Slut Therapy

Delilah’s wrists and ankles are cinched to the wheelchair so tight the wood creaks. The gag is next: a fat red ball jammed between her teeth, held by thick black straps that bite into her cheeks. Dr. Adams doesn’t wait. She presses cold metal prongs to the inside of Delilah’s thigh and triggers the cattle prod. A live-wire jolt rips through her, muscles snapping tight, a strangled grunt leaking past the gag. Another jolt, higher, closer to the crease where thigh meets cunt. Delilah’s hips jerk but the straps hold her open. The doctor swaps the prod for a thick steel plug wired to a box. She works it past the clenched ring of Delilah’s ass, twists the dial. Current crackles inside her; Delilah’s toes curl, her eyes roll, spit slides down her chin. The machine keeps pulsing. Every contraction milks the steel deeper. Dr. Adams adds a vibrator to her clit and watches Delilah shake. The orgasm tears out of her in a hoarse, wet sound, but the current doesn’t stop. Another shock, another forced climax, thighs trembling against the leather. Still not enough. The doctor frees the wheelchair, drags Delilah onto the bench face-down. A heavy flogger snaps across bare cheeks; red lines bloom. Then the strap-on: thick, unrelenting, shoved straight into the slick, twitching hole the plug just left. Every thrust slams Delilah forward; every withdrawal drags a wet, filthy noise from her. The doctor reaches under, slaps her clit in time with the pounding until Delilah comes again, sobbing around the gag, mascara streaking her face. She isn’t cured. She’s dripping, shaking, and already pushing back for more.