Mr. Cardiophile

After my 1k cal session, and three days in a row red lining my heart for over an hour plus some various pre-workouts*, I finally tired my heart out. It was going ballistic. Above was shortly after the cardio and a lifting session.

The skips did not let up, and a few hours after that I had to play with it some more. Above is a highlight reel. Longer version:

I felt amazing the whole time. It's been about 3 hours and my heart is calming down to normal. I'm totally not worried about any of this, I pushed myself way too hard but I had so much fun doing it.

That said: don't do this. There's not a chance in hell an unhealthy heart could have survived what I did today.

My heart is pounding so fast.

Each loud, hard thud reverberates throughout my entire body, visibly pushing against my chest. Even my breasts are shaking, and my nipples are painfully hard. The lips of my sex are swollen and my clit is throbbing with the increasingly elevated, erratic rhythm of my pretty little pump.

I press my hand to my chest, watching it move up and down, feeling the hammering inside me, willing it to slow down, but it rebels, slamming as forcefully as a fist. And now, in the quiet of my studio apartment, I can actually hear it.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Now I’m panting like an overheated dog, which increases my heart rate even more, makes me more excited, sending so much adrenaline through my veins that my heart feels turbo-charged.

Thump-a.Thump-a. Thump-a.

As though it has a mind of its own, my free hand slides its way down my belly and into my damp panties.

“Ooh…”

My heart gives a long, breath-stealing skip, then goes into a wild, violent frenzy. My fingers are on my engorged, pulsating clit. I’m so close, so close…

“No…” The protest comes out like a whimper from my parted lips. I can’t cum now, no matter how good it feels…

Thumpathumpathumpathumpathumpathumpa

Practically gasping for air now, heaving as my heart continues to ram madly against my hand, I reluctantly slide the other hand from my pussy, then sit on my bed, trying to calm down. But despite myself, my thighs squeeze tightly together, and my hips begin bucking, rubbing my fat, dripping clit against my drenched panties.

“Oh, God…”

THUMPATHUMPATHUMPATHUMPATHUMPA

Fuck it. I’ve gone way too far to stop now. I stand up, whipping off my pants and panties in one swift move, snatch my stethoscope from my bedside table, and lay back down on the bed. I insert the earpieces and press the cold metal of the head against my pumping chest.

BOOMBA! BOOMBA! BOOMBA!

“Ah…” I slip two fingers back into my juicy, slippery cunt, frantically rubbing, driven by the deep, amplified sound of my heartbeat. My hips are bucking so hard now that the bed is shaking. I’m moaning, panting, writhing.

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM!

“Ah! Ah! AH!” High-pitched squeals are escaping me; the steth is rocking madly against my chest; and my entire body feels like it’s on fire, tingling, dripping sweat, seizing, shaking the bed harder and harder. I slip another finger into my hot, slick, throbbing pussy…oh, my heart is going to explode…

BABOOMBABOOMBABOOMBABOOMBABOOMBABOOM

“Fuck! Fuck! Shit! Oh fuck! Ungh!” My hips are grinding and thrashing and pumping wildly; sweat is coursing down my body; and my pussy is convulsing and creaming all over my fingers. My other hand releases the steth head and grabs my breast, yanking and pulling and rolling my rock hard nipple.

“Ungh! Ungh! Ungh! UUUUNNNNGHH!” I’m cumming and cumming and cumming until my hips give a final, violent thrust before I crash onto the bed, spent. The only sound in the room now is my loud, rapid panting; my chest is heaving with every breath and the steth is still lying there, throbbing as my heart continues to pound like a kick drum.

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Janine was a track runner and needed a few exams before she could compete at her next event. Today was the cardiologist. She was stuck in Dr. Ena's clinic, fidgeting in her jogging outfit that bared smooth, dark olive skin.

The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly. She'd been waiting for over 45 minutes, her phone battery nearly dead. Boredom consumed her, and that typically meant trouble. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She cracked open the exam room door and peered into the hallway to see if she could get an ETA. Empty. The nurse's station was around the corner, voices murmuring faintly. What harm could a quick wander do?

Janine walked down the corridor, her curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar surroundings. Moving around felt good at least. As she turned a corner, she spotted a door at the end of a dimly lit hall, barricaded with yellow caution tape that sagged. The sign read "Authorized Personnel Only—Do Not Enter." But the door was cracked open just a sliver. The old latch didn't quite close on its own anymore. It was inviting her in.

Janine's pulse quickened in excitement, and she pressed on her chest to calm her heart. She glanced over her shoulder, then slipped through the gap, the tape brushing her arm.

Inside, the air was dusty. The room was a relic, untouched for what seemed like decades. Faded posters peeled from the walls, advertising outdated medical equipment. Old filing cabinets stood, their drawers half-open and spilling yellowed papers. The floor was a mosaic of cracked tiles, some buckled upward as if the ground beneath had shifted. Janine took a tentative step forward, her sneaker crunching on grit.

Then, a sound. A low rumble from below, like chanting? It vibrated through the soles of her feet, faint but insistent. Her heart raced now. She edged deeper into the room to hear it better. The tiles felt spongy underfoot, giving slightly with each step.

Panic hit her like a starting gun. "Oh no," she muttered, spinning on her heel to bolt for the door. But it was too late. The floor betrayed her, a section of tiles collapsing in a cascade of debris and dust. Janine plummeted, arms flailing as she tumbled into the void below.

...

Consciousness returned to Janine in fragments. First, the cold metal beneath her spine, air moving across her naked form. Her eyes opened to harsh fluorescent light. beyond which was the hole in the ceiling where she fell.

She tried to lift her hand to shield her face, but found it wouldn't move. Leather straps bit into her wrists, holding them flat against the table's surface. The same at her ankles. She lifted her head -the only part of her that could still move freely- and saw her body laid out bare.

Her brown skin was covered in goosebumps. The athletic tone she'd built through years of training lay useless, every curve and plane exposed. White adhesive pads dotted her chest, thin wires trailing from them to a machine that beeped in time with her accelerating pulse. The sound was humiliating and frantic. Each electronic chirp exposed her terror.

Six or seven women kept sliding in and out of focus. Some wore white coats, stethoscopes draped around their necks. But two of them... two wore something else entirely. Robes of deep crimson, embroidered with symbols that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. Bone decorations hung from their waist, clicking softly with each movement. Their bodies -one taller and dark, the other wiry and fair-skinned with auburn hair- were bare beneath the separations in fabric.

"She's awake." One of the white coats stepped closer, her pale face conveying anger. It was Dr. Ena, the name badge revealed. Her face was bubbly and would be inviting had she not been consumed with anger.

Janine's throat worked, trying to form words. "Where... what is..."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" The doctor said.

The memory came back in pieces. The clinic she'd been exploring. The old floor tiles are giving way beneath her feet. The sensation of falling, falling...

"I didn't mean-"

"Intentions are irrelevant." The pale shaman's gritty voice cut through her protest. "The seal is broken. For one thousand years, we've waited for the alignment, for the moment when the barrier grows thin enough to reinforce. And you..." She gestured at Janine's prone form with disgust. "You crashed through at the precise moment of the demon’s binding."

The monitor's beeping grew more insistent. Janine could feel her heart slamming against her sternum, each beat a vivid palpitation reminding her of her vulnerability. The EKG leads picked up every panicked contraction, translated it into jagged peaks on the screen. The other doctor, a stout east-asian looking woman who donned full face covering, glanced at the readout.

"She knows her deeds; her guilt is on display," she murmured to her colleague. "You can't hide from us."

"Please." Janine pulled against the restraints, leather creaking but holding firm. Her muscles stood out in sharp relief as she strained, tendons visible beneath the skin. "I don't understand. Just let me go. I won't tell anyone about this!"

"Let you go?" The dark shaman laughed. "The demon we sought to bind is already testing the weakened seal. Do you know what happens when such entities break free? When they crawl up from the deep places where we've kept them caged?"

She didn't wait for an answer. "They feast." She leaned down until her face was inches from Janine's, revealing small facial scars and madness in those wild gray eyes. 

"There must be punishment." A blonde woman with thick, round glasses in green scrubs pulled on latex gloves as she approached.

Janine's heart lurched, skipped a beat. The sound from the EKG laid out the adrenaline surge for all to witness. "No. No, you can't!" she yelled.

The shamanic woman’s terrifying gaze distracted Janine from the long, off-white cloth she held in her hand, covered in black markings. The woman tugged it tensely between her hands and slid it into Janine’s open mouth. Janine whimpered and shook her head, her protests muffled gurgling. Nothing she did stopped the woman from tying it around her head and securing it in place. 

“Be wary of her attempts to sway you. This woman may be possessed, after all,” the shaman said to the others. She took another cloth, wider than the first, and draped it over Janine’s face.It was thin enough for Janine to see through, yet hid her pitiful expressions from the gathering.

The cart wheeled closer. The nurse placed her palm flat against Janine's chest, feeling the desperate rhythm. Nobody looked into Janine’s eyes now, nor did they even heed the squirming of her body. The only form of communication they seemed to trust was the involuntary motions within her chest.

"She begs for mercy," the young woman said with glee. 

"The punishment must fit the transgression," the shaman asserted. The doctors and nurses moved, adjusting the table's height, angling the overhead light. Janine’s chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath shallow and quick. The monitor's display showed her heart rate climbing—120, 130, 160. She lay in complete helplessness.

A petite nurse with skin about the same color as Janine’s, auburn hair in a ponytail, lifted a clear bottle and squeezed a viscous gel onto her hands.  Janine thrashed against the restraints, accomplishing nothing as the woman approached her. The nurse rubbed the gel on her chest in an intimate glide that made her muscles contract involuntarily. Thick, viscous, spreading across her skin as gloved hands worked it over the area where her heart thundered beneath. The doctor's fingers coated every inch between her breasts, up toward her clavicles, down along her ribs. The substance clung to her brown skin, glistening under the harsh lights.

Dr. Ena picked up the defibrillator paddles from their cradles. Chrome and gray plastic, heavier than they looked. The doctor smiled as the machine charged, its rising pitch filling the room. The display showed the building voltage: 100 joules, 150, 200.

The paddles descended toward Janine's chest. She could see them coming, could do nothing to stop them. They pressed against her gel-slicked frame, one just below her right clavicle, the other against her ribs on the left side. Her squirming and heavy breathing made them glide across her skin.

The doctor paid her no mind, pressing harder to trap her wriggling form in place. The pressure alone made her heart skip, the organ seeming to sense what was coming.

"Charging to 200. Clear."

The shock hit like a train. Every muscle in Janine's body contracted at once, her back arching off the table as far as the restraints allowed. But it was her heart that took the brunt; the current disrupting organized contractions into silence, then chaos. For a moment that lasted forever, the organ simply quivered, unable to remember how to beat.

Then it squirmed back into motion, harder than before. Slamming against her ribs with renewed panic, trying to make up for the lost seconds. The machine shrieked with alarms as her rhythm went wild. Premature beats, skipped beats, barely a pattern.

Janine lay there, chest heaving in frantic breaths. One of the doctors placed a stethoscope against her delicate, splaying ribs. The woman moved the chest piece slowly, making circles in the gel while tracking the chaos. Her grin conveyed a satisfaction that escalated with every heartbeat.

The blonde nurse approached, pale hand reaching out, thick glasses covering her eyes. She couldn't resist placing her hand over Janine's sternum once more, feeling the volatile motion. Her fingers spread wide, palm pressed flat, absorbing every desperate contraction between those billowing lungs.

"She suffers greatly," the woman reported to the delight of the others.

They gave her thirty seconds. Thirty seconds for her heart to almost find its rhythm again, for the organ to begin to hope the torture was over. The gel had warmed slightly from her body heat, from the electrical discharge. Sweat beaded on her skin, mixing with the conductive medium.

"Again," the lead doctor announced. "250 joules this time."

The paddles found their positions once more. Janine's covered eyes went wide, a defeated yell into her soaked gag. She could feel her heart racing faster, as if it knew what was coming. The muscle pounded so hard she could see her chest moving with each beat, even between the fibers of the cloth, battering her delicate lungs.

The second shock was worse. The current made her body so tense she thought she'd break. Her heart went into a wild dance - fibrillating for a moment before lurching back into a rhythm that bore no resemblance to normal. The monitor showed a jagged mountain range where smooth curves should have been.

Hands palpated her chest between shocks, fingers pressing between her ribs. They weren't looking for diagnostic information - the EKG told them everything medical they needed to know. This was purely for satisfaction, to physically explore the organ's distress. They shared in this vengeance, greedily taking in Janine’s distress. 

300 joules next. The machine's whine seemed to last forever as it charged. Janine's heart hammered wildly in anticipation of the coming assault. She could feel it jumping in a futile effort, each beat an expression that encouraged her captors. The next shock came twice in a row before her body could relax. It blanked her vision white. Every nerve fired at once, her muscles locking rigid. But she remained hideously aware of her heart's helpless writhing for their amusement.

"The muscle is weakening," the petite nurse said, palpating carefully. "The contractions are becoming more desperate but less coordinated. It won't be much longer."

Dr. Ena continued her assault methodically, professionally. 350 joules driven into her suffering ventricles. Her body jerked, and her breathing came in hard gasps.

The moment arrived with surprising quietness. One heartbeat, irregular and desperate—then nothing resembling a beat at all. Janine's heart simply shivered in her chest, a fine trembling that accomplished nothing. No blood moved. No oxygen reached her brain. Just the useless quivering of muscle tissue that had forgotten its purpose.

"V-fib," the other doctor announced. Janine wondered if the shocks would end in a bittersweet fade. The blonde was already drawing up epinephrine, the needle catching the light. The other nurse positioned herself at Janine's side, hands finding the proper position on the gel-slicked chest. She palpated Janine's chest carefully, feeling between the ribs. Finding the right spot, she positioned the needle - long, wickedly thick, designed to penetrate deep.

The needle went in slowly. Through skin, between ribs. Janine's eyes rolled back, still conscious enough to feel the needle sliding toward her heart. The tip found the frantically quivering muscle, penetrated the muscle. The nurse's thumb depressed the plunger. Liquid adrenaline flooded directly into her heart tissue. A massive contraction transmitted through the syringe... Then another. Not organized beats but savage spasms as the stimulant forced the exhausted muscle back toward function.

"Compressions," Dr. Ena said.

Her hands stacked over Janine's sternum, directly above her struggling heart. She leaned in with her full weight, compressing. The ribs flexed, bent, creaked under the assault. But it was Janine's heart that bore the real violence - caught between the chest wall and the spine, squeezed like fruit in a press.

Each compression forced the organ to empty, then allowed it to fill. Manual circulation, keeping just enough blood moving to preserve consciousness. Janine could feel everything—her heart being crushed, released, crushed again.

"Still in V-fib," someone reported. "Hit her again."

The paddles returned. 360 joules this time, maximum power. The shock slammed through her chest, making her heart seize completely.

More compressions. Harder this time, the doctor putting her full body weight behind each thrust. Janine's heart, caught in the brutal rhythm, began to show signs of organized activity. Not quite beating, but trying. The monitor flickered between flatline and something that might become a rhythm.

"She's trying to convert. One more shock should do it."

They charged the defibrillator again, the next shock slammed through Janine’s chest once more. They sat back watching her heart's confused attempts to beat. The organ pounded in three rapid beats, a pause, a flutter, two more beats. No pattern, just a panicked effort insufficient to fuel Janine's rapidly fading consciousness. Every fiber of the heart muscle fired at once, then fell silent.

One second. Two. Three. 

Then a beat. Weak, uncoordinated, but unmistakably a heartbeat. Another followed, stronger. Then another. Janine's heart clawed its way back to function, each contraction visible through her chest wall. The organ beat so forcefully they could all watch its recovery.

"Beautiful," said the brunette doctor. "She's conscious and panicking again."

They were right. The adrenaline had turned Janine's heart wild. It soon hammered at over 200 beats per minute, each contraction an explosion in her chest. She could feel the organ straining, working harder than it ever had before.

They shocked her again, lower voltage this time, just enough to make her heart stumble. They were toying with it as Janine recovered, keeping her in the twilight of consciousness. The monitor showed wild peaks and valleys as the organ tried to find stability where none was allowed. It simply beat because it had no choice; each contraction a struggle.

"She's going tachy again," the blonde announced eagerly, eyeing the monitor. They could all see Janine's glistening brown chest jerking with the force.  Janine's heart stopped for a full second before exploding back into motion. As its rate dipped to 180, Dr. Ena immediately followed with dobutamine, keeping the organ in a state of extreme tension.

The shamans had both moved to the edge of the ritual circle, where Janine had crashed through. They knelt, examining the broken pattern drawn in salt and ash and things less easily identified. The younger shaman traced the air above the disrupted lines, her scarred face growing increasingly grave.

"The breach is worse than we thought," she said. "When she fell through, her body didn't just break the physical circle."

The dark elder shaman stood slowly. "We've been trying to reinforce a structure that no longer exists.” Janine was recovering as they changed focus, but the news didn't help her case at all.

"It can't be repaired?" The doctor's voice went very quiet. Dangerously quiet.

"No. We'll need to evacuate, establish a new containment at least fifty miles from-"

Ena moved fast. Her hands wrapped around Janine's throat, squeezing with all the frustrated rage of their failed purpose. Janine's eyes bulged, her bound hands straining against the restraints. Her veins tense beneath the constricting fingers.

"You ruined everything!" The doctor's face twisted with fury, her grip tightening as the woman squirmed pathetically. "A thousand years of preparation, and you..."

"Stop!" The other doctor grabbed her colleague's wrists. "You're wasting her! This requires invasive punishment!"

The small medical team converged in the distance. The smaller pallid shaman approached and ran her hands over Janine’s toned abdomen with an out-of-place sensual reverence. Despite being the leaders in this ritual, the two shamans didn’t have the visceral anger that the others did. The calmness felt insincere. They seemed more frustrated than anything.

Without a word, the pale woman swung a leg over Janine's restrained form, straddling her. The robe parted like a curtain, revealing the shaman's bare thighs pressing against Janine's dark olive hips.

"Such a waste," the woman said. Fingers trailed up Janine's sides, tracing the curve of her ribs where the gel smeared under the touch. She encircled those ribs, feeling the way Janine's lungs expanded and contracted in panicked gulps.

"Look at how cute she is. She'd make a delightful pet, don't you think? We could still train her." the fair woman said.

The darker shaman leaned in. "But the doctors... they're too invested. We'd risk everything if we tried to change things."

Janine's mind reeled, desperation crashing through her. She wanted to scream, to plead, but the gag turned her words into muffled gurgles. She bucked her hips slightly, not in resistance but in a futile attempt to communicate, her body arching under the woman's weight.

The pale woman's face lit up from the squirms, but ignored their intent. She slid her hands beneath those ribs, cradling Janine's chest. A single lingering kiss just below the sternum expresses the woman's regret. Her head turned to the side planted there, listening.

"What a pitiful thing," she said, savoring the vibrant panic trapped in Janine's chest and in every inch of her body.

"They're coming back." the taller one said. Despite the warning, the woman's head pressed deeper into Janine's frame, as if to savor the response from those words. After precious seconds pass, she dismounts though, straightening her robes for their arrival.

The blonde woman with the thick glasses who'd earlier palpated Janine so eagerly wheeled over a new cart. It gleamed under the fluorescent lights, laden with sterile packages that crinkled as she tore them open. "I need to intubate her."

The shaman stepped in and removed the cloth, then untied the gag. Janine spent her short and sweet moment of freedom catching her breath. Finally, she could speak, put an end to this charade, but a mask descended over her face first, muffling her screams amid the hiss of oxygen.

They tilted her head back until her delicate throat lay exposed. Her eyes couldn't see who did what anymore. The laryngoscope forced its way between her lips, prying her jaw open wider than felt possible. Janine gagged, her tongue pressing uselessly against the intrusion.

The tube followed, slithering down her throat. Janine felt every inch of it, the way it bullied past her vocal folds. Her body rebelled, chest bucking as she tried to cough, but the restraints held her firm. The tube advanced relentlessly.

Now her breaths were mechanical, forced by the ventilator they hooked up. It pushed air into her lungs in rhythmic whooshes. Each inflation stretched her chest from within, her ribs expanding against their will. The sensation was alien and dehumanizing.

"Sedation now," Dr. Ena ordered, her voice cutting through the ventilator's steady hiss. A syringe appeared in her hand, the needle glinting like a promise of oblivion. Janine watched in helpless horror as it pierced the IV line already snaking into her arm. The plunger depressed slowly, the clear fluid vanishing into her vein. Warmth spread from the site, an insidious creep that dulled the edges of her panic. Her eyelids grew heavy, the room blurring at the periphery.

…

Janine's eyes fluttered open. The ventilator still hummed, forcing air into her intubated throat, but now there was a new horror: a gaping void in her chest. Her sternum had been split, ribs pried apart. Retractors held the cavity open,

The first to reach in was the blonde nurse, her eyes alight with fascination behind her glasses. She slipped her hand into the cavity. Her fingers brushed the pericardium before cutting and tearing it open. With a gentle rip, warm, clear fluid spilled out, and then her palm cupped the heart itself.

She reached in first, the team acting as if this was a gift to her. her latex-clad fingers brushing the heart's surface. Janine felt a foreign touch on the most intimate part of her, sending jolts through her body. The heart recoiled instinctively, skipping a beat, its surface dimpling under the pressure.

The nurse didn't hesitate. She cupped the organ fully, her hand enveloping the beating mass. Janine's world exploded in new sensation: The warmth of the glove contrasting the cool air, the gentle at first squeeze that compressed the ventricles mid-contraction. The pink meat bulged between the woman's fingers, arteries swelling with trapped blood. The organ jerked angrily in her grasp.

"Cute how it squirms," the nurse cooed, treating it like a stress ball in her palm. She kneaded gently, fingers digging into the surface.

The nurse released slightly, only to compress again. Over and again, she rolled the heart between her thumb and fingers. As she squeezed, the organ bulged where her grip was tightest. Janine didn't want to give them more amusement, but her body wouldn't stop writhing on display.

The pink tissue paled under the force before flushing deeper red as blood rushed back.  Janine could only watch as her heart was manipulated by this eager woman. It clenched unnaturally hard in defeated protest. Each squeeze sent waves of dizziness through her brain, her vision spotting from the irregular flow.

After what felt like an eternity of this intimate torment, the nurse withdrew, her gloves slick with pericardial fluid. "“It’s so angry. So full of fury!. Your turn," she said to the doctor, the one with the full face covering, who seemed most prepared for this moment. 

This doctor wasted no time. She grabbed the defibrillator paddles.

"Let's see how it handles direct current," she said, positioning the paddles on either side of the exposed heart. Janine felt the chill of metal against muscle, the paddles encompassing the organ like jaws. The doctor pressed them together, mashing the heart between them, the dark pink flesh compressing flat, ventricles squished until they could barely twitch.

The heart bulged at the edges, arteries distending as blood pooled. It jerked weakly, trying to beat against the vice, each attempt a feeble quiver that vibrated the paddles. "Charging to 50 joules," the doctor announced, the machine whining as it built power. The shock fired directly into the muscle. It made the organ seize, every fiber contracting at once in a violent spasm. Janine felt it as pure impact, her entire being centered on the heart's agony, the current ripping through chambers and walls.

But she didn't stop. "Again, 100 joules." Another mash. The shock hit, forcing submission. It quivered in fibrillation, no organized beats left. The doctor murmured, shocking a third time at 150.

Satisfied with the chaos, she set the paddles aside and removed her gloves. Her hand smacked the heart lightly at first, the impact sending ripples through the tissue and a jolt through Janine's helpless body. The organ jiggled under her palm, the quivering mass wobbling as she prodded it back to life. "Pump for me," she demanded, smacking harder, the sound wet and echoing. Each slap forced a contraction, the organ responding with desperate pumps, arteries swelling as blood finally surged.

She jiggled it between her fingers, shaking the heart like a toy, feeling the internal chambers slosh with fluid. The muscle trembled, trying to find rhythm amid the abuse. Janine felt the humiliation of it, how her heart danced to this woman's whims, pumping erratically. The doctor continued until the organ steadied, beating stronger and faster than ever. Adrenaline surged through it in useless effort to mount a fight or flight response.

Now it was Dr. Ena's turn. The lead doctor approached with deliberate grace, her eyes locked on the throbbing prize. She cradled the heart gently at first, her hands cupping it like a fragile artifact, fingers tracing the coronary grooves. "Such a fighter," she whispered, feeling the hard, aggressive thump against her palms. The organ nestled there, beating trustingly, each contraction a violent fit.

But tenderness was fleeting. Ena’s thumb and forefinger found the aorta—the great vessel emerging from the left ventricle, thick and elastic. She pinched it slowly, constricting the flow. The heart swelled immediately, blood backing up in the chambers, the pink muscle ballooning larger with each trapped beat. Arteries engorged, bulging like overfilled hoses, the organ straining against the blockage.

Dizziness swept Janine's mind. Her limbs tingled from the reduced output, but she remained conscious, feeling the pressure build in her chest. The heart jerked harder, trying to force blood past the pinch.

"Beg for it," Dr. Ena demanded, her voice low and commanding. "Beg for your own blood flow, Janine."

Through the tube in her throat, Janine could only manage strained huffs. Her eyes pleaded as the heart bulged in the doctor's hand. The organ throbbed with increasing frenzy and decreasing movement, chambers distended. The sensation of fullness overwhelming, like a balloon ready to burst. The heart's surface grew prominently vascular, pink turning to deep red from the strain.

The light faded behind Janine's eyes, and though her consciousness was fading, she could hear a faint whisper.

(copy and paste this url to join the community) https://www.tumblr.com/join/tv3e-8V9

If you want to post your heart, or someone elses extremely abnormal/tortured heart and get past the people who think they are dark for doing some exercise with a few regulations?

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

After my 1k cal session, and three days in a row red lining my heart for over an hour plus some various pre-workouts*, I finally tired my heart out. It was going ballistic. Above was shortly after the cardio and a lifting session.

The skips did not let up, and a few hours after that I had to play with it some more. Above is a highlight reel. Longer version:

I felt amazing the whole time. It's been about 3 hours and my heart is calming down to normal. I'm totally not worried about any of this, I pushed myself way too hard but I had so much fun doing it.

That said: don't do this. There's not a chance in hell an unhealthy heart could have survived what I did today.

I've been apart of this beloved community for a while now, and not a day goes by where I'm not grateful to have met everyone. Unfortunately, there are also a number of users who have left for reasons unknown in the past, but a number of them are due to discomfort being felt from the responses, reactions and interactions from and by male users, especially, who lack consideration and even the concept of consent.

With this dishonor driving users away and sometimes causing female users to feel misandry based on their own experiences in the community and online elsewhere, I wanted to make a request and once again try and help present and future female users feel more safe and powerful to push the inconsiderate and the disrespectful back, especially because there really are a lot of female users on here, including ace users, who have remained strong and active for as long as they have without needing or feeling the need to quit for good, or come back much later with a chance of deciding to leave again.

I wanted to know if any female users active today would be willing to make a list or something that will give advice to present and future users to help them power through and find some stability and comfort in their place in the community, without fear or concern. I know there's diversity in this community, too, pertaining to sexuality and gender, and to those who fall under such identifications, most notable that of asexuality - as this community has a big ace following - and being a lesbian user, your input would be just as vital - if not more so - for my request of sharing advice with the wider community.

Thanks for reading in, and thank you to those who decide to give my idea a shot. If we need a way to make this community safer for everyone, we should try the concept of uniting.

Enjoy a good visible heartbeat to kickstart my new content 😉

No stimulants other than pure excitement of arching my back to make my heart visible in front of the camera again! 😉

Arching my back and making my heart visible like this is like a domino effect on my heart rate. For one, I believe arching my back and forcing my heart up against my ribs causes it to pump a little harder. Heart rate starts to increase along with visibility (and from being on camera) -> I get more excited -> heart rate increases -> I get even more excited, and so on!

P.s. sorry the ekg turned to "sleep mode" halfway through and I didn't realize.

Chapter 1

After college, I head over to my work place, Lea's home. Lea and I have been close friends since college began, and when she found out about my financial situation, she offered a job as a maid at her house. Of course, I accepted. I really needed the money, but that wasn't the only reason.

Stepping off the bus, I walk to her house, get buzzed in, and change into my work uniform, a regular maid outfit, a relatively tight fitting one at that, but no worries.

I get started in the usual routine, working my way from bottom to top, saving the best for the last: Lea's room. It's getting pretty late, but I am in no hurry. As I near her room, I hear a noise coming from within and lightly rap against the door. The sound immediately stops, and Lea open her door, looking tussled and out of breath. Hot. She looks at me worried, and clutches her chest.

"What's wrong? Is everything ok?" I ask, trying my best not to sound even the slightest bit turned on.

She looks around the corridor before pulling me inside her room and locking her door. Slightly panting, she says "My chest hurts, I'm not sure what that means but this isn't the first time this has happened! I don't know what to do, do I go to the doctor? You're a med student, could you take a look?"

Is today my lucky day? The situation I've dreamed about and fantasized forever is finally presenting itself to me, but what if it's too good to be true? Do I put my desires first or do I do my duty as a med student and look at this professionally?

What am I even thinking, duty first.

"Calm down, there's no need to get all flustered, I'll palpate around your chest, tell me if it hurts, ok?"

She nods, looking at me with her eager eyes.

I place my hand on her chest, doing my best to not react to the strong heartbeat I can feel with little effort. My hand rises in pulses, hitting her sternum strongly.

"No pain?" She nods, with her face slowly changing expressions.

"I can't feel your heartbeat properly (I lied), do you mind taking off your shirt-" and before I can finish my sentence, her shirt comes off in one swift motion. Her pretty pink lace bra comes into full view, perspiration slowly dripping off her chest, and I momentarily freeze, entranced by the view. She's breathing with a little more difficulty, but the most noticeable feature is her heart. It's so visible, I can see her breast quiver with every strong beat.

How I wish I could hold that beautiful organ, to feel it pump against my hand.

She looks at me, and clasps my hand, guiding it gently towards her chest, and places it firmly there. I close my eyes, my desires completely taking over my senses, wishing this moment would last forever. Her heart pushes against my hand with everything in its power, and I am completely under its control.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember my "duty" and do my best to coherently put together a sentence. "Your heart feels strong, and I can't feel any thrills or skips. I wish I had my stethoscope to hear more accurately though."

She looks at me, now the worry clearly replaced with amusement and a sense of animalistic desire in her eyes. Without removing my hand from her chest, she bends over and reaches for her drawer, where she pulls out a stethoscope, a beautiful Littman cardiology. I feel her heart skipping, and now I'm beginning to suspect maybe she's enjoying this attention her heart is getting.

She places the steth in my ears and the bell directly on the PMI, where her heartbeat is the loudest and most visible. Finally, I get to hear the beautiful sound of her heart. Ecstasy fills me, and a warm sensation builds at the base of my abdomen, and before I could stop myself, I ask her "are you enjoying this?"

Her eyes travel down to my chest, and with surprise I note that my own heart is beating wildly, being very visible under my maid's uniform.

"I am now" she says, and I realize this was all an act to get me into this situation, and I played right into it. This means, she's wanted me the same way I've wanted her.

Now there's no need to hold back.

I push her against the wall, her heart booming into the steth. She lets out a moan, her legs shaking beneath her.

"Is there any other symptom that's worrying you?" I ask, going along with this role playing.

"Yes doctor, this area has been very hard for a while now" she says, guiding my hand to her nipple. I slowly rub it, admiring the way her eyes light up with arousal.

Her heart now going a strong 160 bpm, dares me to make it go faster, and I oblige.

My fingers slowly trail down, with the look of absolute delight on her face, and reach her vulva. Her heart is now pounding

BU-BUMP BU-BUMP BU-BUMP BU-BUMP

And with every beat, I rub her, syncing it in the rythm of her heart.

She starts moaning loudly, and her legs gave way and spread widely.

"Oh you're so wet, and all this when I didn't even do anything."

She looks at me desperately, and says "Can I feel your heart? Please?"

I nod, and immediately her hands go up my chest, wildly grabbing it, as if trying to cage the absolute beast that threatens to escape its cage.

I immediately slip my fingers through her underwear, feeling the wetness dripping through, and rub faster with more intensity.

Her eyes rolls back, and with a final loud moan, she collapses in my arms, eyes fluttering close.

"How was it?" I ask her. She smiles, and slowly leans on my chest, listening to my heart beat gradually returning to normal. We stay there for a while, till our breaths settle down.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower, I'll seeya tomorrow!" she gives me a quick kiss, and walks away.

stay tuned if you're interested ;)...unless I decide to not bother posting idk yet