Dark cherry wood bookshelves and cabinets bordered the ceiling, and a dome light glowed golden above me from an old fashioned filament bulb. Next to my ear and plugged into my collar, the Professor's devices whirred and chirped. I imagined how I must look laying on his desk in the middle of the study. McVoy moved around above my head taking readings and checking wires.
"Tell me immediately if you see or feel anything strange," he said. I took a deep breath, and the collar crackled to life. "Breath," said McVoy putting one bear-like hand on my stomach, "You're alright, breath." I felt my heartbeat in my ears and tried to relax. McVoy's hand weighed down on me as I exhaled. The collar was cool, metallic, and tense with charge. It was cruel, I thought, for collars to take away our autonomy as though we were dolls, but let us keep thinking and feeling like girls.
I had imagined him stripping me at this point and taking me bent over his desk, or unzipping his pants for me to suck his cock where I lay. Instead he pulled out a clipboard and with a long checklist. Each scratch of the pencil marked the beginning of a new input into my collar. First he tested his control of my muscles. My hands clenched, then my arms. And from there, as though I were a marionette, muscles twitched in my torso, neck, legs, and feet. I put my hand to my lower belly when muscles deep inside flexed that I didn't even know I had.
The exercises became stranger and more difficult to understand as he continued. In one, my chest flushed so hot it was warm to touch. For another, a tingly sensation bounced from between my legs to my neck and back until I couldn't help giggling. In quick succession, I was overwhelmed with feelings that made me laugh, squirm, and gasp.
He reached the end of his list with the same clinical detachment with which he began. McVoy said, "Thank you, Claire. You've done very well." and held out his hand to help me stand.
I realized my wiggling had bunched my skirt up above my tummy exposing my tan legs (which I was proud of) and colorful Ms Kitty panties (which I was embarrassed by), and pulled it down again. I was unsteady on my feet even with my hand on his.
The stream through the glass, the big desk, and the professor looked the same as when I lay down. But I felt the weight of my collar now and wondered what my friends were doing. Or what was being done to them.
Still supporting my hand, he said, "Today you are free to relax and explore. There are beds upstairs if you need to rest, but please the room on the left, not right..." I tried to listen attentively but I was distracted, and his list of instructions faded into a buzz at the back of my mind. His forearm mesmerized me. He had rolled up his sleeves while working on me, and the muscles and tendons flexed while I wobbled. I wondered if he would finger me and checked his fingernails, they were clean and carefully manicured.
"Claire!" said the professor, "Earth to Claire?"
"Sorry, Professor," I said wondering what was wrong with me, "What was that? I'm still a little woozy."
"I said," he said, "You will experience heightened arousal due to your increased fertility, but I forbid you from playing with yourself--you may ask to climax after servicing me." I felt the blush of embarrassment and indignation spreading across my face and looked down at his loafers.
"I didn't know you could make me more fertile with my collar," I said unable to meet his eyes.
"I've already told you that the collar is just a trifle to me," he said irritably, "I've made a few alteration to you with the machines at my desk, but that's the only one you need to know about." He switched topics, "In an hour or so, come find me and we can talk about the rest of the rules. For now, I have a call to make. You may have anything in the kitchen for lunch," And he released my hand. I fetched my phone out of my bag still feeling unsteady. He undressed me with his eyes as I left and I wondered why he didn't just make me strip.
I sat in the kitchen where I had eaten breakfast and thought I might cry from emotional exhaustion, but hunger won out and I began to poke around. There were two cupboards, one entirely for wine; an actual breadbox with an fresh loaf still warm from baking; a wicker basket of lettuce and deep red tomatoes--I thought he must have a garden; and so on. The refrigerator hummed and gleamed and was spotlessly clean inside and out. It was also packed with every kind of delicious food and my stomach rumbled while I decided what to eat. I remembered my own grungy mini-fridge at home, full of frozen dinners, and made myself a double decker roast beef with a side of strawberries.
The sandwich was fresh and delicious. I felt better after a few bites sitting by myself in the quiet kitchen. Steeling myself for what I might see, I unlocked my phone. Mostly the texts were from opening vacations, goofy selfies showing off clunky collars. I let my mom know very vaguely I'd been captured, and she said she'd miss seeing me and not to worry about the trip. Several of my friends were silent on text, and I didn't know if they were occupied or just didn't want to talk. I didn't hear anything from Ally until one of her backstabbing sorority sisters sent me a video accompanied by weeping emoticons. Crocodile tears, I thought. In front of a banner that read "Kappa Delta Welcomes Sluts," Ally sat in the lap of a giant jock on a dilapidated couch, his dick in her ass. She leaned forward to suck another bro in front of her and I thought I recognized him to be Eric, someone we both despised. My phone was on silent mode, but I could read her lips as she gagged, swallowed, and he pulled out of her. "Oh, fuck, please more!" she begged with desperate eyes. I closed the window
While watching Ally, I had begun to grind absentmindedly against the corner of my chair. I realized what I was doing as soon as the video ended and stopped mrself disgusted at my reaction to her predicament. But I couldn't get the thought of her womb being filled over and over out of my head. I didn't trust myself to sit on the hard kitchen chairs, so I put my dishes in the sink and left to explore.
My best, oldest strategy for distracting myself was reading, so I went where there were books. The library extended above me into the second story so that you had to climb a ladder on wheels to reach the walkway at the next level. The books were mostly in Old American. With the gravely voice of McVoy droning faintly from his study next door, I pursued the spines of ancient volumes--"Treasure Island," "Pale Fire," "Dune," and then, my heart leapt in my mouth, an entire shelf of Emily Dickinson. But the glass cases didn't open. They were vacuum sealed so I couldn't even smell them by putting my nose to the shelves.
The only free books were piled on a worn mahogany desk in the corner along with a kit of small tools and bottles of viscous substances. I thought maybe McVoy repaired old books, and I pictured him hunched over carefully spreading open the leather cover of a priceless volume. In response, my increasingly perverse imagination conjured up an image of the Professor delicately and precisely spreading open my vulva with a speculum. The kitties on my panties were at risk of getting wet, and I dragged my thoughts back to reading. I sat down and picked up the nearest book. It creaked when I opened it, The pages smelled old, and I began reading from the middle.--
"While I had been immobilized, the preppy, charming crowd had degenerated. They were civilized enough not to abandon the seating plan or strip naked, but every pair had their hands under buttons and zippers. Shirts hung open over bare tits and cocks protruded from slacks.
"Hillary's romper hung down from her waist, exposing small breasts and svelte waist that reminded me of a cello's curve. She had Alex's cock out of his pants and sat with her head in his lap as though ready to kiss it. But he was controlling her head by a handful of blond curls so that she could only touch it with her hands. If it were me, I thought, I wouldn't have found the will to stop her.
