Chapter 10: Morning Awakening
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glare cutting through the fog in Trina’s brain. She blinked, her vision swimming as she pushed herself upright, the scratchy dorm blanket tangled around her legs. Her head pounded, a dull ache that made her wince, and her body felt heavy, like she’d been running for hours. She glanced down at herself—her plaid skirt was twisted, her white stockings damp and clinging uncomfortably to her skin. The last thing she remembered was the lecture hall, Professor Vance’s voice low and commanding, and then… nothing. How had she gotten back to her dorm?
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach as fragments of the previous day flickered in her mind like a broken film reel. Her chest tightened, a mix of shame and confusion clawing at her insides. Had it been real? The touch, the words, the overwhelming release—it all felt too vivid to be a dream, yet too surreal to be true. She glanced at the clock on her desk: 6:30 AM. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples. She had to get ready for class, but every movement felt like wading through molasses.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shock that sent a shiver up her spine. Her head still felt fuzzy, her thoughts sluggish and disjointed as she stood, swaying slightly. She moved toward the tiny bathroom on autopilot, her body going through the motions while her mind struggled to catch up. The dorm room was silent except for the faint hum of the mini-fridge, and the quiet only amplified the chaos in her head.
Flicking on the bathroom light, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and froze. The reflection staring back at her looked like a stranger—pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, her long black hair a tangled mess. “Get it together, Trina,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She turned on the shower, the sound of running water filling the small space, and stepped in, letting the steam envelop her.
The hot water hit her skin like a balm, easing the tension in her shoulders and washing away the lingering chill. She grabbed her vanilla-scented body wash, the familiar smell grounding her as she lathered up. For a moment, she let herself focus on the simple act of washing, the rhythm of it pulling her back to some semblance of normalcy. But as she rinsed off, her mind drifted back to Professor Vance—the way her touch had been both gentle and commanding, the way her words had wrapped around Trina like a spell. A shiver ran through her, and it wasn’t from the cold.
She stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around herself. Her body felt strange, hyper-aware, every brush of the fabric against her skin sending little jolts of sensation. She glanced down at her chest, her nipples stiff and a faint flush spreading across her skin. “Stop it,” she muttered, shaking her head as if she could physically dislodge the thoughts. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to remember how her body had responded. Not yet.
She pulled on a pair of black leggings and an oversized hoodie, the soft fabric a small comfort. Her hands trembled slightly as she tugged the hoodie over her head, and she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She needed to focus, to push everything else aside and get through the day. Grabbing her toothbrush, she scrubbed at her teeth with more force than necessary, the minty paste sharp on her tongue. Her reflection in the mirror still looked haunted, but she forced herself to look away. Coffee. She needed coffee.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed out of the dorm room, the cool morning air hitting her face as she stepped outside. The campus was quiet, the usual bustle of students still hours away, and she walked quickly, her sneakers slapping against the pavement. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since… she couldn’t even remember. She’d grab a coffee and a bagel at the campus cafe, something to help clear the fog in her head. Normal things. Routine. That’s what she needed.
As she crossed the quad, the pressure in her bladder grew, a dull ache that she usually ignored until she got to class. But today, it was different. The memory of the previous day crept back in, Professor Vance’s voice echoing in her mind: “From now on, whenever you relieve yourself, you will orgasm.” Her breath hitched, and she quickened her pace, her thighs clenching involuntarily. She couldn’t think about that now. She just needed to find a bathroom.
She burst through the doors of the student union, her eyes scanning the room frantically. The restroom was tucked away in a corner, its door marked by a faded sign. She rushed inside, her heart pounding, and fumbled with the lock, securing it behind her. The small space felt suffocating, the fluorescent light flickering slightly, and she leaned against the sink, trying to steady her breathing. Her hands shook as she pulled down her leggings, the air cool against her skin.
She closed her eyes, bracing herself, but nothing could have prepared her for the wave of pleasure that hit as the first trickle of urine escaped. Her body tensed, a jolt of electricity shooting through her, and she gasped, her knees buckling. The sensation was overwhelming, her mind reeling as her muscles clenched and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Professor Vance had been right. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, and as the wave subsided, leaving her trembling and breathless, she knew her life would never be the same again. Not after she realized how much she’d enjoyed it.
Trina leaned against the cool tile wall of the bathroom, her legs shaky, the lingering buzz of the forced orgasm still thrumming beneath her skin. “What the fuck was that?” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling as a mix of horror and a strange, undeniable thrill swirled within her. She flushed the toilet, the sound echoing in the small space, and pulled up her leggings, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Her reflection in the mirror looked wild, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and searching. She splashed water on her face, trying to ground herself, but the memory of the sensation lingered, stubborn and unrelenting.
Back in her dorm room, she needed to experiment, to understand what Professor Vance had done to her, to her body. She pulled out her laptop, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Google: forced orgasm, mind control, sexual manipulation,” she muttered under her breath, typing the words with shaky hands. The search results were a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories and dubious websites, none of which offered any real answers or understanding. She clicked through page after page, her frustration growing with each dead end. “This is useless,” she snapped, slamming the laptop shut.
Frustrated, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She needed to experience it again, to dissect the sensation, to figure out if it was truly pleasurable or just a bizarre, unwanted side effect. She grabbed a large glass of water and chugged it down, the cool liquid soothing her dry throat. “Okay,” she said to herself, pacing the small room. “Let’s see what happens.” She waited, the pressure in her bladder building steadily, her heart pounding in anticipation.
The pressure built again, and this time, she was ready. She locked her dorm door, closed the blinds, and stripped off her leggings, her hands trembling slightly. She sat on the edge of her bed, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “Focus,” she whispered, her eyes closing as she tried to concentrate on the sensation, the growing pressure in her bladder, the anticipation of the inevitable release. Her body tensed, every nerve on edge, waiting for the wave to hit.
As the first trickle came, she braced herself, her muscles tensing. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, but this time, she tried to control it, to prolong it, to see if she could heighten the sensation. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to stop the flow, to build the pressure even further. “Oh god,” she gasped, her body trembling as the pleasure surged through her, more intense than before. She bit her lip to stifle a moan, her hands gripping the edge of the bed as the orgasm ripped through her, leaving her breathless and shaking.
Afterward, she lay on her bed, breathless and trembling, her mind reeling. It was undeniably pleasurable, more intense than any orgasm she’d ever experienced before. But it was also wrong, forced, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being manipulated, controlled. “What the hell is happening to me?” she whispered, her voice breaking as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away angrily, determined to figure this out, to take back control of her own body.
She experimented throughout the day, varying the length of time she held her urine, playing with the intensity of the release. She discovered that a longer hold did indeed amplify the pleasure, turning it into an almost unbearable ecstasy. But the brief squirts were also surprisingly satisfying, a quick, sharp jolt of pleasure that left her wanting more. “This is insane,” she muttered, shaking her head as she scribbled notes in her journal, trying to make sense of it all. Her body felt like a foreign object, something she no longer fully understood or controlled.
By late afternoon, she had a better understanding of what Professor Vance had done to her, but she was no closer to understanding why. She knew what she had to do. She had to confront the professor, to demand answers. “This isn’t okay,” she said aloud, her voice firm despite the lingering tremor in her hands. She changed into a fresh pair of leggings and a t-shirt, her movements quick and purposeful. Grabbing her backpack, she headed out of the dorm room, her destination clear.
The dorm hallway smelled faintly of stale popcorn and cleaning solution as Trina marched towards the exit, the worn carpet muffling her steps. Her backpack felt heavy, a counterweight to the buzzing, almost electric certainty crackling through her veins. She knew the trick now. Professor Vance had wired her body to react, a grotesque Pavlovian experiment. Knowledge was power, right? Holding it close like a shield, she pushed through the heavy exit door into the crisp late afternoon air.
The campus quad sprawled before her, bathed in the long, golden light of autumn. Students clustered on benches or hurried between buildings, their laughter and chatter a mundane soundtrack that felt jarringly disconnected from the chaos inside her. Each step towards the Humanities building sent a fresh ripple of awareness through her pelvis, a phantom echo of the day’s forced releases. She focused on the rhythm of her walking, the solid thump of her sneakers on the pavement, grounding herself. Control. I understand it. I can handle her.
She passed beneath the skeletal branches of an ancient oak, its shadow cool on her skin. The memory of Vance’s fingers tracing the damp edge of her stocking, the deliberate spill of water on her bound wrists, flashed unbidden. Her stomach tightened, a confusing knot of remembered humiliation and that traitorous, undeniable spark of… something else. She shoved the thought down hard. Just conditioning. Biological wiring. I know the trigger. She turned the corner, the imposing stone facade of the Humanities building looming ahead. Her jaw clenched. Answers were behind those doors.
The heavy oak entrance groaned as she pulled it open, swallowing her into the sudden quiet. Inside, the air was still and cool, thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and polished wood. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the empty hallway. Her earlier confidence faltered slightly in the oppressive silence. Professor Vance’s office was tucked away on the second floor, a place that had always felt intimidatingly academic. Now it felt like the lair of something else entirely.
Her footsteps echoed unnervingly loud as she climbed the wide, marble staircase. Each step amplified the pressure building low in her abdomen, a consequence of gulping water before leaving her room. Perfect timing, she thought grimly, a spark of strategy igniting. Let her see the effect. Show her I’m not fazed. The false bravado felt flimsy against the visceral need growing inside her, a counterpoint to her racing heart.
The corridor upstairs was deserted, lined with dark wooden doors bearing brass nameplates. She stopped before one that read simply: Prof. E. Vance, Lit. Dept. The brass was cold under her fingertips. She took a deep, shaky breath, gathering the tattered edges of her resolve. You figured out the mechanism. You’re in control now. Demand answers. She raised her hand, knuckles poised to rap against the wood.
Before she could knock, the door swung silently inward. Professor Vance stood framed in the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb. She wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit jacket over a silk camisole, her expression unreadable. A faint, enigmatic smile touched her lips, her sharp eyes seeming to catalog Trina’s every micro-expression – the flush on her cheeks, the slight dilation of her pupils, the unconscious tension in her stance. "Trina," she said, her voice low and smooth, like dark velvet over stone. "I've been expecting you."
Trina froze, her carefully rehearsed words dissolving on her tongue. The sheer, unnerving certainty in Vance’s tone, the way her gaze seemed to strip away Trina’s flimsy armor of understanding, sent a jolt of pure panic through her. Her carefully constructed sense of knowing evaporated like mist. The pressure in her bladder intensified sharply, a sudden, demanding pulse completely at odds with any feeling of control. "Professor Vance?" she managed, her voice sounding thin and far away as the heavy door clicked softly shut behind her, sealing her in.