Chapter 2: The Public Dissection
The days between were a form of delirium. Delia moved through her routine—classes, the library, coffee with Maya—like a ghost haunting her own life. Her skin felt like a poorly fitting suit, too sensitive, humming with the memory of the fluorescent lights and the cold steel. Every glance from a classmate felt weighted, wondering if they’d been there, if they’d seen the photos that had undoubtedly been shared on encrypted chats and blurred forums. She caught Ethan staring in Statistics, his eyes darting away too quickly. She heard a muffled laugh behind her in the hallway, the word “lab” slicing through the chatter.
She didn’t sleep. She lay in the dark, her own hand moving between her legs, replaying it all, the shame and the thrill twisting together until she came with a choked sob into her pillow, hating herself, craving more.
Thursday arrived like a verdict.
At 7:00 PM, she stood outside Room 714, a nondescript door in the oldest wing of the science building. The corridor was deserted, lit by sallow, outdated fixtures that cast long shadows. She’d dressed simply: a dark skirt, a blouse, nothing suggestive. Yet everything felt like a provocation. She knocked, the sound absurdly loud.
“Enter.”
Professor Albright’s private study was not what she expected. It was part office, part museum, part dungeon. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound volumes and clear jars containing things she didn’t want to identify. A massive, scarred oak desk dominated one end. At the other, under a bright, focused lamp, stood a padded examination table, complete with leather restraints at the wrists and ankles. Next to it, on a rolling stainless steel cart, lay an array of instruments—gleaming metal, smooth glass, coiled wires. It was a colder, more intimate version of the lab.
Albright sat behind his desk, not looking up from a thick tome. He wore a dark sweater, no lab coat. His gray-flecked hair was neat, his spectacles perched on his nose. “Sit, Miss Hart.”
She took the hard wooden chair before his desk. He finished reading a passage, marked his place with a bone-white ruler, and closed the book. He regarded her over steepled fingers. “Your performance in the lab was adequate. It revealed a capacity for obedience, and a surprisingly responsive physiology. However, it was unstructured. Prurient. Today begins the formal curriculum.”
“What curriculum?” Her voice was a dry leaf.
“The systematic study of your own capacity for sensation, under controlled observation. You displayed an interest in exhibitionism. We will refine that. You displayed a physiological susceptibility to command. We will condition that. You are,” he said, his analytical gaze stripping her bare where she sat, “a promising, but undisciplined, subject.”
He stood and moved to the cart, his fingers trailing over the instruments. “The guest lecture hall is booked for tomorrow evening. A special seminar on autonomic nervous response in tactile stimulation. You will be the primary demonstrator. The audience will be larger. The parameters, more rigorous.”
Delia’s mouth went dry. “How large?”
“Two hundred and forty-seven enrolled students, plus faculty observers.” He picked up a cold, hinged metal instrument. A speculum. “The demonstration will be comprehensive. You will be fully accessible. The students will not merely observe. They will participate. They will apply stimuli, under my direction, and catalogue your reactions.”
A wave of nausea crashed through her, followed by a flush of such intense, immediate heat she felt dizzy. Two hundred and forty-seven people. “Participate how?”
He turned, the speculum held lightly in his hand. “Tactile exploration. Digital, instrumental. Your body will provide real-time data on pressure sensitivity, lubrication production, contraction sequences. You will be restrained for your safety and for the integrity of the data. You will not be permitted orgasm until the dataset is complete. Denial is a potent variable.”
The words were so clinical, the scenario so grotesque, that her mind could only latch onto the visceral details. Restrained. Their hands on her. No release. Her cunt clenched, empty and aching at the very thought.
“Why would I do that?” she whispered, a last, feeble protest.
He placed the speculum back on the cart with a soft click. “Because you left the lab aroused and unsatisfied. Because you are here now. Because you want to know what happens when you give that control to me completely. Say no, and you may leave. Your grade will be unaffected. This is entirely extracurricular.”
He waited. The hum of the focused lamp was the only sound. Delia saw the laser pointer dot on her neck. Felt the cold probe. Heard the cameras click. She saw the curiosity on their faces, the hunger. She felt the devastating emptiness when he told her to stop.
She didn’t stand up. She didn’t leave.
A faint, approving nod.“Good. We will prepare. Remove your clothing and assume the position on the table. On your back. We will practice the restraints.”
The lecture hall was a cavern of echoing whispers and shifting bodies. Tiered rows of seats rose into shadow, each one filled. The air was warm, thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and anticipation. On the raised stage, under a battery of surgical lights so bright they left purple ghosts in the eyes, stood the apparatus: a high-backed gynecological chair, upholstered in cracked black vinyl, its stirrups extended and waiting. Beside it, Albright’s cart gleamed, instruments arranged in order of use. A large video screen hung above, currently dark.
Delia stood behind a thin wooden screen at the side of the stage, wearing only a short, open-backed hospital gown. Her heart was a frantic animal against her ribs. The murmur of the crowd was a physical pressure. She could see flashes of their faces through the cracks in the screen.
“Remember,” Albright’s voice came from beside her. He was in a full lab coat, a headset microphone curving around his jaw. “You are a demonstrator. Your responses are data. Supplication is not required. But compliance is.”
He walked onto the stage. A hush fell, so sudden and complete it was like a vacuum.
“Good evening. Tonight’s seminar is a practical investigation into the somatic sensory system, using a live, consenting subject. You will witness, and later participate in, the application of graded stimuli and the recorded physiological responses. All is to be observed with scientific detachment. Phones and recording devices are permitted, even encouraged, for your notes. Let us begin.”
He turned. “Miss Hart.”
Her legs carried her out from behind the screen. The wave of focused attention hit her like a wall of heat. A collective, soft sound—a sigh of appraisal—drifted from the crowd. The gown felt like tissue paper. She walked to the chair, the vinyl cold against the backs of her thighs as she sat, then lay back. The lights blinded her. She could only sense the vast, dark void of faces staring up.
“First, the subject is secured to ensure consistent positioning and safety.” Albright’s voice was amplified, calm, and everywhere. He took her wrist, his touch businesslike, and fastened a wide leather cuff around it, buckling it snugly. He did the other, then moved to her ankles, placing each foot in a stirrup and securing them with similar cuffs. She was spread-eagled, open, elevated under the lights. The position was one of utter vulnerability. A low, buzzing murmur rippled through the hall.
“The garment is obstructive.” He untied the front of the gown and pulled it open, then down her arms, leaving it bunched at her waist. Her breasts were exposed to the air and the gaze of hundreds. Camera flashes began to pop like distant lightning. “Observe the initial, unstimulated state. Note the piloerection, the rapid respiratory rate. Baseline anxiety.”
He picked up the speculum. It glinted, cold and predatory. “We begin with internal visualization of the vaginal canal and cervix. The speculum allows for dilation and illumination.” He showed it to the camera that now projected his hands onto the large screen overhead. Delia saw her own trembling body magnified twenty feet tall.
“Relax your pelvic muscles, Miss Hart.”
She tried. The cold, lubricated metal touched her outer lips. She flinched. A gasp escaped her, amplified by his microphone. He inserted the blades slowly, precisely. The sensation of being stretched open, of cold metal inside her, under these lights, in front of this crowd, made her head spin. It was invasive. It was degrading. A fresh, hot rush of wetness betrayed her. The speculum opened with a ratcheting sound, locking her open. On the screen, the pink, glistening interior of her vagina was displayed in horrifying, intimate detail.
“Magnificent,” Albright murmured, though his tone remained instructional. “Note the vascular engorgement of the vaginal walls. The production of lubrication is already evident, a parasympathetic response to the novel stimulus, despite the subject’s apparent distress. The mind and body are often in fascinating disagreement.”
He left the speculum in, a constant, stretching presence. He selected a long, slender glass rod. “A temperature and texture probe. Glass is inert and transmits sensation efficiently.” He ran the cool, smooth shaft along her inner thigh. She jerked against the restraints. He brought it to her clit, circling the swollen nub with agonizing slowness. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, lanced through her. A moan, unbidden, echoed in the hall.
“Audible response one,” he noted. “Pitch rising. The clitoral body is extraordinarily densely innervated.” He pressed the glass more firmly against her, rolling it. Delia’s hips lifted off the chair, a helpless seeking motion. The need was instant, overwhelming. “Observe the involuntary motor response. The body seeks optimal pressure.”
He removed the glass rod. The loss was a physical pain. He picked up a sleek, black vibrator. The buzz of its activation filled the silent hall. “Now, a concentrated, rhythmic stimulus.”
He didn’t tease. He pressed the humming head directly against her clit.
Delia cried out, her back arching off the vinyl. The vibration was relentless, scientific in its intensity. It buzzed through her nerves, a direct line to a gathering climax. She was hurtling toward it, her breaths coming in ragged sobs, her fingers clawing at the leather cuffs. The orgasm built, a taut, screaming wire inside her.
He pulled it away an instant before she shattered.
A sound of pure anguish tore from her throat. “Please!” The word was a shriek, rebounding off the walls. Laughter, nervous and excited, filtered from the audience.
“Denial one,” Albright announced, as if logging a result. “The sympathetic surge, followed by the frustration response, is particularly pronounced. Document the lacrimation.” He was right. Hot tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes, streaming into her hair. He wiped them with a cold, clean cloth. “Now, we introduce participant observation. Rows one through five, you may form a queue at the stage. Single file. You will, one at a time, apply a stimulus of your choosing, from the available instruments, under my direction. You will not stimulate the clitoris directly. You will note the subject’s reaction. Begin.”
Chaos, ordered and slow. Students began to shuffle from their seats, forming a line that snaked up the side steps. The first was a girl with glasses and a notebook. She approached the cart, looking terrified.
“Select an instrument,” Albright commanded.
She chose a soft-bristled brush. “Internal or external application?” Albright asked.
“E-external.”
“Proceed. Brush the inner thigh, moving toward the labia majora. Observe.”
The girl’s hand shook as she brushed the soft bristles over Delia’s sensitized skin. It was a whisper of a touch, maddening in its lightness. Delia whimpered, her hips twitching. The girl’s eyes were huge behind her glasses, glued to where the brush touched. She scribbled something in her notebook and fled.
A boy was next. He grabbed the glass rod. Without waiting for instruction, he pushed it against her swollen outer lips, sliding it through her wetness, mimicking a thrust. “Fuck, she’s so wet,” he mumbled, more to himself than for notes. Albright didn’t correct him. Delia moaned, her head thrashing side to side. He pushed the rod a little inside her, alongside the cold metal of the speculum. The dual fullness was obscene. He twisted it. She cried out.
“Good. Note the accommodation response to deep pressure,” Albright narrated.
The line seemed endless. They came, one after another. A girl used her fingers, two of them, spreading Delia’s lips open, peering close. “The labia minora are really dark pink now,” she said clinically, before rubbing the pad of her thumb over the sensitive flesh. A boy chose a small, buzzing egg-shaped vibrator. He held it against her perineum, the buzz radiating through her. Another used a feather, dragging it over her nipples until they were hard, pebbled points, then trailing it down her stomach. Some were shy, their touches fleeting. Others were bold, possessive, their eyes gleaming with a power they’d never had.
Through it all, Albright orchestrated, narrated, denied. Each time the pleasure built, coiling tight in her belly, he would stop them. “Enough. Return to your seat.” Each time, she was left gasping on the precipice, sweat-slicked and trembling, her cunt throbbing with a desperate, empty ache. She lost count of the denials. She begged. “Please, sir, please let me come.” Her voice was hoarse, broken. The crowd ate it up. Every sob, every plea, was met with a fresh wave of excited murmurs and flashing lights.
The last student, a large guy from the football team, used his own hand. He didn’t reach for an instrument. He simply pushed two thick fingers inside her, alongside the speculum, curling them. “Jesus, she’s tight,” he grunted. He pumped them slowly, his other hand pinching her nipple hard. The mix of pain and penetration sent her spiraling again, right to the edge.
“Withdraw,” Albright said.
The player removed his fingers with a wet sound, showing them to his friends in the front row, glistening under the lights, before wiping them on his jeans.
The queue was gone. The hall was silent again, heavy with the collective memory of hundreds of touches. Delia was a wreck: tear-streaked, sweat-drenched, her body a map of sensation with no outlet. The speculum still held her open, a cruel mockery.
“The dataset is robust,” Albright said, removing the speculum at last. The release was a minor relief, but the emptiness was worse. She felt gaping, used. “We have recorded responses to temperature, texture, pressure, and rhythmic vibration. Now, for the final datum: the culmination of the sexual response cycle. The orgasm.”
He selected the black vibrator again. He also picked up a thick, veined glass dildo from the cart. “For this, a combined stimulus, replicating a more complete sexual act.”
He positioned the dildo at her entrance. “This will provide deep, internal pressure.” He pushed it into her in one slow, inexorable glide. She was so wet, so open from the speculum and the fingers, it slid in easily, filling her in a way that made her see stars. The stretch was intense, perfect.
Then he pressed the vibrator against her clit.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic. Her body, tormented and edged to breaking point, convulsed. There was no slow build, only a seismic detonation. A scream was ripped from her, raw and ragged, as the orgasm slammed into her with brutal force. It was not pleasure; it was a violent electrical storm, tearing through every nerve. Her back arched impossibly high, straining against the leather. Her cunt clamped down rhythmically, milking the glass dildo in hard, spasming pulses. The vibrator buzzed against her, prolonging the agony, the ecstasy, turning it into a white-hot continuum of sensation that obliterated thought.
She babbled, nonsense words, pleas, sobs. Her vision whited out. The noise from the crowd was a distant roar. She was aware, on some level, of the massive screen displaying her contorted face, her shaking thighs, the vibrator humming against her swollen flesh.
It seemed to last forever. Wave after wave after wave, until she was a shuddering, sobbing wreck, completely spent. He removed the instruments. The loss of sensation was almost as violent as the climax itself. She collapsed back onto the vinyl, utterly hollow, tears streaming silently now.
Albright unfastened the restraints. Her limbs fell bonelessly to her sides. He pulled the hospital gown up over her, a gesture almost like modesty, but his eyes held no comfort, only assessment. “A satisfactory demonstration. The subject’s refractory period will now commence. Seminar concluded.”
The lights on stage dimmed. The house lights came up. Students began to chatter loudly, excitedly, gathering bags, filing out, throwing glances back at the stage where Delia lay, too broken to move.
He leaned close, his microphone off. His voice was for her alone, low and precise. “You did very well. The data was exceptionally clear.” He paused. “My study, next Thursday. We will review the footage. Analyze your performance. And discuss the next phase.”
He walked away, leaving her alone on the stage, the echoes of her own screams and the ghost of a hundred hands still lingering on her skin. She listened to the crowd disperse, her body humming with a profound emptiness that felt, terrifyingly, like the beginning of a new hunger.