heart rate monitor speeds up, and i try to get myself out of the bed, but the restraints are secure. the man pretending to be a nurse must hear the commotion, as he enters the room immediately afterwards.
"now now," he says with a sadistic smile, "there's no need for all that."
"what are you going to do with me?" i demand.
"well first, i'm going to give you a sedative." he starts to fitz with the IV bag again. "not enough to knock you out this time, i want you to feel everything that's happening. but i really do need this struggling to stop."
"you're sick," i spit.
his demeanor remains frustratingly calm. "i'm sure you think so. but remember this point, because it's only going to get worse."
i want to curse at him, but i also need to know: "what do you mean? what are you going to do?"
he leans in close and almost whispers his answer. "i'm going to fuck you in a hole you've never been fucked in before." my eyes go wide and i pull back as much as i can within the restraints, which isn't much. he pushes a button and grins as i feel the plug expand again. "i'm going to fuck your pee-hole."
i try to resume my thrashing, but my limbs are heavy—the sedative is starting to kick in. "you're a freak! what's wrong with you?"
"a lot of things. but since the guise is up, i suppose we don't need this anymore," he says, then cuts the hospital gown off me. "and now that i don't have to pretend, i get to play with you as much as i want until the big finale." he flicks the plug and i scream.
when i'm eventually able to form words again, it's a babble of "no no no no please don't!"
"please don't?" he asks with mock surprise. "you want me to hurry up and fuck your urethra now? but baby you're not stretched out enough, i'd rip you open. well, if that's what you want—"
"NO i don't want that!"
"so you want me to keep playing with you then?" he flicks the plug again, and i scream again. "that's not an answer."
"yes, i want you to keep playing with me! please don't fuck me there yet," i sob.
"okay baby, whatever you want."
The Farm
You answered an ad in a dirty magazine about becoming some homosexual man's milking goat. You're trans and it's the 1980s so you're out of options. He takes you in and now there's no radio or phone reception for miles. Good thing you get exactly what your tranny heart desires; to join his farm ♡.
CW: Hucow but goats, human livestock (humane), con/noncon, drugging, t4t, trans/cis
i think being forcibly stripped and put onto an exam table with my feet in stirrups in a public location where people could look at my shaved pussy close up and rub my clit to see how big and hard it can get and put things in my pussy and ass while everyone watches and laughs would fix me
I think that before a trans man is allowed to transition, he first needs to be medically tested by doctors to see if he’s a real trans man or just a confused fakeboy. They do this by misgendering and degrading him while fingering his needy pussy. If he manages to stay dry, then he is a real trans man who is given testosterone and sent on his way. But if the patient gets wet at being called a girl, then she’s a delusional transtrender, and letting her become a boy would be treated the same as allowing a patient to commit self harm. She would be prescribed with estrogen and breast growth supplements so she could no longer try to hide who she is, and if the doctor ruled that she didn’t seem to be making enough progress in her treatment (as measured by how much her bust size increases in subsequent appointments), then she would be forcibly institutionalized for her own good. That way the doctors could give her more intensive and rigorous treatment for her mental illness.

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Ah, to have cuntboys have a photo of their cunt on the front page of their identity documents instead of a photo of their face. Every ID - passport, driving license, nametag at work, university card...
To force them to show their pretty pussies to the cashiers whenever they want to buy alcohol or cigarettes - everyone waiting in the lane would see it too, of course, it's not like they have time to take you to the backstage for privacy. It's not like you deserve privacy anyway.
To force them to present themselves on the airport every time they're flying, to force them to be inspected by the security every time - we have to ensure you're really who you're saying you are, after all, it's about safety. So we have to measure your clit size - see if it's indeed one inch long as it says in your passport. Check if you're not smuggling anything inside your hole.
To force them to have monthly appointments at the city hall so it can be checked if all the information provided are still up to date. Every time you have to shave completely so nothing obscures the view - it's encouraged you get it permanently removed with a laser, though. If you're not shaved, they'd forcibly shave you bald right there, making sure it's up to standards, streaming it on the jumbotron outside of the building. Your clit has to measured while soft and hard so it's always easy to confirm if it's you and if you're turned on during any control - so they'd tease you until they're satisfied with the results. That would be streamed too, of course. Then they would finally take the photos - of you standing, squatting, holding your cunt open.
All the photos from these controls will be uploaded on a public server, along with your name. Anyone who knows your name can just type it in and browse through the collection of monthly photos of your aroused cunt. Additional details such as an address will be available upon request for the general public (if they provide a good reasoning - for example, they are interested in fucking you cunt) - and they are always available for people working in the police, security services, etc.
Regression is progression
Lying in bed, I found myself an involuntary audience to a conversation between Emily, the care director, and Julia, my primary caregiver. They were discussing my progress at Alderwood, their voices clinical and detached. I lay there, listening but not invited to participate, a passive subject of their assessment. "It's time," Emily said, her tone indicating a decision had been made. "Jason has adjusted well to his initial transition. We should progress to the next phase. How is his physical state?"
"Significant muscle atrophy," Julia replied. "It makes him more manageable and reinforces his dependence, which is in line with our goals. The regression is progressing well."
Emily seemed pleased. "Good. And the restraints?"
"We’re moving to a more restrictive helmet and restraints," Julia continued. "He will be bed-bound in a mobile care bed. No more wheelchair."
I lay there, listening in growing horror. The thought of being confined to a bed, my mobility further restricted, was terrifying. Yet, their conversation continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
"The sedation, laxatives, and stool softeners are working well," Julia added. "His stool is consistently runny, which reinforces his new care-dependent identity. We’re planning appropriate activities in the playroom to match his targeted mental age."
Emily’s response was curt and businesslike. "What would you estimate his appropriate mental age to be now?"
"Like a special needs resident," Julia stated matter-of-factly. "He's progressing well, using simpler language, becoming more docile and compliant. The transition to his new life is proceeding as planned."
Emily nodded, her expression one of satisfaction. "This aligns with our Total Life Management approach. His care-dependent identity is becoming well established."
As I listened, a sense of profound despair settled over me. My new life at Alderwood was taking a turn towards even greater dependency. The prospect of being bed-bound, my movements and activities even more restricted, filled me with dread.
Their conversation painted a dark picture of my future – a future where I would be completely care-dependent, my identity molded into that of a docile, compliant resident. The mention of toys and playroom activities meant for someone of a much younger mental age only deepened my sense of loss. The thought of being confined to a mobile care bed, my physical and mental faculties further diminished by increased sedation and medication, was terrifying. The notion that this was seen as progress, as an appropriate outcome for my time at Alderwood, was almost too much to bear. Every aspect of my life, from my physical abilities to my mental faculties, was being systematically managed and controlled.
As Emily and Julia concluded their discussion, I lay there, a silent witness to the planning of my own regression. The realization that my identity, my autonomy, and my future were no longer in my hands was overwhelming. I was a resident under the total care of Alderwood, my life defined by the institution's policies and goals.
As they left the room, Julia’s final words to me were a firm reminder of my new reality. "Jason, you’re doing well. Embrace your new life. This is where you’re meant to be."