Neuromuscular Lab

She was lying on a metal table in a college lecture room, surrounded by a dozen male students, future physical therapists. She was barefoot, wearing tight black shorts and a thin white sports bra. Nothing else.

She felt a bit nervouse but reminded herself that the instructor, Dr. Warren, was in charge and that she could trust him.

Still, her heart raced as the men had filed in, notebooks in hand.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Warren said, "today we're walking through a mobility assessment. Pay close attention to the patient's reactions."

He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and guided her into a seated position on the table with her back to the class.

"She has agreed to help us demonstrate the sensitivity of certain nerve pathways."

She flinched as his fingers began working her scapulae, then slid to her neck. He pressed. Squeezed. Tilted her head.

"Notice the muscle response here."

His hands were firm. Too firm. Her breath caught.

He said, "Let's check her spinal curve," as he guided her into a bent-over position, arms dangling forward, back arched.

That's when she felt the hem of her sports bra being slowly lifted. Inch by inch. Exposing her back. Then her ribs. Then... "This area is often neglected," he said, cupping the undersides of her breasts. "But watch."

He rolled his thumbs over her nipples, through the fabric at first. Then under it, pulling the bra up completely. Her tits bounced free, and she heard the sound of someone sucking in a breath.

"Now," the doctor said calmly, "we monitor for involuntary reaction."

Her nipples throbbed under his touch. He rolled them between his fingers, then twisted them slightly, just enough to send a flash of heat straight between her thighs. A moan escaped her lips.

Someone in the middle of the room adjusted his pants.

"Very responsive," Dr. Warren murmured. "You see how the body speaks, if we just listen?"

He turned to the class, "You're welcome to come get a closer look."

The men stood, and moved to surround the table. One of them reached out and ran his finger across her nipple, watching it pucker and tighten further. Another touched the other one, barely a graze, but it made her whimper. She was breathing hard now.

"Now, I'd like you to palpate her trapezius insertion, here," Dr Warren took a student's hand and guided it to the slope of her shoulder. She felt the pressure, clinical and cool, and then another hand landed softly at the base of her neck. Then another at the edge of her ribs. All the while two other students were still "examining" her nipples.

"You, check her pectoralis response to lateral pressure. And you, assist her arm into external rotation."

So many hands on her.

"Good. Finish assessing the area you're currently working on, and before returning to your seats, be sure to note the patient's reaction."

The students made a few last caresses, then slowly stepped away, returning to their chairs, eyes hungry.

"Now," the doctor said, lowering her onto her back on the table, "let's move on to a lower body assessment. This will be a bit more involved. Legs slightly apart, please."

Her heart thudded. Her body was reacting in ways she would never have expected... was this normal? The air felt cold on her thighs and her nipples were so hard they ached.

The room had settled into a tense hush as the students returned to their seats, but none of their eyes left her.

She was flat on her back now, breasts bare, nipples tight. Her legs were extended in front of her on the table, her tight black shorts still clinging to her hips.

"Now we'll begin the lower body assessment," Dr. Warren said, rolling up his sleeves.

"Starting with straight leg raise?" one student offered.

He nodded, but didn't look away from her face. "Correct. Passive range first."

He stepped to her side and lifted one of her legs slowly, holding behind her calf and thigh as he guided it upward. "Watch the pelvic tilt here," he said to the room. "You'll notice compensations when flexibility is limited." He adjusted his grip, letting his fingers drift higher. Past her knee.

Mid-thigh.

Inner thigh.

Then, the pads of his fingers settled into the crease where leg met hip.

"Hamstring resistance is moderate," he said aloud, looking directly at her. "Pelvis slightly elevated. External rotation occurring."

His hand slid farther, thumb brushing just under the hem of her shorts, then easing back out like nothing had happened.

"Let's palpate the iliac crest," he said next.

He placed both hands on her waist, then slid them inward, pressing just above her pubic bone, thumbs dangerously close to where she throbbed underneath the thin fabric.

"Very soft tissue here," he murmured, voice low. "Quite reactive."

She whimpered.

"Next," he said, "we'll assess hip abduction strength."

He gently bent her right leg at the knee, foot flat on the table, then moved her leg outward in a controlled motion, forcing her thighs apart. Her shorts rode up, clinging now to the outline of her lips. "You can observe gluteus medius activation," he said calmly. "Though there's also visible... swelling in the surrounding soft tissue. For accuracy," he added, "I'm going to remove the barrier."

Her breath caught as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her shorts and began to slide them down, slowly. Over her hips. Her thighs. Her knees.

She was bare now.

Dripping.

"Great. Much better visibility. Now, let's reassess pelvic alignment," he said, placing one hand flat on her lower abdomen, the other slipping underneath her, lifting her hips subtly, enough to feel the wetness on his palm.

"Anterior tilt confirmed."

He reached between her thighs, spreading them farther apart.

"Manual resistance testing," he said. "I'll apply pressure medially and instruct her to resist."

He pressed her knees apart.

She did not resist.

Instead, her back arched. Her nipples peaked harder than before. Her clit throbbed, untouched, but unbearably exposed.

"Note her pelvic instability," Dr. Warren said, his voice perfectly even. "Observe how subtle contact with adjacent areas affects engagement." He reached between her thighs and, for a moment, simply hovered there, fingers inches away from her pulsing clit. She held her breath.

Then he touched her.

Just one fingertip. Barely a graze over the swollen bundle, yet her hips jolted, an involuntary gasp leaving her throat.

He circled it. Once. Then again. Soft, slow spirals, like he was calibrating a delicate machine.

"Fascinating," he murmured to the room, not looking at her face. "Hyper-reactive to even minimal contact."

She whimpered.

His other hand moved lower, two fingers sliding between her soaked folds, then pressing in, unhurried and controlled. He curled them with practiced precision. Her body shook.

"Internal resistance is low. Lubrication level is... above average."

Her hands curled into fists. Her legs trembled.

"Observe what happens when we stimulate the clitoris while maintaining internal pressure," he said, a finger pressing hard against her g-spot as his thumb circled her clit in tandem.

Her head fell back and a moan tore from her lips.

"And that, gentlemen, is what we call a complete neuromuscular collapse."

Laughter echoed in the room, low, shocked, aroused.

She was panting now. Her chest heaving. Her whole body vibrating on the edge.

"Now," Dr. Warren said, lifting his hand and standing upright. "Hands-on practice. You, you, and... you. Front and center."

The three students he'd pointed to didn't hesitate.

They moved around the table, one took position at her hips. Another at her knees. The third stood beside her shoulder, his hand already reaching toward her chest again.

Dr. Warren nodded to the one in the center, "Two fingers. Angle toward the anterior vaginal wall. Curl slightly."

He obeyed and she cried out, a desperate wail.

"Now, you, focus here." Another student leaned in, rubbing her clitoris gently at first, but her hips began to chase his touch instinctively, and he pressed harder, moved faster, watching her unravel with hungry eyes.

"Feel how she clenches around you?" Dr. Warren asked the one with his fingers inside her.

The third student pinched her nipple, and her back arched off the table, a helpless, shaking mess of exposed nerve endings and need.

She couldn't speak, didn't want to.

Her thighs were shaking, wide open, with fingers still curling inside her and another student rubbing firm, tight circles against her clit like it was part of an exam.

"Her responses are peaking," Dr. Warren said, his voice as calm as if he were explaining how to take blood pressure. "At this point, you'll want to observe what happens when we introduce additional pressure, from an internal fixed point."

He unzipped his pants. "Continue manual stimulation," he instructed. "I'll demonstrate an internal stabilization technique."

He stepped between her legs and looked down at her face: flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with shame and need.

The room was silent as he slid inside her with one slow, deliberate thrust.

She gasped, loud.

Her body arched beneath him, nipples brushing against the shirt of the man still hovering by her chest. She was full. So full. And still being rubbed, still being watched.

"As you can see," Dr. Warren said, voice strained but steady, "the pelvic floor tension releases with full anterior contact. Deep penetration ensures maximal exposure to the vaginal walls for mapping reflex response."

He thrust again. Harder. The table jolted.

But the student at her clit didn't stop, he kept rubbing in fast, expert strokes. Another took her nipple into his mouth and bit.

Her eyes were rolling back. She couldn't focus on anything but the pleasure coursing through her body. She was nothing but sensation now, slick and stretched, clit swollen from constant friction, nipples raw and aching, overstimulated beyond comprehension.

And still, they kept going, all under the same clinical pretense.

"Switching positions," Dr. Warren announced.

He pulled out, and immediately another student stepped in, replacing him without a word. She was lifted slightly, bent at the hips, her ass exposed, legs spread again.

"Prone hip extension evaluation," the new student said, sliding in deep.

She cried out.

"Document her breathing pattern. Note the vocalizations," Dr Warren said.

She was used over the table, again and again, each student taking notes (or pretending to), murmuring things like "sustained stretch technique" and "deep tissue pressure" as they thrust into her.

One pulled her hair while giving a lecture on "neurological overstimulation under group-assisted input."

Some, distant part of her was shocked that she came. Again, and again.

She didn't even know whose cock was inside her anymore. They'd taken turns, shifting between her legs like a lab rotation, each one murmuring clinical jargon while gripping her hips or hair or shoulders like she was a piece of equipment made for testing.

Someone had her bent forward now, her chest flattened against the table, her arms hanging limp. Her nipples, sore and red, dragged against the cool metal surface. Her clit was swollen, aching, but someone was still rubbing it, determined, merciless.

Another cock stretched her from behind, driving into her with brutal, rhythmic thrusts.

"Prolonged impact increases neural desensitization," a voice said.

"She's still responsive," another countered, flicking her nipple.

"Confirm orgasm threshold," she heard Dr. Warren's voice say, and then three fingers pushed down against her clit, and not gently.

She shattered.

Her whole body convulsed.

The orgasm that tore through her was like a seizure, making her sob openly as she came around the cock inside her, muscles clamping, hips bucking. She felt the heat of someone coming deep inside her.

And it didn't stop. Another man slid in while her body was still twitching.

Another set of fingers pinched her nipples. Someone slapped her ass. The second orgasm hit even harder than the first. She screamed, an animal, this time. She couldnt help it, her body had long since stopped asking permission. Right now, it only wanted to come.

Another orgasm ripped through her like a flood, soaking the table. She collapsed forward, held up only by the hands still gripping her hips.

When the room finally quieted and the last man pulled out, she was left spread open, dripping, trembling, skin flushed.

Dr. Warren stepped forward, "And that," he said, turning to face the room, "concludes our demonstration of full-body sensitivity, overstimulation response, and group-assisted manual therapy."

A beat of silence, then applause.

"Class dismissed."