Orgasmo 9000, pt 3 – A couple cheerleaders
by Mike_Huntmaster
Fantasy, Anal, Bondage and restriction, Domination/submission, Drug, Group Sex, Male / Female Teens, Male / Females, Non-consensual sex, Rape, Reluctance, Stockholm Syndrome, Virginity
This work is a fictional sexual fantasy created for adult audiences only. All characters, events, and situations depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or circumstances is purely coincidental and unintentional. The story does not depict real individuals or machines and should not be interpreted as describing actual conduct, relationships, or experiences.
Orgasmo 9000, pt 3 – A couple cheerleaders
Images of the characters can be found here: forum.xnxx.com/threads/orgasmo-9000-story.719045/
With the addition of Diya's data, those crimson graphs spiking into uncharted territories, her stoic resistance crumbling under Demon Mode's onslaught, John's study evolved from obsession to opus. He pored over the readouts in the lab's midnight glow, Becky curled at his side like a faithful shadow, her fingers tracing the lines on his screen. The contrasts were stark: Becky, his hypersensitive muse, shattering into multiples at Level 4; Diya, the resilient rival, enduring the same with barely a quiver, only to be reduced to a drooling, bliss-soaked wreck at the crimson apex. "Extreme variance in sensitivity," he muttered, jotting notes in his encrypted journal. "Diya's reprogramming... it's evident. Colleagues whisper she's softer now, more open in meetings, as if the machine rewired her neural pathways." He envisioned safeguards: baseline testing for all subjects, algorithms that locked out Levels 9 and 10 for anyone fainting below 7, neural caps programmed to detect overload and dial back before minds scrambled into permanent haze. No more eggs cracked beyond repair; his creation would liberate, not lobotomize.
But data demanded diversity. Two subjects were mere sketches; he needed a canvas of bodies to paint the full map. Fate, or perhaps his eavesdropping ear, delivered the next pair on the Friday before spring break. Emily Hargrove, a pert 19-year-old cheerleader with sun-kissed blonde waves cascading to her mid-back, slipped into his office for a participation sign-off on the surveys. Her slim frame, honed by flips and pyramids, filled the chair with youthful energy, B-cup breasts perky beneath her university tee, her heart-shaped ass a sculpted perfection in yoga pants. John overheard her chatter with her girlfriend, Sarah Kline, waiting in the hall: identical in age and allure, Sarah's long blonde locks framing a face of innocent mischief, her C-cups straining slightly more against her top, both girls bubbling about a solo beach getaway, no chaperones, just sun and secrets.
Opportunity knocked; John answered with ingenuity. That afternoon, as Emily's compact SUV idled in the lot, he affixed a discreet EMP disruptor beneath the chassis, a palm-sized device of his own design, rigged to short the engine on remote command. Becky, his ever-willing accomplice, tailed them in the van as the girls peeled out toward the coast, their laughter floating on the wind. Miles later, on a desolate stretch of highway flanked by whispering pines and empty fields, John triggered the switch. The SUV sputtered, dashboard lights flickering like dying stars, before rolling to a halt on the shoulder, hazard flashers pulsing in the gathering dusk.
The van eased in behind them, headlights cutting the twilight like knives. Becky emerged first, her hoodie shadowing her face, approaching the driver's side with feigned concern. Emily, at the wheel, rolled down the window, her blue eyes wide with confusion. "Looks like something's hanging off the back," Becky said, voice sweet as honeyed venom. "Come take a look." Emily stepped out, bending to peer under the rear bumper, her perfect ass arching invitingly. Becky struck, syringe plunging into the firm cheek with a swift prick. "Ouch!"
Emily yelped, but the sedative flooded her veins like ice water; her knees buckled, eyes rolling back as she slumped forward. John surged from the van, scooping her limp body in one fluid motion, her slight weight feather-light against his chest, blonde hair spilling over his arm like golden silk, her pert breasts pressing softly against him as he carried her to the van's shadowed interior.
Sarah, oblivious in the passenger seat with headphones blasting pop anthems, didn't notice until Becky rapped on the window. "We need your help, your friend's hurt!" Becky called, urgency laced with deception. Sarah yanked off her earbuds, scrambling out, her C-cups bouncing with the haste, long legs unfolding from the car. As she rounded the rear, Becky injected her ass mid-stride, the needle's bite eliciting a startled gasp before her world tilted. She pitched forward, but Becky caught her waist, steadying the fall as John dashed up, lifting Sarah's boneless form, her heart-shaped curves molding against him, a faint sigh escaping her lips as he deposited her beside Emily in the van. He zip-tied their wrists and ankles with efficient snaps, blindfolds slipping over their eyes like eclipse shadows, gags muffling any premature stirs. The van purred away into the night, John at the wheel, while Becky hopped into the SUV, hot-wiring it back to life and driving it to campus anonymity, a forgotten lot where spring breakers' cars blended into oblivion.
Back in the lab's fluorescent embrace, John moved the girls with clinical reverence, Becky hovering like a nurse in their twisted operating theater. He started with Emily, cradling her from the van, her slim body draped over his shoulder, blonde waves tickling his back, the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo mingling with the sedative's chemical tang. Down the stairs to the Orgasmo 9000, he laid her on the prep table, stripping her with methodical care: tee shirt peeled up to reveal her perky B-cups, nipples pebbling in the chill; yoga pants tugged down her toned legs, exposing a lacy thong that he slipped away, revealing her smooth, youthful mound. Blindfold secured, limbs cuffed to the recliner, wrists, ankles, thighs splayed wide, he administered the revival agent, her eyelids fluttering as consciousness clawed back. Panic bloomed, but the machine awaited.
Level 2 began with a soft, almost courteous purr, but to Emily it sounded like the world inhaling before it screamed.
The first thing she felt was the cool drizzle of warmed lubricant, vanilla-scented, pooling at her entrance like liquid anticipation. Oh God, it’s happening again… I know I’m sensitive, but this… The blunt obsidian crown pressed against her slick folds and began its slow, deliberate glide. She was impossibly tight (nineteen years of flips and splits and never letting anyone past second base), and every inch of the Vaginal Intruder felt like a revelation. The ridges dragged over untouched nerves, waking them with electric kisses until the full eight inches seated deep and the pneumatic chambers started their gentle inflation. A soft, rhythmic swelling—2.5 to 3.2 inches in diameter—stretched her in slow, pulsing waves. It’s growing inside me—oh fuck, it’s getting thicker— Her back bowed off the recliner so hard the waist belt creaked, a sharp, high-pitched cry muffled by the gag as the first lightning bolt of pleasure shot straight up her spine and exploded behind her eyes.
Before her brain could catch up, the Anal Sentinel arrived. The tapered wand circled her virgin ring once, twice, spreading more lube in teasing spirals. Then it pushed. The stretch was shocking (burning, invasive, exquisite). Her entire body clenched in panic, trying to push it out, but the probe twisted forward in a slow corkscrew that forced her open millimeter by millimeter. No—no—no—it’s in my ass—oh my God it’s so deep— She felt every ridge catch on the sensitive ring, felt the shaft thicken halfway in until the flared base kissed her skin and locked. A low, desperate moan vibrated around the gag, her thighs trembling uncontrollably in the cuffs. The fullness behind joined the fullness in front and crushed the thin wall between, lighting every buried nerve in white fire.
Then the Clitoral Whisperer sealed over her swollen pearl with a wet, sucking kiss. The dome was barely humming at 40 Hz, but to Emily it felt like a thousand tiny tongues flicking her clit all at once. That’s my spot—oh fuck, that’s my spot— Her hips jerked upward violently, chasing and fleeing in the same breath, tears already leaking from beneath the blindfold.
Level 2 was supposed to be gentle. For Emily it was cataclysm.
Ninety seconds in, the first orgasm detonated like a bomb behind her eyes. Every nerve ending ignited at once—vaginal walls clamping down so hard the pistoning probe stuttered, anal ring spasming in frantic pulses, clit throbbing inside the suction dome like a second heartbeat. It’s too much—too good—I’m going to die— A sharp, high-pitched keen tore from her throat as fluid burst from her in rhythmic, forceful squirts, soaking the leather beneath her ass and splashing her own thighs. Her body went rigid, toes curling until joints whitened, blonde ponytail whipping across the headrest as her head thrashed.
The machine never paused.
The second climax rolled in before the first had finished, the anal probe now pulsing in perfect counter-rhythm, crushing the wall between and turning the pleasure into something deeper, darker, unstoppable. I can’t—I can’t breathe—it’s still going— Another torrent squirted so hard it hit the inside of her thigh and ran down in hot rivulets. Her eyes rolled back beneath the blindfold, tears streaming, body convulsing in sharp, staccato bursts.
The third orgasm followed on its heels—shorter, sharper, almost painful in its intensity. Her abs contracted visibly, the restraints groaning as she strained against them, trying to fold in on herself and open wider at the same time, blonde ponytail lashing like a whip. More—please—don’t ever stop— The thought wasn’t hers anymore; it belonged to the pleasure, to the machine, to the fire that had swallowed every shred of resistance.
She surrendered completely then (no more fighting, no more fear), only total, worshipful need. Her hips rolled shamelessly into every thrust, chasing the next swell, the next twist, the next impossible peak. She was no longer Emily the cheerleader, Emily the good girl, Emily who blushed at the thought of a finger inside her. She was pure sensation, every nerve ending screaming in ecstatic unison, her body a living supernova of pleasure she had never dreamed existed.
And still the machine purred on, gentle and merciless, mapping the heights her hypersensitive body was born to reach, and teaching her, one shattering climax at a time, that surrender was only the beginning.
John watched, transfixed, as the console painted a portrait of pure hypersensitivity: galvanic skin response off the charts, cervical dilation spiking with each wave, neural cap showing fireworks in her pleasure centers. Emily held consciousness (barely) through Level 5, her voice reduced to broken, keening sobs, body wrung out like a sponge. At Level 6 the vaginal probe hit 140 strokes per minute, the clitoral dome spun at 300 rpm with micro-electro pulses, and the anal sentinel twisted in frantic opposition. The final climax hit like a bomb: her back arched so violently the waist belt groaned, a silent scream stretching her jaw around the gag as she squirted in a long, continuous arc that drenched the floor. Then her eyes fluttered shut, body going limp as velvet, consciousness slipping away in blissful overload.
Safeguards engaged instantly (probes retreating with soft, wet sounds, suction releasing, the machine powering down to a gentle lullaby hum). Emily lay trembling, chest heaving, a thin line of drool escaping the corner of her mouth, blonde hair plastered to her flushed cheeks.
John unstrapped her quivering limbs with careful efficiency, lifting her sweat-slick body (light as a dancer) into his arms. She was still twitching with aftershocks, tiny spasms rippling through her thighs as he carried her to one of the hospital beds in the recovery alcove. He laid her down on cool sheets, securing soft cuffs around her wrists and ankles (just in case the overload triggered fight-or-flight upon waking), then tucked a pillow beneath her head and draped a light blanket over her shivering form.
Only then did he return for Sarah, the second half of his spring-break dataset, while Emily slept the deep, exhausted sleep of the utterly, gloriously ruined.
John carried Sarah down the stairs, her slightly fuller figure warm and trusting in his arms, C-cups pressing softly against him, long blonde hair spilling like silk. When he laid her on the recliner and secured her limbs, the sensors immediately registered her baseline tension: pelvic floor clenched, heart rate already elevated from unconscious fear.
Revival agent administered. Her eyes snapped open behind the blindfold, panic flaring as she realized she was spread and helpless. A sharp, muffled cry escaped the gag when she felt the first bead of warmed lubricant drip onto her untouched entrance.
Level 2 began.
The Vaginal Intruder approached like a verdict.
Sarah felt the blunt, warmed crown settle against her virgin slit, nudging her folds apart with gentle, inexorable pressure. Her entire body locked rigid, every muscle screaming no even as her breath stuttered behind the gag. This can’t be happening—this is wrong—I’m still a virgin—
One centimeter. Two. The resistance came sudden and unmistakable—her intact hymen, that fragile gate she’d guarded through nineteen years of dances, dates, and deliberate abstinence. A low, animal whimper vibrated in her throat, half terror, half plea.
The probe paused (just long enough for her to hope it would stop), then pressed forward with mechanical patience. The stretch began slow, a burning ring of fire that widened, widened, until it felt like she was being torn in half from the inside. It hurts—God, it hurts—stop, please stop— Her hips jerked upward in instinctive retreat, thighs straining against the cuffs, but there was nowhere to go. The pressure built, unbearable, until something inside her gave way with a soft, wet pop she felt more than heard (sharp, shocking, final). A thin trickle of blood mixed with the lubricant, warm and shocking as it slid down her skin.
Sarah’s muffled scream cracked into a raw, broken sob. The probe kept going.
She felt every merciless inch slide deeper, stretching virgin walls that had never been asked to open, never been asked to yield. It’s too big—too much—I’m splitting apart— The ridges dragged over untouched nerves, lighting them up in confusing sparks that warred with the burning ache. When the full eight inches finally seated, buried to the hilt, the first gentle inflation began—slow, pulsing swells from 2.6 to 3.4 inches, each expansion a fresh wave of being forced wider, fuller, more impossibly stretched.
Pain and something else twisted together inside her.
It hurts… but it’s… it’s everywhere… The burn was still there, sharp and real, yet beneath it a deeper pressure bloomed (something hot and heavy and terrifyingly good). Her body didn’t know whether to clench shut or open wider. Tears soaked the blindfold in a flood, her thighs trembling uncontrollably in the cuffs, but her hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll (seeking more, even as her mind screamed no).
This isn’t supposed to feel good—this is wrong—I should hate this— Yet every subtle swell of the probe sent a pulse of liquid heat radiating outward, a dark, coaxing pleasure that made her inner muscles flutter in confused betrayal. The pain was still there, bright and biting, but it was being braided with something else (something that made her breath hitch and her clit throb against the waiting dome, something that whispered just wait… just feel…).
She was being forced to endure it, second by agonizing second, and with every swell, every ridge, every impossible inch, the balance tipped a fraction further from pain toward a pleasure she had no defenses against. Her sobs began to fracture into something dangerously close to moans. Her mind darted back and forth (terror, fury, shame, need) until the sensations blurred into one overwhelming truth:
She was being taken, and her body was already starting to beg for it.
The Anal Sentinel followed like a second verdict, delivered before the first wound had even begun to close.
Sarah was still trembling from the loss of her front virginity (inner walls fluttering around the thick intruder that had just torn through her hymen, the deep, stretching ache still pulsing with every breath, blood and lubricant slick between her thighs). Her mind was a storm of It hurts… but it’s starting to feel… no, don’t think that, don’t let it feel good… when the new pressure arrived at her untouched rear entrance.
A warm, tapered tip circled her virgin ring once (teasing, almost gentle), spreading more lubricant in slow, deliberate spirals. She clenched instinctively, every muscle locking in panic. Not there—please God, not there—I’ve never— The tip pressed forward anyway, patient and unstoppable.
The breach came in a single, white-hot instant.
The stretch was different from the front (sharper, darker, a burning ring of fire that flared outward like a scream she couldn’t voice). Her back arched violently off the table, a guttural, animal sound ripping from her chest as the probe twisted past the resistant muscle and began its slow, inexorable slide. It’s splitting me—oh fuck, it’s in my ass—make it stop, make it— She felt every millimeter: the taper thickening halfway in, the subtle ridges catching on the raw, untouched nerves of her ring, the impossible pressure as the shaft sank deeper and deeper until the flared base kissed her skin and locked.
Her body tried to clench shut (desperate, frantic), but the restraints and the machine’s patient insistence denied her. The probe simply waited, seated deep, letting her feel the impossible fullness in a place she had never imagined being filled. Two holes… both taken… I’m not a virgin anywhere anymore… Tears poured beneath the blindfold, her thighs shaking uncontrollably, a low, continuous whine vibrating behind the gag.
But beneath the burn, beneath the shame and the shock, something else stirred (an illicit, terrifying heat). The probe began its first gentle expansion, a subtle pulse that stretched her ring wider still, and the sensation shot straight through the thin wall separating her passages, crushing nerves against the vaginal intruder in a way that made her entire pelvis ignite. No—no—it hurts—it’s wrong—but… oh God, it’s everywhere… The pain was still bright, still real, but it was being braided with a dark, throbbing pleasure that made her ass flutter and clench in confused, involuntary waves.
Her mind darted wildly between the two invasions: Front: the deep, stretching ache of her freshly broken pussy, still bleeding faintly, still learning how to grip and release. Back: the burning, forbidden fullness of her virgin ass, every tiny movement sending sparks she had no name for.
She was being forced to feel both at once (pain and pleasure twisted so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began). I should hate this—I do hate this—but my body… my body is starting to want it… A broken sob cracked into a moan she couldn’t swallow, hips giving a tiny, helpless roll that seated both probes deeper.
Her second virginity was gone, and in the white-hot crucible of that double loss, Sarah’s resistance began to melt into something raw, aching, and terrifyingly eager.
Then the Clitoral Whisperer descended, and everything changed.
The soft dome sealed over her untouched pearl with gentle suction. For the first thirty seconds the pain still dominated (the ache of her torn hymen, the impossible fullness in both passages), but the clitoral dome was merciless. Nodules began their slow rotation, suction pulsing in time with her frantic heartbeat. Blood rushed south despite her tears; her clit swelled rapidly, hypersensitive from never having been truly touched. The pleasure collided with the pain like a tidal wave hitting a burning shore.
The first orgasm built slowly, almost cruelly. Sarah fought it, hips twisting, trying to escape the overwhelming duality of sharp soreness and electric ecstasy. But the clitoral dome ramped to 120 rpm, the vaginal probe began its first tentative pistoning, and the wave crested.
It hit her like a slow-motion earthquake.
Her entire body seized, abs contracting in a long, visible roll. A deep, guttural moan (half sob, half roar) tore from her chest as her newly opened passage clamped down on the intruder. Instead of sharp squirts, a thick, creamy flood poured out of her, tinged faintly pink at first, then clear and copious, soaking the leather in one continuous, heavy rush. The pain of her deflowering melted into the pleasure, transmuted by the sheer force of the climax.
The second orgasm followed almost immediately, deeper, longer, her walls still fluttering around the shaft that had taken her virginity minutes ago. Each thrust now dragged across raw, freshly exposed nerves, pleasure and lingering soreness braided together into something almost unbearable. Her C-cups bounced heavily with each convulsion, nipples diamond-hard, tears streaming down her temples into her hair.
By the third climax the pain had been completely swallowed by ecstasy. Sarah’s moans turned primal, low and continuous, her body no longer fighting but surrendering in rolling, bone-deep waves that left her quaking for long seconds after each peak. Fluid gushed in slow, luxurious floods rather than bursts, her virgin blood now only a faint memory beneath the evidence of her body’s total capitulation.
Level 5 finally broke her endurance, not with blackout, but with surrender. The probes pistoned in perfect antiphase, crushing the thin wall between her passages; the clitoral dome spun at 300 rpm while suction tripled, her clit swollen to twice its size inside the dome. Sarah’s fifth orgasm was apocalyptic: a long, continuous quake that rolled through her for nearly thirty seconds, her back arched impossibly, a silent scream stretching her jaw around the gag as fluid poured from her in a thick, creamy torrent that soaked everything.
When the machine finally powered down and the probes withdrew (slowly, gently, slick with her arousal and the faint pink of her lost virginity), Sarah lay trembling, chest heaving, blonde hair plastered to her tear-streaked face. The pain of her first penetration had been real, sharp, and undeniable, but the orgasms that followed had rewritten it into something sacred: her body’s brutal, beautiful initiation into womanhood, delivered not by a fumbling teenage boyfriend in the back of a car, but by a machine that knew exactly how to turn agony into awe.
John watched the graphs paint a portrait of controlled destruction: slower build, catastrophic release. Sarah never lost consciousness (her endurance was astonishing), but by the end of Level 5 she was a wrecked, trembling mess, chest heaving, blonde hair plastered to her face with sweat and tears, pussy gaping and glistening around the retreating probes, thighs slick to the knee.
He powered the machine down, unstrapped her shaking limbs, and carried her to the second hospital bed beside Emily. Sarah’s body was heavier with aftershocks, each step making her moan faintly as his arms pressed against her hypersensitive skin. He secured the soft cuffs, tucked a blanket around her quivering form, and stepped back to watch the two cheerleaders side by side, Emily still deeply unconscious, Sarah staring blankly at the ceiling, lips parted, chest rising and falling in slow, exhausted waves.
Two new data sets. Two utterly transformed girls. Spring break had taken a very different turn.
In the shadowed hush of the recovery alcove, where the hospital beds hummed with the faint beep of monitors and the air carried the lingering ozone tang of the Orgasmo 9000's exertions, Sarah lay like a fallen angel, her lithe, cheer-toned body still quivering in the aftershocks of her initiation. The pain of her deflowering had been a sharp, visceral thunderclap: that burning tear as the vaginal probe breached her hymen, the raw stretch that made her sob behind the gag, her virgin walls protesting the invasion with every inflated pulse. It was a violation not just of flesh, but of innocence, a forced passage through a door she'd always imagined opening on her own terms, perhaps in the arms of a fumbling college boyfriend under stadium lights or in a beachside haze of spring break romance. Instead, it was cold silicone and unyielding mechanics, orchestrated by a stranger whose face she couldn't even see.
Yet, as the climaxes overtook her, those deep, rolling earthquakes that built from the embers of agony into cataclysmic bliss, something profound shifted in the labyrinth of her mind. The initial resistance, born of terror and violation, dissolved under the relentless waves of pleasure, her body surrendering with a fervor that shocked her even in retrospect.
Psychologists often note that the loss of virginity can forge a powerful emotional attachment to the first partner, a bond woven from the vulnerability of the act itself, where novelty and intensity imprint like a brand on the psyche. For women, this attachment can be particularly acute, an unexpected tether that lingers long after the physical sensations fade, turning the first lover into a benchmark against which all others are measured. In Sarah's case, though, the "partner" was no tender paramour but a machine, and by extension, its shadowy creator, John. The non-consensual genesis only complicated the web: research suggests that coerced or unwanted first experiences can lead to heightened psychological distress, including depression and anxiety, as the mind grapples with the dissonance of violation. Yet, in the alchemy of her surrender, pain transmuted into ecstasy, her traitorous body overriding the horror with floods of endorphins and oxytocin, the "love hormone" that binds us in moments of intimacy, consensual or not.
As she stirred in the bed, wrists lightly cuffed to prevent any disoriented flailing, Sarah's thoughts swirled in a fog of confusion and craving. That hurt... God, it hurt so much at first, like being torn apart from the inside. I wanted to scream, to fight, to make it stop. But then the pleasure had crested, wave after devastating wave, her virgin body awakening to sensations it had never known, each orgasm deeper than the last, pulling her under until resistance felt like folly. In that surrender, an unwelcome attachment bloomed: not love, perhaps, but a primal fixation on the source of her unraveling. Studies on attachment styles reveal that insecure bonds can form in the wake of unwanted encounters, where fear and desire entwine, leading to a reluctant emotional pull toward the perpetrator or the experience itself. For Sarah, the machine became her first "lover," John its enigmatic god, a figure she hadn't seen but whose presence loomed in every calibrated thrust. Why do I want more? she wondered in the quiet hours, her clit still throbbing faintly, her core aching with a mix of soreness and hunger. The initial violation had stripped her defenses, but the ecstasy that followed rewired her, forging a bond that whispered of Stockholm-like devotion: the captor as liberator, the pain as prelude to paradise.
By the time consciousness fully returned, Sarah no longer strained against the cuffs. Her blue eyes, when the blindfold was finally lifted, held a glassy sheen, not of rage, but of quiet awe. The emotional tether was there, fragile yet insistent: a virgin's heart, once guarded, now cracked open and imprinted on the man who had orchestrated her fall. Even as Becky cooed reassurances and John monitored her vitals with detached precision, Sarah's mind drifted to the machine's hum, her body already yearning for the next surrender. Research warns that non-consensual firsts can scar, fostering long-term emotional turmoil or even avoidance of intimacy. But for Sarah, the surrender had won; her primal desires, awakened against her will, now bound her to the experience with threads of reluctant longing, a virgin no more, forever changed by the storm that had claimed her.
In the lab's sterile glow, where the Orgasmo 9000 slumbered like a sated beast amid tangled wires and flickering monitors, John and Becky huddled over the console, their voices a low murmur of clinical fascination. Sarah's data scrolled in crimson waves across the screen, her virgin surrender a symphony of pain transmuted into ecstasy, the initial tear of her hymen giving way to those deep, rolling climaxes that had left her a quivering wreck. "I knew virginity was a variable," John admitted, rubbing his temples, "but I didn't factor it in as a baseline. The emotional overlay... it's like imprinting a blank canvas with fire. Sarah's attachment could be profound, long-term. We might have created a devotee without even trying."
Becky leaned into him, her fingers tracing the graph's peaks, a wicked smile curling her lips. "She's ours now, whether she knows it or not. Like Diya, but fresher. Untouched until us."
The door hissed open then, admitting Diya like a shadow from their shared past, her raven hair loose for once, cascading over shoulders still toned from yoga, her ample breasts straining against a fitted blouse that hinted at the maternal softness beneath. She paused in the threshold, hazel eyes narrowing as she caught the tail of their conversation. "Sarah? Who's that? Another 'subject'?"
John straightened, his expression shifting from analyst to architect, while Becky's smile turned feline. "Our latest," John said evenly, gesturing to the recovery alcove where Emily and Sarah lay in induced slumber, their youthful forms draped in sheets, faces flushed with the remnants of transformation. "Cheerleaders. Nineteen. Sarah was... a virgin. We didn't anticipate the variable, but the data, "
Diya's face darkened like a storm front, her athletic poise coiling into tension. "Where did they come from?" she demanded, voice sharp as a scalpel, stepping closer to peer at the monitors, her heavy breasts rising with each indignant breath.
John met her gaze without flinching. "The same way you did. Opportunity. Necessity."
She whirled on him, eyes blazing. "You have to stop this! Abducting women, strapping them down, basically raping them with that... that thing!" Her hand flung toward the machine, voice cracking with the weight of her own memories, the initial fury of her capture, the probes' merciless invasions, the cataclysmic bliss that had shattered her resolve. "It's wrong, John. Monstrous. You can't just, "
He cut her off gently, his hand on her arm, the touch electric with their shared history. "It ended well for you, didn't it? Look at you now, freer, happier. You come here willingly. You crave it."
Diya faltered, cheeks flushing as the truth hit home: the machine had cracked her open, but the real thing, John's flesh filling her, his cum flooding her womb, had sealed her devotion. She averted her eyes, voice softening to a murmur. "That's different. I... I was frustrated, like so many women I see in my practice. Sexually starved housewives, overworked professionals, mothers who've forgotten their own fire. They come to me complaining of dryness, disinterest, but it's deeper, souls starved for release. Maybe... maybe we could find a way to get them here voluntarily. Discreet referrals, anonymous trials. Turn this into something... therapeutic."
John's eyes lit with possibility, Becky nodding eagerly beside him. "A clinic front," Becky suggested, her devotee's zeal igniting. "You screen them, we... enlighten them."
But the immediate question loomed: Emily and Sarah, unwitting pioneers in their recovery beds, blonde hair splayed like halos, bodies marked by the machine's embrace. "What about them?" Diya pressed, her maternal instincts flickering amid the fire of her own transformation. "You can't just release them like you did me. They're young, impressionable. Sarah's virginity... God, the attachment she'll feel."
John paced, mind whirring like his invention. "More sessions," he decided, voice firm. "To complete their surrender, guide the transformation. Emily's hypersensitivity needs calibration, teach her control amid the chaos. Sarah... her virginity's loss was raw, but her climaxes were profound. We'll give her the real thing, like we did you. Imprint the attachment properly, turn violation into vocation. By week's end, they'll be devotees, not victims. Spring break becomes their rebirth."
Becky's eyes sparkled with dark delight. "And if they resist? The machine can persuade."
Diya hesitated, her body betraying her with a familiar ache, the memory of probes swelling, flooding her with simulated seed. "Just... be careful," she murmured, stepping closer to John, her hand brushing his. "No more scrambling. Make them want it, like I do."
The lab hummed with promise, the cheerleaders' fates sealed in the shadows, as John's map expanded, not just of bodies, but of souls bound by bliss.
In the dim, humming sanctuary of the lab, where the Orgasmo 9000 loomed like a throne of forbidden revelations, John prepared Emily for her second session, a calculated escalation to deepen her imprint, to weave the machine's ecstasy into the fabric of her being before he claimed her fully. The 19-year-old cheerleader, still drowsy from her recovery slumber, stirred on the hospital bed, her slim frame quivering faintly under the thin blanket, blonde hair splayed like a golden halo.
Her blue eyes fluttered open, wide with a mix of lingering haze and unspoken hunger, the hypersensitivity that had shattered her in the first round now a siren's call she couldn't ignore. John approached with gentle authority, his voice low and reassuring as he uncuffed her wrists. "We're not done yet, Emily. This will help you understand... embrace it." She didn't resist as he led her back to the recliner, her perky B-cups rising with each shallow breath, her heart-shaped ass swaying in tentative steps. Becky watched from the console, her devotee's gaze alight with anticipation, ready to monitor the graphs that would chart Emily's descent into devotion.
Secured once more, padded cuffs clicking around her wrists, ankles, and thighs, spreading her wide in vulnerability, Emily's body tensed, but her eyes held a spark of reluctant curiosity, the memory of those rapid, triple climaxes already stirring wetness between her legs. John initiated Level 4 this time, skipping the baseline to push her boundaries, the machine awakening with a deeper growl that vibrated through the leather into her bones.
The reinsertion began with the Vaginal Intruder, its obsidian shaft, warmed to body temperature and glistening with fresh, tingling lubricant, aligning at her entrance. The tip nudged her slick folds, parting them with a slow, inexorable glide that drew a sharp inhale from her, the ridges dragging against her hypersensitive walls like velvet fire. Inch by inch it filled her tight warmth, the pneumatic chambers inflating in rhythmic swells to 3.8 inches, stretching her until she felt impossibly full, each pulse sending sparks straight to her core. A high, whimpering moan escaped the gag as her hips twitched involuntarily, her body remembering the bliss even as it braced for the overload.
The Anal Sentinel followed, its tapered wand circling her ring with teasing rotations, the lubricant warming on contact to a spicy tingle that made her clench. It pressed forward, breaching the resistant muscle with a twisting thrust that burned bright and deep, the shaft thickening as it seated fully, expansions beginning immediately to match the vaginal probe's rhythm. Emily's back arched slightly, a muffled cry vibrating through her as the dual fullness crushed her internals, nerves igniting in a confusing storm of pressure and pleasure.
The Clitoral Whisperer sealed the circuit, descending like a hungry mouth, the silicone dome latching over her swollen pearl with vacuum suction, nodules spinning at 180 rpm in erratic patterns, interspersed with faint electro-pulses that stung like tiny sparks. Her clit, already a hypersensitive nub, throbbed wildly inside the dome, blood rushing so fast she felt it pulse in her ears.
Level 4 ignited, and Emily shattered like glass under a hammer.
The first orgasm hit within forty seconds, a sudden, violent detonation that locked her body rigid, toes curling until they cramped, blonde hair whipping across the headrest as her head thrashed. Her vaginal walls clamped down in frantic, milking spasms around the inflating shaft, the cervical balloon coaxing a deep quiver that felt like her womb was awakening. A sharp, high-pitched keen tore from her throat, muffled by the gag, as fluid squirted in forceful, rhythmic arcs, splattering the leather and John's shoes in glittering proof of her hypersensitivity. The graphs spiked emerald, heart rate 168 bpm, galvanic response redlining, as the second climax slammed in before the first faded, overlapping in a chain that made her hips buck helplessly against the straps, another torrent gushing in short, explosive bursts.
The third crested even harder, her lithe frame convulsing in sharp jerks, tears soaking the blindfold as ecstasy bordered on agony, her perky breasts bouncing with each spasm, nipples pebbled into aching points under the peripheral suction cups. By the fourth, triggered as the anal probe twisted in opposition, crushing her between the invaders, Emily was a fireworks display of surrender, her moans fracturing into desperate squeals, body quaking in rapid triples that left her spent, consciousness clinging by threads as the machine dialed up to Level 5 mid-wave. She held on through two more overlapping peaks, squirting in continuous arcs that pooled beneath her, her blonde ponytail matted with sweat, before the overload crested at Level 6 again, her final scream a high, broken wail as blackness claimed her, body going limp mid-squirt, safeguards engaging to power down.
John unstrapped her quivering form, carrying her back to the bed for a brief respite, but the real transformation awaited. Hours later, as she stirred, eyes glassy with post-ecstatic haze, her hypersensitivity now a craving etched into her nerves, he led her to a silk-draped alcove, Becky filming discreetly from the shadows. "The machine showed you the path," John murmured, his hands undressing her with possessive tenderness, fingers tracing her perky breasts until her nipples hardened like diamonds. "Now let me complete it."
The intercourse was her apotheosis, John entering her with a slow, claiming thrust that filled her tight warmth like the probe never could, his thick length stretching her in ways that made her gasp, the human heat igniting her oversensitive walls. He moved with rhythmic power, long strokes that bottomed out against her cervix, his hips grinding her clit with each press. Emily's climaxes came in her signature triples, sharp, squirting bursts that soaked his thighs, her lithe body arching like in cheers but now in ecstasy, high keens filling the room as she begged for more. The final wave crested as he swelled inside her, flooding her with hot cum in rhythmic pulses that triggered her ultimate surrender, her body seizing around him in a shattering release.
In the afterglow, Emily nestled against him, tears of bliss on her cheeks, the transformation complete: from terrified captive to willing devotee, her hypersensitivity now a gift she offered freely, forever bound to the man who had awakened it.
In the shadowed alcove of the recovery room, where the faint beep of monitors mingled with the distant hum of the Orgasmo 9000 like a lover's lingering breath, John stood over Sarah's hospital bed, his mind a whirlwind of data and desire. The 19-year-old cheerleader lay there, her curvier form still draped in a thin sheet, C-cups rising and falling in shallow rhythms, her long blonde hair splayed across the pillow like threads of captured sunlight. The initial session had been her brutal awakening, virginity claimed by silicone invaders, the sharp tear of her hymen giving way to those deep, rolling earthquakes of ecstasy that left her a quivering, fluid-soaked wreck. John had anticipated the physical variance, but the emotional tether? That was unfolding in real time, her vitals showing spikes of arousal even in sleep, as if her body yearned for the architect behind the machine.
He decided then, with Becky's nod of approval from the doorway, to reveal himself before subjecting her to another mechanical session. "No more conditioning," he murmured, adjusting the lights to a soft amber glow. "I want to see if the attachment is real, if she's willing without the probes whispering commands." The risk was calculated: show his face, test her response, gauge if the violation's scar had bloomed into voluntary devotion. If she recoiled, the machine could always reclaim her; if she surrendered... well, that would be the ultimate data point.
John removed her blindfold gently, his fingers brushing her cheek as her blue eyes fluttered open, hazy at first, then sharpening into focus. Sarah blinked, her gaze locking on his face, the wire-rimmed glasses, the messy dark hair, the lean-muscled build of a man who'd built empires from code and desire. Recognition dawned like a storm front, her body tensing beneath the sheet, wrists tugging at the loose cuffs. "You," she whispered, voice hoarse from her earlier cries, anger flashing hot in her eyes. "You're the one... the monster who did this to me."
Her words spat like venom, a surge of fury born from the abduction, the pain of that first, tearing penetration, the burn that had made her sob, her virgin body violated against her will. She strained against the restraints, her heart-shaped ass shifting on the bed, tears welling as the betrayal hit fresh: "Let me go! You raped me with that... that thing!"
John held her gaze, unmoving, his voice calm as a clinician's. "I awakened you, Sarah. Your body told the truth, those climaxes, the way you surrendered. You weren't fighting in the end." He stepped closer, his hand hovering near hers, not touching yet. Becky watched silently, ready to intervene, but John pressed on: "Tell me you don't crave it now. The fullness, the release... the stars I showed you."
Sarah's anger cracked then, a fissure in her resolve. Her cheeks flushed, not just with rage but with the treacherous heat blooming between her thighs, the memory of the probes swelling, pistoning, flooding her with simulated seed in those long, creamy waves. No, her mind rebelled, he's the enemy, the one who stole my innocence. But her body betrayed her: nipples hardening under the sheet, her core clenching with an ache that whispered more.
The long-term attachment, forged in the alchemy of violation and ecstasy, tugged at her like an invisible leash, oxytocin binding her to her initiator, turning terror into tentative want. "I... I hate you," she choked out, but her voice wavered, eyes dropping to his hands, imagining them on her skin. The quiet obsession that had taken root in her dreams, faceless commands now given form, swelled, her resistance crumbling under the weight of liberated desire. "But... God, I need it. Need you. Please... show me the real thing."
Her surrender was total then, a dam breaking: tears of conflicted bliss streaming down her face as she nodded, her body arching toward him, the anger dissolving into raw, primal hunger. "Take me," she whispered, the words a lifelong echo of that fateful detour, binding her to him not as victim, but as willing acolyte.
John uncuffed her with deliberate slowness, his touch electric as he helped her stand, leading her back to the recliner one last time. "Not yet," he said, his voice a velvet command. "One more with the machine, to remind you." Becky dialed it to Level 5, the safeguards engaged, as the probes reinserted with intimate cruelty.
The Vaginal Intruder aligned first, its warmed shaft pressing against her slick entrance, still tender from her deflowering, but now eager. It glided in with a slow thrust that made her gasp, the ridges dragging fire along her walls, inflating in waves that stretched her to aching fullness, each pulse syncing with her accelerating heartbeat. Sarah moaned deeply, her hips rolling instinctively, the initial soreness a faint echo beneath the building heat.
The Anal Sentinel followed, circling her ring with teasing warmth before breaching with a twist that burned sweet, the shaft seating deep as expansions began, crushing her between the invaders in a vise of pressure that made her thighs quake. "Oh God," she groaned, voice low and guttural, her body no longer resisting but welcoming the invasion.
The Clitoral Whisperer sealed over her live-wire nub, suction pulling tight as nodules spun at 220 rpm, electro-pulses arcing like sparks that made her clit throb wildly. Peripheral arms engaged: nipple cups latching with rhythmic tugs that milked her peaks, heated rollers raking her inner thighs in trails of fire.
Level 5 erupted, and Sarah's orgasms built like gathering storms, slower than Emily's fireworks, but devastating in their depth. The first crested after a torturous climb, her body seizing in a long, rolling quake, walls clamping the probes in frantic milks as fluid poured in a thick, continuous flood, soaking everything in creamy waves. Her roar was primal, echoing off the walls as the second overlapped, her hips grinding against the restraints, tears of overwhelming bliss streaming. The third hit harder, her core clenching so fiercely the pistons stuttered, another torrent gushing as she babbled incoherently, consciousness fraying but holding.
By the fourth, probes pistoning at 120 strokes, clitoral dome a vortex of spin and shock, Sarah was a devotee in waiting, her body quaking in endless waves, begging through the gag for the real thing. The machine powered down, leaving her panting, slick, and primed.
John carried Sarah from the recliner with the gentleness of a lover retrieving a fallen petal, her curvier form cradled against his chest, her long blonde hair cascading over his arm like a veil of moonlight. The silk-draped alcove awaited, transformed into a cocoon of intimacy, candles flickering in soft amber pools, jasmine incense weaving through the air, Becky slipping into the shadows with her phone, the red recording light a discreet witness to the rite about to unfold. Sarah's blue eyes met his, hazy with post-machine bliss and that quiet obsession that had taken root: the violation that had scarred her now blooming into liberation, her body no longer a victim but a willing acolyte, craving the stars he'd shown her through pain and ecstasy.
"Now," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear as he lowered her onto the silk sheets, the fabric cool and whispering against her flushed skin. He undressed her with possessive yet reverent hands, fingers tracing the curve of her shoulders first, sliding the straps of her makeshift gown away to reveal the swell of her C-cup breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples in slow, teasing spirals, the touch feather-light at first, then firmer, coaxing them to harden into aching peaks that sent sparks darting to her core.
Sarah arched into him, a low moan escaping her lips, her body melting under his gaze, no longer resisting, but surrendering to the man who'd orchestrated her awakening. He kissed her then, tender and deep, lips brushing hers like a promise, tongue exploring with unhurried passion as his hands roamed lower, caressing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the heart-shaped perfection of her ass. Each touch was romantic, deliberate, igniting her skin like embers in dry grass, her tightness already clenching in anticipation, the soreness from her deflowering a faint echo beneath the rising heat.
He positioned himself above her, his lean frame a shadow of protection and possession, and entered her slowly, tenderly, his thick length pressing against her virgin-tight entrance, the crown nudging her slick folds before gliding in with exquisite care. The stretch was a burn that melted into bliss, her walls yielding inch by inch to his girth, the sensation fuller, warmer than the machine's cold precision, human heat filling her in ways that made her gasp and cling to his shoulders. "Oh... John," she breathed, her voice a husky plea, nails digging into his back as he rocked gently at first, shallow thrusts that built a slow, romantic rhythm, his hips circling to grind against her clit with each press.
Sarah's first orgasm built like a gathering storm, deep and inexorable, starting as a low tremor in her belly, her walls fluttering around him in tentative pulses. He kissed her neck, murmuring endearments, "You're perfect, Sarah... let go for me", his thrusts deepening slightly, tender yet insistent. The wave crested suddenly, her body seizing in a long, shuddering roll, a guttural moan rumbling from her chest as fluid poured from her in a thick, continuous flood, soaking the sheets beneath them. Her tightness milked him relentlessly, drawing a groan from his throat, but he held back, savoring her quake.
The second came harder, building slower but crashing with seismic force, his pace quickening to deep, grinding claims that bottomed out against her cervix, one hand tangling in her blonde hair, the other cupping her breast with romantic fervor, thumb flicking her nipple in time with his thrusts. Sarah's moans deepened into roars, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer, the friction of his body against her clit amplifying every sensation. "More... please," she begged, her voice breaking as the orgasm rolled through her like thunder, her walls clamping in frantic, milking spasms that wrung him dry of restraint, fluid gushing in heavy waves that left them both slick and trembling.
The third built like a tidal wave, her body quaking in anticipation as John's thrusts grew more urgent, his breath ragged against her ear. She felt him thickening inside her, swelling impossibly wider against her tight walls, stretching her in a new, intimate way, she didn't know it signaled his impending release, only that it felt divine, like her body was molding him to perfection. "John... you're... oh God," she whimpered, her hips grinding up to meet him, the romantic tenderness giving way to raw passion. Then he exploded, a growl tearing from his throat as hot cum flooded her womb in thick, rhythmic jets, the sensation magical, warm and completing, like liquid fire painting her insides, claiming her utterly.
Sarah's largest orgasm yet detonated then, her body locking rigid in a cataclysmic quake, walls spasming in endless, milking waves that pulled every drop from him, fluid pouring from her in a torrent that soaked them both. She screamed his name, tears of bliss streaming down her face, feeling complete, whole, remade, the violation's scar healed in this moment of surrender. As the waves subsided, she nestled against him, her transformation sealed: from terrified captive to utter devotee, bound forever to the man who'd shown her the stars.
The following morning, John stood in the recovery alcove, the two cheerleaders now fully awake and un-cuffed, sitting side-by-side on the edge of the same hospital bed that had cradled them through their transformations. Emily’s slim legs dangled, her perky B-cups rising with each quick breath; Sarah’s fuller curves pressed softly together, her C-cups still faintly marked from the suction cups. Both blondes looked up at him with identical expressions: wide blue eyes shining with something that had gone far past fear or even gratitude. It was devotion.
“You’re free to go,” John said quietly, keys to their repaired SUV dangling from his fingers.
“Campus is twenty minutes away. No one will ever know you were here. You can walk out right now and this stays our secret.”
Silence stretched for three heartbeats.
Emily spoke first, voice small but steady. “Can… can we stay? Just until Sunday night?”
Sarah’s hand found Emily’s immediately, fingers lacing. “Please. We want the rest of the week. With you. With… all of it.”
John’s pulse kicked hard. He glanced at Becky leaning in the doorway, her smile slow and wicked, and at Diya beside her, arms folded beneath her heavy breasts, eyes dark with the same hunger she’d worn since her own surrender. Four women, four distinct journeys of awakening, all converging on him.
He nodded once.
The remaining five days dissolved into a fevered, velvet blur of bodies and breath and silk sheets dragged from bed to alcove to lab floor.
Mornings often began with Sarah, curled against him in the master bedroom of the guest suite he’d converted, her virgin-tight warmth still astonishing every time he slid into her. He took her slow, face-to-face, her long legs wrapped around his waist, whispering her name like a prayer while she came in those deep, rolling earthquakes that left the mattress soaked and her clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in the universe.
Afternoons belonged to Emily, her hypersensitivity demanding constant, teasing attention. He’d pin her against the cool tile of the shower wall, water sluicing over her lithe body, and edge her for an hour with nothing but his fingers and tongue until she shattered into her trademark triple-bursts, squirting in sharp, glittering arcs while she laughed and sobbed and begged for the real thing. When he finally gave it to her, fast and hard over the lab counter, her high, keening cries echoed off the concrete like music.
Evenings were for the group.
Becky orchestrated like a conductor of carnal symphony: Diya on her back, heavy breasts swaying as Becky straddled her face, riding Diya’s eager tongue while Emily knelt between Diya’s thighs, licking slow circles around her swollen clit. Sarah would be on her knees worshipping John’s cock, blonde hair spilling over his lap, until he pulled her up and bent her over the recliner, taking her from behind while the other three women formed a chain of mouths and fingers and moans around them. Sometimes he’d choose two: Becky and Sarah in a tangle of limbs on the couch, their mouths on each other’s breasts while he alternated between them, drawing out long, overlapping orgasms that left all three drenched. Other times it was Diya and Emily, contrasts in curves and sensitivity, Diya’s maternal fullness against Emily’s dancer tightness, both writhing under his tongue until they came together in a duet of contrasting cries.
The Orgasmo 9000 stood silent most of the week, a dark god resting on its throne. They didn’t need it anymore. Flesh had surpassed circuitry.
On the last night, all four women surrounded him on the wide mattress, limbs entwined, mouths tasting salt and sweetness, the air thick with jasmine and sex. John moved from one to the next, slow and reverent, then fast and possessive, until the room was nothing but overlapping moans, slick skin, and the rhythmic creak of the bedframe. He finished inside Sarah, her favorite place, her walls milking him in those long, rolling contractions while Emily kissed her through it, Becky’s fingers teasing Diya beside them, Diya’s hand buried between Becky’s thighs. When he came, it felt endless, pulse after pulse of heat flooding Sarah until she arched and screamed, triggering a chain reaction: Emily squirting against Sarah’s thigh, Becky shuddering into Diya’s palm, Diya coming with a low, broken sob that sounded like gratitude.
Afterward they lay in a breathless, sweat-slick pile, four blondes and one brunette curled around the man who had abducted, awakened, and ultimately been claimed by them all.
Sunday dawn came too soon.
John drove them back to campus in the van, the girls squeezed together in the back seat wearing his oversized hoodies and nothing else, thighs still trembling, hair tousled, eyes bright with secrets. When he parked behind their dorm, no one moved to leave.
Emily spoke first, voice soft. “Summer break’s only ten weeks away.”
Sarah leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “We’ll be waiting.”
And John knew, without a shadow of doubt, that the map of human desire he’d set out to chart had become a map with only one destination: back to them, again and again, for as long as they all burned.
Continues with Orgasmo 9000, pt 4 – The Clinic Opens
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