Breaking Point 10

General Bailey observes a new interrogation technique being utilized on a captured spy, using a medical treatment which heightens arousal while neuro-chemically blocking the subject's ability to reach orgasm. In the process, he also meets and becomes involved with Mattie, one of the original test subjects for the treatment who is still suffering from its effects. Erotic horror rating, 7k words.

Content Warnings/Tags: mind-break; use of orgasm denial and ruined orgasms as torture; brief mention of more traditional torture methods, including an off-page character having been tortured to death (not sexualized); use of convicts as non-consenting test subjects for medical experiments; needles/injections used during sex; overall lack of consent in sexual encounters throughout the story for a number of reasons (sexual torment of a prisoner; mandating sexual encounters as a condition of parole; sexual coercion and manipulation via lying/dishonesty; etc.)

"General, we have activity in cell 19."

"Is that so, Lieutenant?" General James Bailey turned away from the paperwork he'd been muddling through to eye the security feeds his Lieutenant was watching. "Hah. That's the little birdie we caught, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Looks like she snuck some sort of contraband into her cell. I'll radio the guards."

"No, no," Bailey said, putting a hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder to stop him. "Wait and watch first."

The woman pictured on the video feed was a spy, but that was about all they knew about her. She had been captured in the server room of a top secret military base, but only after she had already downloaded some files--which files, exactly, they didn't know--and sent the data off to an unknown third party.

The only clue was a small tattoo on the heel of her left foot: a stamped pair of black wings. The same tattoo found on a man who had infiltrated another base a couple of years earlier.

The man had been subjected to advanced interrogation techniques for over a year and had never spoken a word. Eventually, his heart had given out under the strain of multiple rounds of torture. They hadn't learned anything from him.

This was their second chance, and the spooks that oversaw the interrogations had decided to use a new approach with this one. Something experimental.

From what they were seeing on the screen, Bailey suspected it was finally bearing fruit.

The prisoner had smuggled some sort of tool into her cell; a ratchet, it looked like. But she wasn't using it to pick the lock on the door, or to try and chisel a brick out of the wall. She wasn't sharpening it into a shiv or lying in wait to bash a guard over the head.

Instead, they got a front-row seat as she lay down on her bed--one eye on the open bars of her cell to be sure she wasn't being observed--and slid her standard-issue pants and underwear down to her knees before spreading her legs.

"Phone up the lead interrogator," Bailey instructed. "He's gonna want to see this."

On the camera, the spy covered her mouth with one hand and used the other to guide the handle of the ratchet between her legs, penetrating herself. Even on the low-fidelity security footage, the expression on her face was one of acute, desperate pleasure.

The lieutenant picked up the phone and dialed the number for the spooks.

***

Half an hour later, the lead interrogator had joined them. He was a thin, worn-looking man who only introduced himself as Johnsson.

He gathered with General Bailey and the lieutenant at the terminal, watching on the screen as the caged spy fucked herself, vigorously, with the smooth handle of the ratchet. Her shirt had rucked up around her ribs from her squirming and writhing on the bed, exposing the hard flex and clench of her tight stomach muscles; the security camera was beginning to pick up the sheen of sweat on her skin.

"I mean, this is it, right?" General Bailey asked Johnsson. "This is what you were looking for?"

"Yes, this is the standard progression of the treatment," the interrogator said, glancing between the screen and the notepad he was writing on. "Although we weren't expecting this level of response for another few weeks. But then, most of our test subjects were involved in prostitution at some point; I suppose it's not so surprising that a woman living a different lifestyle might succumb sooner."

"You fixed her so she can't come, right?" the General confirmed, squinting at the monitor. "That's why she's so worked up?"

"The treatment also heightens arousal." The interrogator finally flipped his notebook shut. "She received the final dose two and a half weeks ago; since that time, she will have been experiencing elevated sensitivity and sexual desire, without the ability to orgasm, resulting in severe sexual frustration. By minimizing her privacy, we've made it difficult for her to attempt to masturbate as well, so she likely doesn't suspect yet that her orgasms are being chemically restricted--she just thinks she hasn't had enough time to herself to get the job done, so to speak."

General Bailey nodded, not taking his eyes off the camera feed, the woman's legs hauled up tight to her chest, her hand rapidly working the tool inside her body. "She's gotta be figuring it out by now, right?"

"Maybe. The arousal effect only grows stronger in response to erogenous stimulation, so she might be too compromised at this point to understand what's happening to her."

"Let's go find out," General Bailey proposed.

***

The prisoner didn't even notice them approach.

She lay there on her bed, fucking herself vigorously with the metal ratchet, one hand squeezed tightly over her mouth. Her eyes were squeezed shut. The cell, and the hallway it opened onto, were filled with the wet, pornographic sound of a cunt being pounded, occasionally accented with quiet, gulping noises as she sucked in breaths through her nose.

Her body shook. Her ankles braced against each other in the air, her toes pointed and flexed. Occasionally, the quiet noises turned to quick, staccato, barely-voiced grunts, and her back arched as it looked like she was bracing to come.

But she didn't.

"Yes, she's entered the advanced stage of the treatment," Johnsson said after a few seconds of silent observation, and that was when the spy finally noticed them.

She jolted violently in surprise and yanked the sopping tool out of her cunt, dropping it to the floor and scrambling to sit up on the bed and face them. As the movement dragged her sex across the mattress, she froze and shuddered, her eyelids fluttering and her mouth dropping open. "I--wh--what did you do to me?"

Those were the first words she'd spoken since being captured.

General Bailey grinned, and he even saw Johnsson's usually-flat mouth quirk up in a small, victorious smirk.

"Come with us," the interrogator said, "and we'll have a little chat about it."

***

"It's an experimental treatment," Johnsson explained. "Two drugs, coupled together. One produces elevated sexual sensitivity and arousal, while the other--a neuro-blocker--prevents the body from reaching orgasm. It also happens to prevent sneezing, but that isn't really the primary effect."

They were seated in an interrogation room. The spy was strapped into her chair at the ankles and at one wrist, but the interrogator had left one hand free, "in case she needs the stimulation to focus".

The spy, so far, refused to give in to the implication, instead holding tightly onto the arm of the chair.

This wasn't doing much to preserve her dignity, because she couldn't sit still. She was constantly squirming and rocking in place, grinding into the seat beneath her.

"And what?" she demanded. "What for? You want to fuck me?" It was worded like an accusation, but her tone expressed something more like desperation.

"What is your name?" Johnsson asked in response. "Who do you work for?"

An expression of brief disappointment flashed across the spy's face, and then stony blankness as she fell silent.

The interrogator continued to ask her questions anyway--what had she stolen from the servers, where had she sent it, how had she gotten into the base, was she working with someone on the inside, who were they--and she sat silently through them. By the end of the hour-long interrogation, her grip on the arm was so severe that her knuckles were turning white.

"Alright," Johnsson said, flipping his notebook shut. "I'll come ask you again in three days." To General Bailey, he said, "Keep a close eye on her. No more improvised sex toys. Best to give her one-on-one supervision from here on out."

***

It took thirty-six hours for the woman to lose her shame and start masturbating in front of her personal guard.

By that point, her guard rotation was well aware of the treatment and her response to it; they'd see her squirm and wriggle, heard her curse when she touched herself to clean up in the shower. But constantly having a pair of eyes on her seemed to stop her from going all the way--until she just couldn't take it any more.

"She's been doing that for about an hour," the guard explained to General Bailey when he showed up in response to the report. "Is that alright? Should we stop her?"

Inside the cell, the spy was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling, ignoring them. Her hand was shoved under the waistband of the loose athletic shorts she'd been provided to wear. The shorts obscured what exactly she was doing, but the quick movement of her arm and the wet noises, as well as her quiet, emphatic chanting of "fuck fuck fuck fuck," left little to the imagination.

"I'll check with the spooks," General Bailey said.

***

Johnsson got back to him pretty quickly with an assurance that it was fine, a natural development at this stage.

He also informed General Bailey that he was going to wait another two days before pulling her for another interrogation, because she may not be much use for a while.

***

The following day, the spy refused to move from her bed. She didn't eat. She no longer bothered to cover herself with her clothes.

All she did, non-stop, was masturbate.

She alternated between laying on her back and kneeling on her bed. She switched from one hand to the other, from plunging fingers into her cunt to rubbing back and forth over her clit. Other than brief breaks to drink water or to use the toilet in the corner of her cell, she stopped only when her body gave out and slipped into unconsciousness; when she woke again, her hand went immediately back between her legs, her face creasing in an expression of torturous pleasure as her fingers once again made contact with her swollen, wet slit.

At times she was quiet, biting down on her lip and letting out quick pants through her noise; other times she was loud, moaning or grunting or swearing.

But at no point did she orgasm. General Bailey looked through the footage himself, intrigued, and found no evidence that she had been able to bring herself any relief.

It was almost 36 hours before she finally slipped out of the feverish fit and into a stony silence. The morning after, she finally began accepting food again.

***

General Bailey attended the next interrogation session as well.

To his surprise, he wasn't the only guest; Johnsson brought a woman with him, middle-aged and wearing makeup that might have made her look younger at a distance but that wasn't so effective under the harsh lights of the interrogation room. She seemed to have a hard time standing still, shifting her weight from foot to foot and flicking her eyes up towards the ceiling whenever someone wasn't speaking to her.

When the woman saw the spy--strapped down in the chair, squirming--she made an expression of sympathy. "Oh, dang, sweetheart. You got the treatment too, huh?"

The spy just stared at her.

"Well, don't worry, it does--does get easier," the woman assured her. "You learn to need it less. And they give us all an allowance, one dose of the fix a month, which is--you know. It's generous. You gotta be careful with the timing, but it's more generous than they could be."

"The fix?" the spy demanded, glaring.

"Yeah. The shot? So that you can, you know." the woman gestured vaguely towards her own crotch, then looked quickly between General Bailey and the chief interrogator, her eyes wide. "Speaking of, um, I'm due, so..."

"Yes, Matilda, you will be receiving your dose today. We wanted to demonstrate the effect for our newest test subject, so I'll be administering it here," the interrogator explained. "But we also want to demonstrate to her the long-term effects of the treatment first. Your choices are either to masturbate with a toy, or--if he's amenable--you can instead have intercourse with General Bailey."

General Bailey lifted his eyebrows in surprise. But when the woman--Matilda, apparently--looked over to him, he shrugged and nodded; he wasn't opposed.

"Fuck," she muttered quietly, a spasm of dismayed desperation passing over her face. To Johnsson, she said, "Do I really have to..."

"One or the other," the interrogator said firmly. "And remember that compliance with our program is a condition of your parole."

"God. Okay. Um, I don't think I can do it myself, so..." she looked to General Bailey, already reaching down to unbutton her jeans.

Two minutes later, the General had her bent over the table in the interrogation room and was shoving his condom-sheathed cock into her.

It was immediately obvious that Matilda hadn't been very honest in saying that the effects of the treatment got easier over time.

As soon as her cunt was filled, she started to let out loud, pathetic wailing noises, her whole body quaking as she squeezed firmly around him. Every one of her muscles tensed with frustration, her body straining for an orgasm that it couldn't reach.

When General Bailey reached down between her thighs and gave her clit an exploratory rub, she grit her teeth and shuddered all over, then seemed to lose strength in her legs, sagging back into him as her feet jittered on the floor. "S-sir, no, please," she ground out, and then could only drag in ragged breaths as he ignored the request and continued to play with her. The little nub was marvelously hard under his fingers, swollen and throbbing urgently with her pulse, a unique demonstration of erotic desperation.

"Matilda is one of our test subjects," Johnsson explained to the glaring spy. "She received the treatment a year ago. As you can see, neither the orgasm blocking effects nor the arousal have lessened any in severity in that time. We don't know yet whether it will ever naturally fade, or if a permanent counter-agent can be developed; so far, we have only developed this--" he opened a hard case in front of him and pulled out a syringe filled with an amber fluid-- "Which temporarily overrides the orgasm block for a period of between thirty and a hundred seconds. Typically long enough to achieve a semi-satisfactory orgasm, with appropriate timing. Our first formulation only provided an effective override for about five seconds, which, I am told, made it essentially impossible to achieve anything but a severely distressing ruined orgasm, even with continuous stimulation."

The test subject quaking under General Bailey let out a piteous groaning noise. He pinched lightly at her clit, and she tensed hard around him, then sluiced out a small gush of squirt, whimpering and twitching like an injured animal, her mouth clumsily trying to form pleading syllables. The sound of his cock churning in her cunt became sloppier and more pronounced.

"Would you like to do the honors, General?" Johnsson asked, holding out the syringe. "Her thigh, I believe, is the preferred injection point."

"Mm," General Bailey grunted in somewhat annoyed agreement, because he clearly couldn't fuck her and inject her at the same time. He stopped thrusting and held the woman still, her cunt clutching around him repeatedly as she moaned into the table. When he slid the needle into her thigh, her moans grew louder, her voice becoming increasingly desperate as he pushed the plunger and delivered the medication into her body.

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, my--please--" she gasped. As soon as he pulled the needle out of her, she burst into movement, bouncing back on his cock in a rapid, filthy grinding motion and lifting one knee awkwardly up onto the edge of the table so that she could get her own hand between her legs and rub vigorously at her clit.

She seemed to hang on the edge, panting and grunting, for several vital seconds, and then--with long sobs of pure, audible relief--she tipped over the edge, her body shaking hard enough to jolt the heavy table as her cunt contracted rapidly on the general's cock and then squirted again.

General Bailey groaned at the feeling. Her body grew, if anything, even tighter in orgasm, pulsing hard and fast around him. He tossed the syringe aside to resume pounding into her with abandon.

Matilda made loud animal noises of pleasure beneath him, her hand spasming against her clit where it was trapped between her hips and the table, her eyes rolling half back in her head and mouth hanging open as her body worked out a month of pent-up sexual need in one long and powerful orgasm.

By his estimate, it was about a minute before the spasming of her cunt abruptly ended, turning once again to needy twitching. Her moaning gave way to ragged panting, and then she pressed her forehead to the table and muttered a quiet but emphatic "Fuck".

There were no aftershocks, no sated relaxation--just a sudden stop to the process. Like a door slamming shut, the orgasm-blocker had gone back into effect, and it didn't seem that Matilda was very happy with the unnaturally quick end to her sexual relief.

By the time General Bailey grunted out his own finish a minute later, in fact, Matilda was starting to let out quiet, strained whimpers of need again. When he pulled out, she moaned in desolate disappointment, her fingers fidgeting against her clit. She turned her head to stare at Johnsson, at the open case in front of him, which held another syringe.

"Is there...could I get another dose, maybe, since I did this whole thing for you guys...?"

"It wouldn't have any effect, so soon after the first," Johnsson said, and she let out another heartfelt moan. "But thank you for your cooperation. You, too, General Bailey. There are showers across the hall, if you two would like to go clean up while I finish my chat with our friend here."

General Bailey grunted in agreement and pushed himself off the table. Matilda, no longer pinned under him, sagged and nearly slid to the floor, but managed to get her shaking legs under herself at the last moment with some assistance from the table.

By the time the general had gotten the condom tied off, she'd recovered enough to totter in the direction of the door, and he followed her out.

***

Later, General Bailey went and pulled the recording of the cameras in the room.

He watched the spy's face vacillating between rage and hunger throughout his encounter with the woman, watched her knees twitch and her hips shift as she was forced to bear witness to the woman's orgasm.

And then he kept watching. He had seen the state the spy was in afterwards--sweating and wild-eyed, once again vigorously and fruitlessly masturbating in her cell--and he wanted to know what Johnsson had done to her after he'd left the room.

He expected to see Johnsson questioning the spy. Offering her the drug that would allow her orgasm in exchange for information, maybe.

Instead, he watched as Johnsson wordlessly prepared a second dose of the drug, and then injected it into the spy's thigh, before sitting back and setting a timer on his watch.

The spy initially looked as surprised by this as General Bailey felt. But it only took a second or so for the desperation to set in as she must have realized that she had a very short window of time to reach orgasm.