Dr. Trotsky checked his patient one more time. She was primed. It was the fifth nymphomaniac he had the pleasure to work with. The research was being done for a very private client who had too much money to spend, and a penchant for sexual sadism. The proposal for research was very simple: A nymphomaniac would be selected and he or she would be starved sexually for a week. This meant that not only would the nympho have no sexual contact with others, but he/she would also not have the option of relieving themself- i.e. masturbating.
That was the difficult part- how to make sure they did not touch themselves. After a conference during which ideas were discussed, it was decided by the seven person research team that the patient would be handcuffed for the duration of the week, only allowed to eat and go the bathroom twice a day under the surveillance of two rather large lab assistants who would make sure no touching occurred. For the women, leather chastity belts would also be used to guarantee no rubbing against chairs or other surfaces.
The latest patient was the most ardent of the group they'd studied so far. She was a 36-year-old female who couldn't keep her legs closed. She had been divorced twice because neither of her husbands could satisfy her huge sexual appetite. She was made to quit her job as an accountant because if she wasn't trying to feed her very strong sexual hunger with one of the employees, she was trying to quench it herself with the use of her fingers or other office supplies. The last straw for her former employer was when he walked into her room and office and found the very talented accountant rubbing herself with the butt of the stapler, stifling her moans against her fist.
Dr. Trotsky studied her, as she stood hand-cuffed with leather restraints to the padded white wall of her room. It had been quite a week for both her, and the team of researchers. Seven days ago, she had walked in of her own will- standing tall and elegant in a tight black skirt that skimmed her knees and a stylish chiffon blouse that did little to hide her curves. The black pumps and stockings completed her business look. She had walked into his office, dropped her Chanel tote on his desk, and lit a cigarette with the words, "My name is Marina Sazonsky and I need you to cure me doctor."
He looked at her now- a far cry from the poised, confident woman of seven days ago. She sat leaning against the white padded wall, hands held back with leather restraints. There was an animal-like look about her- her short black hair was wild and damp with perspiration. Her huge breasts were encased in a leather bra so that her nipples could not be stimulated easily and the chastity belt held her snugly from below, almost like tight leather underwear. She sat with her back against the wall, spread-eagled, moaning softly.
Yes, indeed, it had been a long week. While most of the other patients who came seemed to have insatiable sexual appetites for emotional reasons, this one was different. Her appetite seemed to stem from some imbalance of hormones. She had been showing some very strong withdrawal symptoms the last few days. It had gotten to the point that she had refused to eat since the morning, throwing the food at the attendants and growling primaly.
It was time to implement the last phase of the experiment. Today would be the day he'd let her have her 'relief'. In the forms she had filled out in the beginning of the experiment, she had emphasized her heterosexuality claiming that she had never experimented with a woman and she refused to even contemplate the idea. She had even asked Dr. Trotsky if it was a part of the experiment, telling him that if it was, she would walk out of the research center that minute. Dr. Trotsky told her it wasn't- he didn't care about introducing his already sexually hungry patients to more options. But it was too tempting today. It simply had to be done.
The 'clean-up' attendants had taken care of her earlier in the day. The two heavy-set research assistants had bathed her, taking care to sponge her aggressively so as not to arouse her more than she was aroused. Marina seemed to have relished even those systematic, impersonal touches. She was then waxed, very thoroughly. Every hair removed from her vagina. Gretska, the attendant, was professional and swift, not making it overly painful or gentle. Finally, she was put into the leather bra and underwear and was made to wait.
The other room was being prepared. It consisted of only a very large bed covered with an expensive cotton sheet of cool gray, with three large matching pillows. The room was heavily carpetted three of the walls were a deep maroon in color. The fourth wall consisted of long toiletry table over which hung a long mirror taking up half the wall. This was actually a window where Dr. Trotsky's staff could stand watching the proceedings. On this table were certain... tools. A leather belt, leather handcuffs, and a large black cylindrical object that could not be mistaken for anything but a dildo. The room was softly lit, with hidden yellow lights. It was Dr. Trotsky's tribute to romance- not that the patients needed any.
He watched from behind the mirror as the only door leading into the room opened presently, and two attendants ushered in the main player in the last phase of the experiment- Leona. It was a new person every week. For the men, it was a busty woman. For the women, it was a muscular man. For Marina, it would be Leona. He watched Leona with satisfaction as the attendants ushered her to the large bed and left to go. She was dressed in a simple black dress with a rather large decolletage, her ample bosom heaving out as she took deep breaths to steady herself. Dr. Trotsky sensed her fear even from behind the mirror. She was shivering and her hand shook unsteadily as she reached to move a lock of blonde hair from in front of her exquisite face.
"Leona, please do not be afraid. No one will hurt you." I hope. He thought silently to himself. Leona had jumped at the sound of his voice as it reached her through hidden loudspeakers in the room. Her turquoise eyes grew even wider with fear and she looked around to see where the voice was coming from. Standing in the middle of the room, she looked almost demure, with the long black dress and the fear. Her eyes skimmed across her own image in the mirror and she suddenly knew where Dr. Trotsky was.
"Doctor, we will be bringing in the patient in a moment." Dr. Trotsky nodded at young Dr. Mason and made himself comfortable in the chair he usually selected for this part of the experiment, making sure he had his notebook and pen.
***
Marina was exhausted. Emotionally and physically. She was tired of restraints, tired of the sexual deprivation- tired of life. She knew that if this was not the last day of the experiment she did not want to continue. She cursed herself silently as she remembered the release form she had signed, essentially signing herself over to the psychopaths who had not even let her masturbate. She knew only vaguely that today she would be allowed to have her bliss. She dreamed of how it would happen, where she would put her fingers when the last restraint was taken off... Even balding, cold Dr. Trotsky was looking good.
