Chapter 16: The Collar's Bite
The echoes of Aurelian's voice – that devastatingly simple "good girl" – still vibrated in Evonleigh’s bones, warring with the icy residue of exposure. Dr. Guerin’s touch, when it landed on her shoulder moments later, felt like being prodded with a live wire. "Up," the psychologist commanded, her voice devoid of the earlier predatory satisfaction, replaced by brisk efficiency. "The next assessment is critical. Aurelian requires... comprehensive validation."
The journey through the sterile white corridors was a blur of dread and a terrifying, persistent thrum between Evonleigh’s legs. The "good girl" echoed, amplifying the wetness that soaked the cheap polyester between her thighs. She kept her gaze fixed on the gleaming floor, avoiding her reflection in the passing panels, unwilling to see the flushed, wide-eyed girl in the parody school uniform. They turned into a section of the facility that hummed with a deeper, colder energy. The air tasted metallic, tinged with ozone and a sharp, clinical antiseptic that couldn't quite mask the faintest organic undercurrent. A different kind of sterility. Compliance. Control.
Dr. Guerin stopped before a heavy, unmarked door. It hissed open, revealing the cold heart of the assessment. The room was dominated by a gleaming, open-frame gynecological chair, its stark chrome and padded white restraints looking simultaneously medical and menacing. Harsh overhead lights reflected off its polished surfaces. Along one wall, a bank of sleek, dark monitors flickered with indecipherable data streams. Opposite them, a large, curved holographic screen glowed softly, displaying a rotating, translucent anatomical model of a female pelvis, muscles and nerves highlighted in pulsing colours. But the most chilling feature was the opposite wall: a vast, seamless expanse of dark, non-reflective glass. One-way. Evonleigh’s skin crawled. She could feel the weight of unseen eyes.
"Position Alpha, Subject Epsilon-Seven," Dr. Guerin announced, her voice crisp, carrying easily in the cavernous space. A man Evonleigh hadn't noticed before detached himself from the shadows near the holographic display. Dr. Ross. He was younger than Guerin, perhaps mid-thirties, with sharp features, close-cropped dark hair, and eyes that scanned Evonleigh with detached, analytical precision behind thin-framed glasses. He wore a pristine white lab coat over dark clothing.
"Proceed, Odelia," Ross said, his voice a flat monotone. He tapped a tablet, and the hologram shifted, zooming in vulgarly on the displayed genitalia.
"Assume the position, Evonleigh," Dr. Guerin instructed, gesturing towards the chair. There was no room for negotiation. The cold metal bit into Evonleigh’s bare thighs as she climbed onto the padded surface. Her fingers trembled violently as she fumbled with the crude buttons of the schoolgirl shirt. Dr. Ross watched, unmoving, until she hesitated. Then, with startling efficiency, he stepped forward and efficiently stripped the shirt from her, leaving her in just the flimsy bra and the ridiculously short skirt. His hands were cold, impersonal, as he pushed her ankles into the padded stirrups, securing them with thick, padded straps. More straps snaked around her wrists, pulling them down and securing them to the sides of the chair frame. Finally, he fastened a wide, padded support beneath her lower back, tilting her pelvis forward, leaving her obscenely exposed under the pitiless lights. The cold air was a shock against her damp skin. Her nipples tightened instantly into painful points against the thin lace of her bra.
Dr. Ross picked up a device from a nearby tray. It was a collar, wide and black, lined with smooth metal contacts on the inside. "Mandatory bio-feedback monitor," he stated flatly, stepping close. Evonleigh flinched as the cool material settled against her throat. He fastened it snugly at the back. A tiny, ominous red LED blinked once on its surface. "Ensures compliance. And authentic response measurement."
Dr. Guerin moved to stand near Evonleigh’s head, just outside her limited field of vision. "Begin protocol Sigma-Nine, Doctor."
Ross adjusted his glasses, looking down at Evonleigh’s splayed body. His gaze was clinical, dissecting. "Subject Epsilon-Seven. Vocalize identification of primary external genitalia. Commencing with the mons pubis." His voice was calm, amplified slightly, echoing not just in the room but, Evonleigh realized with a fresh wave of terror, through hidden speakers. Her humiliation was being broadcast.
Tears pricked her eyes. She tried to find the clinical terms from biology texts. "The... the mons pubis," she whispered, her voice trembling.
A sharp, sudden ZAP erupted from the collar. Pain, bright and electric, lanced through her neck muscles. Her back arched involuntarily off the padding, a choked gasp ripped from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched violently, a spasm that was both agony and a shocking jolt of unwanted sensation. The red LED on the collar glowed steadily.
"Volume and terminology insufficient," Dr. Ross stated. "Use the vernacular established in prior conditioning. Describe it. For the researchers." He gestured vaguely towards the dark glass wall.
Dr. Guerin leaned down slightly. Her voice was a low murmur by Evonleigh’s ear, but the mic picked it up. "Remember the points, Evonleigh. Remember the Velvet Orchid. Aurelian is observing. Be his good girl."
The words were a brand. Evonleigh squeezed her eyes shut. She needed the points. Needed the reward. Needed Aurelian's approval again. She forced her eyes open, staring at the harsh lights, trying to dissociate. "It's... my pussy mound," she said, louder. Her voice sounded rough, alien. "The... the fat pad above my... my cunt." The vulgarity felt like swallowing acid.
"Better," Ross acknowledged. "Now, the labia majora. Describe texture, appearance. Maintain nipple stimulation. Continuous manual contact is required." His instruction was chillingly matter-of-fact.
Nipple stimulation? Evonleigh’s gaze darted to her restrained hands. How? Dr. Guerin’s hand appeared in her peripheral vision, grasping Evonleigh’s right wrist where it was strapped. She manipulated Evonleigh’s stiff fingers, forcing them to hook clumsily inside the lace cup of her bra, pressing her own fingertips roughly against her hypersensitive, already-tightened nipple.
"Oh!" Evonleigh cried out as the contact sent a shockwave straight to her core. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Her hips bucked minutely against the restraints.
"Begin description," Ross pressed. "Labia majora."
Tears streamed freely down Evonleigh’s temples now, hot and helpless. She pressed her trapped fingers harder against her nipple, the dual sensation of violation and intense arousal a maddening feedback loop. The unseen audience felt like a physical pressure. "The... the outer lips," she gasped, the words tumbling out. "Pink. Puffy. They're... swollen. Always kinda wet." She dragged her trapped fingers in a rough circle, the friction making her gasp again. "Like... like fat little petals. Hiding the... the hole." She couldn't stop the graphic description; the collar's threat and the relentless stimulation were breaking down her walls. Her core pulsed, slickness undeniable.
"Proceed to the labia minora," Ross continued, his eyes fixed on her exposed anatomy, then flicking to the data on his tablet. "Detail their sensitivity."
Evonleigh sobbed, the sound echoing through the speakers. Her finger rubbed her nipple almost frantically now, the pleasure-pain a desperate anchor and a source of torment. "The inner lips," she choked out. "Thinner. Darker pink. Like... like wrinkled silk." She swallowed, the collar cool and threatening against her throat. "So fucking sensitive. Just... brushing them makes me..." Her hips jerked again. "...makes my cunt clench. Makes me drip."
"Explicitly," Ross demanded. "What happens?"
"They get wetter!" Evonleigh cried, the admission torn from her. "My... my hole gets slippery. Ready. It... it aches." She rubbed her nipple harder, the rough lace scratching, the sensation unbearable, feeding the fire between her legs. She could feel the moisture gathering, a slick warmth against the cold air.
"Clitoral structure." Ross's voice was relentless. "Location. Describe tactile response. Hypothesis on response to future augmentation. Stimulate continuously."
Evonleigh’s free hand, still strapped down, twisted uselessly. Her trapped fingers kept working her nipple, the rhythm frantic now. "The clit," she panted, tears blurring her vision. "Little... little hard nub. Right... right under the hood." She pictured Aurelian's intense gaze, imagined him watching behind the glass. "Like a... a tiny cock head. So fucking sensitive. Touch it and..." She gasped as her own rough ministrations sent another sharp jolt through her. "I... I could come. Just from that. Fast. Aurelian..." His name slipped out, a desperate plea. "He... he could make me scream just by rubbing it." The fantasy, voiced under duress, sent a fresh wave of slick heat flooding from her. Her body trembled violently in the restraints.
"Perineum," Ross ordered, ignoring her distress, her arousal. "Anatomical function and proposed training vulnerability."
Evonleigh was breaking. The combination of exposure, the electric threat, the relentless nipple stimulation, and the visceral descriptions was shredding her control. She felt raw, flayed open. "The... the taint," she whispered, the crude word feeling inevitable. "Skin... between cunt and asshole." She rubbed her nipple desperately, the pleasure cresting into a kind of agonized need. "Stretches. Supposed to... supposed to be prepped. For... for big toys. Deep stuffing." The admission of her hidden fetish, dragged out in this context, was a new level of violation. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Hurts if it's not... not ready. Gotta be... stretched... filled..." Her voice dissolved into sobs, her body wracked with shudders that weren't entirely from distress. The coil in her belly was wound impossibly tight, fueled by shame, electricity, and the relentless friction on her nipple. She hovered on the edge, suspended between degradation and a terrifying, imminent climax under the cold lights and unseen eyes.
Dr. Ross made a note on his tablet. "Subject demonstrates significant autonomic responsiveness to linguistic conditioning paired with aversive reinforcement and targeted somatosensory stimulation. Physiological indicators suggest proximity to orgasmic threshold." He looked towards the dark glass, then back at Evonleigh’s trembling, sweat-sheened body, her hips straining unconsciously against the restraints, her fingers still working frantically on her nipple. "Adequate baseline established. Proceeding to Phase Two." He reached for another instrument on the tray – a smooth, cold-looking metal speculum. Evonleigh’s breath hitched in pure terror, her wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on the device. The collar’s LED glowed like a malevolent eye. The unseen audience felt like a suffocating presence. The only sound was her own ragged breathing and the low hum of the facility, waiting.
The cold metal of the speculum glinted under the surgical lights, a promise of violation that tightened Evonleigh’s throat. Her ragged breathing hitched, catching on a sob. "Please," she whispered, the word thin and useless in the amplified silence of the room. Dr. Ross ignored her, his focus absolute as he methodically lubricated the instrument, the slick sound obscenely loud.
Dr. Guerin’s voice cut through the dread, crisp and businesslike near Evonleigh’s ear. "Shift focus, Doctor Ross. Asset valuation requires prioritizing the most marketable features first, non?" She tapped her tablet. "The thoracic presentation requires quantification. Subject Epsilon-Seven, articulate your deficiency." Her gaze pinned Evonleigh. "Be specific about your current… lack." The dark glass wall seemed to pulse.
The demand landed like a physical blow. Evonleigh’s eyes darted from the speculum back to Guerin, then to the impassive Ross. Humiliation, sharp and hot, flooded her anew, a visceral counterpoint to the terror. Her clit gave a distinct, painful throb, an insistent ache beneath the scrutiny. "My… my breasts?" she stammered, the word feeling childish, inadequate.
"Voilà," Guerin said, a ghost of satisfaction in her tone. "Describe their current inadequacy. Use the vernacular."
"They’re… too small," Evonleigh forced out, the admission scraping her raw. "Flat. Barely there." She felt the flush burning her cheeks, spreading down her neck under the collar’s cold band. Saying it aloud, under these lights, before unseen eyes… it made her feel impossibly exposed. Wetness, unmistakable and shaming, seeped from her core, slick against the cold chair. "Pathetic little mosquito bites. Not… not fuck pillows."
Ross lowered the speculum, placing it back on the tray with deliberate calm. He picked up his tablet again. "Define the desired corrective augmentation. Quantify. Be precise." He tapped the screen. The large holographic display above him flickered, shifting from the pelvic anatomy to a rotating, translucent female torso. Default, modest breasts glowed softly.
The sheer clinical absurdity of it, being forced to confess this while strapped open… Evonleigh’s mind blanked. Big breasts? How big? Images flickered – impossible anime proportions, porn stars, the unattainable ideal she’d never dared voice. "I… I don’t know!" she cried, panic rising. "Just… big! Like… like Misato’s?" The name spilled out, a ridiculous, desperate comparison.
"Misato Katsuragi," Ross stated flatly, typing. The holographic torso shimmered. The default breasts ballooned grotesquely, swelling to cartoonish, gravity-defying orbs that dwarfed the ribcage. "Subjective. Provides inadequate metric. Assign numerical value. Cup size. Band size." The huge, glowing projections pulsed gently, dominating the room. Aurelian was seeing this. Judging her impossible want.
The visual was ludicrous, obscene. It mocked her. It ignited a terrifying spark of raw, forbidden desire deep in her gut, a heat that warred violently with her shame. Her clit throbbed in insistent counterpoint to her racing heart. "Fifty… fifty-two?" she blurted, the number sounding alien. "Band? I… N?" It was a wild guess, plucked from the air, utterly disconnected from reality. "52N?" Her voice cracked on the absurdity.
Ross didn’t flinch. He input the data. The holographic breasts inflated further, straining the digital skin, becoming impossibly vast, spherical mountains labeled '52N'. "Projection rendered," he announced. "Confirm aspiration aligns with projected physical specifications." He turned his cool gaze fully on her. "Elaborate on desired functionality. Describe their purpose."
The demand hung in the air. Evonleigh stared at the monstrous glowing orbs, symbols of her deepest, most humiliating craving made manifest before her captors and her unseen observer. Her mouth was dry. "To… to be proper fuck pillows," she whispered, the phrase Guerin had used earlier tasting like ash. "Massive. Soft." She swallowed hard, the wetness between her legs a constant, shaming presence. "So big they… they jiggle with every step. So men… Aurelian… can’t stop staring. Can’t stop wanting to bury his face…" Her voice trailed off, choked. The arousal was a live wire now, coiling tight in her belly, fed by the sheer, degrading spectacle.
Guerin leaned closer, her perfume cloying. "And their sensitivity? Post-augmentation? Imagine Aurelian’s hands. His mouth. His cock sliding between them." Her words were low, deliberate, painting the obscene picture. "Would they make you come? Just from being squeezed? From having your nipples sucked while he fucks your greedy little cunt?"
The image, fueled by Guerin's crude whispers and the impossible hologram, detonated something deep within Evonleigh. It was too much too fast – the exposure, the humiliation, the electric collar threat, the relentless arousal, and now this graphic fantasy. A high-pitched whine escaped her lips. Her hips jerked helplessly against the restraints.
Before she could formulate a response, Ross moved. His hands, cold and impersonal, darted out. Not to the hologram. Not to a tool. He pinched both her exposed nipples simultaneously – hard, twisting rolls of flesh caught brutally between his thumb and forefinger.
Pain, sharp and shocking, lanced through her. It wasn't the clinical zap of the collar. This was intimate, violating, deliberate torment. It ripped through the fragile barrier between pain and pleasure, igniting the fuse Guerin had just lit.
Evonleigh’s back arched violently off the padded support. A guttural cry tore from her throat, raw and primal, echoing monstrously through the speakers. Not pain. Not just pain. The coil in her belly snapped.
A hot gush erupted from her, a sudden, uncontrollable flood that splattered audibly onto the gleaming floor beneath the chair. It wasn't just wetness. It was a violent, humiliating release. Squirting. Messy. Undeniable. Triggered by the obscene suggestion and the cruel pinch. Her vision whited out for a fractured second, her body convulsing in the restraints. The sounds she made were animalistic, stripped of words, pure, shuddering sensation mingled with the hot tears streaming down her face.
Ross maintained the brutal pinch throughout her climax, his expression unchanging, clinical. Observing. Measuring. The red LED on her collar glowed steadily. The holographic 52Ns pulsed above them, absurd monuments to her degradation. The only other sounds were the dripping onto the floor and Evonleigh’s ragged, post-orgasmic gasps, sharp hitches of breath punctuating the heavy silence. Guerin watched, a small, satisfied curve playing on her lips. Ross finally released her tortured nipples, the sudden absence of pain almost as shocking as the pinch itself. He reached again, not for the speculum, but for a different tray. Cold, gleaming metal clamps, their jaws promising a new kind of attention, glinted in the sterile light as he picked them up. Evonleigh flinched, her exhausted body tensing anew. The drips from the chair slowed, but the damp chill beneath her was a constant, shaming reminder.
The cold dampness beneath Evonleigh’s thighs felt like an accusation. Each ragged breath hitched in her throat, raw from screaming. Dr. Ross lowered the gleaming nipple clamps toward her oversensitized flesh, his expression detached as a lab technician calibrating instruments. "Thoracic quantification incomplete," he stated, his voice echoing flatly in the sterile space. "Confirm aspiration: Fifty-Two-N. Elaborate on functional requirements."
Evonleigh flinched, her exhausted muscles twitching. The absurd, glowing hologram of the monstrous 52N breasts pulsed above her. Shame warred with a treacherous, deep-seated hunger watching those impossible orbs shimmer. Dr. Guerin’s smooth voice cut through her haze, carrying the faint scent of expensive perfume and icy calculation. "Come now, petite chouette. Be precise. What would Aurelian do with such magnificent fuck pillows? How would they make you feel?"
Her clit gave a hard, insistent throb, sending fresh slickness trickling onto the already wet chair padding. The humiliation was a live wire, sparking unwanted heat. "H-he’d…" she stammered, her gaze locked on the hologram, "bury his face… squeeze them till they spilled out…" The crude words scraped her throat, but beneath the degradation, a flicker of desperate longing surfaced. "They’d bounce… jiggle… make me feel… full. Powerful." Her hips shifted minutely against the restraints, a silent plea contradicting her terror.
"Powerful?" Guerin mused, a predatory smile touching her lips. She traced a cool finger along Evonleigh’s jawline. "Or constantly aroused? Imagine walking down the street. Every eye on you. Every man imagining wrapping his hands around those huge, soft tits, kneading them while he fucks you raw." She leaned closer, her whisper amplified for the unseen audience. "Imagine Aurelian pinning you down, those enormous tits swallowing his cock as he thrusts between them, your nipples hard as diamonds against his stomach…"
The graphic scenario, laid bare by Guerin’s elegant voice, detonated inside Evonleigh. Heat flooded her core, a sharp gasp escaping her. Her clit pulsed violently, demanding attention she couldn’t give. The dampness intensified, a warm rush against the chill metal.
Ross watched her body’s betrayal impassively. "Physiological response indicates receptivity to suggested stimuli." His hand moved, not toward the clamps, but back to her nipple – the same one he’d tormented before. He didn’t pinch. He pressed the cold, smooth tip of the clamp’s jaw directly against the hypersensitive peak, a silent threat hanging in the air. "Elaborate on sensation," he commanded. "Hypothetical nipple sensitivity. Post-augmentation. Describe Aurelian biting them."
The cold metal burned against her tortured flesh. The image – Aurelian’s mouth, sharp teeth grazing impossibly large, sensitive nipples – combined with the icy pressure and Guerin’s whispered obscenities was too much. Evonleigh’s back arched violently, a strangled cry ripping free. "Yesss! He’d bite!" she screamed, the confession ripped from her. "Hard! Make me scream! Like… like clamps! Electric! Would make me—"
Before she could finish, Ross pinched.
Hard. Brutal. A vicious twist of the already abused nipple between the metal jaws he hadn’t yet fastened.
White-hot agony exploded, instantly fused with a wave of uncontrollable pleasure so intense it shattered her. Her body convulsed, straining against the restraints like a landed fish. A guttural sob tore from her throat, mingling with a sharp, splashing sound as another torrent gushed from her, splattering loudly onto the floor beneath the chair. Her vision tunneled, consumed by the violent, humiliating release. She shook uncontrollably, the aftershocks wracking her frame, her cries dissolving into choked whimpers.
Ross maintained the cruel pinch throughout, observing her spasms clinically. The red LED on her collar winked steadily. Only when the last tremor subsided did he release the pressure, leaving her nipple throbbing and darkening. He lifted the clamp fully now, its jaws glinting. "Somatosensory override confirmed," he noted, his voice unchanged. "Proceed with sensitization protocol." His fingers moved with efficient precision toward her other nipple. Evonleigh whimpered, her body still trembling from the aftershocks, utterly spent yet dreading the fresh torment. The metallic scent of her own release hung heavy in the cold, sterile air. The holographic 52Ns continued their silent, mocking pulse.