anesthesia beauty

"But you have been volunteered. Be a good girl now."

No, please, I didn’t sign up for this!

"Stop fighting!"

Noooo!

"That’s it... good girl... breathe...."

Mmmfffg...

"Yes... let go... easy now..."

"Good.......relax... and sleep.... good girl..."

"Excellent. Let's begin."

Yes... let's putyoutosleepnow (photo credit)...

They wheel you into the OR as we finish our checks. Even with the pre-medication, I can see the nervousness in your eyes, your breathing already too quick. I look for signs of earlier struggles. The redness on the wrists from the restraints, the matted hair under the bouffant cap.

Your teary eyes widening as they dart around the OR, taking in the bright lights, the stainless-steel trays, the bustle of the team, and the gleaming stirrups. Your breathing picks up speed.

“I’ll take care of you, darling. You’re safe,” I say.

But your body strains against the straps, barely visible under the blanket.

“I… I didn’t sign up for this,” you whisper.

“That’s okay. You are where you're supposed to be.”

We transfer you over to the OR table. You struggle, limbs uncoordinated, weak, easily overpowered. You slump into the OR table, exhausted. You struggle to sit up as your hands are secured to the outstretched armboards. Your legs writhe as they are lifted and placed on the stirrups, secured with straps.

I soak in the sight before me for a moment. Your bare torso, pale under the surgical lights, with your limbs spread wide on both sides. Your abdomen undulating irregularly as your breathing becomes ragged from your fight.

I cup your face with my gloved hand and stroke your cheek with my thumb to soothe you. I reach out my other hand for the mask on the rack.

When your eyes land on the anesthesia mask, your anxiety spikes. I slide my hand down your face and under your chin, lifting it so you look straight into my eyes.

“There's nothing to worry about. You won’t feel anything. You’ll be asleep before you realize it.”

“Please, what are you going to do to me? I don’t want this,” you say, voice thin with panic.

“Don’t be silly,” I reassure. “You volunteered.”

Your squint your eyes, as you try to recall at which point you consented to this.

As I bring the mask closer, your breathing turns rapid, almost frantic. You are helpless. You start to shake your head, pleading, trying to escape the mask.

“No, please, help, somebody let me go.”

“Shhhh, shush now,” I say softly. “Let’s not make a scene. Don't get the surgeon upset. He will be here shortly.”

You look around for the surgeon, forgetting the mask for a moment. I settle the mask lightly over your face. You flinch, you stare into my eyes as if betrayed. But as you inhale, you smell the chemical entering your lungs. You hold your breath but you couldn't hold your panic down. The first trace of gas begins working on you—subtle, warm, slowly softening the fear.

Your hand twitches under the straps, your legs kick against the restraint, but the premedication weakens the movement.

“No…I am scared…” you murmur beneath the mask as you try to turn your head away from the mask.

“I know. Just breathe. You’re doing perfectly,” I say, adjusting the gas flow as I tighten the seal of the mask over your face as my fingers grip your jawbone under your chin while my other hand holds the top of your head still.

You strain your neck but your head barely moves. Your breath quickens, sucking loudly as the mask hisses.

You freeze. Your eyelids flutter; your muscles loosen; the frantic edge fades into heaviness. The fight is still there, but only barely. Fingers and toes wiggling and slowly fading, the last vestiges of your struggles.

“Good,” I say quietly, reaching for the syringe. “I’m going to give you some propofol now. It’ll help you fall asleep gently.”

You try to focus on me. “Nnnph…pughh…” intelligible as you lose control of your tongue.

“Yes. You’re safe,” I say as I inject the propofol into your IV. “Your arm may feel warm.”

You stop blinking. A frown across your brows as your world starts to spin. You exhale—a long, soft breath—as your eyes lose focus. Then your eyelids droop and your breathing deepens. The last traces of fear slip away.

“There you go,” I murmur. “Let go. I’ve got you. Sleep now.”

Your eyes close halfway. Your face smooths, your breaths fall into a slow rhythm, and the monitors confirm you’re fully asleep.

I check your jaw, glance at the vitals, and nod to the team.

Anastasia's Volunteering

Anastasia has a thing about hospital. Don't we all? But “visiting” The Institute was not the best idea, especially when they are looking for volunteers.

Anastasia arrives at The Institute's gleaming Fertility wing. At the admin desk, she delivers her practiced line: "My roommate had an appointment here two days ago for IVF consult—she's not answering her phone, I'm just worried, can I look around the public areas?" The administrator, used to anxious friends and family, waves her through with a sympathetic nod and a visitor pass.

Her pulse quickens as she navigates the familiar maze: past the nurses’ station, down the corridor lined with pictured of friendly looking staff and happy patients. She knows the layout from prior "visits" to other hospitals and keeps moving. Security cameras blink, but she keeps her head low, casual.

But she didn't see Nurse Nelle, who has been watching. She notices Ana’s suspicious behavior, unauthorized entry. She follows quietly.

She arrives in the staff area and slips into a staff changing room—empty at this hour. The thrill spikes as she strips down, her panties was already getting damp.

She pulls on pale blue scrubs, ties the bouffant cap over her blonde hair, adjusts the surgical mask across her face.

She checks herself in the mirror. The transformation feels intoxicating— identity erased, now she belongs.

Anastasia drifts toward the restricted OR corridor. The double doors part with a soft pneumatic sigh. Inside, the first empty suite she finds is dimly lit, machines humming in the background. Stainless steel gleams under surgical lights.

The anesthesia cart sits ready: vaporizers, circuits, the distinctive black reservoir bag. Ana's breath catches.

She steps closer, gloved fingers trailing over the monitors, the IV poles, the padded operating table with its stirrups retracted. She imagines the rituals performed here—bodies opened, remade.

Her fascination tips into something more visceral, almost arousal: the ultimate surrender of control. She's tempted to just lie down on the operating table and put the mask on. She lingers, lost in the fantasy, heart pounding loud enough to mask the soft footfall behind her.

Nelle moves like a shadow—experienced, silent. She reaches the anesthesia rack without a sound, selects the mask, twists the dials: sevoflurane and oxygen mix, high flow.The hiss starts—soft at first, like a distant exhale.

Ana realises a presence. She freezes.

Nelle lunges from behind, one arm clamping around Ana's waist, the other jamming the black rubber mask over her face, sealing it tight with practiced force.

Anastasia struggled and fought against Nurse Nelle.

But Nurse Nelle is an expert at overpowering resistant volunteers. She hd the mask tight and shushing Anastasia.

The gas floods in, sweet and chemical.Ana thrashes—elbows back, nails clawing at the arm holding her—but the mask is a perfect seal, the flow overwhelming.

"Shhh... breathe... you are where you belong... relax...."

Her vision tunnels. She tastes metal, feels the cool rush filling her lungs, her brain fogging fast. Is she fantasizing this? Her mind drifted. Her struggles weaken to pathetic flails; knees buckle. She nearly cums but the gas fills her head, cutting her arousal short.

She wakes groggy, naked except for the bouffant cap still sitting on her head. Restraints bite into wrists and ankles. She's on a gurney in a windowless prep bay adjacent to the ORs, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Two orderlies, accompanied by Nurse Nelle, wheel her into the main surgical suite. Anastasia tries to speak, to scream, but her tongue is thick, words slurring.

They transferred her naked form onto the operating table. It is cold against her skin. Monitors beep as leads are attached to her chest. Her heart beat is picking up pace.

"Where am I? What's happening!?"

Nelle appears above her, expression professionally blank. "You shouldn't have come here."

Ana's eyes widen. She jerks against the straps, panic cutting through the residual fog. "Wait—please—this is a mistake—"

Nelle doesn't reply. She simply reaches for the anesthesia circuit again—the same mask. The hissing resumes.

Ana fights harder this time—head thrashing side to side, lungs burning as she holds her breath—but only for that long before she breaks into hyperventilation.

Nelle squeezes the breathing bag, driving the concentrated mixture into her lungs. Ana's vision blurs, limbs go heavy.

The last thing she sees is Nelle's calm eyes watching her slip under, clinical and detached, as she feels her legs floating towards the bright surgical lights.