Curing Alex
"You're telling me this treatment makes you feel your legs—but only when you're about to come?" Em's fingers hovered over his laptop keyboard, his gaze flicking between Alex's flushed face and the erratic spikes on the neural feedback graph. The wheelchair creaked as she adjusted her weight, her bare thighs visible together under her skirt.
Alex exhaled sharply, hands gripping the armrests. "It's not just that. When the stimulation peaks, I think, " Her breath hitched. "I can almost flex my toes. But then it's gone. Just... wet and frustrated." The scent of her arousal hung between them, mingling with the sterile bite of the electrode gel smeared along her inner thighs.
Vera's nails tapped against her tablet, calibrating the next pulse sequence. The magic wand in her other hand buzzing softly. "Em," she said, without looking up, "we need to isolate if it's the frequency or the intensity triggering the neural rebound." The electrodes on Alex's knees gleamed, sticky with conductive gel.
Alex's back arched suddenly, her gasp sharp. "Fuck, there" Her hips jerked against the seatbelt strap Vera had insisted on. A thin bead of sweat slid down her temple. "It's like... like when you almost remember a word..."
Em's code scrolled faster, adjusting parameters in real time.
"Higher frequency," he murmured, "lower amplitude."
The electrodes on Alex's thighs pulsed subtly, shifting from deep, throbbing waves to rapid, fluttering bursts. She groaned, her head tipping back against the wheelchair. Her fingers dug into the armrests, knuckles whitening as her hips twitched involuntarily. The sensation was sharper—more insistent—like fingertips skittering up her spine.
"God, it's—different," she gasped, her thighs trembling. The muscle under her skin flickered, a faint ripple beneath the paralysis. Vera leaned in, her breath warm against Alex's neck as she monitored the tablet's readouts. The wand hummed against Alex's inner thigh, teasing the edge of her dampening underwear.
In the appartment downstairs, Tim's gaze kept darting away from the TV screen, drawn to the whispered conversation between Beatrice and Susanna near the sofa.
"...they milk you there," Susanna was saying, her fingers idly tracing circles on Beatrice's wrist. "Right in front of everyone. Strapped to a bench with your legs spread..."
Beatrice bit her lip, her nipples pressing visibly against her thin shirt. Tim shifted uncomfortably, his jeans tightening as he pretended to focus on his phone—though the rapid tapping of his thumb betrayed him. The air in the apartment thickened, heavy with pheromones and unspoken tension.
Back upstairs, at the workstation, Alex whimpered, her thighs jerking apart as much as the seatbelt allowed. "I—I felt that," she panted. Her toes curled faintly against the footrest, just for a second, before the muscles slackened again.
Em's fingers flew across the keyboard, adjusting the waveform. "Neural response is localized now," he muttered, "but we're losing coherence at the peak."
Vera's hand tightened around the wand, pressing it firmer against Alex's clit. "Hold it there," she ordered, watching the readouts spike. Alex's breath came in short, jagged bursts, her body trembling on the edge of something neither pleasure nor control—just raw, electric potential.
Then she collapsed, slumping forward against the wheelchair's straps. Sweat darkened the fabric of her skirt, clinging to the curve of her hips. Em caught her before she could slide, hands cupping her shoulders, his touch clinical but lingering—always lingering. "Coherence stabilizes post-climax," he murmured, eyes locked on the screen. "But the window's narrow."
Vera peeled the electrodes from Alex's thighs, the gel leaving shiny trails. "You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, voice low. Alex nodded weakly, her fingers twitching—testing—against the armrests. Vera exchanged a glance with Em. They'd been here before: the tantalizing flicker of progress, the crash, the exhaustion. But this time, the spikes on the graph had held for seconds, not milliseconds. Enough to matter.
Downstairs, Tim's jeans strained as Susanna's laughter curled through the room. "You'd scream," she teased Beatrice, leaning close enough that her nipple brushed Beatrice's arm through the fabric. Tim's knuckles whitened around his phone. The TV's glow painted their skin in flickering blues and reds, casting long shadows that twisted with every shift of their bodies.
Vera's thumb traced the edge of Alex's lower lip, smearing a bead of sweat. "What if," she said carefully, "we pushed harder? Full sensory overload." Em's fingers paused mid-keystroke. They'd discussed this—hypothetically—but Alex had never been coherent enough afterward to consent. Now, though... Alex's gaze flicked up, hazy but aware. Her tongue darted out, catching Vera's thumb.
A silent yes.
That was all Vera needed. She unbuckled Alex's seatbelt with brisk efficiency, the straps whispering open against sweat-slick skin. Em powered down his rig while Vera slid an arm around Alex's waist, guiding her toward the elevator. The wheelchair could wait—right now, Alex's legs trembled with residual static, her steps uneven but present.
The elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing the three of them in mirrored silence. Alex slumped against Vera, her breath hot against Vera's collarbone. Em's hand hovered near the small of Alex's back, not quite touching—yet. The numbers above the door ticked downward. Two. One.
Susanna's laughter floated down the hall before the doors even opened. She was already halfway out of her tank top as she padded toward the communal bathroom, the curve of her bare ass peeking from beneath the hem. Beatrice lingered in the doorway of her apartment, biting her lip as she watched Susanna go. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her own shirt—plain cotton, but the way it clung left nothing to imagination.
Tim's gaze snapped back to the TV the second the elevator chimed, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The remote dug into his palm where he gripped it too tightly. Vera didn't acknowledge him, steering Alex toward her apartment with Em trailing close behind.
Inside, Alex collapsed onto her bed with a groan. Vera peeled the last electrode from her thigh, the adhesive tugging gently at flushed skin. "Rest," Vera murmured, pressing a kiss to Alex's damp forehead. Em lingered in the doorway, his eyes dark with unspoken calculations—and something hungrier.
The shower hissed to life down the hall. Beatrice's door clicked shut. And Tim—Tim exhaled shakily, thumbing the volume up until the commercials drowned out everything else.
Susanna's voice carried through the thin bathroom door, singing off-key as water sluiced over skin. Beatrice's shadow moved behind her own blinds, stripping methodically.
And upstairs, in the dim glow of server lights, the neuro-stim algorithms iterated.
Alone.
For now.
The word pulsed in Vera’s skull as she slid her keycard through the deli’s reader, the espresso machine hissing like a living thing behind the counter. Em’s fingers brushed the small of her back—casual, proprietary—as he murmured something about synaptic rebound thresholds, but all she could taste was the metallic aftertaste of Alex’s sweat on her thumb. The results were promising. Too promising to ignore.
Across the room, Tim’s reflection flickered in the polished chrome of the milk steamer. He was supposed to be wiping down tables, but his gaze kept snagging on the frosted glass of the bathroom door where Susanna’s silhouette swayed under the spray. The hem of Beatrice’s shirt rode up as she leaned over the sink, her nipples pebbling against the fabric when the hot water pipes groaned. Tim’s knuckles whitened around the rag.
Beatrice turned just as Susanna stepped out, steam curling around her bare hips. A towel dangled from her fingertips, barely covering the swell of her ass. “You’re staring,” Beatrice said, not to Susanna—to Tim. His spine locked. The rag hit the floor with a wet slap.
Vera’s espresso scalded her tongue. She barely noticed. Em’s thumb traced the rim of his cup, his eyes dark with the kind of calculations that had nothing to do with code. “Full sensory overload,” he repeated, low enough that the words were just for her. The deli’s fluorescents buzzed overhead, bleaching the color from everything but the blush creeping up Tim’s throat.
Susanna laughed, shaking water from her hair. Drops spattered the tiles between her bare feet. Beatrice’s breath hitched—almost imperceptibly—before she snatched the towel and thrust it at Susanna. “Cover up,” she muttered, but her fingers lingered where their skin brushed.
Em’s knee pressed against Vera’s under the table. The heat of it seared through her slacks. “We’ll need the dungeon,” he said, so quietly the words might as well have been a vibration in her bones.
Down the hall, the shower dripped. One drop. Two.
Tim swallowed hard.
The moment Beatrice and Susanna stepped out of the apartment—Beatrice in a snug black corset that pushed her small breasts into tantalizing peaks, Susanna barely contained in a translucent mesh dress that left her nipples visibly erect—something snapped inside him. The door hadn’t even fully closed before his hand was down his pants, fingers fumbling against the damp fabric of Alex’s stolen panties he’d stuffed into his waistband. The scent of their arousal still clung to the living room air—vanilla and salt and something darker, muskier. He didn’t bother moving from the couch.
Across the city, the club swallowed Beatrice whole. Strobe lights fractured the writhing bodies into disjointed flashes—hips, teeth, the glint of a collar chain. A woman with a shaved head and oiled biceps pressed Beatrice into the velvet couch of the darkroom, her knee sliding between Beatrice’s thighs. “You tremble,” the woman purred, fingers tracing the lace edge of Beatrice’s corset. Beatrice’s gasp hitched when calloused thumbs brushed her pierced nipples. Susanna’s laughter curled from somewhere nearby, bright and breathless, tangled with another woman’s moan.
Back in the apartment, Vera’s nails bit into Em’s wrist as she dragged him toward the basement stairs. “We’re not waiting,” she hissed. The deli’s fluorescents flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the reinforced dungeon door. Em’s breath came ragged—half from anticipation, half from the way Vera’s grip promised bruises. Behind them, Alex’s wheelchair creaked faintly in the empty hall. The click of the dungeon’s lock engaging echoed like a gunshot.
Inside, the rack’s leather straps hung slack, waiting. Vera didn’t bother with preamble. She shoved Em against the pillory, her knee forcing his thighs apart. The magic wand buzzed to life in her hand, casting eerie purple light across the cobblestones. “Code first,” she ordered, but the way her hips rolled against his betrayed her urgency. Em groaned, his fingers twitching toward the server console—half-program, half-plea. Somewhere above them, the pipes shuddered as the shower turned on again. Water. Steam. The muffled sound of someone—Tim—choking back a moan.
The electrodes were already warm when Vera pressed them to Em’s inner thighs. His back arched off the pillory, his gasp sharp enough to cut. “F-feedback loop initialized,” he stammered, eyes rolling back as the current seared through him. Vera’s lips curled. Progress, she thought, and tightened the straps.
Her fingers never paused on the tablet. The screen pulsed in time with Em’s choked whimpers—spikes of red and gold mapping every desperate twitch of his cock beneath the chastity cage. Vera traced the readout with one hand while the other slid between her own thighs, her silk blouse clinging to the sweat-damp curve of her spine. Em’s hips bucked wildly. A thin bead of pre-come glistened at the cage’s tip. “Not yet,” she murmured, toggling the intensity down just as his breathing hitched. His groan vibrated through the dungeon’s stone walls.
She took her time. Each stroke of her fingers matched the algorithm’s rhythm—slow, torturous increments of pleasure denied. Em’s thighs trembled, his calves straining against the pillory’s restraints. His voice broke around her name. Above them, water pipes groaned as someone—Alex? Tim?—ran the shower again. Vera barely noticed. The ache between her legs sharpened, her clit throbbing under her own touch. She kept her gaze locked on Em’s ruined expression, watching his pupils dilate further with each denied climax.
Then—release. Vera’s orgasm crashed over her in shuddering waves, her fingers sticky, her breath ragged. Em sobbed. She waited until the last aftershock faded before flicking the tablet’s interface to full power.
The effect was immediate. Em’s scream tore through the dungeon, raw and shattered. His hips snapped up once—twice—before his entire body convulsed, his cock straining uselessly against the cage as the program forced wave after wave of synthetic pleasure through him. Vera watched, fascinated, as his muscles locked and his toes curled. The tablet beeped—peak coherence achieved—just as Em collapsed against the restraints, spent and shaking.
Somewhere above, a door slammed. Footsteps. Vera barely registered it. Her fingers were already moving again, recalibrating the algorithm for Alex’s next session. Em’s whimper was barely audible over the electric hum of the magic wand charging beside her.
The pillory’s lock clicked open, hinges groaning as Em slumped forward, his wrists raw from straining against the restraints. He dragged himself toward the console, his legs trembling—not from pleasure now, but from exhaustion. The screen flickered under his fingertips, casting jagged blue light across his sweat-slicked chest. His breath still hitched in uneven bursts as he typed, every keystroke deliberate. “Synaptic rebound patterns,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. The graph reformed on-screen, spikes sharper, valleys deeper. “Alex will feel again tomorrow.”
Vera’s lips curled. She traced the fresh bruises circling his wrists—dark blooms against pale skin—before reaching past him to adjust the waveform. Their shoulders brushed, lingering. The scent of him - salt and the faint musk of denial—clung to her nostrils. Her thumb hovered over the final parameter. “She’ll need containment,” Vera said, nodding toward the iron-bar cell in the corner. Its shackles gleamed under the dungeon’s dim sconces. “When the overload hits.”
Em exhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to the cell. Chains. Collar. The kind of restraints that wouldn’t let her thrash free, no matter how violently her nerves fired. His throat worked. “I’ll prep the dampeners,” he said, though his fingers hesitated over the keyboard. The memory of his own convulsions—helpless, overwhelming—echoed in the tremor of his hands.
Above them, water pipes shuddered. A muffled gasp—Tim’s? Alex’s?—filtered through the ceiling. Vera didn’t glance up. Her fingers closed around Em’s wrist, guiding his hand back to the console. “Do it,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. The screen pulsed red. Ready.
Em’s spine straightened. His keystrokes were surer now, faster. The dungeon’s servers whirred to life, compiling the new protocol. Somewhere in the building, Alex’s wheelchair creaked. The pipes groaned again. Vera’s nails bit into Em’s thigh. Tomorrow, the electrodes would sing. Tomorrow, Alex’s toes would curl. Tomorrow—
The club’s heartbeat pulsed through Beatrice’s ribs, bass thrumming against her sternum as she leaned into the plush velvet of the booth. Around her, bodies writhed—lips glistening under neon, fingers tangled in fishnets, the occasional flash of a whip against bare skin—but her gaze locked onto Susanna across the room. Susanna, who was currently arching her back over the edge of the bar, her mesh dress riding up to expose the taut curve of her ass as a brunette with knuckle tattoos trailed her tongue along the inside of her thigh. Beatrice’s corset dug into her ribs. Her pierced nipples ached.
Then Susanna turned her head, blonde hair sticking to her damp collarbones, and looked at her. Not with the playful hunger she’d shown the brunette, not with the teasing smirk she’d given the woman with the riding crop earlier—but with something raw, unfiltered. Her lips parted, pink and swollen from biting. Beatrice’s pulse stuttered.
The brunette murmured something against Susanna’s inner thigh, her fingers creeping higher. Susanna’s breath hitched, her thighs tensing—but she didn’t glance away from Beatrice. Not even when the brunette’s teeth grazed her skin. Beatrice’s fingers clenched around her whiskey glass. She should look away. She should.
She didn’t.
Susanna’s hips jerked as the brunette found her clit through the damp mesh. A moan tumbled from her lips—but her eyes stayed fixed on Beatrice, dark with something Beatrice had only ever dreamed of seeing. The corset’s laces cut deeper. Beatrice’s throat burned. She’d memorized the exact shade of Susanna’s blush when she came—peachy, feverish—but this? This was new.
The brunette’s fingers vanished under Susanna’s dress. Susanna’s back arched violently, her mouth forming a silent cry—but her gaze never wavered. Beatrice’s whiskey glass slipped from her fingers, ice clattering against the table. The brunette didn’t notice. The club didn’t notice. Only Susanna, shuddering through her climax, her eyes screaming what her voice couldn’t: You. Only you.
Beatrice’s chest caved.
Somewhere behind her, a woman laughed—bright, careless. The scent of sweat and vanilla engulfed her. Susanna’s lips curled, slow and knowing, as the brunette slumped against her thigh, spent. Beatrice’s corset creaked. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Then Susanna pushed off the bar and sauntered toward her, hips swaying, the damp hem of her dress clinging to her thighs. Beatrice’s breath lodged in her throat.
“You watched,” Susanna purred, sliding into the booth beside her. Not an accusation. A gift.
Beatrice’s fingers twitched. The knuckle-tattooed brunette was already forgotten, discarded like the condensation sliding down Beatrice’s abandoned glass.
Susanna’s knee pressed against hers beneath the table. Hot. Deliberate.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
The phone pressed against her ear burned hotter than the club’s spotlights ever had, Susanna’s choked moans vibrating through the plastic like live wires. A wet, rhythmic thump underscored each gasp—fabric against skin, Beatrice realized with a jolt. Bedsprings. Susanna was moving. “Are you—?” Beatrice’s voice cracked. Her fingers, still glistening from her own frantic touch, dug into the sheets.
A muffled whimper answered her. Then the distinct click of something metallic—handcuffs?—followed by Susanna’s breathless laugh. “I knew you’d still be awake,” she purred
The humid night clung to Beatrice’s bare shoulders as she stumbled out of the club, Susanna’s arm looped through hers like a promise. Neon lights bled into the cobblestones beneath their heels, their reflections fracturing across puddles of spilled gin and rainwater. Susanna’s breath hitched when Beatrice’s fingers brushed the damp skin under her mesh dress—just once, fleeting—but neither acknowledged it. The warehouse loomed ahead, its darkened windows mute witnesses to their swaying ascent up the iron staircase.
On the third-floor landing, Susanna pivoted abruptly, her back hitting the brick wall with a soft thud. Beatrice froze, her pulse hammering where their thighs pressed together through flimsy fabric. For three ragged breaths, they stared—Susanna’s lips parted, Beatrice’s corset straining—before Susanna surged forward. Their mouths collided, whiskey-sour and desperate, teeth clacking. Beatrice’s hand found Susanna’s hip, fingers digging into the lace tops of her stockings. A moan vibrated between them. Then Susanna pulled away, her swollen lips glistening under the flickering hall bulb. “Goodnight,” she whispered, stepping back into the shadows toward her own door.
Beatrice’s bedsprings screamed when she threw herself onto the mattress. The corset’s bones dug into her ribs as she arched, fingertips skating over her pierced nipples—still tender from the club’s wandering hands. But it was Susanna’s phantom touch she craved. The memory of Susanna’s knee between her thighs, the look she’d given her over the brunette’s shoulder—
Her phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
Beatrice fumbled for it, the screen illuminating her flushed chest. A single voice message from Susanna. Her thumb hovered.
Down the hall, a bedframe creaked rhythmically against the wall.
She pressed play.
Susanna’s gasp crackled through the speaker—raw, unfiltered—followed by the slick whisper of fingers moving fast. “I lied,” Susanna panted between hitched breaths. “About… goodnight.” A wet moan punctuated the sentence. Beatrice’s free hand dove between her own legs, her corset be damned.
The bedframe’s tempo increased.
So did hers.
Alex woke with the slow, disorienting blink of someone surfacing from the depths of anesthesia. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting bars of gold across her bare thighs—thighs that tingled. She frowned, flexing her toes experimentally under the sheets. The sensation was distant, muted, but there, like static humming just beneath her skin. Then she registered the absence: her wheelchair wasn't parked beside the bed where she'd left it.
"Tim?" Her voice rasped from sleep. She pushed herself up on her elbows—unassisted—and the duvet pooled at her waist, exposing the sheer camisole that did nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of her nipples. The fabric clung, damp with sweat from whatever synaptic storm had raged through her overnight.
The knock came three seconds later. Tim's ginger hair was mussed from sleep, his t-shirt wrinkled, but his gaze snagged instantly on her chest before darting away. "Your chair's—uh—" He cleared his throat, fingers tightening around the doorframe. "Upstairs. Vera and Em took it last night after you passed out."
Alex's pulse jumped. She hooked a finger into the hem of her panties—already damp—and tugged them down just enough to watch the twitch of her inner thigh muscles. Voluntary. A laugh bubbled up, half-hysterical. "Tell them," she said, dragging her gaze back to Tim's flushed face, "to bring it back." But when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet met the floorboards—and held. Tim's breath audibly caught.
Upstairs, Vera's door swung open before Tim's knuckles could connect. She took in his erection straining against sweatpants, the frantic dilation of his pupils, and didn't bother hiding her smirk. Behind her, Em's fingers paused mid-keystroke on his laptop, the dungeon's server logs reflected in his glasses. "Alex is awake," Tim blurted, shifting his weight.
Vera's gaze dropped to his crotch. "We noticed." . She slowly reached out and cupped Tim's scrotum, giving a squeeze. "Take the wheelchair and tell Alex to prepare," she said, while pulling down a bit. Tim, trembling in fear, bowed his head and said: "Yes, Mistress Vera.".
Em didn't look up. "Tell her we'll be down." His voice was calm, but the rapid tapping of his keys betrayed him. The program had worked. Now came the messy part: calibration, containment, the inevitable backlash of a nervous system relearning how to scream.
Tim fled.
Vera turned to Em, her thumb tracing the edge of the magic wand tucked into her waistband. "You packed the restraints?"
Em's smile was all teeth. "Which set? Alex's or Tim's?"
He didn't wait for an answer—his hands were already pulling the antique wooden case from beneath their bed. Inside gleamed polished leather: thigh cuffs with silver buckles, a posture collar lined in dove-gray suede, and coiled ropes the color of dried blood.
Downstairs, Alex's fingers trembled against her own throat as she tested her vocal cords. The whisper came out cracked: "I walked." Tim's abandoned erection pressed obscenely against his sweatpants as he dragged the wheelchair toward her, his gaze locked on the wet patch between her thighs soaking through the camisole's lace trim.
The wheelchair's footrests swung uselessly when Alex shoved it away. Her legs—pale from years of disuse—bore angry red marks where the electrodes had been. She inhaled sharply through her nose, catching the scent of her own arousal mingling with the tang of the neuro-stimulants still lingering in her pores. Her toes curled against the floorboards again. Voluntary. Electric.
Tim's whimper echoed in the small room as Alex rose unsteadily. The camisole's strap slid down one shoulder when she took her first full step toward him. His pupils swallowed his irises whole. "Tell me," she breathed, catching herself against the dresser, "were you watching? When they—tested—me?" Her fingers trailed along the woodgrain, following the path Vera's wand had taken the night before.
Above them, floorboards creaked under purposeful footsteps. Leather straps slithered against hardwood. Tim's throat worked as he stared at the damp spot spreading down Alex's inner thigh. His answer was barely audible: "Every time."
Beatrice barely noticed the cool leather of the couch against her thighs—not when Susanna’s bare backside was fully on display at the stove, the curve of her ass flexing with every flip of the pancake spatula. The hem of Beatrice’s oversized shirt had ridden up, exposing the lace edge of her panties, but she couldn’t bring herself to adjust it. Not when Susanna glanced over her shoulder, syrup bottle in hand, and licked a slow stripe along its rim. The heat between Beatrice’s legs throbbed in time with the sizzle of batter in the pan.
The apartment door swung open with a thud, Tim wheeling Alex inside with white-knuckled grip on the chair’s handles. His sweatpants were tented obscenely, the fabric straining with every shuffling step. Alex’s fingers dug into the armrests, her breath ragged, her skirt rucked up to expose the faint tremor in her thighs—echoes of last night’s electrodes still dancing under her skin.
Susanna turned fully now, unabashed in her nudity, her nipples pebbled from the stove’s heat. “Hungry?” she asked, dragging the word out like a challenge. Her gaze flicked from Alex’s flushed chest to Tim’s twitching cock before settling on Beatrice’s parted lips. The syrup bottle tipped, a golden stream splattering the tile between her bare feet. Beatrice’s pulse spiked.
Alex’s wheelchair creaked as she arched against the seatbelt, her toes curling against the footrests. Tim’s groan was muffled by his own teeth biting into his lower lip, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The scent of pancakes—vanilla, butter, Susanna—thickened the air.
Beatrice’s fingers clenched around the couch cushions, her thighs pressing together. She could still taste Susanna’s voice memo on her tongue, could still feel the phantom weight of her knee between her legs. The syrup puddle glistened, reflecting the overhead light in fractured amber.
Tim’s fist tightened on the wheelchair’s push bar. Alex exhaled sharply, her hips rolling in a slow, involuntary grind against the seat.
The knock came—three sharp raps, precise as scalpels. Vera’s lab coat glowed bone-white against the apartment’s dim hallway, her fingers already pinching the bridge of her glasses in anticipation of recalibration. Behind her, Em’s shadow loomed, his palm cradling two folded silk blindfolds. The scent of sterile wipes clung to them both. "Follow me," Vera murmured, her gaze flicking to the damp lace clinging to Alex’s inner thighs.
Tim’s pulse hammered in his throat as Em stepped forward. The silk slithered over his eyes, plunging him into blackness, but not before he glimpsed Alex’s parted lips—her pupils blown wide with something between terror and hunger. The wheelchair jerked beneath his grip as Vera took the handles, guiding them toward the basement stairs.
Cold air licked Tim’s bare arms as they descended. The scent of old stone and lubricant thickened with each step. Em’s voice hummed close to his ear: "Sensory deprivation enhances neural plasticity." Tim’s cock twitched, trapped against his zipper. Somewhere to his left, Alex’s breath hitched—a wet, shuddering sound—followed by the metallic click of a wrist shackle snapping shut.
Footsteps echoed off cobblestones as Tim was steered forward. His shins bumped against iron bars before Em’s hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. The blindfold’s knot tightened. A collar’s weight settled against his Adam’s apple. Vera’s gloved fingers traced the shell of his ear: "Count backwards from ten."
Alex’s moan ricocheted through the dungeon—raw, punched-out—as another shackle closed. Tim’s knees ached against the stone. Em’s belt buckle clinked.
Nine.
Eight.
The first electrode hissed against skin.
Seven.
Alex screamed.
Six.
Tim came in his pants.
Five.
The scent of burning hair filled Tim's nostrils as another electrode connected—this time to the base of his spine. His gasp strangled itself against the posture collar's rigid curve, the leather digging into his windpipe with each ragged inhale.
Four.
Distantly, Alex's chains clinked, her moans pitching higher as wet sounds echoed from her cell, Vera's fingers working in tandem with the electrodes, no doubt.
Three.
Something cold and metallic pressed against Tim's bare thigh while Em's breath ghosted over his shoulder: "Sensory deprivation enhances neural plasticity." The irony wasn't lost; every nerve in Tim's body felt scraped raw, electrified.
Two.
The magic wand's first touch arced across Alex's inner thigh, illuminating the dungeon in jagged purple bursts. Through his blindfold, Tim saw it—her silhouette thrashing against the pillory, the way her back arched when the current hit her clit.
One.
Em's palm flattened between Tim's shoulder blades, forcing him forward until his forehead kissed damp stone.
Zero.
A different kind of static filled his skull as Vera's voice cut through the darkness: "Begin phase two."
Alex's chains rattled violently when the first full-body surge hit her—not pain, not quite pleasure, but something that tore a guttural scream from her chest. Tim's own shout died against his gag as matching currents raced up his cock, his body bowing like a live wire. Above them, dust rained from the dungeon's ancient beams.
Em's teeth gleamed in the wand's afterglow as he leaned over Tim. "You'll count properly this time and start with Ten." The threat dripped between them, thicker than the sweat pooling in the hollow of Tim's throat. Behind them, Alex sobbed. Her legs trembled, muscles firing in staggered bursts, heels digging into the rack as if she could outrun the current. The scent of scorched skin mingled with Vera's perfume. Em's fingers closed around the dial.
Tim's vision whited out at ten.
Alex jolted awake with a gasp that tasted like blood, her sheets tangled around her waist in a damp vise. Pale morning light painted Vera's silhouette in clinical detail—the sharp angle of her crossed legs, the smudge of electrode gel still clinging to her wristwatch, the faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she tapped notes into her tablet.
"You felt that," Vera murmured, not a question.
Alex's fingers spasmed against the mattress. Beneath the rumpled duvet, her toes curled—curled—and the sensation sent an electric current of pure, disbelieving pleasure up her spine. Every inch of skin from her hips down hummed with awareness: the whisper of cotton against her inner thighs, the phantom press of last night's restraints, the delicious ache between her legs where the magic wand had lingered longest.
Vera set the tablet aside. The movement made Alex's newly sensitized skin prickle as if she could feel the displaced air against her own body. "Full proprioception," Vera continued, rising to peel back the sheets with deliberate slowness. "No lag, no fade-out." Her knuckles brushed Alex's knee—just a graze—and Alex's back arched off the bed with a sob. Every nerve ending screamed.
Alex's breath came in shattered bursts. She could feel the sweat trickling down her ribcage now, could feel the tremors building in her calves as her muscles remembered how to shudder. Vera's thumb pressed into the hollow behind her knee—a test—and Alex's hips jerked off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from her throat. Her toes dug into the sheets, pushed, and suddenly she was sitting upright without leverage, without assistance, her spine alive with the effort.
Vera's smile widened. She palmed the magic wand still clipped to her belt. "Again," she ordered, and Alex's body obeyed before her mind could protest, her legs spreading with a will of their own.
Somewhere beyond the door, Susanna laughed—bright, knowing—and a pancake flipped with a sizzle that made Alex's stomach clench. Or maybe that was the first spark of the wand, its purple light dancing across her twitching thighs as Vera murmured, "Good girl."
Alex jumps up and starts to cry from joy and pain and confusion all mixed in one. Her legs tremble with fresh feeling, and she swings them over the side of the bed, pressing her bare soles against the wooden floorboards. She gasps as she stands, her knees nearly buckling—until Vera's fingers wrap around her elbow in a vice grip. "Slowly," Vera murmurs, but her voice carries the weight of an order, not advice. The sensation of support sends Alex's pulse skyrocketing—the warmth of Vera's skin against hers, the pressure of fingertips pressing bruises into her newly awakened nerves. Alex's breath hitches as she realizes she can feel everything—the rough weave of Vera's lab coat sleeve brushing against her inner wrist, the cold draft from the window ghosting over her thighs, the slick wetness between them betraying her body's traitorous response to even this clinical touch.
Vera's thumb strokes the delicate skin of Alex's inner elbow—just once—and Alex's knees nearly give out again. This time, it isn't weakness. The sensation is overwhelming—electric—as if every dormant nerve ending has been rewired to amplify pleasure tenfold. Vera's smirk deepens as she notes the way Alex's nipples harden beneath the thin cotton of her sleepshirt, the way her thighs press together instinctively. "Interesting," Vera murmurs, dragging the word out as her other hand comes up to trace the column of Alex's throat. Alex swallows hard, her pulse rabbiting under Vera's fingertips.
Em's shadow filled the doorway. His glasses reflected the readouts streaming across Vera's abandoned tablet—spiking vitals, firing synapses, a web of connections reforged in the white-hot crucible of controlled overstimulation. "Most of the sensation is being routed to subject T.," he says, "Stable connection."
Susanna's spoon clattered against her cereal bowl when Alex stepped into the living room—stepped, her bare feet pressing tentative weight onto the hardwood—and Beatrice's gasp was muffled against the blonde's collarbone. Their cuddle on the couch froze mid-motion, Susanna's fingers still tangled in Beatrice's pink hair, both women staring as Alex swayed unsteadily between Vera and Em. The air thickened with the scent of something musky, primal, radiating from Alex's flushed skin.
Beatrice's knuckles whitened around the hem of Susanna's shirt. "You're—" Her voice cracked. Alex's legs trembled visibly beneath the borrowed silk robe—Em's, judging by the way the hem pooled around her ankles—but she took another shuddering step forward. Susanna's lips parted, her gaze dropping to the way Alex's thighs glistened with sweat, how her toes curled against the floorboards like a newborn fawn testing its limbs. The robe gaped open just enough to reveal the angry red marks circling Alex's wrists—matching the raw patches on her inner thighs where the electrodes had lingered longest.
Vera's fingers settled possessively at the small of Alex's back, guiding her toward the armchair. "Tim's indisposed," she said mildly, as if discussing the weather. Em's lips twitched. Somewhere beneath them, the dungeon's reinforced door hummed with latent energy, the scent of scorched leather and sex still clinging to the vents.
Susanna's tongue darted out to wet her lips. Beatrice shuddered—whether from the movement or the sudden tension coiling through Alex's body as she lowered herself into the chair, it was impossible to tell. The robe slipped further, exposing the swell of Alex's breast, the peaked nipple visible through damp fabric. Vera didn't adjust it. Em's smile sharpened.
Across the room, Beatrice's nails dug into Susanna's thigh—hard enough to leave crescents—as Alex's back arched suddenly, a whimper escaping her throat. Her legs spasmed, toes curling, thighs clamping together. Vera's hand drifted to her tablet. "Ah," she murmured. "Right on schedule." The screen flashed—peak coherence detected—just as Alex's hips jerked against the chair cushions, her head falling back with a choked gasp.
Susanna's breath hitched. The cereal bowl tipped, milk pooling across the coffee table. No one moved to clean it.
The market stalls blurred in Alex’s vision—not from tears, but from the sheer effort of placing one foot in front of the other. Three weeks ago, her legs had been strangers; now they trembled like overworked thoroughbreds, each step sending sparks of sensation up her spine. She clutched the woven basket tighter, the rough wicker biting into her palms just enough to ground her. The scent of ripe peaches and fresh bread wrapped around her, thick as Vera’s electro-gel, but sweeter. Real.
A vendor’s laugh cut through the chatter as Alex paused by the flower stand, her thighs quivering. Sunlight caught on the dew-laden petals, refracting into prismatic dots across her wrist—a sensation she could feel, could see, without the sterile glare of lab lights overhead. Her breath hitched. Behind her, a child’s scooter wheels whirred against cobblestones. The sound shouldn’t have made her pulse spike, but it did.
Tim’s name hadn’t been spoken in weeks. If anyone noticed his absence—the vacant chair at the deli counter, the unused shower slot—they didn’t mention it. Beatrice’s gaze sometimes flickered to the basement door during dinner, but Susanna’s fingers would curl around hers, redirecting. Alex had seen the footage, of course. Vera had shown her during a calibration session: Tim writhing against the rack, electrodes mapping his spine in jagged red lines, his whimpers syncing with Alex’s own moans as her nerves fired in tandem. Neural tethering, Em had called it. Necessary.
Now, Alex’s fingers hovered over a bunch of lavender, the purple buds soft as Vera’s electrodes had been cruel. She inhaled—deep, deliberate—and the floral bite flooded her sinuses. Freedom smelled like this, she decided. Not sweat-slick leather. Just lavender, and the faint salt-wind from the canals.
The bakery’s bell jingled when Alex pushed the door open, her knees nearly buckling at the sudden warmth. The clerk—a round-faced woman with flour-dusted forearms—smiled. “We miss you at the deli,” she said in Dutch, nodding at Alex’s basket.
Alex’s tongue felt too thick. Her therapist would’ve called it progress, this stumble toward normalcy. Vera would’ve called it a waste of synaptic potential. She bought a loaf anyway, the crust crackling under her fingertips, and didn’t look back when the clerk’s gaze dropped to her uneven gait. Outside, a breeze lifted the hem of her sundress. The fabric whispered against her thighs—another sensation catalogued, another victory.
Somewhere beneath the city’s honeyed light, Tim’s restraints clicked. Alex’s toes curled in her sandals. She walked faster.