Chapter 8: Data Collection and Conditioning
The bathroom tiles were a glacier under his knees. Dominic kept his gaze lowered, watching the condensation from the shower bead and slide down the glass door. The antiseptic smell couldn’t quite mask the deeper, muskier scent of his own submission that seemed baked into the grout by now.
Lena stood at the sink, her back to him, arranging instruments on a clean white towel. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, bleaching all color, turning everything into a study in white and steel and shadow. He saw the thick, ribbed silicone dildo from the harness. Next to it, the Njoy Pure Wand, its curved steel gleaming dully under the bulbs, looking less like a toy and more like a surgical implement.
“Day two,” she said, not turning around. Her voice was calm, almost conversational. “The peptides should be establishing receptor binding. We need a new baseline for oral and prostate response. The medical suite was general. This is specific.”
She turned. In her hands was the small tablet, a stylus tucked behind her ear. She looked at him kneeling there, naked but for the cage, his hands resting on his thighs. Her expression was focused, detached.
“Open.”
He parted his lips. She slid the ribbed dildo onto his tongue. It was cold, tasting faintly of soap. She pushed it back until the head nudged his soft palate. His throat convulsed instinctively.
“Relax your jaw. Take it deeper.” She applied gentle, relentless pressure. The silicone slid past his uvula, the ridges catching slightly, and he gagged, tears springing to his eyes. “Breathe through your nose. This is a training exercise. Your throat is a hole to be used. It needs to learn to accommodate.”
She held it there, deep, until his breathing evened out, ragged but functional. Then she began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, just enough to make him gag each time, saliva dripping from his stretched lips. Then deeper, longer strokes, fucking his mouth with a steady, rhythmic precision.
The humiliation was hot and bright. But beneath it, coiling alongside the reflex to vomit, was a thread of sharp, electric sensation. The peptide. It was waking up the nerve endings in his throat, the ones Dr. Evelyn had described. The friction wasn’t just an invasion; it was sending strange, diffuse sparks down his neck, into his chest. His caged cock, which had been soft and spent, gave a feeble twitch.
Lena watched his face, his eyes. “Interesting,” she murmured. She withdrew the dildo completely, a string of saliva following it. “Already?”
She picked up the steel wand. She lubed the smaller end generously. “On all fours. Arch your back. Present.”
He moved clumsily, the tiles hard against his knees and palms. He lowered his head, pushing his ass up and back into the empty, cool air. He felt unbearably exposed.
The touch of the cold steel against his hole made him flinch. She didn’t pause. She pressed the curved tip against him, and it slid in with shocking, weighted ease. The metal was unyielding, a totally different presence than silicone. She worked it deeper, the curve following the natural path of his rectum until the small bulb settled with uncanny accuracy against his prostate.
“Ah!” It was less a cry and more a punched-out gasp. The sensation was immediate, profound, and brutally specific. The metal conducted sensation perfectly, a cold, hard pressure directly on the epicenter of his new neural fire.
“Now the mouth,” she said.
She guided the dildo back between his lips, fucking his throat in that same metronomic rhythm. At the same time, she began to move the wand inside him, not thrusting, but applying a firm, rotating pressure against his prostate.
Dual stimulation. Mouth and ass. The signals collided in his brain, a storm of overload. The gagging was constant now, his body heaving, but the pleasure from his ass was a rising tsunami, drowning out the discomfort. His cock strained against the cage, dripping a steady, clear string of precum onto the white tile below. It pooled, a shameful little puddle.
“Good,” Lena breathed, watching the leak. “Very good. The wiring is connecting.”
She fucked his throat and massaged his prostate for what felt like an eternity, a symphony of choking sounds and helpless, guttural moans. The pleasure built in a steep, terrifying curve. He was hurtling toward the edge, his body tensing, his balls drawing up tight.
Just as he felt the first catastrophic wave begin to crest, she stopped.
Everything stopped. The dildo was pulled from his mouth. The wand went still, a dormant, heavy presence inside him.
He shuddered, suspended on the precipice, whimpering. The need to come was a physical pain, a shrieking in his veins.
“Edge one,” Lena stated, tapping the tablet. She waited, counting in her head. He could see her reflection in the mirrored cabinet, her face serene, clinical. After thirty seconds of him trembling on the verge, she began again.
Thrust. Rotate. Gag. Moan. The climb was faster this time, his sensitized body responding like a lit fuse. Again, she stopped at the absolute last nanosecond.
“Edge two.”
She did it ten times. Each climb was more intense, each cessation more brutal. By the fifth edge, he was sobbing openly, begging into the wet silicone, “Please, Lena, please let me, I need to, I can’t…” By the eighth, the pleas had dissolved into wordless, animal keening. The tenth edge left him broken, forehead pressed to the cold tile, his entire body trembling with unresolved tension, his cock a throbbing, leaking ruin in its cage.
“Baseline established,” she said. Her voice was the only steady thing in the universe. “Now we collect data.”
She removed the dildo. She left the wand buried in his ass, its weight a constant accusation. She picked up the tablet properly.
“The parameter is prostate-induced orgasm. I will stimulate. You will not resist. You will report nothing. You will simply experience. I will count the contractions of your prostate. That is the data point.”
She pressed the wand forward, a firm, insistent nudge.
It was all it took.
His body, wound ten times beyond its limit, snapped. An orgasm detonated in his core, seismic and dry. His ass clamped rhythmically around the steel wand, milking nothing. His caged dick jumped, but nothing came out. It was a pure, neural event, a lightning strike in the rewired pathways.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” Lena counted, her eyes on the tablet screen where she was inputting numbers. “Eight contractions. Good.”
She didn’t remove the wand. She held it perfectly still, letting the aftershocks subside. He panted, dripping sweat onto the tile, utterly spent.
She waited exactly two minutes, watching a timer on the tablet.
Then she pressed again.
Another orgasm ripped through him, weaker but still violent, a shuddering echo of the first.
“One, two, three, four, five. Five contractions.”
He cried out, a raw sound of protest. His body felt flayed, his insides scraped raw. The pleasure was gone, replaced by a hypersensitive, agonizing ache. “No more… please, no more…”
“Your feedback is not required,” she said coolly. She reset the timer.
Two minutes. Press.
This time, it was a pitiful, convulsive ripple. Three contractions. A thin, clear fluid seeped from his caged tip, not semen, just prostate fluid and defeat.
She recorded it.
The process was mechanical, relentless. Two minutes. Stimulate. Count. Record. Each orgasm was weaker, less a cresting wave and more a pathetic spasm. Each one tore a little more of him away. By the sixth, he was limp, barely responding, his contractions feeble flutters she had to strain to count. His eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing.
She didn’t stop.
On the ninth, his body just… gave up. There was a single, weak clench, then nothing. He lay gasping, tears and ssmear on his face.
“Minimal response,” she noted, tapping the screen. “Near total somatic exhaustion.”
She waited the two minutes. She pressed the wand for the tenth and final time.
Nothing happened. His prostate was numb, dormant, a burned-out circuit. He just whimpered, a low, continuous sound of utter brokenness.
Lena slowly withdrew the wand. It came out with a soft, wet sound. She placed it on the towel. She looked from the tablet to him, a heap of trembling flesh on the bathroom floor, lying in his own sweat and spit and dribbled fluids.
“Recovery time to first orgasm: approximately three seconds post-stimulus,” she said, reviewing her notes aloud. “Diminishing returns thereafter. Total system crash at iteration ten.” She put the stylus behind her ear. “A promising dataset. Tomorrow we’ll administer the injection in the morning and repeat in the evening. We need to see if the peptide improves recovery time between orgasms. If it reduces the refractory period of the prostate itself.”
The clinical language was a final layer of dehumanization. He wasn’t a man. He was a system showing promising data.
She crouched beside him. She didn’t touch him with gentleness, but with efficiency, hooking her hands under his arms. “Up. You need to hydrate. Electrolytes. We can’t have you seizing.”
He stumbled to his feet, legs buckling. She steadied him, her body strong against his. In the mirror, he saw a ghost: pale, hollow-eyed, a silver-flecked beard glistening with spit, a metal cage hanging from a red, spent cock.
Lena met his eyes in the reflection. Her gaze wasn’t cruel. It was… satisfied. Like a sculptor stepping back from a particularly challenging piece of stone.
“You’re doing very well,” she said, and the words, in that context, were the most devastating thing he’d ever heard. “The changes are happening faster than predicted. Your body is accepting the new programming.”
She led him out of the bathroom, leaving the instruments on the towel, the data saved on the tablet, the evidence of his unraveling slowly drying on the cold, white tile.
She led him out of the bathroom, leaving the instruments on the towel, the data saved on the tablet, the evidence of his unraveling slowly drying on the cold, white tile.
He moved like a sleepwalker to the small guest room, his feet shuffling on the hardwood. She guided him onto the narrow bed, handed him a glass of electrolyte water, and watched him drink it in numb, mechanical gulps. “Sleep,” she commanded, and he obeyed, his body collapsing into the mattress as if shot.
The door clicked shut behind her.
In the living room, the silence felt different. It wasn’t the productive quiet of a laboratory; it was heavy, waiting. The tablet on the coffee table glowed with its sterile spreadsheets of contractions and intervals. Lena stared at it, then rubbed her eyes. A hollow feeling, unfamiliar and unpleasant, sat in her gut. It wasn’t about the data. The data was perfect.
It was his eyes. In the mirror, at the end. They weren’t surrendered. They were dead.
A compulsion moved her. She walked back to the guest room, easing the door open. He was asleep, a still mound under the sheet, breathing ragged but deep. On the nightstand, next to the empty glass, was a simple black moleskine notebook. She’d seen him writing in it early in the mornings, before protocols began.
She shouldn’t.
Her fingers closed on the cool cover. She took it to the living room, sat in the pool of lamplight, and opened it.
The handwriting was disciplined, stark, a reflection of the man he’d been before the peptides. The early entries were technical: weight loss metrics, TRT doses, reflections on submission as a psychological architecture. Then came notes about Madame Seraphina. Not clinical. Lyrical. ‘Her laugh across the room is a sanction. My obedience is the art she critiques. The goal is not my orgasm, but the light in her eyes when I am perfectly used.’
Lena’s throat tightened.
The entries grew sparse after the medical suite. Then, last night’s: ‘The protocol is working. My body is a hyper-reactive instrument. Lena is a brilliant technician. She operates me with perfect precision. I have never been more functional, or more empty. She collects my shattered pieces but does not admire the pattern of the break. I am a engine being stress-tested. I miss the art. I miss being a creation. I think of Seraphina’s parlour. The velvet, the scent of her, the purpose. Here, there is only data. I cannot serve data. I am considering asking for release.’
The journal entry was a punch to the chest.
Hmmm, she thought, the clinical part of her mind trying to categorize the input. Randy is starting to lose interest due to the clinical nature the relationship has started to become. But the thought wouldn’t hold its shape. His name was Dominic. He wasn't losing interest; he was divorcing his soul from the process. He does better with a loving relationship with his Domme where he enjoys making her happy and turned on. There has been none of that interaction lately and he is thinking about going back to Madam.
A cold fear trickled down her spine. Not fear of losing him to Seraphina, but fear of having misunderstood the entire equation. She had focused on the wiring, ignoring the current. The current was his devotion. She had been measuring output while the power source was failing.
I need to change my style with Randy.
She closed the journal, her mind scrabbling, stripping away weeks of methodology. The tablet with its numbers seemed stupid now, childish. She got up, went to her bedroom, and opened the bottom drawer. Beneath her own clothes was a box Seraphina had given her at the start, with a wink. “For when the science lesson is over,” she’d said.
Lena lifted out a harness of soft, black leather, not the utilitarian nylon of the training gear. She found the silicone dildo that matched it, a realistic, thick cock with a subtle curve. She held it, feeling its weight. This wasn’t an instrument. It was a proxy.
She undressed, her hands moving with a new intent. She slid into the harness, adjusting the straps until it sat snug against her, the cock jutting from her pelvis. She looked at herself in the mirror. The technician was gone. Someone else looked back. She applied her perfume to her wrists, her throat, the insides of her thighs.
She walked back to the guest room and didn’t bother knocking.
The light from the hallway fell across the bed. He stirred, blinking awake, his body tensing automatically for the next ordeal. His eyes found her in the doorway, silhouetted, the shape of the harness clear against her skin.
“Get up,” she said. Her voice was different. Lower. Softer at the edges.
He pushed back the sheet, obeying, his movements stiff. He stood naked before her, the cage a dark jewel against his pallor, his body still humming with the ghost of the wand.
“Follow.”
She didn’t lead him to the bathroom. She led him to her bedroom. It was warm, lit by a single lamp with a amber shade. Her perfume hung in the air, jasmine and sandalwood. The bed was large, covered in a dark duvet.
“Kneel here,” she said, pointing to the space beside the bed.
He knelt on the plush rug, confusion warring with the deep, automatic submission in his posture.
Lena sat on the edge of the bed, her thighs parted. She reached down and ran her fingers along the length of the silicone cock, a slow, possessive stroke. She watched his eyes track the movement. “You’ve been so good,” she murmured. “Your body is learning so beautifully. It’s time you remembered who you’re learning for.”
She hooked a finger under his chin, lifting his gaze to hers. “This isn’t a test. I’m not collecting data. I am going to use your mouth because the thought of your desperate, perfect throat makes me wet. Do you understand the difference?”
He shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with fear. His eyes flickered, the deadness receding, replaced by a fragile, desperate hope. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Show me.”
He leaned forward, his hands resting on her thighs. His breath was hot on the silicone. He didn’t wait for a command. He opened his mouth and took the head of the cock inside, his tongue swirling around the tip in a slow, worshipful lick.
Lena let out a soft sigh. “Yes. Like that.”
He took more, sinking down, his lips stretching around the girth. He didn’t gag. He worked, hollowing his cheeks, sucking with a deep, rhythmic pull that was about service, not survival. His eyes stayed on hers, wide and searching.
The clinical detachment in Lena evaporated, burned away by the raw intimacy of the act. She could feel the pull of his mouth through the harness, a direct, claiming feedback. Her own cunt clenched, hot and sudden. She was getting turned on. Actually, viscerally turned on.
“Fuck, your mouth,” she breathed, her head tipping back. Her hands came up to tangle in his graying hair, not to guide, but to feel. “You love this, don’t you? You love making me feel good with this filthy mouth.”
A moan vibrated through the cock in his mouth. His hips gave a tiny, helpless jerk, the cage tapping against her leg. He was leaking again, a shining bead of precum welling at the tip.
The sheer authenticity of his pleasure, tied directly to hers, was more powerful than any peptide. Lena’s pulse hammered in her throat. She began to move, rolling her hips up into his face, fucking his mouth in a slow, deep, rolling rhythm. “Take it all,” she urged, her voice gritty. “I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to feel your throat give way.”
He took it. He took every inch, his nose pressing into her pubic bone, his throat opening. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the room. She could see his Adam’s apple working, could feel the tight, hot squeeze of his esophagus. Her own arousal was a slick, demanding heat between her legs. This was mutual. This was electric.
“Enough,” she gasped, pushing him back. A string of saliva connected his lips to the glistening cock. He was panting, his eyes glassy with a devotion she hadn’t seen in weeks. “Now the other part. The part we’ve been training. I want you on your back. I want to see your face when I fuck the new nerves in your ass.”
He scrambled onto the bed, lying back, his legs spreading. The vulnerability was total, but it wasn’t the sterile exposure of the bathroom. It was an offering.
Lena sheathed the cock in more lube, the slick sounds obscene. She positioned herself over him, one knee between his legs, and guided the tip to his hole. It was pink, slightly swollen from the day’s abuses, and it fluttered at the first touch.
“This is mine,” she said, holding his gaze. “This pleasure, these new wires… they’re for me. You built this for me. Now show me what it does.”
She pressed inside.
The breach was smoother than ever, his body opening not with resistance, but with a hungry, yielding welcome. The peptide-enhanced sensitivity wasn’t a theoretical concept anymore. She saw it explode across his face. His jaw went slack, his eyes rolling back for a second before they snapped to hers, stunned.
“Oh god… Lena…”
“Tell me.”
“It’s… it’s everywhere. Like lightning in my veins. Fuck, fuck, it’s so much…”
She began to move, a long, dragging stroke that pressed the curved head directly against his prostate. His back arched off the bed, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. His cock jumped in its cage, a jet of precum arcing onto his stomach.
“Yes,” she hissed, her own pleasure coiling tight. She set a pace, not the mechanical piston of training, but a deep, riding rhythm. Each thrust rocked his whole body. Each retreat made him whimper. She watched his face, a masterpiece of unraveling ecstasy. “You’re my perfect thing. Look at you. You’re fucking yourself on my cock for my pleasure. You’re dying for it.”
“I am,” he sobbed, his hands fisting in the duvet. “Please, don’t stop, I need it, I need to make you come, please let me make you come…”
His begging was like fuel. She fucked him harder, the bedframe creaking, her thighs slapping against his. The sensation for her was incredible—the harness straps chafing, the visual of him coming apart, the powerful clench of his rewired channel around the silicone. She was close, teetering on the edge.
“Come for me,” she demanded, grinding down against him, hitting that brutal, perfect spot. “Come untouched, like the good boy you are. Show me what I’ve made.”
It was a command his body could no longer disobey. The orgasm seized him, violent and total. It wasn’t the dry, convulsive data point from the bathroom. His caged dick erupted in a pulsing, helpless stream, shot after shot of come spurting through the bars to stripe his chest and stomach. His ass clamped around her in a relentless, rhythmic vise, milking the fake cock, his screams muffled into the crook of his arm.
The sight, the feel, the raw sounds of him—it tipped Lena over. Her own orgasm crashed through her, a deep, internal shudder that made her cry out, her body buckling over his as she rode out the waves.
She collapsed beside him, both of them gasping, slick with sweat. The air stank of sex and salt and spent desire. After a long moment, she turned her head. He was looking at her, his eyes clear, present, awash in a profound and shattered gratitude.
She reached out and brushed a thumb through the mess on his stomach, then brought it to his lips. He sucked it clean, his tongue warm and tender.
“That,” she whispered, “is the data I want.”