Chapter 8
Heather
Dr. Hamelin left the room. Nurse Simmons began to release me from the table.
“Wh-what happens now?” I asked, my breathing still ragged from the frustration of my denied orgasm.
“Now we get you settled into your room,” Nurse Simmons said, her voice taking on a gentler tone as she unfastened the restraints around my wrists. “You’ll have some time to rest before dinner.”
I sat up slowly, my legs shaking as I swung them over the side of the examination table.
The absence of the vibrator left me feeling hollow and desperate, my body still humming with unfulfilled need.
Between my legs, I thought I could feel the microscopic sensor they’d implanted, though I knew I must be imagining it.
“Can I… can I have my clothes back?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself.
Nurse Simmons shook her head. “I’m afraid not. As I mentioned, wives in this facility remain naked unless clothing is required for specific training activities.”
The casual way she said it made my stomach drop. “But what about other people? What if someone sees me?”
“The only people you’ll encounter are staff members and other wives in the program,” she replied, helping me down from the table. “Everyone here understands that nudity is part of the process.”
Other wives. The phrase sent a chill through me. How many women like me were here? How many had been brought against their will, restrained and examined and fitted with sensors?
Nurse Simmons led me from the examination room back into the hallway.
My bare feet were silent on the cold linoleum, and I felt hyperaware of every part of my exposed body.
The air conditioning made my nipples harden, and with every step I could feel the sensitivity between my legs thanks to my pussy’s new bareness.
“Let me give you a tour of the facility,” the nurse said, guiding me down a different corridor. “It will help you understand what to expect during your stay.”
The first room we entered was a fully equipped gymnasium. Exercise bikes, treadmills, and weight machines filled the space, all looking modern and well-maintained. But what made me freeze in the doorway was the sight of another woman on one of the treadmills.
She was young, maybe my age, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She wore nothing but a white sports bra, her bare legs pumping rhythmically as she ran.
Her breasts bounced with each step, and I could see the flush of exertion on her face.
She glanced over at us briefly, her eyes meeting mine with a look of resigned understanding before she turned back to her workout.
I did everything I could not to look at her bare bottom as it moved lewdly with her exertion, but I couldn’t help seeing what looked distressingly like purple stripes across the mobile cheeks.
“Exercise is an important part of the program,” Nurse Simmons explained casually, as if the woman’s near-nudity was perfectly normal. “It helps maintain physical fitness and provides a healthy outlet for stress.”
I stared at the woman, my mind reeling. She looked so… normal. Like someone I might have gone to school with or worked beside at the mall. Yet here she was, practically naked, running on a treadmill in what was essentially a prison.
“Come along,” Nurse Simmons said, placing a gentle hand on my back.
The next room we entered made my blood run cold.
It was set up like some kind of medieval torture chamber, but cleaner, more clinical.
Padded benches of various heights and angles filled the space, along with what looked like wooden stocks and strange chair-like contraptions with built-in restraints.
“This is our training room,” Nurse Simmons announced, her voice maintaining that same professional tone. “Where wives learn proper discipline as well as submission techniques.”
At the far end of the room, I saw another woman.
She was bent over a padded bench, her wrists and ankles secured with leather cuffs.
A man in khakis and a black polo shirt stood behind her, holding what looked like a wooden paddle.
As I watched in horror, he brought it down across her bare bottom with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
The woman cried out, her body jerking against the restraints, but she didn’t try to escape. Instead, she seemed to push her hips back, presenting herself for the next blow.
“No,” I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth. “This is insane. You can’t just… you can’t do this to people.”
“She’s learning to accept correction gracefully,” Nurse Simmons explained, as if we were discussing a cooking class. “It’s an essential skill for any properly trained wife.”
The paddle fell again, and this time the woman’s moan sounded almost… grateful. My stomach churned with a mixture of revulsion and unwanted arousal.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” I said, backing toward the door.
“Just a bit more,” Nurse Simmons said, her hand guiding me firmly forward. “Understanding the full scope of the program will help you adjust more quickly.”
We passed through a set of double doors into a smaller, more intimate space. The lighting was softer here, warmer, and for a moment I almost felt relieved. Then I saw what occupied the center of the room.
A naked woman knelt prostrate on a thick cushion atop a table, her head bent submissively to the table’s surface and her bare backside raised.
A man, dressed in the same polo shirt and khakis uniform as the trainer in the previous room, stood behind her.
She cried out as his cock, protruding from his fly, moved forcefully in and out of her anus.
My face burned with recognition. I’d cried out that same way countless times with Chad, learning to take him deep in my bottom while he praised me for being such a good little ass girl.
“This is the intimacy room, where wives learn sexual submission,” Nurse Simmons explained matter-of-factly. “They’re fundamental skills that many women need to develop or refine.”
The woman’s submission seemed flawless—I could see her back arch further as she took him deeper, her bottom pushing out obediently for the rigid shaft’s brutal invasion. The man’s hands encircled her hips, guiding her movements with the same casual authority I remembered so well.
“I can’t watch this,” I whispered, turning away. But even as I spoke, I could feel moisture gathering between my legs, my body responding to the familiar scene despite my horror.
“Come now,” Nurse Simmons said, leading me toward a final door. “Just one more room, and then we’ll get you settled.”
The dining area was mercifully normal—just tables and chairs, like any cafeteria. But the nurse made certain I couldn’t feel anything comforting about the apparent refuge from humiliation.
“Wives eat in the nude, of course,” she told me. “Meals are served at set times. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, dinner at six. The schedule helps maintain structure and routine.”
We left the dining room and walked down another corridor lined with doors. “These are the dormitory rooms,” she said, stopping at one marked with the number seven. “This will be yours. We have room for ten wives at a time, but right now there are only four, including you.”
The room was small, but comfortable—a single bed with clean white linens, a small desk, and a view screen mounted on the wall. Everything was spotless and institutional, but not unpleasant.
“You’ll find an orientation video queued up on the view screen,” Nurse Simmons said, gesturing toward the screen. “I recommend watching it before dinner. It will help you understand what’s expected of you here.”
She paused at the door, her expression softening slightly. “I know this is difficult, Heather. But if you allow yourself to be open to the process, you might find it’s exactly what you need.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the sterile little room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs pressed tightly together, trying to process everything I’d seen.
The images from the training room and the intimacy room kept flashing through my mind—the woman taking the paddle so obediently, the other woman being fucked in the ass while she moaned with what had sounded like pleasure.
The way my body had responded to those sights terrified me almost as much as the sights themselves.
Four women, Nurse Simmons had said. Including me. Four women who had been brought here against their will, stripped naked, and subjected to… training. The word felt dirty in my mind, dehumanizing.
I looked around the small room that would be my prison for I had no idea how long. The bed was narrow, but looked comfortable enough. The desk held nothing but a small lamp and a clock. The view screen stared at me from the wall, dark and waiting.
My reflection caught my eye in the black screen, and I flinched.
I looked so small sitting there naked, my auburn hair falling around my shoulders, my newly bare pussy visible between my pressed-together thighs.
I looked like a child, vulnerable and exposed.
Was that intentional? Was that how they wanted me to feel?
I thought about Ryan, probably back home in our kitchen, wondering if he’d made the right choice.
Had he watched my examination? The thought made my stomach clench with humiliation and a heat I didn’t want to admit even to myself.
What had he thought when he saw me break down and beg Dr. Hamelin to fuck me?
The memory of my own desperate pleading made me want to crawl under the bed and hide. I’d held out for so long, fought so hard against the sensations, and then I’d just… shattered. Begged like a whore for a stranger’s cock while my husband potentially watched through a camera feed.
My hand drifted toward my center almost unconsciously, my body still aching from the denied orgasm.
I caught myself and jerked my hand away.
They had that sensor inside me now. They could probably monitor everything I did, every response my body had.
There was no privacy, no relief, no escape from their observation.
The orientation video. Nurse Simmons had said I should watch it before dinner. I glanced at the small digital clock on the desk—4:30 p.m. Maybe understanding what they planned to do to me would help me figure out how to survive this.
I walked to the view screen and pressed the power button. The device hummed to life, and text appeared on the screen: Orientation Video—Mandatory Viewing for All New Wives.
I pressed play and settled back on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest in a futile attempt at modesty.
The video began with a stark warning that made my hand freeze halfway to my face: “Warning: Do not masturbate while viewing this material. Any self-stimulation will be detected and result in immediate disciplinary action.”
The warning itself sent an unwelcome pulse of heat through my body.
My hand, which had started unconsciously moving toward my thighs again, jerked away as if burned.
The fact that they felt the need to warn against touching myself made it clear they expected the video to be arousing.
That realization alone made my newly bare pussy clench with unwanted anticipation.
The screen faded to black, then opened on what looked like a hotel room. Soft lighting, a king-sized bed with white linens, rose petals scattered on the coverlet. A wedding night scene.
“Meet Alice and Bob,” a calm female narrator’s voice explained as a young couple appeared on screen. “They’ve just been married and are about to consummate their union.”
I watched as the couple kissed tentatively, their movements awkward and uncertain. Alice was a pretty brunette who looked about my age, while Bob was tall and broad-shouldered with kind eyes. They reminded me painfully of Ryan and me on our wedding night.
“Like many couples,” the narrator continued, “Alice and Bob struggle with communication about their intimate needs.”
The scene played out exactly as my own wedding night had.
Bob’s gentle touches, Alice’s passive responses, the careful, loving way he entered her as she lay with her legs spread.
Chad had made me watch real porn with him, so it all seemed pretty tame to me.
I could see the frustration in Alice’s eyes, the way she bit her lip as if holding back words.
Bob’s muscular butt moved up and down as he supported himself on his hands, looking into Alice’s eyes.
A little growl in Bob’s throat made me wonder whether he was holding himself back.
Finally he finished with a satisfied sigh, completely unaware that his new wife lay beneath him unsatisfied and yearning.
“Neither Alice nor Bob is getting what they truly need,” the narrator explained. “Alice craves dominance and control, while Bob has natural dominant instincts he’s been taught to suppress. Their marriage will suffer unless they learn to communicate honestly about their desires.”
The scene faded, and I found myself leaning forward despite my revulsion. The accuracy was unsettling. How many couples went through this exact scenario?
“Now meet Charlie and Dora,” the narrator said as a new couple appeared on screen. “They face the same challenges, but watch how differently their wedding night unfolds.”
This couple looked similar to the first, but there was something different in their body language. Charlie stood straighter, his jaw set with determination. Dora’s eyes held a spark of defiance that made my stomach flutter with recognition.
“Dora,” Charlie said, his voice firm. “You’re going to kneel and suck my cock now.”