Insubordinate

Muse: Nymph Orchidea

it takes a moment to realize that i’m restrained, wrists and ankles cuffed, that i’m lying on a cold, metal table, that the hands are gloved with nitrile or latex, and the grabbing is actually prodding and poking and probing, measurements called out, pens scratching to write down numbers and observations. the fingers in my mouth are counting my teeth and checking them for major defects. the hand at my throat is measuring the circumference, and then the length, mapping out my arteries and trachea. the hands in most places are accompanied by instruments, whether tapes or rulers or calipers or blood pressure cuffs or whatever it is they’ve forced dry into my cunt to see what it can take without any preparation.

there’s an iv in my arm that i don’t notice until somebody begins measuring my palm and fingers, twisting me this way and that to make it easier on themself. pens scratch against paper as notes are taken, measurements recorded, observations dictated.

my head is tipped back and strapped in place, a spider gag spreading my mouth open wide. a metal stand is brought close and a long, smooth, black phallus is installed at the height of my open mouth. the dildo has white markings on it indicating length. it’s slid into my mouth, my tongue pushed out of the way, until my throat seizes around it. they back it out just enough that my gag reflex is triggered only on my inhale, record the measurement, and leave.

i have no way to count time and therefore no way to know how long it takes, but eventually i adjust to the intrusion. my breath no longer stutters, my throat no longer clenches.

the scientists return almost immediately, noting down the time and duration, and then adjusting the phallus again, touching that reflex again, taking the new measurement, and leaving again.

tears and spit cover my cheeks. my cunt is pulsing between my legs. and it all begins again.

they start with a similar phallus except this one has no length markings. they set it up on a fucking machine and slide it into me dry, my legs spread wide and bound to medical stirrups.

the machine starts and i try not to whine with the pain of it because this time they don’t all leave. one of the white coats drags a chair over next to the machine, a clear view of the phallus thrusting in and out of my pussy. there’s another camera, too, aimed with a similar view but from the other side. the white coat has a clipboard and scratches notes occasionally, alternately fascinated and bored.

eventually the thrusting begins to feel good, easy, pleasurable. but i’ve learned from the throat test and i do my best to keep myself from moaning. from showing any kind of pleasure at the feeling.

it doesn’t matter. the white coat notices too soon and, as i’d feared, stops the machine to switch out this phallus for a wider one. they note the time, the new circumference, and turn the machine on again.

the stretch is just enough to ride the edge between pain and pleasure. i’m so wet that it moves easily, even as i struggle to handle the girth. again, it begins to feel good, so good, and again, the white coat stops the machine, changes the phallus, scratches out notes, and starts the machine again.

it’s the same as with my pussy, but behind me so i can’t see anything. they use lube this time, to my immense relief, but absolutely nothing about it is pleasurable.

i don’t like anal sex, i’ve never liked it, and they do absolutely nothing to make me like it now. they simply stretch me wider and wider. i feel myself gaping open during every change, lube trickling down my thighs.

my feet dangle off the floor, cuffed to the table legs, my arms are stretched overhead and my wrists are bound to reinforced straps. i let myself cry this time and the white coat walks over once or twice to look into my eyes and scratch notes out onto the clipboard.

to my horror, my cunt begins pulsing every time they change out the phallus, the stretch reminding me of the stretch in my cunt or maybe just triggering some other kind of arousal i can’t understand. maybe it’s just the feeling of hands — even gloved and clinical — on my skin after so many days of isolation.

when the experiment ends this time, even though i hated it, i sob. i don’t want to go back into the quiet dark. i don’t want to be left alone.

“I can change your name. Your memory. I can make you physically weaker than me with just a word. “ As they said each one, a memory of them doing just that entered your head. “Even now, I’ve stopped all the thinking that usually happens in that brain.” They said, giggling.

“What can you do, huh, toy?” Their hand moved up to your hair, gently gripping. “You can’t resist. You can’t fight. You don’t want to.” That was true. This was perfection. Why would you fight it? “You want me to do whatever I want to you.” Their hand in your hair gripped tighter.

They moved their hand, nodding your head for you, agreeing with them. And you did agree, because you were nodding your head. Of course. “Because you’re such a good, obedient plaything, aren’t you? How far could I push you? How much could I reshape you?”

Silence filled the air for a moment as they thought. They leant down, close to your ear. “Could I replace your memories?” You wanted them to. “Fundamentally alter your values?” Please. Fuck. “Mmm… No. I wouldn’t. But I know I could, and that is just as hot.”

* * *

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Setting aside the profligate energy consumption in an era of absolute climate change crisis, setting aside the ethical concerns of relying on a plagiarism machine, setting aside the fact that generative AI has been shown statistically and scientifically to rot your goddamn brain….

(And why exactly are you setting all that aside?)