alycesmokesalot

[alycesmokesalot]

It started with an email.

“Congratulations, Miss Lane. You’ve been selected for the Advanced Anatomical Research Seminar, hosted by Dr. Shore. This is a limited-attendance, honors-only extension of your anatomy coursework. Attendance is mandatory. Location: Room B-114, East Wing Basement. Arrive at 6:00 PM sharp.”

She wasn’t surprised. Not really. After everything that had happened, she’d stopped believing in coincidences.

But she was curious.

The room was cold, clinical—lit like a private clinic, not a classroom.

She expected a table. Something cold and flat. What stood in the center of the room was… different.

A chair. But not the kind you sit in to learn—this one was built to be used.

High-backed, reclined, with adjustable metal stirrups for the legs, spread wide and raised high—exposing everything. Thick padded cuffs hung from each corner, already open, waiting. Armrests split apart slightly at shoulder level, allowing for upper body restraint in a way that kept her chest lifted and vulnerable.

At the center of the seat, where her ass would go, was a cut-out. A large open section, with only a thin strap to support her weight. Under it—clearly visible—was a mounted camera. Small. Silent. Pointed directly up between her legs.

Her stomach flipped.

“Undress,” Dr. Shore said again, but quieter now. Close. Commanding.

Hands shaking, she obeyed. No teasing. No striptease. Just mechanical motion—shirt over head, jeans off, bra unhooked, panties dropped to the floor.

Nude.

Exposed.

He gestured to the chair. “Climb in.”

She hesitated.

Then she did.

Her back pressed against the cool synthetic leather, and then she felt them—hands. Not just his. Two people—maybe assistants, maybe other “students”—tightened the cuffs around her wrists, then her ankles, then one across her lower stomach, pinning her hips back.

She was now fully restrained, thighs high and apart, pussy wide open, chest heaving, arms slightly raised and spread.

The kind of position you don’t just put someone in—you put a subject in.

The camera below clicked on. A monitor on the wall blinked to life, showing a perfect high-def view of her soaked cunt.

She gasped. Someone in the room chuckled.

Dr. Shore’s voice broke the moment. Calm. Smooth. Clinical.

“Now that she’s secured, we’ll begin our real study. Class, take note: this demonstration covers involuntary stimulation response, orgasm denial, and tolerance testing. We’ll begin externally—working toward progressive internal stimulation, including pressure, friction, and suction.”

He snapped on gloves.

The first touch was with a metal instrument—not cold, but clinical. He spread her lips apart slowly, exposing her fully on the monitor.

“Note the natural engorgement of the labia,” he said. “The flush here, the slickness—she’s already wet. Which is excellent. It means the nervous system is fully reactive.”

She tried to squirm. She couldn’t. The strap across her stomach held her too tightly.

Then came the wand. Industrial-strength. Corded. Set to low.

The moment it touched her clit, her hips jerked—but had nowhere to go.

Dr. Shore adjusted her cuffs slightly, pulling her thighs further apart. “Restraint must be firm enough to prevent escape, but not so tight that circulation is compromised,” he explained, as if he wasn’t sending electric heat through her cunt like it was a lesson plan.

She moaned, biting her lip. Her nipples stood hard, chest rising and falling fast.

The wand never left her. He turned up the speed.

“We’ll edge her three times before insertion. The purpose is to heighten the eventual vaginal response and reduce her capacity to control release. A forced climax is easier to induce when the subject’s body is desperate.”

The others approached slowly now. One held a suction toy, placed it over her clit once the wand lifted. The sudden pull made her cry out loud—sharp and helpless.

Another slid a narrow steel dildo inside her—no warning. She clenched around it, shocked, gasping.

They all took turns.

One handled the wand. One adjusted the dildo’s depth with precise, practiced thrusts. One took notes. Someone rubbed oil into her inner thighs, whispering things she couldn’t even hear over her own panting.

“Don’t cum,” Dr. Shore warned.

She nodded.

“No,” he said, tapping her clit once with the wand. “Say it.”

She swallowed hard. “I won’t cum,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“I won’t cum.”

But her body was already betraying her.

Her legs trembled. Her moans had turned into whimpers. Her pussy clenched and leaked, juices dripping down between her cheeks, visible on the monitor. One of the assistants took a soft cloth and wiped her clean—only to start over again.

Over and over.

They didn’t stop. Even when her toes curled, her back arched against the straps, her breath came in short, wild gasps—

They stopped right before she tipped over.

Again.

And again.

[alycesmokesalot]

She was tired.

Tired of being teased, edged, commanded. Tired of being soaked before class and left high and dry after. Tired of that smug look he gave her after every lecture—like he owned her just because she let a piece of plastic fuck her for 90 minutes straight.

So that morning, she walked in ten minutes early, just like he told her.

No panties. No bra.

But when she reached seat C1 and saw the new toy—a glossy black shape, thicker than the last—her defiance snapped.

“Nope,” she muttered under her breath. “Not today.”

She sat beside her seat. Right next to it. Arms crossed, lips tight, staring at the professor’s empty desk like it had wronged her personally.

The room slowly filled with students. No one noticed anything. No one ever did. She almost felt victorious. Almost smug.

Until the projector flickered on.

The lights hadn’t even dimmed yet. It wasn’t time for class. But the screen at the front of the lecture hall came alive.

A video.

Her.

Her legs spread. Her cunt pressed down onto the toy. A high angle—clearly hidden in the ceiling above seat C1.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t from today.

It was from last week.

Close-up. Wet. Obscene.

The room went dead silent. Dozens of heads turned toward the screen, stunned. Nobody was even moving yet—everyone unsure if it was a glitch, some hacked porn, or a nightmare.

But she knew.

Before anyone could react, Professor shore walked in—calm, collected—and clicked a button on his remote. The screen went dark.

He set his bag down.

“Miss Grant

Her face burned. Her heart raced. The entire lecture hall was buzzing now—some students whispering, others frozen in place.

“You have one minute to correct your mistake,” he said, without even looking at her. “Or you’ll fail this course.”

The authority in his voice made her knees weak.

She stood. Trembling. Walked slowly back to her seat.

And lowered herself onto the thick, waiting toy. This time, she moaned.

Audibly.

[alycesmokesalot]

She was 19, bright-eyed, and a little too curious for her own good.

Uni had barely started when Professor Shore “Something?” she asked.

“Your panties.”

She thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

The next lecture, heart pounding, she handed him the soft black fabric in a discreet little paper bag. He didn’t say a word—just took it, nodded, and walked off.

When she sat down in C1, the chair felt cold against her skin. No cushion. No note. Just empty plastic and silence. But something about it—sitting there, knowing he knew—made her feel something she couldn’t name.

The next week, there was a small, flesh-colored silicone bump glued to the seat. Just enough to press against her if she sat right.

She didn’t say a word. She sat. She squirmed. He lectured like nothing was different.

By week four, it wasn’t a bump anymore.

It was shaped.

Smooth silicone, curved just enough to nestle between her folds when she sat down. She hesitated for a second before lowering herself onto it, breath catching as the cold pressed against her bare, already-sensitive skin.

He didn’t even look at her that day.

Not directly. But during the lecture, as he paced the room, he lingered just a little longer when walking past her. His voice lowered whenever he neared her row. Deep. Controlled. Like every word was chosen not for the class, but for her.

“Pressure on the nerve endings causes reflexive tension.”

“The body adjusts. Submits.”

“Eventually, it stops resisting altogether.”

Her thighs squeezed tighter. She tried not to move. But every breath, every shift in posture sent that thing grinding against her. She could feel herself clenching around nothing—just empty, hungry need.

When class ended, her legs were shaking. She stood up slowly. There was a wet spot on the seat.

She swore no one saw. But when she turned to leave, he was there. Waiting.

“You’re adjusting well,” he said.

“To what?” she asked, trying to play dumb, like she hadn’t just left a slick outline of her arousal on school property.

“To discipline,” he said, voice low. “Next week, come earlier. Ten minutes earlier. No panties, no bra. And don’t touch yourself between now and then.”

She opened her mouth, some half-formed protest stuck on her tongue.

“You’re free to stop at any time,” he said. “But if you want to keep going… you’ll follow the rules.”

She nodded before her brain even caught up. Her body already knew the answer.