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We looked inside some of the posts by collared-rose and here's what we found interesting.
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let's cut to the chase. ive got you handcuffed to a radiator and i give you black eyes and bruised ribs weekly. did you really think when i asked "are you ready to take your pills" i cared the slightest bit what your answer was? congratulations on one month of e
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Morning Check-In
Tamara 2021 - @_ourladytamara
CWs: medfet, fisting, cnc, drugging, latex, piss
Fluorescent buzz. Silence, otherwise – this was your new life and today was no different. It’s been a few months since you began your inpatient care at the Gilhearth Family Intensive Rehabilitation Facility, and the majority of them have gone exactly like this.
You wake up in your bed, which is really just a slight recession in the corner of your padded cell – you assume it’s padded, at least, since the full-head harness they constantly keep you in came with earmuffs and a blindfold. Minutes – maybe hours – pass, and eventually, the Nurse comes in for your morning check-in and dosing.
The thumbing on the door would be her. By now, your ears are quite capable of recognizing it, even through the thick padding; it’s a survival instinct more than anything else. Whatever lock the door has is evidently very complicated, and after a few minutes of fumbling and the clacking of steel against heavy steel, you can hear it swing open.
“Good morning, patient thirty!” says the Nurse in her characteristic sing-song voice. “I hope you had a very lovely little sleep last night!”
You say nothing – not because of the gag completely restricting use of your mouth, of course, but because speaking out of line is considered one of the more severe symptoms of relapse among the Nurses at Gilhearth Family, which you learned intimately only a few days into your treatment.
She does her standard routine, humming all the while. First, she replaces your catheter bags and IV drip, making sure not to mix up the tubes like the last Nurse. She follows it with a check on your limbs and intubation, making sure atrophy or slippage have yet to set in. It hurts; the straps on your limbs burn with a new kind of ache whenever she adjusts them, your muscles straining with little effect against the thick white canvas and plastic. The tubes in your nostrils ache, sending disturbing popping noises through your sinuses as your body adjusts to their perpetual intrusion all over again.
“All in good, working order, patient! You’re doing us all proud with you recovery – time for the oral inspection!”
You hated the oral inspection. For as much as you despised the life of isolation and constant, agonizing pressure, somehow the touch of another human was even worse; something about the gleeful, cognizant cooperation stuck out like a knife in your mind, in a way the unthinking bondage never did. The unmistakable snap of latex gloves, drawn to the elbow – and the velcro scratching of your gag being released.
You open up without further prodding, knowing better by now than to make the Nurses wait. All your water is given on a strict IV-drip, scheduled and monitored down to the milliliter. It’s a form of passive restraint; they give you just enough to do what they tell you, and not a drop more. Recently, however, your drip’s been slightly loose – and you’ve been “drinking” a few milliliters more than the electronic drip would typically allow.
It doesn’t take long for the Nurse to notice. Typically, she delighted in how dry and spotless her patients’ mouths were, but yours seemed downright… moistened.
“Patient thirty!” the Nurse exclaims, “You’re clearly exceeding your daily water intake!”
Oh God. You’ve done nothing in the last three months to anger them, nothing to draw their ire yet again – but now you’d essentially fallen victim to them all over again, through no fault of your own. The impulse to resist prods at the smoothed-off edges of your mind yet again, but you hush it instantly – any further movement would only make the next few minutes all the more painful.
“You must be getting contraband somehow – this could compromise your entire recovery! Don’t you want to be better, patient? Don’t you hate being sick?”
You nod, the most response you’re able to give without an intrusive and immediate brain scan. Of course you want to be better – maybe then you’d remember why you were in here to begin with.
The nurse pulls her fingers out of your mouth and wipes away the residual saliva.
“Then you’ll understand how very important it is to find any contraband, patient, won’t you? After all, any elicit substances would certainly be setting your treatment back, regardless of how good they feel.”
You keep nodding, not listening. A moment of silence – before the Nurse grabs you by the neck and shoulders and slams you forward into the floor-bed.
The straightjacket prevents any kind of movement. Your legs, bound up in a plasticky hobble-skirt, are completely immobilized once the Nurse tucks them beneath your body, folding you up into a pathetic-looking and extremely-uncomfortable bundle. With only the simple removal of a zippered flap of plastic in your skirt, the Nurse has full, unfettered access to your asshole.
The lid of a bottle snaps open – and the unmistakble squeeze of a plastic tube of liquid follows it.
“Please relax, patient thirty – I need to make sure you’re not hiding anything…”
You exhale just in time to feel her rubbery fingers smear frigid, gel-thick lube all over your opening, and before you can so much as take a second breath, she’s forcing her way inside. You’re loose, easy; the cavity searches were almost worse than the brain scans, if only owing to their incessant frequency. If nothing else, they steadily became less painful – but no less invasive and gut-churning.
Her first few fingers slide in with little resistance, but by the time she’s angling her thumb in, she begins to use some force. Your entire body feels like it’s wrapping around her hand; every inch it pushes only furthers the nausea welling in your stomach, the panic in your dulled mind. The mere thought of contraband was absurd – how could you hide anything without so much as being able to use your hands? The Nurses’ will was as final as it was arbitrary.
With a sickening pop, she manages to wriggle her entire fist inside. The lube is beyond cold, only adding to the sterile, clammy feeling of her gloved hand inside of you, rubbing up against your asscheeks and smearing them with sticky, uncomfortable lube. Her strong fingers feel like they’re practically digging up your innards, crawling and spreading through your inner passageways in a hopeless search for whatever it is she’s suspected you of smuggling.
“Why are you tightening up so hard, patient? Are you trying to hide something in here?” she asks, voice sickeningly saccharine for the context. With a huff, she continues. “Guess I’ll just have to do this the… harder way.”
She forces herself in deeper, ramming into you at full speed. You sputter, thanking the blindfold for once as it shields you from the image of a woman elbow-deep inside of your colon. Your stomach churns. You can feel skin pressing up against your skirt and straightjacket, utterly distended by the forceful internal massage. It’s all too much, entirely too much – and with your extra helping of water, you can do little to stop your fist-loosened bladder from emptying all over the floor.
Piss gushes out of you in heavy, forceful spurts, controlled by the pressure applied by the Nurse’s hand. You squeal, animal instinct besting your forced silence, knowing full well the consequences would surely follow.
And with a sudden, gut-wrenching pull, the Nurse rips her hand out of your ass. A thick strand of now-warm lube connects the gaping orifice to her gloved digits for a brief second before snapping, landing with a slap against your ass.
“Hmm – nothing after all. Oh, well – but it’s good to be thorough, isn’t it, patient thirty?”
You nod frantically, tears soaking into your blindfold, as she zips up your hobble skirt. The lube and sweat stick to the material, chafing and squishing as she seals you inside.
“That’s what I thought. Well, otherwise, your vitals are normal – and despite the little setbacks today, I’m sure you’ll be healed in no time. Maybe just a few more months…”
And with that, she replaces the drip-feed bag of saline nutrients with one utterly saturated in dissociatives – your normal dose, as it were, once feeding was done.
“Stay safe, patient thirty!” she coos, cheery as ever, as the padded door locks shut.
Darkness seeps in like a slow drip of water.
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Face-down, wrists locked, learning firsthand what ‘attitude adjustment’ really means.
We don’t do warnings. Just corrections.
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