by Boyfae

Tags: #cw:noncon #bondage #brainwashing #forced_institutionalization #lobotomy #medical_malpractice #pov:bottom #aliens #eye_horror #nonbinary_character #oviposition #padded_room #scifi #straitjacket

You’re forced to undergo medical treatment for failing to adapt to the new social order. Unfortunately, the terms of the treatment aren’t very clear. By the time you realize that death may have been the better option, you’re in well over your head (and they’re well into yours).

Second-person narrative. No gender is stated for the character (they were written with them being trans in mind), but the word "cunt" is used in reference to their anatomy. The aliens are implied rather than explicit. Don't read if you're squicked by eye horror.

You had been assigned this…treatment option, although you would feign to call it an option in the first place. Not when the alternatives were more years in prison, or death row, if the newly-installed state thought you couldn’t be re-educated.

The overhead lights were bright. Blindingly so. You wince and start to protest before you feel a gas mask being fitted over your nose and mouth. You hear the low hiss of the gas canister amidst the mechanical hum of the operating room before you register the sweet, slightly chalky smell slowly filling your mask. You hold your breath as your heart hammers against your chest–objectively useless. There’s no way you’re getting out of this situation without them doing what they want to you, but you can’t help the survival instinct of resisting in whatever way you can, even when you know better.

A sharp pinch in your forearm drags your attention away from the gas mask. You can tell by the way the unique sensation makes your stomach roll that an IV has just been inserted into your arm, and a quick look confirms that. Dread curls icy cold in your stomach as your eyes follow the needle in your arm to a snaking tube connecting to an IV bag filled halfway with a clear, slightly blue-tinted liquid. Was it a backup in case you refused to breathe the gas? Or something else entirely?

You’re distantly aware of your other arm reaching across your body to pull the IV out. Before you can, several pairs of latex-gloved hands grab you and easily force you back down.

“Ah ah ah,” One of your surgeons chides you softly. You grind your teeth and thrash your body against the many hands restraining you. You can see the fucker out of the corner of your eye, just off to your left. If he got close enough, maybe you could get this mask off and take a bite out of his throat. It would earn you harsher treatment, sure, but might as well take one of them down with you, right?

“Can’t have any of that now, can we?” He says, sounding a little bored. Asshole.

The next thing you know, you feel padded restraints pulling your limbs tighter against the operating table, forcing them straight and spread apart. You feel hot shame and anger flooding your chest and rising into your throat as you realize that your cunt is exposed for the entire operating team to see. Surely this wasn’t necessary for this operation? You rack your brain to remember accounts you had heard about previous survivors, but they were all maddeningly vague and unreliable.

A wave of dizziness hits you. Shit, the gas mask! While you were struggling, you had forgotten to hold your breath. You groan and your eyelids flutter involuntarily. You feel cold and clammy and kind of nauseous.

A chuckle comes from behind your head. “Gas finally caught up to you, huh? Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” You feel a gloved hand ruffle your hair. Your eyes roll up lazily, trying to see who is touching you, before they slip closed. “There we go. No use in fighting it, this will just hurt a lot worse if you do.” They laugh. “It’s still going to hurt regardless, but you won’t be able to worry about that pretty soon.”

…Hurt? What’s supposed to hurt–

Your eyes roll open, unfocused, and you immediately wish you hadn’t looked. You manage to catch the gleam of the overheads reflecting off a thin, very long needle approaching your eye. Panic shoots through your body, but you can only twitch weakly in response. You let out a little whine of protest.

There is a different sensation creeping over your body now, overpowering the nausea. Your panicked breathing slows, and your body is feeling increasingly sluggish and difficult to move. Your head is starting to feel fuzzy, and it’s getting more and more difficult to make sense of what is going on around you.

“That would be the sedatives kicking in. The patient should be compliant now.”

Wait, no–

White, hot pain. In your head, behind your eye. God, fuck, you can’t think, can’t process what’s happening.

It’s…inside you though. Inside your head, poking around in your brain. You’re vaguely aware of the needle being extracted and re-entering the hole in your head multiple times but are unable to wonder about what it could be doing to you. In, out, in out.

You hear yourself let out a gurgle beneath the gas mask, and then your awareness vanishes.

You are awake. You are sitting in a chair in front of a screen. The screen is blank.

You blink groggily. You try to lean forward and notice that you can’t–you’re strapped to the chair and your arms are bound in a straitjacket. You frown and grunt. Something isn’t right. You don’t know what. Why are you bound again? Where are you? You look around.

The room you’re in is padded and entirely white, with no furnishings that you can see aside from your chair and the screen before you.


Who are you?

The realization that you don’t know who you are should scare you, but in your current state, you can only regard it with distant curiosity. Maybe the screen would tell you. It had told you lots of good things before.

Looking at the screen now, you can see a figure reflected in its dark screen. The figure is bound in a chair and has a set of headphones covering their ears. There is a thick wrapping of gauze around their head with a small spot of blood above their eye. You blink and feel the gauze against your eyelashes. That figure must be you!

You examine yourself more closely. Your eyes have heavy shadows beneath them, and your face looks haggard and gaunt. Your lips are parted, and you can see lines of dried spit running down your chin. It’s only now that you notice that your lower half is bare, and your legs are restrained and pulled apart.

Vague thoughts stir. How long have you been here? Where is here?

Before you can give those any serious consideration, the screen flickers on. The picture is grainy, maybe if you really focus you can make it out.

It’s only now that you become aware of a low, staticky hum coming from your headphones. If you listen closely, you can almost make the static sound like voices. How long has that been playing?

There’s no time to worry about that, not when the patterns emerging from the grain on screen are so fascinating. They almost seem to make sense. Maybe if you focus harder, you can find the logic behind it, you can find a pattern in the patterns and find out why you’re here.

The white noise in your headphones recedes and you can definitely hear words now. They’re overlapping and trying to follow them makes your head hurt, so you stop trying. As soon as you give up trying to understand, a shiver of pleasure snakes down your spine and you relax into your restraints.

That’s right, there’s no need to try to understand. If you need to know, the voices and the screen will tell you. If you don’t understand, then obviously you don’t need to know.

A dopey smile spreads over your face as you remember what the screen and the voices had taught you the last time you were awake like this. You don’t know how you know that you have been awake here before, or how many times, but you aren’t worried about it.

You feel something smooth and rounded press against your front hole. You let out a needy mewl, unaware until then of how aroused you are. You grind your hips mindlessly, seeking more stimulation. The toy seems content to slide in at its own pace, unmoved by your desperation. You let out a long whine when the dildo finally hits home and is seated snugly inside you, filling you up so perfectly. Your chest sags forward and your mouth drops open as you pant.

Words start to flash on the screen. You stare and drool, your mind too overwhelmed with pleasure to understand them.

You start to feel a different kind of pressure against your hole. It almost feels like the toy inside you is growing larger. Then you feel a pop and a slide of something slick and round into your cunt. Then another. And another. You groan as you feel your insides stretch to accommodate the new intrusions–which don’t seem to be letting up. A slow, lazy, pleasurable heat starts spreading from inside your cunt to the rest of your body, which only makes you whine as everything becomes more sensitive. The rough canvas of the straitjacket chafing against your bare skin, the slime leaking out of your cunt, the eggs pressing against the walls of your insides–it quickly crosses over from pleasurable to too much.

Soon your cunt feels impossibly full, like you’re going to tear if anything else is pumped into you. That’s when the toy starts properly fucking you. It feels like a punch in the gut–completely overwhelming and mind-blanking. You gasp and wheeze, drool dripping down your chin and on your chest. The screen in front of you is displaying a spiral now, with the occasional word flashing too quickly for you to read. Your headphones are a cacophony of noise that you’re too far gone to make out, but your lips are dutifully mouthing along, driving whatever conditioning you’re undergoing deeper into your weakened mind.

You lose track of how much time has passed, but you’re vaguely aware that you keep fading in and out of consciousness. Every time you come to the dildo is still fucking your cunt, the pretty spirals are still on screen, curling around your thoughts and binding them tight, and the words are still in your ears, taking your bound and tangled thoughts and obliterating them. There’s a puddle of slime leaking out from your hole, making the skin on your thighs prickle with heat wherever it touches. You’re far beyond the capacity to make words on your own now, still mindlessly mouthing the mantras playing in your headphones.

You are awake again. You do not wonder how much time has passed. You are not capable of wondering anything. If you were capable you would notice that your body feels altered. Sterile and new.

The straitjacket binding your torso is no longer a concern, but a comfort. You need it to feel secure. You need it to know that you are Good.

Gazing ahead, you can see a figure reflected in the blank screen in front of you. They are wearing a straitjacket, like you. Their eyes are dull and half-lidded, their expression blank. The bloody bandages on their forehead have been replaced with a neat, thin, clean strip of gauze. The LEDs encircling their headphones flicker dully.

They are not you. You do not know who they are.

You hear the voices in your head come back. The voices tell you everything you need to know. You giggle, and the face in the screen smiles stupidly in response. You see their eyes flutter and roll, and then you see nothing.


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