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[anesthesialove]

I love every part of anesthesia

I love when you’re in the prep area and they come in to ask you questions. Ask me about my life, my habits, my family and medical histories. Tell me about the prep, the procedure, and the recovery. Type notes on your computer, gloved fingers flying across the keyboard. Then have the surgeon come in and let’s do it all again.

I love when the next nurse comes in to start your IV. First she pulls on tight gloves, then she holds your hand and pokes your wrist until she finds the perfect vein and wipes it clean. She turns to pick up the IV and tells you “big pinch.” You look away. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” repeats on a loop in your head. And then it slides into your vein. It’s no big deal. You feel a little foolish for letting her reverse psychology work on you.

But you also know at this point, you’ve lost the fight. They have full access to you, your body, your soul. You’re going under. It’s a matter of when, not if.

I love the versed. The anesthesiologist comes into the prep area with a big, clear syringe in her breast pocket. Hot. She reaches in with one of her gloved hands and tells you she has a cocktail for you. She holds it up to the light, ensuring a perfect dose, then removes the cap, inserts it into one of the ports on your IV line, and pushes it quickly. The chemical calmness, anxiety reducer, the liquid weighted blanket enters your system. Everything looks a little brighter, sounds a little softer, and you feel weightless like you’re floating on a cloud.

I love the move to the OR. You have someone pushing your bed from behind, and a nurse by your side. They chat with you to distract you further, but the versed is kicking in so you already don’t care. The square ceiling tiles roll by and the OR doors open with a hiss. As you roll in, nurses are snapping on gloves, filling syringes, and setting up for the procedure.

They stop you right next to the table, lower the railing, and have you scoot over. Your gown gets caught underneath you, and you try to fix it, but you can’t because you’re sitting on it. You lay down without caring because you’ll be out cold in a couple of minutes and it’s not your problem, they’ll fix it if they need to. And you’ll never know either way.

I love the prep. You’re lying on the table. It’s cold, just like the room, and the gown offers little protection. Gloved hands are moving quickly, but with measured precision, all around you. One nurse is adjusting your IV fluids. Another is placing Velcro straps around hour wrists, securing them to the arm of the table. Someone lifts your hand to put a pulse oximeter on your pointer finger.

The anesthesiologist is lifting your gown at the neckline to place heart monitor stickers on your chest. She uses her left hand to hold the gown up while the right hand goes in. The first sticker goes way on the left. As she puts it down you feel her gloved fingertips on your skin, and as she takes her hand away, she drags her fingers across the sticker to make sure it stays in place, but then you feel her fingers again once they reach the other side. She gets another sticker and repeats the same process in the middle of your chest, and then again for the final sticker on the right.

I love when the anesthesiologist puts the oxygen mask on. Before that, she turns around and starts fiddling with the anesthesia machine, making sure all the heart monitors and the pulse oximeter are working properly.

Then she starts turning valves for the gas. She picks up the mask in one hand and turns towards you, corrugated tubes following. She uses her other hand to lightly tap under your chin as she says “Chin up, please.” In your versed-induced high, there’s no option but to listen to the request that’s really an order. As you tilt your head back, she holds the mask up high and says something like “This is just oxygen.” as she lowers it over you. As it gets closer, the mask and her gloved hand start to look bigger. When it’s almost on you, you start to hear the air hissing through the tubes.

As it settles softly on your face, a few things happen. 1) Her gloved hand is resting delicately on your face. Her thumb and pointer finger are on top of the mask, supplying a mild pressure to create a tight seal, causing pressure on the bridge of your nose. Her other three fingers are wrapped gently around your chin, with her palm resting on your check. 2) You smell the plastic, which isn’t very pleasant. 3) She tells you to take some deep breaths, and you inhale the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe. You take several more breaths and it’s really refreshing.

I love the feeling of propofol. There are a few different ways you can be induced too.

The first is that the anesthesiologist pushes it. Sometimes she’ll leave the mask resting gently on your face, other times she’ll have another nurse hold it. Either way, she starts with the small syringe of lidocaine to minimize the burn of propofol. Then she gets the massive, milky-white syringe, clicks it into the port, and pushes it. She’ll say “Pick a nice dream.” or “We’re going to take great care of you.” or “See you in a little while.” or, if she’s fun, “Start counting.”

The second is that she keeps holding the mask, her hand resting delicately on your face, maybe even both hands covering almost your whole face if you’re lucky. One of the nurses, usually out of view, will sneak in the lidocaine and propofol. You won’t see it coming, and sometimes you don’t feel it either.

The third, and by far the most rare, is that she lets you push it! She puts the syringe in your hand and tells you to push it. This usually requires her help because as you get towards the bottom, you lose strength as it starts to take effect. She’ll put her hand around yours and push with you. So hot.

Whichever way it happens, the punchline is the same. Warmth floods your veins. Metallic taste in your mouth. Your vision starts to blur. Your eyes unfocus and roll back into your head. Lights pulsate, sounds fade into the distant, and then you’re out cold.

I love knowing that the anesthesiologist has her hands all over my face, it’s so intimate. After the anesthesia wins as it always does, she’s going to run her fingers along my eyelids to check for reflexes. She might even open the eyes completely. Some open the jaw too. I love the idea of a nurse playing with my limp face.

No reflexes means I’m out like a light. Then she’s going to tighten her grip on the mask with one hand, really digging into my face and chin. The other hand will grab the breathing bag and start squeezing, rhythmically breathing for me.

As this happening, the gown is being ripped open so the surgical team can begin prepping for the procedure.

I love the idea of being out cold and intubated, a short break from all the worry and exhaustion of the world with all your basic needs being carefully monitored. A nurse is going to start by putting things on your chest. A breathing tube and a blade will be needed for this. Once it’s time, the anesthesiologist will put the bag down and remove the mask.

Then, she’ll put one hand on your head and tilt as far back as possible, opening the airway as much as possible. With her other hand, she’ll slide the blade with a camera on it down your throat, illuminating it with the light and getting a clear view of your vocal cords on the screen. She’ll hold up her free hand and the nurse will hand her the breathing tube, which promptly goes down your throat and through the opening in your vocal cords. The nurse will fill a syringe with air, attach it to the hose coming off the tube, and inflate the cuff so it stays in place.

Then they squeeze the breathing bag a few times as the anesthesiologist gets her stethoscope and listens to your chest. If the breathing sounds good, the tube is secured with tape.

I love knowing that my eyes are lubed and taped shut. I wonder what that feels like when you’re awake.

The left eyelid is pulled back and lube squirted onto the eye before the lid is shut and pressed to spread the lube around. Then the same thing happens with the right eye. The nurse is ripping pieces of tape to cover both and they are applied to cover the entirety of each eye. This not only protects the, it keeps them moist.

I truly love every bit of anesthesia. Anesthesiologists and OR nurses are the most caring and hands on of anyone in the medical industry. The sights, the sounds, the feelings from start to finish are all incredible. It’s a magical thing 😍🥰🤩

[mabduct]

I love when you are out cold, your decency no longer matters. Sheets and gown are removed as they no longer serve a purpose. Your naked form lays exposed on the table, ready to be accessed.

I love when the stirrups are ready, they lift your legs and spread them wide. It doesn't matter that your most intimate parts are exposed. If you are not aware, you so not feel ashamed.

I love when they restrain your legs to the stirrups, as if you might wake up and decide that you didn't sign up for this. The team looks on, focusing on any part of your body that might interest them. Because when you are out like this, you don’t feel. And if you don't feel, it doesn't matter.

I love when the speculum is inserted and cranked open, as if you are not naked enough. They want to see beyond just your external self, but deep inside you. They go past your vaginal canal amd arrive at your cervix, but it doesn't stop there. They want access beyond, to your womb.

I love when the catheter finally breaches your cervix and the embryo is deposited deep inside.

Welcome to the Breeders Program.

[mabduct]

Anastasia's Volunteering

Anastasia has a thing about hospital. Don't we all? But “visiting” The Institute was not the best idea, especially when they are looking for volunteers.

Anastasia arrives at The Institute's gleaming Fertility wing. At the admin desk, she delivers her practiced line: "My roommate had an appointment here two days ago for IVF consult—she's not answering her phone, I'm just worried, can I look around the public areas?" The administrator, used to anxious friends and family, waves her through with a sympathetic nod and a visitor pass.

Her pulse quickens as she navigates the familiar maze: past the nurses’ station, down the corridor lined with pictured of friendly looking staff and happy patients. She knows the layout from prior "visits" to other hospitals and keeps moving. Security cameras blink, but she keeps her head low, casual.

But she didn't see Nurse Nelle, who has been watching. She notices Ana’s suspicious behavior, unauthorized entry. She follows quietly.

She arrives in the staff area and slips into a staff changing room—empty at this hour. The thrill spikes as she strips down, her panties was already getting damp.

She pulls on pale blue scrubs, ties the bouffant cap over her blonde hair, adjusts the surgical mask across her face.

She checks herself in the mirror. The transformation feels intoxicating— identity erased, now she belongs.

Anastasia drifts toward the restricted OR corridor. The double doors part with a soft pneumatic sigh. Inside, the first empty suite she finds is dimly lit, machines humming in the background. Stainless steel gleams under surgical lights.

The anesthesia cart sits ready: vaporizers, circuits, the distinctive black reservoir bag. Ana's breath catches.

She steps closer, gloved fingers trailing over the monitors, the IV poles, the padded operating table with its stirrups retracted. She imagines the rituals performed here—bodies opened, remade.

Her fascination tips into something more visceral, almost arousal: the ultimate surrender of control. She's tempted to just lie down on the operating table and put the mask on. She lingers, lost in the fantasy, heart pounding loud enough to mask the soft footfall behind her.

Nelle moves like a shadow—experienced, silent. She reaches the anesthesia rack without a sound, selects the mask, twists the dials: sevoflurane and oxygen mix, high flow.The hiss starts—soft at first, like a distant exhale.

Ana realises a presence. She freezes.

Nelle lunges from behind, one arm clamping around Ana's waist, the other jamming the black rubber mask over her face, sealing it tight with practiced force.

Anastasia struggled and fought against Nurse Nelle.

But Nurse Nelle is an expert at overpowering resistant volunteers. She hd the mask tight and shushing Anastasia.

The gas floods in, sweet and chemical.Ana thrashes—elbows back, nails clawing at the arm holding her—but the mask is a perfect seal, the flow overwhelming.

"Shhh... breathe... you are where you belong... relax...."

Her vision tunnels. She tastes metal, feels the cool rush filling her lungs, her brain fogging fast. Is she fantasizing this? Her mind drifted. Her struggles weaken to pathetic flails; knees buckle. She nearly cums but the gas fills her head, cutting her arousal short.

She wakes groggy, naked except for the bouffant cap still sitting on her head. Restraints bite into wrists and ankles. She's on a gurney in a windowless prep bay adjacent to the ORs, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Two orderlies, accompanied by Nurse Nelle, wheel her into the main surgical suite. Anastasia tries to speak, to scream, but her tongue is thick, words slurring.

They transferred her naked form onto the operating table. It is cold against her skin. Monitors beep as leads are attached to her chest. Her heart beat is picking up pace.

"Where am I? What's happening!?"

Nelle appears above her, expression professionally blank. "You shouldn't have come here."

Ana's eyes widen. She jerks against the straps, panic cutting through the residual fog. "Wait—please—this is a mistake—"

Nelle doesn't reply. She simply reaches for the anesthesia circuit again—the same mask. The hissing resumes.

Ana fights harder this time—head thrashing side to side, lungs burning as she holds her breath—but only for that long before she breaks into hyperventilation.

Nelle squeezes the breathing bag, driving the concentrated mixture into her lungs. Ana's vision blurs, limbs go heavy.

The last thing she sees is Nelle's calm eyes watching her slip under, clinical and detached, as she feels her legs floating towards the bright surgical lights.

Photo credits go to putyoutosleepnow.

[mabduct]

Co-Worker Volunteered

It's hard to see a co-worker being volunteered on the Breeder’s Program, especially when you were the one who ratted on her and volunteered her.

She was a scrub nurse in the Institute, enthusiastic and enjoyed her work, a little too much. She had secretly installed a spy cam in the operating room so that she could post the photos on her own fetish blogs.

You knew about it as she had told you during a particularly kinky role-play session you had with her in the surgery. She said she fantasized about being the patient and you obliged. She played the horny patient while you played the equally horny anesthetist. She had made sure the session was recorded.

When the Directeur found out about the pictures circulating on the web, he was furious of course. You had no choice but to rat out on her or you might be the one being "volunteered" as an organ donor if he finds out about your shenanigans. You promised the Directeur that you would deal with it and deliver her on the operating table as a "volunteer".

It wasn't difficult to arrange another after-office-hour "role-play" session with her. She prepped herself well by fasting during the day to prepare for the anesthesia as you ordered. You wanted it realistic, you said.

After a bit of “foreplay”, getting her out of her scrubs and into a paper gown, she happily laid down on the operating table to be put under. You started her IV and gave her something “to relax” and strapped her in for "her safety".

Once ready, she was surprised to see the Directeur enter the operating room. She started to struggle as the Directeur reprimanded her for compromising the Institute's security but the muscle relaxants made her weak. He then told her that she would be volunteered as a surrogate.

You signalled to the awaiting team who came in with the trolleys carrying the necessary to impregnate her. She panicked as the reality dawned on her. She protested and pleaded but the drugs coursing in her blood made her incoherent and helpless.

As you put the anesthesia mask over her face, she cried and shook her head weakly. You assured her that she would be well-taken care of, and that this was what she always wanted.

She continued to struggle and protest as the gas entered her system. Just before she passed out, you noticed that her entire body jerked and spasmed before going out cold. You wondered what happened.

After you intubated her and handed her over to the impregnation team, you went to the end of the operating table and noticed a wet puddle. Then you realised that she just had an orgasm.

This might be what she wanted all along….

[mabduct]

Yes... let's putyoutosleepnow (photo credit)...

They wheel you into the OR as we finish our checks. Even with the pre-medication, I can see the nervousness in your eyes, your breathing already too quick. I look for signs of earlier struggles. The redness on the wrists from the restraints, the matted hair under the bouffant cap.

Your teary eyes widening as they dart around the OR, taking in the bright lights, the stainless-steel trays, the bustle of the team, and the gleaming stirrups. Your breathing picks up speed.

“I’ll take care of you, darling. You’re safe,” I say.

But your body strains against the straps, barely visible under the blanket.

“I… I didn’t sign up for this,” you whisper.

“That’s okay. You are where you're supposed to be.”

We transfer you over to the OR table. You struggle, limbs uncoordinated, weak, easily overpowered. You slump into the OR table, exhausted. You struggle to sit up as your hands are secured to the outstretched armboards. Your legs writhe as they are lifted and placed on the stirrups, secured with straps.

I soak in the sight before me for a moment. Your bare torso, pale under the surgical lights, with your limbs spread wide on both sides. Your abdomen undulating irregularly as your breathing becomes ragged from your fight.

I cup your face with my gloved hand and stroke your cheek with my thumb to soothe you. I reach out my other hand for the mask on the rack.

When your eyes land on the anesthesia mask, your anxiety spikes. I slide my hand down your face and under your chin, lifting it so you look straight into my eyes.

“There's nothing to worry about. You won’t feel anything. You’ll be asleep before you realize it.”

“Please, what are you going to do to me? I don’t want this,” you say, voice thin with panic.

“Don’t be silly,” I reassure. “You volunteered.”

Your squint your eyes, as you try to recall at which point you consented to this.

As I bring the mask closer, your breathing turns rapid, almost frantic. You are helpless. You start to shake your head, pleading, trying to escape the mask.

“No, please, help, somebody let me go.”

“Shhhh, shush now,” I say softly. “Let’s not make a scene. Don't get the surgeon upset. He will be here shortly.”

You look around for the surgeon, forgetting the mask for a moment. I settle the mask lightly over your face. You flinch, you stare into my eyes as if betrayed. But as you inhale, you smell the chemical entering your lungs. You hold your breath but you couldn't hold your panic down. The first trace of gas begins working on you—subtle, warm, slowly softening the fear.

Your hand twitches under the straps, your legs kick against the restraint, but the premedication weakens the movement.

“No…I am scared…” you murmur beneath the mask as you try to turn your head away from the mask.

“I know. Just breathe. You’re doing perfectly,” I say, adjusting the gas flow as I tighten the seal of the mask over your face as my fingers grip your jawbone under your chin while my other hand holds the top of your head still.

You strain your neck but your head barely moves. Your breath quickens, sucking loudly as the mask hisses.

You freeze. Your eyelids flutter; your muscles loosen; the frantic edge fades into heaviness. The fight is still there, but only barely. Fingers and toes wiggling and slowly fading, the last vestiges of your struggles.

“Good,” I say quietly, reaching for the syringe. “I’m going to give you some propofol now. It’ll help you fall asleep gently.”

You try to focus on me. “Nnnph…pughh…” intelligible as you lose control of your tongue.

“Yes. You’re safe,” I say as I inject the propofol into your IV. “Your arm may feel warm.”

You stop blinking. A frown across your brows as your world starts to spin. You exhale—a long, soft breath—as your eyes lose focus. Then your eyelids droop and your breathing deepens. The last traces of fear slip away.

“There you go,” I murmur. “Let go. I’ve got you. Sleep now.”

Your eyes close halfway. Your face smooths, your breaths fall into a slow rhythm, and the monitors confirm you’re fully asleep.

I check your jaw, glance at the vitals, and nod to the team.

“We’re ready.”

[sixkinit]

Chapter 1: Intake

Part of the Long Term Care Series, a Medical Fetish Fantasy

Click Here to go to the Series Hub [COMING SOON]

Click Here to see extra renders and image variants on DeviantArt

Emma had been feeling the weight of her mundane life crush down on her. Her job at the local accounting firm was draining, and her home life offered little respite. She was on the verge of burnout, and it showed in her tired eyes, slumped posture, and everything she did. Life had turned into one big “blah” and Emma went back and forth between stress and depression. One afternoon, as she sat at her desk, her coworker, Alex, approached her with a glimmer of hope.

“Hey Emma, you alright? You’ve been looking a little rough,” Alex said, her voice soft with concern. Emma shrugged her off and said “Yeah, I suppose. I’m just desperate to get out of here, you know?” Emma slumped back down looking longingly out the window.

Alex put a hand on her shoulder “I might know something that could help. There’s a new program at a local clinic that offers some amazing treatments. It’s supposed to be really effective for stress and depression. You remember Sam from a few months back? She was telling me all about it.”

Emma looked up, a spark of interest in her eyes. “Really? What kind of treatments?”

Alex leaned in closer, her voice low. “They offer a range of services, including some experimental meds that can really turn things around. And the doctor there, Dr. Victoria, is supposed to be the best. She can provide you with the paperwork to take some time off work too and maybe get you started on a treatment plan.”

Emma took down the information, her heart racing with a mix of hope and anxiety. Getting off work for a while would be great. She thought about all the rest she could get. But then, she sighed and looked back at Alex.

“I don’t know, if it costs money, I may not be able to afford anything like that right now…” Emma looked on with doubt. Alex perked up; “Really, I heard it doesn’t cost anything at all if you are really struggling!” Alex seemed enthusiastic.

Emma weighed her options and asked Alex how to get more info. “Just head over to the clinic on 7th street and ask for Dr. Victoria, I suppose. That’s all I know.” She thanked Alex for putting her on, and decided to take a chance and headed to the clinic after work.

The clinic was an imposing building, its sterile white walls and cold fluorescent lighting doing little to ease Emma’s nerves. She walked in through the automatic doors and felt the slightest bit of anxiety. “It’s just a quick appointment, in and out” Emma thought to herself. She signed in and was led to a waiting room.

“Hi, I’m looking for Doctor Victoria?” Emma asked the stale looking receptionist, who seemed disinterested but gave an answer.

“She’s in today. Have a seat over there, we will grab you when she’s got a moment.” the receptionist let out with a hiss. “Fill these out” she dumped a clipboard of papers into Emma hands.

Emma sat in the cold dingy waiting room that was completely empty-except for her. She didn’t make not of how strange it was that she was the only one there. The form didn’t ask for much at all- just her name and a space to write down how she feels. A little medical history. Nothing about insurance or payment, which is all Emma was worried about at that point.

After what felt like an eternity, a nurse called her name and led her to an office just around the corner.

Dr. Victoria entered the room, her presence immediately commanding and reassuring. She was tall, with raven-black hair, and her eyes sparkled with an intensity that made Emma’s heart race. “Emma, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Victoria said, her voice smooth and soothing. “I’ve reviewed your files, and I think I can help you with what you’re going through.”

Emma found herself pouring out her troubles, her voice trembling as she spoke of her job, her loneliness, and her growing sense of despair. Dr. Victoria listened intently, her eyes never leaving Emma’s face. When Emma finished, the doctor leaned in, her voice low and seductive. “Emma, you’re suffering from a very treatable condition. You are a truly remarkable woman, too. I can offer you a range of services and medications that will make you feel better than you ever have before.”

Emma felt a flush of desire mix with her anxiety. “That sounds… tempting,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t have time for anything too complicated. I just need something to get me out of work and make me feel better.”

Dr. Victoria smiled, her eyes glinting with a promise of pleasure. “Don’t worry, Emma. This won’t take long at all. But first, we need to do a quick preliminary exam. Just like a checkup. It’s standard procedure, and my nurses are very skilled.”

Emma hesitated, but the doctor’s reassuring presence put her at ease. “Alright, let’s do this,” she said, trying to hide her nervousness.

Dr. Hart called in a nurse, who led Emma out of the office and down a long, sterile hallway. Emma thought she heard a distant scream, but the nurse brushed it off as normal hospital noise. They stopped at a counter, and the nurse had Emma place her hand on a scanner for patient identification. The nurses gloved hand grabbed Emma by the wrist and forcefully pressed her hand against the cold scanner. A plastic wristband was printed with a “zip” and the nurse quickly went to place it on Emma’s wrist.

“I’m just here for a checkup, right? This seems a bit much do I need a bracelet? Haha” Emma tried to laugh off how nervous she was but was quickly shut down. “Standard procedure for all patients” the nurse snapped back, as she securely attached the patient wristband to Emma. It had her name and a number on it. 1542.

They continued down the hallway toward another room.

The exam room was small and clinical, with an exam table in the center and cabinets lining the walls. The nurse handed Emma a folded hospital gown and instructed her to change. Emma protested, but the nurse was firm, pushing the gown into her chest. “Change into this, please. I’ll be back shortly.”

Left alone, Emma’s nerves got the better of her. She looked around the room, her eyes landing on various instruments and covered objects. She heard strange sounds from beyond the walls, and a sense of unease washed over her. She put the gown to the side in deference. It’s just a prescription. This experience has been enough, “I just have to get what I need and leave” she thought.

There was a knock at the door, and the nurse cracked it open. “What did I tell you? You need to strip,” she said, her voice sharp with annoyance. Before Emma could protest, the nurse whistled, and two more nurses entered the room. They snapped on latex gloves and approached Emma, their movements efficient and impersonal.

Emma struggled as they forcibly removed her clothes, her protests falling on deaf ears. As she stood naked, the nurses forcing the gown onto her body, the lovely Dr. Victoria reentered the room. “Well, hello there,” she purred, her eyes roaming over Emma’s half covered half naked body. “What seems to be the problem?”

Emma’s resistance melted away under the doctor’s hypnotic gaze. She stood there, mesmerized, as Dr. Victoria approached snapped on some gloves and began her examination. The doctor’s hands were warm and gentle, even through the tight black latex gloves as they explored Emma’s body, her touch both professional and intimate. “Breathe for me, Emma,” Dr. Victoria whispered, her breath hot against Emma’s ear.

Emma obeyed, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the doctor’s hands moved over her breasts and down her stomach.

With one gloved hand examining her breasts another made its way down into her crotch. Emma was stricken still. Paralyzed as the gorgeous doctor examined her exposed private areas.

“Cough for me sweetheart,” Dr. Victoria agin whispered low into Emma’s ears. cough She barely noticed the nurse inserting a needle into her arm until Dr. Victoria spoke again. “Shhh, it’s okay. Just a little blood prick for your vitals.”

As the nurses finished taking her blood and recording her vitals, Dr. Hart grabbed Emma by the hand led her across the room to a scale. Emma stepped onto it, her body feeling light and disoriented. A sudden dizziness overcame her as she crossed the room. As Dr. Victoria was running her gloved hands across Emma’s neck and minding the scale, A nurse placed a clipboard with forms in front of a very distracted Emma.

“All standard patient releases, Emma. Nothing to worry about.” The doctor reassured gently. Without hesitation, Emma signed on the line.

“You’re doing great, Emma,” Dr. Victoria said, her voice filled with pride. “We’re almost done. Just need to get you your first dose of medication, and then you can rest.”

“Oh there’s no prescription?” Emma nervous again quipped, “You can send it to my local pharmacy I have no problem grabbing it on my way home…” Her voice trailed off.

“Oh, no silly!” Dr. Victoria giggled a bit, “We want to give you the first dose here and keep a super quick eye on you just in case of any side effects or reactions. All super normal, should only be a few minutes wait.”

A nurse handed Emma a cup with two pills and a glass of water. She swallowed them without hesitation, her trust in Dr. Victoria absolute. As the medication began to take effect, Emma felt a strange warmth spread through her body.

Dr. Victoria smiled, her eyes filled with a mix of professional concern and something more. “Once that’s in your system, you should be good to go. Just need you back for a few checkups now and then…” Dr. Victoria grabbed Emma's arm with her strong gloved hands and began removing her from the room.

Emma started to ask about the medication, but her words slurred as dizziness overtook her. Dr. Victoria offered told her they were going on a tour of the facility. “We can loop right back around to check in, and then you can be on your way! There are just a few things I would really like to show you while we are here.” the doctor said cheerfully looking at Emma with excitement and wonder. Emma agreed, her mind foggy and compliant.

As they walked down the hallway, Emma’s steps became unsteady. She leaned on Dr. Victoria for support, her body pressing against the doctor’s firm frame. Suddenly, Emma collapses, falling against the wall as her vision starts to black.

Dr. Victoria summons a nurse to grab a wheelchair, and kneels down next to Emma. "Looks like some small side effects from the medication, you'll be ok in a few minutes let's just get you into this wheelchair. You need some rest, sweetheart."

Emma slumped unto the wheelchair and looked up at the ceiling. What was going on?

The nurses wheeled her deeper into the facility, and Emma’s confusion grew. Why were they going so far from the exit? Where were her clothes? She vaguely remembered one of the nurses placing them in a plastic bag before they left the exam room, but that didn’t make sense. Why would they take her clothes?

As they moved down the hallway, they pass by a window into a section of clinic rooms. Emma tries to gaze through the glass and makes out what looks like other patients… She squints to try and make out what looks like several other women all in big hospital beds all fast asleep being tended to by nurses… just like her.

Suddenly, Emma tried to sit up, her vision blurring. “I… I don’t feel so good,” she slurred before collapsing out of the wheelchair and onto the cold floor.

Dr. Victoria crouched beside her, her voice soothing and reassuring. “Everything is going to be okay, Emma. We’ve got you. It’s just a small reaction to the meds. We are going to take very, very good care of you.” She removes Emma's gown to check for injuries, running her gloved hands across Emma's soft skin as she mumbles and fades in and out.

Two nurses arrived with a gurney, and they lifted Emma’s limp body onto it. Her hospital gown slid off, exposing her naked form to the hospital workers. A nurse placed an oxygen mask over her face, and Emma took shallow breaths, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness. “Just breathe for us Emma, breathe”.

They rolled her into a special room, where a large ICU bed awaited. It was equipped with restraints and surrounded by machines and monitors. They transferred Emma from the gurney to the bed.

“Shh, it’s alright, this is for your own good. We’re gonna get you through this” Emma listened to the doctor’s soft words as she felt gloved hands fix the soft restraints to her wrists. Where was she? Was she dying? What was happening?

As the lights began to fade down, Emma felt Dr. Victoria’s hands on her face, gentle and comforting. “You are mine now, Emma,” the doctor whispered, her voice filled with possession and promise. “And I am going to take the best care of you. You will feel so so good.”

With those words, Emma drifted into a deep, drugged sleep, her body and mind surrendering to Dr. Victoria’s control.

To Be Continued...

[mabduct]

Did She Volunteer? - Part 5

Emily delivers, regardless whether she wants to or not....

Emily had no sense of time. Only fleeting, fractured impressions that came and went.

The beeping of machines, nurses tending to her…

The sensation of being wheeled down sterile corridors, fluorescent ceiling lights strobing overhead…

Muffled voices. Cold gloved hands on warm skin. A probe gliding over jelly on her bare swollen belly. The wet squelch and echoey whispers of ultrasound…

Tubes being changed. A searing burn in her urethra… An insistent intrusion in her anus, unyielding…

The bitter taste of bile rising as she gagged, and nurses soothing her with gentle hushing sounds before another tube was inserted into her throat...

Thick liquid pumped into her stomach. Pressure. Nausea. Fullness. Soft voices saying everything was fine. That she was doing well. That she should rest now…

And ever so often, “Relax. Go back to sleep. Yes…”

—

Emily awoke with a sudden, sharp gasp, her breath catching like a hook in her throat. The veil of drugged sedation lifting. Where was she? Was it all a dream?

The room was dim. Still. The faint hum of machines broke the silence, steady and indifferent. Her eyes flitted across unfamiliar walls and ceiling panels, disoriented and panicked. Something felt off.

How long had she been here? Hours? Days? Weeks? She couldn’t tell.

Her thoughts were sluggish, muddled. The last memory that felt even remotely clear was of catheters and feeding tubes, but even that seemed dreamlike, distant. She didn’t remember why she had needed them. They were not there anymore, but the soreness remained. Everything since was a swirl of half-formed sensations, tangled in sedation and confusion.

She swallowed, and winced. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick and tacky against the roof of her mouth. She tried to sit up. She was weak. Her limbs were unnaturally heavy.

A deep, unnatural weight in her abdomen stopped her cold. Pain flared through her core as she moved, a heavy, dragging ache that made her gasp again. She groaned, blinking down at herself.

And saw it.

Her stomach. Massive. Swollen far beyond anything that made sense. The hospital gown clung tightly to the impossible curve, stretched to its limits over her abdomen.

She stared, frozen, her mind struggling to bridge the gap between her memories and the reality she now faced.

*No… no, this can’t be real.*

Her hands, trembling, rose and hovered over her belly before cautiously pressing down. Gingerly, she lifted her gown to reveal what was underneath.

The skin was taut and smooth, firm and unyielding beneath her fingers. Her heart hammered against her ribs, panic rising in a sickening wave that crept up her throat.

She pressed harder.

A dull pressure radiated from deep inside her. Something thick and solid shifted beneath her hand.

Then it happened. A flutter. A slow, deliberate roll.

Emily sucked in a sharp breath and snatched her hands away as if burned. Her eyes widened in horror.

“Oh God… This isn’t real,” she whispered aloud, voice cracking. “It can’t be happening…”

The sensation returned—a stronger push, lower this time, against her pelvis, like something stretching, testing the boundaries of her body. A knob rolled over the surface of her swollen mound. Her breath hitched, then broke into a ragged sob.

“This isn’t a dream… no…”

“I didn’t volunteer... They did this to Sarah... They did this to me!”

She had to move, but her limbs were sluggish, numb with fear and weak from months of immobility. The unaccustomed weight of her tummy on her back anchored her stiffly on the bed.

Then, without warning, she was hit by a sudden sensation. Pain. Cramping. Pressure. Low in her pelvis. A dull tightening. It coiled through her belly, sharp and foreign. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, a soft groan escaped her mouth.

Before she could understand what was happening, he door clicked open. A nurse stepped into the room, her expression hidden under her mask as she looked at Emily and then her exposed tummy.

“Good. You're awake.” she announced. The soft beep of the heart monitor echoed louder in Emily’s ears, a staccato reminder of her racing pulse.

“No… please,” Emily whispered, her voice barely a breath, “tell me this isn’t real.” She choked on the words, fear rising in her chest, afraid of what she was going to hear.

“It’s time, Emily,” the nurse said, voice soft but firm, like she’d spoken this line a thousand times. “It's time for you to deliver the baby.”

Emily’s throat tightened as her chest constricted. “Deliver the baby!? No! Please, I—”

But before she could finish, two orderlies entered the room, pushing a gurney, and all her words choked off in her throat.

Her body stiffened, arms holding on to the guard rails, refusing to go, afraid of what was to come.

But they were too quick, too strong. The nurse expertly removed the electrodes and IV. Then the orderlies moved in unison, lifting her from the bed, firmly and carefully, like moving a fragile and precious good.

She fought, weakly, her limbs too sluggish, after months of immobility, to put up any real resistance. She was gently placed on the gurney. And then came the retraints, strapping her in—wrists to rails, chest to bed, her legs spreading helplessly. The brakes on the gurney were unlocked and she was wheeled out into the bright corridor.

“No, no, no!” she whimpered, thrashing weakly. “Where are we going? Please, don’t do this. Please, let me go...!”

But the nurse didn’t even look at her, her face as impassive as stone. The orderlies focussed on delivering her to her destination.

“You will be fine. Nature will take its course. We will take care of you,” the nurse said, her tone clinical, as if she was addressing any patient.

Emily barely had the strength to shake her head, a weak, broken motion. “No,” she whimpered, her voice breaking with every word. “I don’t want this. This isn’t my baby. Please, make it stop.”

The orderlies just kept moving her through the sterile hallways, picking up in urgency, the soft click of wheels the only sound that filled her ears. The pain in her abdomen intensified, radiating down to her legs, deep in her bones, twisting her insides. She groaned louder.

They wheeled her into the delivery room. The air was colder here. A sterile buzz hummed all around, the clinical scents of antiseptic cutting through the haze of fear in her mind. Her eyes darted to the surgical table. The surgical lights bright and harsh, putting the spotlight on the surgical table, like an executioner's block.

Her throat tightened. Those stirrups… those gleaming straps hanging from the sides. Her stomach twisted, a fresh wave of nausea threatening to break over her. She had seen patients many times, but never imagined it for herself, how she would be splayed for the world to see, to touch her as they willed.

Her body trembled involuntarily, a small whimper escaping her as the orderlies transferred her onto the table. Her body was rigid as they strapped her down, one strap across her chest, another around her ankles, her wrists held tightly at her sides. The sensation of being restrained, spread open, exposed, was suffocating.

“Please… please, don’t… let me go...” she whispered, the words lost beneath the mounting terror. Her breath was shaky, ragged.

Nurses started attaching electrodes across her bare chest. One tied a CTR across her swollen abdomen to monitor the baby. An oxygen mask was strapped onto her face. An IV was started. All in quick succession.

When they were done, Emily found herself in the centre of the room, under the spot light. She could feel the coolness of the table against her skin, the pressure of the restraints locking her in place, spreading her body wide, the electrodes over her body, beeping incessantly. She felt helpless, vulnerable.

Then there was a presence in the room as everyone went quiet, in walked the Directeur in surgical scrubs and the mask hung under his chin.

“Congratulations, Emily. The baby has reached full term. This is the big day!” He said as he snapped on latex gloves.

“No… no…. no….” was all Emily could muster before she was cut short by a sharp intrusion into her birth canal without warning. The Directeur dug deep into it until his gloved fingers were at her cervix, probing around. His frowned as he slipped his hand out.

“2cm dilation. Let's start with the prostaglandin gel,” he said as he peeled his gloves off.

"Stop… please, don’t,” Emily begged, her voice hoarse, her body trembling. It was too late. She knew it. Her words were futile.

The gel was cold against her, invasive. It burned, a dull ache spreading as it was applied deep inside her. Her entire body shuddered from the sensation.

She felt another wave of cramps. A deep biting ache in her pelvis. Her hips seemed to be cracking, twisting. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. But she was trapped. Bound to the table, unable to stop the process, unable to stop the pressure growing within her.

The pain came in waves, sharp and cruel, each contraction consuming her awareness, pulling her consciousness away from her surroundings.

The Directeur came to check her dilation ever so often—gloved fingers probing, stretching her open, measuring. It felt like an invasion, like her body was no longer her own. She no longer protested.

*5 cm.* “Let’s break her water,” he murmured. The words barely registered, but she felt the sudden pressure as the amnihook was inserted.

A tug. A sharp pain, followed by a flood of warmth beneath her. She flinched, but the sensation didn’t stop.

“Start the oxytocin drip,” the Directeur said, and it was as if Emily was no longer even part of the conversation. She was just the body on the table.

The drug flowed into her veins, and the contractions came faster, harder, more demanding. Her core tensed. Her back squeezed. Her whole body burned. The rhythmic pain of it, building, coming faster and stronger, until there was no space to breathe between each wave.

She was already drenched in sweat, her body shimmering as she writhed with each contraction. She was now screaming from the labour pains.

“Breathe through it, Emily,” the nurse murmured, rubbing her back in the same mechanical, comforting motion, as if trying to smooth over the horror of it all.

The contractions were relentless, each one crashing over her like a wave, too much, too fast. She could feel the pressure deep inside her, the weight of it dragging her lower body as her legs trembled helplessly in the stirrups.

Another contraction.

She gripped the bedrail with all the strength she could summon, her nails digging into the plastic. Her face flushed with effort, with pain, with the weight of what was happening to her. Every inch of her body screamed for relief, but it came only in the form of the next, sharper contraction.

"Oh God..." she whimpered, her voice cracking under the strain. Her eyes squeezed shut, her entire body trembling with the effort to endure. She couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her throat as another contraction crashed into her, this one sharper, fiercer, pulling every muscle in her body taut.

“Breathe, Emily,” the nurse repeated, her voice disturbingly calm, as if this was just another procedure. As if Emily wasn’t writhing in agony, strapped down and exposed, with no control, no say in the matter. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re doing fine.”

*Fine?* Emily’s mind screamed a silent protest. She wasn’t doing fine. Nothing about this was fine. Her thighs trembled, her teeth clenched with the force of the contraction. Her chest heaved, but her breath ragged and uneven.

The pressure in her pelvis intensified. It felt like something was tearing her apart, something *inside* her that wasn’t supposed to be there. She could feel it—something *stuck*. Something blocking the way.

"Argghhhh!" She screamed, her body spasmed with another contraction, the pain too much to bear. The world tilted beneath her, her mind fogging, her vision blurring. She was slipping. Slipping into the abyss of pain.

Her screams echoed off the walls, but they felt distant, muffled, as though they were happening to someone else, someone far away.

She tried to fight. She tried to push back, to break free from the restraints, but she was powerless. The leather straps held her, tighter than ever, her discomfort amplified her pain.

The Directeur entered the room, moving with that same dispassionate urgency. The nurses stepped aside to make room for him, their faces impassive, clinical. Emily could barely make sense of his presence—everything in the room was spinning, shifting, a whirlwind of noise and sensation. He stood beside her, his gaze flicking quickly to the monitors, his expression unreadable behind his mask.

"She's not dilating fast enough." The voice was calm, assessing.

"Increase the Pitocin."

Emily could barely process the words. Another contraction hit, making her body buck violently against the restraints. She screamed. The sound was raw, like an animal caught in a trap. The doctor ignored her cries, he inserted his gloved hand into her birth canal. Emily recoiled from the repeated intrusion. His frown and annoyance visible above his mask.

"Increase the dosage," he repeated.

The nurse beside him adjusted the drip. The synthetic hormone began to flow into Emily’s veins with increased frequency . She could feel it, creeping into her bloodstream, like a fire spreading under her skin.

Her body responded to the drug—an overwhelming sense of pressure flooding her pelvis. It felt like something was *ripping* inside her, stretching her beyond the point of comfort. The sensation was raw, brutal. All the muscles in her abdomen contracted, the round mound distorted as every once of effort went into trying to push the baby out. The nurses joined in the effort too as they used their hands to push the baby down. But it was not moving, not fast enough.

In between the contractions, she could feel *them* inside her—the doctors, the nurses, all of them, taking the liberty—poking, prodding, pulling, controlling.

The next contraction tore through her, a jagged wave of pain that wracked her body from head to toe. She gritted her teeth, her nails digging into the bedrails as her body arched, desperate for relief.

But then, something shifted in the atmosphere. The rhythm of the fetal heart rate dipped suddenly on the monitor, a sharp drop that sliced through the sterile air like a warning. The room froze.

“Stop pushing, Emily.” The Directeur shouted. He quickly inserted his entire hand inside her and started to manipulate the baby’s head behind her cervix. The pain ripped through Emily. When he retracted his hand, it was blood soaked.

“Baby is in distress. We have an obstructed labor here. Prepare for immediate C-section!”

Emily’s heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. She barely had time to process the words before she felt the cold reality closing in around her.

The nurses moved with quick efficiency, releasing the restraints and monitors from Emily. She barely had the strength to struggle as they transferred her onto the awaiting gurney. She was strapped into the gurney. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight, her lungs desperate for air.

“No! Please.... help me!” she cried, her voice breaking. She thrashed weakly against the straps, but they held her in place, unyielding. Her arms were pinned down, her legs spread wide, and she was helpless as panic gripped her..

"Please... no... make it stop," she pleaded, her voice shaking with raw desperation. But the room moved like clockwork—cold, impersonal, determined. The orderlies wheeled her out of the room, her cries muffled by the buzzing of machines and the sound of the wheels rolling over sterile floors.

She screamed as another wave of pain tore through her body. Her screams echoed through the silent corridors.

She barely registered the passing hallways, the sterile walls, the blur of figures moving around her. She was drifting again, her mind fractured.

They pushed her through the heavy double doors of the operating room. The harsh fluorescent lights above her flickered to life, blinding and cold. The room smelled like antiseptic, sharp and sterile. A familiar yet terrifying sight, now that she was on the receiving end of the “routine”.

The faces around her were masked, all eyes focused on the procedure at hand, another patient, another case.

“No, no, please,” she begged, her eyes wide and frantic. “Help me…. Make it stop…” The Directeur appeared beside her, his eyes cold, distant, as he surveyed the situation.

"Emily," he said, his voice smooth, almost detached. “We’re going to take care of you now. Just relax.” She had heard that before. She had said that before.

But the words now had no meaning to her. *Relax?* How could she relax when every part of her body was on fire? How could she relax when her body was going to be spliced open to remove their baby? Her heart pounded in her chest as the staff swarmed around her. She felt the straps loosen, many hands reached out beneath her, scooping her heavy body onto the cold operating table.

Emily tried to resist, weakly pulling away, but her body felt sluggish, too slow to fight back. Hands secured her wrists to the armboards on either side of her with thick straps.

Leather straps tightened around her ankles, binding her to the hard surface of the stirrups.

Splayed on the operating table, she could only move her head as she observed helplessly as the team prepped her. She shivered as electrodes were pressed against her chest, the cold pads sending a jolt through her skin. Her damp hair was eased into a bouffant cap.

She screamed as another wave of contractions wrecked her body.

The team moved with increased urgency. The surgical drapes were unfolded carefully, covering her lower body. The familiar scent of antiseptic filled the air as it was smeared across her swollen abdomen.

The cool sensation spread from her navel as the nurse swabbed her tummy in widening circles until it was brown and shiny.

Her body trembled, her muscles too weak to hold on any longer. Another contraction wracked her, and her body convulsed, but the anesthesiologist was already beside her, adjusting the machine, preparing the drugs.

“Help me... get me out ” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the haze of pain and fear. “Don’t put me to sleep…”

The anesthesiologist loomed over her, the rubber mask in his hands. Emily’s eyes widened in terror. She was sobbing uncontrollably, thrashing her head from side to side trying to evade the descending mask.

“Hold her down,” the doctor commanded, and hands descended on her shoulders, pressing her down against the table.

The anesthesiologist cupped her face and held Emily’s head tight and cupped the mask over her face. Emily felt the cold rubber against her cheeks, fingers under her chin clasping it tightly, the hiss of gas filling her ears.

Emily held her breath, thrashing as much as the straps would allow, but it was useless, her head held unmoving by the anesthesiologist's grasps. The sickly-sweet scent of the gas invaded her senses, making her dizzy almost instantly.

“No!” she gasped, her breath catching in her throat. “Please...” She felt a coldness ran up her arm through the IV port. Then warmth started to spread across her chest to her limbs. She knew instinctively that they were injecting the rest of the cocktail of anesthetic drugs into her.

Her vision blurred as the world began to spin out of control. The sweet, sickly scent of the anesthetic flooded her senses, dulling the pain, dulling everything, except the distant sensation of hands on her swollen belly.

Her body trembled, every ounce of resistance slipping away as the gas pulled her under. Her thoughts fragmented, her mind slipping from her grasp.

“Breathe, Emily,” the anesthesiologist’s voice was distant now, far away. “It’ll be over soon.”

She couldn’t hold on anymore. Her eyelids grew heavier, and her limbs felt like lead. The contractions ground to a stop. There was no more pain. No more sound. No more light… The last thread of awareness snapped, and she was swallowed by darkness.

“Let’s begin,” the doctor’s voice echoed through the fog.

She felt a line being drawn across her abdomen, and then, everything faded away.

[mabduct]

Did She Volunteer? - Part 4

Emily gets the full treatment.

Emily awoke in her bed, her wrists and ankles loosely restrained. She could barely keep her eyes open. The remnants of the sedative swirled in her mind like fog, but she could feel the restraints on her limbs. Her brain was foggy. She was not sure which parts of her fragmented memories were real which were her “delirium”.

Did she really see Sarah again? How many “procedures” did they do on her, if any at all, she couldn’t remember. All was a blur.

Her stomach churned as she recalled Sarah's warning. They were doing something. The nurse had said it was "routine”. She recalled that many “procedures” she had assisted before, like egg extractions and embryo implantations were “routine”, too. Was she implanted?

Emily became more aware from the sudden adrenaline rush and noticed something felt... wrong… A deep, gnawing discomfort sat in her abdomen. Her body heavy in ways she couldn’t explain. She shifted slightly in the hospital bed, wincing at the ache that radiated through her core.

How long had it been since her “ruptured cyst”? How long had she been here?

The heart monitor beside her started to beep faster as her head started to clear and the fear inside her chest grew. Her hand trembled as she touched her stomach, and she froze.

There was a fullness there—a rounded heaviness pressing against her palm. Emily’s breath caught in her throat. No. No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Panic surged through her, and she tried to push herself upright with a strangled gasp. The movement sent a sharp pain through her abdomen, and the beeping of monitor started to become frantic.

Almost instantly, the door swung open. A nurse hurried in, her face composed but eyes wary. "Emily, you're awake," she said, far too calm.

Emily yanked the blanket down and stared in horror at the unmistakable swell of her belly beneath the thin hospital gown. She pulled up her gown to reveal her pregnant tummy, with disbelief, her trembling hands pressed against the firm, taut skin.

"What... what is this? What did you do to me!?"

The nurse hesitated, her lips pursing. "Emily, you need to stay calm—"

"Calm?" Emily's voice cracked, hysteria creeping in.

"Who did this to me?!" She struggled against the restraints, tugging at them, trying to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but her limbs were weak, uncoordinated, and restrained.

"Emily," the nurse warned, stepping closer. "You need to rest."

"I'm leaving," she snapped, trying to get off the bed, but the restraints held her in place. She sagged back into the bed, gasping.

The nurse gave up trying to console her and returned with a syringe. Before Emily could react, she felt a sharp sting in her arm. Her eyes snapped to the IV line, realizing too late the nurse had injected something into it.

“No, no, please…” Emily’s vision blurred, her body sinking heavily into the bed as if it were swallowing her whole. “You can’t… do this…I need to get out…”

Her eyelids fluttered closed against her will, and darkness claimed her again.

The next few days remained a blur. She tried to clear her brain, to think. At first, she begged. Then, she screamed. But no one listened. The doctors, the nurses, they only murmured soothing words, pressing her back down, whispering that she needed to rest, to stop struggling.

She resisted the injections but the more she resisted, the more they sedated her. It became a groggy haze, fleeting awareness, and then the sharp prick of a needle. Every time she tried to fight, they subdued her.

Then after one particular incident when she refused food, spilled the tray and managed to kick a nurse in the face, they decided that it was time for the “SOP”.

“What SOP!? Let me go!” She continued to struggle and scream. Her frustration mounting.

“Surrogate Override Protocol,” said one of the nurses with a hint of cold satisfaction.

“I am not a surrogate!” She screamed with all the energy she had. The nurses ignored and she sensed something was afoot. The nurse returned with a loaded syringe. Her eyes cold and determined, ready to dispense punishment. Another nurse started removing all the electrodes and cables connected to her.

Two orderlies came in with a gurney. Emily struggled for her dear life. At the signal of the nurse with the syringe, they all held her down onto the bed, immobilizing her. Then the nurse injected the content in the syringe into her IV port. Emily felt the strength drained from her limbs. They felt unnaturally heavy. Her struggles slowed to a stop. Then her vision started to blur. The room became so bright she could barely open her eyes.

She was transferred to the gurney and the party left for its unknown destination. The overhead lights of the corridors flashed by. She wanted them to stop, but she was totally helpless.

They reached what looked like a pre-op preparation room. The gynecologist chair with its gleaming stirrups stood ominously in the middle. The nurses positioned her in the stirrups, leaving her legs splayed wide. Then she saw a nurse with an apron rolling a trolley of sterile bags of transparent tubes — the catheters. She tried to struggle but she barely moved.

“Shhh… “ The nurse that got kicked came up to her. Her cold gloved hands rested on her forehead, pressing her down. “You will be fine, we will take good care of you from now on. No more dramas.” She said, with a hint of satisfaction.

Emily panicked but the drug kept her docile. The cold, foreign tubes, which she recognised as catheters, threatened to render her even more helpless.

The nurse in charge, her face neutral and almost detached, leaned over Emily’s legs, her gloved hands moving with practiced precision. "We’re starting now, Emily," she said firmly, her voice had no warmth, no comfort. "Just try to relax."

Before Emily could protest, she felt the coldness in her groin area as the nurse coated it generously with chlorhexidine. Then she felt gloved fingers spreading her labia and the cool lubricated tip of the urinary catheter. With careful pressure, she guided the tip into Emily’s urethra.

Emily gasped, her body rebelling against the intrusion. The feeling was unnatural—cold, sterile, and deeply invasive. The catheter slid deeper, and Emily’s body instinctively tried to contract.

Emily’s breath came in shallow bursts. The pressure of the catheter inside her was already uncomfortable, but it wasn’t until she felt the next step that her panic truly began to spike. The nurse who was inserting the catheter adjusted the syringe in her hand and then slowly began to inject fluid into the small balloon at the tip of the catheter. It was a strange, foreign feeling—a fullness deep inside her. The pressure was not yet painful, but it was intense, and it seemed to fill her up in a way that made her feel even more helpless. She felt invaded, intruded.

The balloon inflated steadily, and Emily could feel it stretching, pushing against the inner walls of her urethra, keeping the catheter securely in place.

"There," the nurse said, almost matter-of-factly, once the balloon was fully inflated. "Now we can move on to the next one."

Emily’s mind reeled, her thoughts a jumble of confusion, panic, and helplessness. She had no time to process the first intrusion before the nurses moved on to the next step.

One of the nurses at Emily’s side shifted her position, guiding her hips lower while lifting her knees higher. Emily could feel the buttocks rising. She felt the cold swabbing of the chlorhexidine around her anus this time. Then the cool, lubricated tip of a gloved finger touched her anus and penetrated. Her body stiffened in response. The idea of another catheter, a more invasive one, made her stomach twist.

The nurse at her side spoke again, but her tone had changed—it was softer, almost patronizing, like she was speaking to a child. "Emily, you’re doing great. Just relax for me," she cooed. "It’ll be over soon."

Before Emily could respond, she felt the tip of the rectal catheter gently pressing inside her. It was more intrusive, bigger and deeper than the first. Emily flinched, her body refusing to relax, but the nurses held her firmly in place. The nurse inserting the catheter didn’t stop.

Emily gasped, her eyes wide with discomfort. She wanted to push it out, to move, to escape, but she couldn’t. The nurses held her down, their hands firm on her body, ensuring she stayed still. She could feel the catheter pressing deeper, and the sense of violation that came with it made her stomach churn.

Once the catheter was positioned, the nurse turned her attention to the balloon at the base of it. "We need to inflate this one as well," the nurse said, and Emily could hear the faintest hint of satisfaction in her voice.

Emily felt the pressure building once again as the balloon slowly inflated inside her. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort—it was the sheer helplessness of being unable to stop it, of being trapped in a body while the nurses violated her. The balloon expanded, pressing against her walls, the pressure building inside her, a constant reminder that the catheter was there to stay.

Emily wanted to scream, to beg them to stop, but her throat felt dry, the words stuck inside her. Her body was still, legs locked in the stirrups with the tubes extending visibly from her orifices. The nurse stepped back, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

"There," she said, her tone flat as she tugged at both catheters. “Nice and secure.”

The other nurses began to move away, and Emily could feel their eyes on her, but no one spoke. The nurse who had been holding her shoulders in place gave her a final, almost condescending smile before stepping back.

Then they started to focus on her head. Nurses started to stand closer to her face with a trolley in tow. There were more tubes on it. A nurse lifted Emily’s head and held it against her bossoms, holding it in place. “Just relax. It will be over soon,” said the nurse. Then Emily heard another nurse’s voice, a calming murmur of reassurance as she explained each step of the process.

“I’m going to start by cleaning the inside of your nose, Emily. It will feel cool, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

Emily felt a chill on her skin as the nurse gently swabbed around her nostrils. The sensation was oddly invasive. She tried to turn her head away but the nurse holding her head tightened her grip. Emily couldn’t shake the sense that something worse than the catheters was about to happen.As the nurse prepped the tube, Emily’s breath caught in her throat. They’re going to put something down my nose. The thought made her stomach turn.

The nurse held up the thin, flexible tube, its length long and intimidating. Emily’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as the cold tip of the feeding tube brushed against the inside of her nostril. It was a sensation she had tried to ignore, but the moment it made contact, a wave of panic surged through her chest.

**No, no, no, I can’t do this.** Her mind screamed it, but only slurred sounds came from her throat.

She tried to pull away, her body instinctively recoiling. The tube felt cold, and her throat clenched at the thought of it sliding down. “Emily, you need to stay still,” the nurse’s voice was firm, but calm, her hands cupping Emily’s cheeks, holding her steady.

But Emily couldn't control the panic that gripped her. Her chest felt tight, her stomach twisting in revolt. She twisted her body, attempting to escape the nurse’s hands. The more she struggled, more hands started to grip her, pressing her down, immobilizing her. It felt like the world was closing in, the small room growing suffocating with every second the tube remained poised at the back of her throat.

**I can’t breathe,** she thought, as her vision began to blur with tears. She gasped for air, her pulse racing in her throat.

Emily struggled against the hands holding her, her strength returning.“Please,” she gasped. “Please don’t—don’t put it in.”

But the nurses’ hands felt like an unmovable weight. She couldn’t escape. They were holding her down, forcing her body to stay still, her head locked in place.

Tears streamed down her face as she felt the tube inching deeper into her nostril. It felt as if something were blocking her throat, her airway constricting around it. She choked, but the nurse holding her head steadied her, her grip like a vise.

Emily could feel the tube move slowly down, the sensation of it traveling deeper, past her throat, and into her stomach.

A moment of silence followed, the pressure suddenly easing as the tube finally settled into place. Emily lay there, breathless and trembling, tears staining her cheeks and the nurse's scrub.The nurses slowly released their grip, stepping back slightly. The one she kicked watched her with a sadistic satisfaction.

Emily’s chest heaved as she fought to calm her breathing. The nurse checked for correct placement, aspirating stomach contents to confirm. It was only when they secured the tube with tape that Emily, still hazy, realized she had been defeated.

She saw from the corner of her eyes a nurse injected something into the IV port. The drug flowed up her vein quickly, the cold spreading. Her world started to spin again.

“Sleep now, Emily. We will take good care of you. We will wake you up when the baby is at full term.”

Emily tried to comprehend what it meant but she was unable to focus. The nurses unbound her from the table and transferred her with all the tubes hanging from her orifices onto the waiting gurney. There was no more fight left in Emily.

As she was transported along the corridor, she was pulled into oblivion.

[gynclub-com-blog]

www.gynclub.com

[mabduct]

When the Role wasn't Playing

He approached you at the hospital cafeteria. You were taken in by his confident demeanor and good looks. And you had a thing for doctors, that's why you worked at the hospital.

He said he was doing the night shift and invited you for a little roleplaying at his fertility lab after work. He said to keep it a secret and would have everything prepared.

You couldn't keep your excitement all day. When you arrived at his lab, he was already in his surgical scrubs and cap. He showed you to the changing room with a neatly folded hospital gown, and told you to get ready. You noted your panties were already soaked through as you undressed.

He played the doctor and asked you about your health history. Then he said he would like to take a deeper look. He asked you to hop on the table and you watched in anticipation as he strapped you to the operating table with your legs in the stirrups.

He teased you about how wet and excited you were. He assured you that this would be quick and painless. He lifted the sterile cloth to reveal all the gleaming tools he had underneath. You gave an audible gulp when you imagined them penetrating you one by one, especially the over-sized speculum.

He worked you deep and well. You came long and hard many times. And when you thought the evening was coming to an end, he said it was time for the climax.

He left the room and came back with a long catheter and an injector syringe. Then he said you were ready for the embryo implant. You couldn’t be sure if he was joking but your were too far gone to stop him.

“No, please. Don't!” You said.

But when you felt the tip of the catheter penetrated your cervix and the tip touched the wall of your uterus, you exploded in another mind blowing climax!

[mabduct]

You are ready.

Everything that they had done to you led to this moment.

They silenced your protests with firm assurances that you would be well taken care of and that this was the best for you.

They pinned you down when you tried to get up.

They restrained your flailing arms to the arm boards when you fought.

And when you refused to quietened down, they muffled your screams with a black rubber mask, sealed tight over your cheeks.

Then they forced gas down your throat that made your will to fight melt away, like the rest of the room.

You gradually lost control of your body. Your limbs became lifeless. You could no longer speak, your eyes became unfocussed as your eyelids became too heavy for you.

"That's it... Sleep..." You heard them say as you felt your head being tilted back without resistance. Then darkness...

Now you are just a subject on the table, docile and ready, for them to "operate" on.

[mabduct]

Are you ready?

The doctor carefully picks up a sterile glove, unfolding it with precision. He slides his left hand into the glove, the smooth, shiny surface of the latex gliding easily over his skin.

He wriggles his fingers as they sink into the glove, snug and tight. Each finger conforms perfectly, the material stretching slightly to fit, accentuating his fleshy palm and fingers.

He rubs his fingertips together, feeling the smoothness and ensuring the glove sits firmly, without any folds or discomfort.

He repeats the process with the right hand, the glove sliding over his skin like silk, the tight fit making his fingers look sleek and polished.

Once fully gloved, the doctor smooths his hands, the latex now perfectly molded to his fingers and palms, full and taut. The gloves glisten under the surgical lights.

He sits down on the stool, between your legs, spread wide by the stirrups. He picks up the tube of lubricant and squirts a dollop onto his index and middle fingers. With his thumb, he rubs the lubricant over his fingers, coating them generously.

He turns his attention to you. He rests his other hand on your inner thigh. It feels smooth and cool, sending tingles up your spine.

Then he says, “shall we begin?”

[mabduct]

Did She Volunteer? - Part 3

Emily discovers what it means to be a volunteer.

Emily awoke to the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, her body heavy, her mind fogged with a lingering anesthesia-induced haze.

A nurse hovered by her side, adjusting an IV drip. “You’re awake,” the nurse said, forcing a smile. “How do you feel?”

Emily tried to speak, but her throat was dry and scratchy. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You are safe,” said the nurse. She stepped into her line of sight, her expression unnervingly calm.“The procedure went smoothly. The ruptured ovarian cyst was safely removed. You’ll be on antibiotics for a few days to prevent infection.”

*Ovarian cyst?* Vague memories flickered in Emily’s mind—the police station, the drugged coffee, restraints, cold metal instruments, whispered discussions about healthy ovaries. Her pulse spiked.

“But… I remember something else.” Her voice wavered. “I was part of… some… some… ‘breeding program’… ”

The nurse's face remained composed. “That’s just the ruptured cyst and the anesthesia playing tricks on you,” she assured her with a faint smile.

“Post-operative delirium is common. Some patients experience false memories. It was a good thing you collapsed in the hospital. The Directeur was worried for you when you didn’t look right in the middle of the procedure you were assisting in.”

She emptied a loaded syringe into her IV port. “This should help with the recovery. Don't think so hard. Focus on getting well…,” she said as she discarded the empty syringe.

Emily wanted to believe her, believe the Directeur. But the memories felt too real. Her friend Sarah, her panic pleas, the sterile smell of the operating room, the sensation of the gas mask being forced upon Sarah, and upon herself. Or was it all her imagination…she was getting groggy…

“Get some rest. We hope to see you back in the team once you are recovered,” said the nurse as she gathered her stuff to leave the room.

Emily fought to keep her eyelids open but the room was already spinning and she was fast asleep as the nurse left the room.

===

Days passed. The “antibiotics” made her feel worse, not better. She had been bed-ridden. Her body felt off — her abdomen swollen, breasts tender, waves of nausea hitting whenever she was awake. And the fog in her brain just didn't go away. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, feeling a dull, pulsing pain. A sick thought crawled into her mind: *Is this the ruptured cyst, or is it something else?*

The nurse entered her room, syringe in hand. “Time for your next dose.”

Emily hesitated. “What antibiotic is it? I don't seem to be feeling better.”

The nurse hesitated just a fraction too long. “Routine post-op medication.”

Emily clenched her fists under the blanket. “I don’t think I need it anymore. I want to see the Directeur.”

The nurse’s face twitched. “This is what the Directeur ordered.”

Emily’s heart pounded. She was trapped. Her symptoms were getting worse by the day. She wanted out. She refused to let the nurse give her the jab and she started struggling and making a scene, knocking over the trays and its contents.

Two orderlies stormed into the room. She was pinned to her bed by the orderlies and she watched helplessly as the nurse injected her with the content.

She immediately felt sluggish after the shot. She needed to get out. But that thought didn't last long before she drifted off.

===

That night, when she next surfaced from her drugged state, she found an empty vial under her back. It must have been left behind after the struggle earlier in the day. She squinted to look at the label and was shocked. It wasn’t an antibiotic. It was **Menopur**—a hormone used to stimulate ovulation. Her stomach turned. *They are priming me for my eggs!*

Now all the symptoms made sense! She needed to get out. But before she could get her legs off the bed, the nurse was back with yet another dose. She was out like a candle before she could protest.

===

The next morning, she woke up to a nurse beside her bed. She had just emptied a syringe into her IV. At the door of her room were two orderlies in scrubs with the gurney in tow.

“What's happening?” Emily asked weakly, “where are you taking me?” Although she had seen this scene enough to know.

“The Directeur ordered a minor “procedure” to make sure everything is all right,” said the nurse.

“But I do not consent.” She tried to sit up and fight but the moment she exerted herself, the room spun.

“I’m not sick,” she said, her speech slurred. “I don’t need this procedure.”

The orderlies ignored her and started to move her onto the gurney. She tried to resist but her limbs were getting heavier, flailing weakly. The orderlies easily overpowered her.

"Just relax,” the nurse murmured as she secured the straps over Emily, pinning her to the gurney. “We’ll take care of everything.”

Emily tried again to struggle but she was beginning to feel paralysis, not responding. Her brain started to fog again …

Emily drifted in and out of consciousness as the ceiling lights along the corridors floated overhead.

When she came to, she was in the OR. Bright lights made her squint. Gloved hands moving her onto the operating table. Her hospital gown was removed as cold electrodes were attached across her chests. The room started beeping.

Her feet were lifted onto the stirrups and straps around her thighs spread her legs wide. Her hands were secured to the arm boards. A tourniquet around her upper arm, a prick in her elbow followed by the release of the tourniquet. Warmth radiating from her hand, up her arm and filling her chest. She was melting into the table, becoming part of it.

A hand lifted her head back. She stared helplessly at the eyes of the anesthesiologist above her head as her field of vision was blocked by the surgical drape. She fought to focus and keep her eyes open. A mask was strapped over her face, fresh oxygen filled her lungs. The drugs made her calm and relax. She knew she didn't want this. But there was no fight left. The only fight was to stay awake.

“She’s ready,” a voice said.

She wasn’t under. Not fully. Her mind struggled to focus. She could hear them. Feel them.

Cold gel on her tummy and someone spreading it, pressing into her hips. *The ultrasound…*

Gloved fingers at her vagina, slippery with lubricant, and then something penetrated and started proding her lower abdomen.

“Follicles are full,” a voice said. “She’s responding better than expected.”

She felt something deeper in her abdomen. A deep pressure. A pull. A needle piercing through her vaginal wall, draining each follicle, taking something from her.

She tried to move. Tried to scream.

Her leg twitched. Her head jerked.

“She’s a bit tense. Increase sedation.”

More drugs flowed up her arm. Ringing in her ears. Her vision tunneled…

A suction sound.

“That makes twenty-one,” was the last thing she heard.

Next time she regained awareness, she was being wheeled out of the operating theatre, covered to the neck in a blanket. She had no memory of what just happened.

“Everything went as planned. Sleep now,” said the nurse as she removed the bouffant cap from Emily’s head and gently swiped the damp matted hair on her forehead aside. “You did well.” She looked helplessly at the nurse, her face slack.

The movement of the gurney made her drowsy. She closed her eyes and was out again.

===

She woke up back in her bed, weak. She was not sure how much time has passed and if any of the fractured memories she had was real.

Her lower abdomen ached with a deep, raw pain.

A nurse approached with a syringe. “Time for your antibiotics.”

Emily turned her head away. “No. I don’t think you are treating me…”

The nurse didn’t react. She grabbed Emily’s arm, her grip firm. **Too firm.**

Emily struggled. Weak and dizzy, she tried to twist away, but the nurse’s fingers dug into her skin. The needle slid into her IV port, the cold fluid pushing into her veins. “You’re doing so well, Emily,” the nurse said gently. “We will move to the next phase soon.”

Emily recoiled as her heart pounded. *Next phase!?*

===

Days later. Her symptoms shifted. The pain and aches were gone. However, the swelling worsened. She felt bloated. Her body felt different.

The nurse returned, clipboard in hand. “There have been some further complications,” she said smoothly. “The Directeur has scheduled another procedure.”

“What kind of complications? What are you doing to me!?”

The Nurse gave a small, reassuring smile. “A hormonal imbalance. The Directeur said he needed to look at your ovaries and womb again and correct it surgically if necessary.”

She wanted to ask what the nurse meant when a commotion rupted outside her room. A loud grunt turned into a scream. It sounded like someone in labor. Nurses shouted orders, their voices frantic.

The nurse ran out to check, leaving her door unlocked. The squeal of gurneys on linoleum and more shouts of oreders as running footsteps echoed down the hall.

Emily peaked out the window in the door. A group of nurses and orderlies were wheeling a patient away, leaving a trail of blood.

Her pulse quickened. The hallway outside her room had become eerily silent. She realized she was in a part of the hospital she didn’t recognize.

Swallowing her rising panic, Emily eased the door open, stepping out into the corridor. She walked down, glancing into the rooms on either side.

The sight stopped her heart.

Each room held a woman. Most were visibly pregnant, some clutching their swollen bellies, wandering in loose gowns. Others lay restrained, if not unconscious, their eyes were glassy, drifting in a haze of medication.

Then her eyes locked on a familiar face. She entered the rooom.

"Sarah?" Her friend lay bound to the bed—wrists and ankles tied. A nasogastric tube taped to her sunken cheek. Cables and other tubes connected her to various beeping machines. Electrodes were connected to her belly, which showed signs of early pregnancy, exposed and taut, glinting under the sterile light.

"Emily..." Sarah's voice was barely a whisper. "Run. They did this to me…” Her eyes shifted down to her swollen stomach, “this is the second time…” "Run…before they... implant you... Run!"

Emily's stomach lurched. "No, no. This isn't real."

Her hands trembled as she worked frantically to undo the restraints. But before she could unfasten the last buckle, a shadow fell over her.

Strong hands seized her from behind, pulling her back and holding her in a bear hug. She fought, kicking, screaming—but they were too strong.

A nurse appeared with a loaded syringe. The needle pierced her arm, as she looked on, stupified.

Strength drained from her. Her legs buckled, her eyelids drooped and her head became too heavy for her neck.

She saw from the corner of her eyes the fear and despair in the sobbing Sarah as the nurse turned to her. Her heart sank. She wanted to reassure Sarah that it would be alright but she hung helplessly in the orderly's arm.

Then her world dimmed, the drug pulling her under.

====

She woke to the harsh glare of an operating room. Strapped down. Not unconscious. Aware.

She bucked against the restraints. “Let me go!” She said weakly, almost a whisper.

A nurse pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Shh, Emily. Just relax.”

Her legs were in stirrups. Exposed.

A speculum forced her open.

A catheter. A slow, deliberate movement.

The Directeur’s voice, calm and clinical. “Almost done, Emily.”

She fought. She tried to close her legs, twist away. She bucked against the restraints, finding some strength from deep within.

Hands held her down. The catheter withdrew.

“Sedate her,” the Directeur instructed, sounding frustrated.

“It's for your own good, Emily,” he said in a calmer voice. “You're delirious again.”

The mask descended onto her face as the anesthesiologist gripped it tight against her chin, almost hurting. Her neck was lifted and the anesthesiologist started pumping the airbag, forcing the gas into her lungs.

She tasted the familiar sweet chemical at the back of her throat.

“No, please,” she managed despite the mask over her face.

She felt the grip on her jaw tightented. The gas flowed faster, the pressure in the mask increased, forcing more gas into her lungs.

The face of the anesthesiologist filled her vision, then it started to blur. She was now resigned to her fate, her body slacking, her strength now completely drained by the gas.

The catheter slipped back into her, going past her cervix. A flutter deep inside her. The ultrasound beeped. And then— “Good. We are done,” said the Directeur.

“You’ve done well, Emily.”

A tear slid down Emily’s temple. She knew her fate was sealed. She saw herself in Sarah's shoes, strapped to the bed with all the tubes and wires, as her world turned to darkness.

[mabduct]

Just breathe...

"Let’s get you prepared and we can proceed with the implantation."

"Stop struggling!"

"Can you smell the gas?"

"Yes, take deep breaths now."

"That’s it. Just breathe."

"Good. Feel your limbs going soft."

"Yes, no need to fight now .... Keep breathing and let go."

"Close your eyes and relax.""Good... relax... sleep..."

[medcontrol-uncontrol]

You wanted this didn't you? Everything was massively exciting leading up to it; the gown, being led up on to the table, guiding your head on to the cushion pillow. Then second thoughts as the mask is being lowered, it's soft but unyielding and held sealed in place. You'll attempt to thrash as the plasticy smell and hissing flow hits your irrational senses. Pleading at them to wait only makes you inhale faster. Both fear and excitement now - knowing you're breathing whatever they choose already. Trying to sit or shake off the mask ends quickly when you feel the white liquid enter, eyes gone half-lidded and the fight is done. Intubated and on the ventilator, they're now free to do as they see fit.

[mabduct]

Just Relax...

“Just relax.” That’s what they always say to you. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

But why do they have to pump you full of drugs to make you docile and pliant to the point of helplessness. Not to mention the multiple straps they use to restrain you.

Despite your feeble protests, they always win. They inject more substances into your IV to make you drowsy.

They seal your face with a black rubber mask and pump you with anesthetic gases.

You feel fear rising as you fight them one last time. But before long, your world starts to spin out of control. You sink deeper and deeper, engulfed in darkness.  You breathe one last deep breath before the lights go out on you.

You can not even breathe on your own anymore.

The anesthesiologist takes over your entire being, inserting a tube into your windpipe to breathe for you. He tapes your eyes shut as if afraid that you wake up halfway.

At the end of the table, the nurse carries your lifeless limbs onto the awaiting stirrups.

It is surprising how heavy a leg can weigh, requiring professional manoeuvring.

Once done, the nurses drape you, to provide you some decency, but leaving the surgical site, your most private part, exposed. The main show can now begin.

The surgeon performs the necessary operation. You are blissfully unaware.

You are transformed according to the Institute’s requirements. Once done, you will be prepped for impregnation and carry many clients' offsprings, for the rest of your life.

Now have a good sleep. Just relax. There is nothing to worry about. We will take good care of you...

[mabduct]

Another Emergency

A fuller account of the above. Enjoy.

The wheels rattle beneath you as the gurney moves through the corridor, the fluorescent lights above flickering in sterile repetition. Your stomach churns—not just from the pain twisting deep inside, but from the growing dread settling in your chest.

Your admission had been abrupt. A sudden wave of cramps, sharp and unrelenting after a coffee with the "recruitment officer", had doubled you over. You were brought to the ER for immediate assessment. The ER physician’s expression had been unreadable as they ordered urgent imaging, and before you fully grasped what was happening, the words "emergency surgery" had been spoken.

You hadn’t agreed. You couldn't comprehend. But the pain and the drugs they gave you had left you no choice.

Another cramp grips your abdomen, and a whimper escapes before you can stop it.

The doors to the pre-op room swing open, and the sharp scent of antiseptic fills the air.

A nurse approaches, her expression neutral but efficient. "We need to get you prepped. The surgeon wants you ready as soon as possible."

You shift weakly on the gurney, trying to prop yourself up. "Wait. Just—"

Another cramp. White-hot. Your vision wavers.

"Easy now," another nurse soothes. More hands on you. Guiding. Steadying.

"Let’s get this off," one of them says.

Fingers grasp at the hem of your blouse, lifting. You try to push them away, but it’s futile—your limbs are sluggish, dulled by medication. Cool air rushes over your exposed skin as fabric is stripped away, leaving you bare for only a moment before a thin hospital gown replaces it. The material is scratchy, the open back exposing far too much.

You shiver.

"Good," the nurse murmurs. "We’re moving you over now."

Hands slip under you—one at your back, another at your legs. You flinch, trying to brace yourself, but your body is weak.

"No," you manage, voice thick. "I don't want —"

They don’t wait.

With practiced efficiency, they lift and shift you onto the gurney’s fresh linens. The paper crinkles beneath you as you’re centered.

The blood pressure cuff wraps around your arm, inflating with a firm squeeze. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger.

The beeping of the heart monitor starts—steady, but fast. Too fast.

"Starting an IV," one of them says.

A cool alcohol swab glides over the back of your hand. A sharp prick. A dull pressure as the IV catheter is advanced. The flush of cool saline threads up your vein.

A nurse presses at your chest, palpating landmarks before securing ECG electrodes. The adhesive pads are cold against your skin.

The soft clink of metal instruments being arranged. The hushed voices of the nurses as they finalize your preparation.

The door opens again.

It’s time. Blinding white light floods your vision as you’re wheeled into the OR. The room is cold—colder than the pre-op bay, the sterile air sharp against your exposed skin. Surgical LEDs glare down from overhead, their brightness casting stark shadows across stainless steel surfaces.

The gurney halts beside the operating table.

"Alright, let’s get her over."

A hand presses against your shoulder. Another at your hip.

The second they start to lift you, your body tenses. A final, feeble attempt at resistance. A weak sound leaves your throat—too quiet to be a protest. It doesn’t matter. You’re lifted, shifted, placed onto the firm operating table.

You try to sit up. But the nurse grips your shoulders.

"You're going to have a nice sleep. Just relax..." as you are pressed back helplessly against the operating table.

The padding is thin beneath you, unyielding. Your arms are moved outward, resting on padded armboards. A restraint strap circles your wrist, snug but unrelenting. You flex your fingers. The strap doesn’t give.

Another restraint over your other wrist.

A nurse adjusts the ECG leads. The cardiac monitor beeps—faster now.

A surgical drape is raised at your waist, blocking your view.

Another nurse shifts your legs, securing them into the stirrups. The positioning is precise—knees bent, hips rotated. Another strap fastens over your thighs, locking you in place.

A soaked sponge glides over your skin—one pass, then another. The antiseptic scent of iodine fills the air.

The muffled voices of the OR staff. The rhythmic clink of instruments.A voice cuts through the hum of preparation. “Let’s begin induction.”

Both hands cradle your head, adjusting its position with deliberate care. As she tilts your chin up, the crown of your head presses into something soft—her stomach. The warmth of her body seeps through the fabric of her scrubs, grounding yet impersonal.

She leans in slightly, her masked face coming into view. For a brief moment, you can see the tiny creases around her eyes, the way they focus intently on you.

Then, she straightens. The black rubber mask hovers in her hand.

"Deep breaths now," she murmurs, voice calm, practiced.

The mask lowers. The edges press firmly against your face, forming a tight seal. The faint scent of plastic and something vaguely chemical lingers inside. Her fingers press against the sides, ensuring no leaks.

The first breath is oxygen. Cool. Normal.

Your chest rises, then falls.

Another breath.You know what’s coming next. Your hands twitch. A final act of defiance. You try to turn your head, but her grip tightens.

"No." The word barely forms, lost against the mask.

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hesitate.

"Shh," she soothes. "Just relax."

Then the gas hits. The first trace of sevoflurane—a faint sweetness, subtle at first, then thickening.You inhale. It coils through your bloodstream, slipping past the blood-brain barrier with ruthless efficiency.

You fight it. Your breathing turns erratic, shallow. The monitor beeps faster.

She notices. A slight furrow in her brow. A flicker of something unreadable.

Her hand reaches for the vaporizer dial. A click. Her grip tightens under your chin, fingers digging into soft tissue. Keeping you still. Keeping you controlled.

Another click. The flow increases. The gas thickens. Your limbs tingle. Your thoughts blur at the edges, slipping between sharp clarity and something distant, dreamlike.

The room distorts. The lights stretch. Your body melts into the table. Her fingers never leave your jaw. She holds you steady, controlled, guiding you into the inevitable.

Your chest rises. Falls. Slower now.

The last thing you see is the way she watches you—calm, waiting—before the world smears into darkness.

"She's ready,. Fetch the embryo," you hear her say.

Your body remains where it is. Your mind does not. Something else waits in the dark. Your fate sealed.

[mabduct]

I don't want to be a surrogate!

"But you have been volunteered. Be a good girl now."

No, please, I didn’t sign up for this!

"Stop fighting!"

Noooo!

"That’s it... good girl... breathe...."

Mmmfffg...

"Yes... let go... easy now..."

"Good.......relax... and sleep.... good girl..."

"Excellent. Let's begin."

[mabduct]

The Medfet Clinic 2 - The "Abortion"

Will you get the abortion you wanted or will the abortion be aborted?

You returned to the Medfet Clinic two months later after you missed your second period. Suspecting that you were pregnant, you didn't know who to go to. With the low birth rates, the State had banned abortion, and even pregnancy self-test kits. Abortion had become a crime for both the doctors and the patients. While this drove many abortions underground, pregnant ladies also started disappearing...

You had no choice either way as you were determined not to carry on with the pregnancy. Out of desperation, you decided to give the Medfet Clinic a try. Perhaps they would be sympathetic enough and have the necessary equipment and facilities to do it. 

At the reception, the nurse ran the same admission procedure as the last time. When you gave strong hints that you suspected that you were pregnant and would like to undergo an abortion, the nurse merely smiled back and said jokingly, “Oh! Naughty little girl! But you are not the first to request for such a procedure.”

You didn't know if she took you seriously. You changed into a hospital gown and despite youself, you couldn't help feeling excited. You chided yourself for the wrong thoughts as you reminded yourself that you were here for an abortion! Then the thought of being put under and having medical equipment being inserted into your tunnel caused your knees to weaken. 

At the waiting area, a nurse came to check on you. “Patient S34?” You recalled that that was the same identification you were given at your last visit. They were keeping track of their "patients". As you nodded in acknowledgement, she started securing an ID tag to your wrist. You became Patient S34 again.

“I understand that you might be pregnant,” she said professionally. “We will need to run some tests before we proceed. My name is Amy. Please come with me.”

You couldn't tell if Nurse Amy was role playing or for real. The lines have blurred this time round. You followed her into a small examination room where your height, weight and blood pressure were taken. Then she gave you a small container and you duly went to the toilet to collect a urine sample. She asked about your last period and your sexual activities. She then said she needed to take a blood sample. 

She tied a tourniquet around your bicep and rubbed alcohol on the back of your hand. Then she asked you to look away and to take a deep breath. You did as you were told and you felt a prick and the cannula was in. You saw that she was actually setting up an IV into your hand and used it to collect some blood samples. Things were moving fast! 

Once done, she guided you into a deeper section of the room where there was an examination table and small cabinets.

“Can you hop on the bed for me please?” she said as she took some supplies from the cabinet. When she returned, she had a plastic apron across the front of her scrubs. Then she drew the privacy curtain around the examination table. 

“I am gonna give you an enema,” she said, as she tore open the sterile pack of tubing and valve.

“But I already had one this morning as instructed,” you said, trying to avoid another one.

“Oh excellent, this one is just in case there if still anything left. Otherwise, it can get messy during the procedure,” she said as she put on a pair of gloves. You wondered what the procedure was going to be that could make you soil yourself but you were finding it hard to argue at this stage. 

“Can you lie on your side and lift your right knee towards your chest, please,” she said as she guided your leg up. As the back of the gown was open, you could immediately feel the cool air on your buttocks. Then you heard the squirting of lubricant and then her hand on your naked buttocks, coating it generously. 

“I want you to push down,” she said as you felt a finger on your anus. “Yes, push.” And you yelped when the finger penetrated you. She made sure to spread the lubricant around your sphincter and in your rectum.

Then she proceeded to lubricate the enema nozzle and she gently inserted it into your anus. You felt the pressure building until the first bulb went past and your sphincter closed around the tube. She started to inflate the balloon and you felt a tight seal inside and outside your anus. She gave it a good tug to ensure that everything was in place. She then gradually raised the enema bag and hung it on the top of the IV pole. 

“I am going to release the valve now and you will feel the flow. Let me know if it is uncomfortable.”

And with that, you felt the liquid entering. It was warm and your colon started gurgling like diarrhea was coming and your abdomen started to bulge. It felt like your tummy was a balloon being filled with water under a gushing tap.

“You are doing very well. Just relax,” she said.

You tried to relax as much as you could but the urge to go was increasing. You were fidgeting and squirming on the table as it was getting uncomfortable. Just when you thought you could take it no more, she shut the valve with the bag almost empty. 

“You did great!” she said as she tapped your buttocks. Now, I would like you to hold it in for ten minutes. In the meantime, I need to massage your tummy to make sure that your intestines are well irrigated and cleansed.”

She positioned you on back and lifted your gown. You could see your swollen abdomen and couldn't help but wondered how sexy you would look later in your pregnancy.

She started to gently massage your tummy with a bit of massage oil. Her gloved hands glided across your tummy in a sensous manner and you felt the liquid in your abdomen moving up and down your intestines. Despite the urge to go to the toilet, you started to feel aroused with the hands moving seductively over your shiny tummy. 

But very soon, the urge to go became stronger. Your mind was now fully focussed on holding the liquid in. Sensing your discomfort, the nurse started to move her massaging lower, hovering around your pubic area. Ever so often, as you squirmed, she would move her hand down and slip it between your thighs. You gasped when she hit a sensitive spot. Her slippery gloved hand coated with massage oil was able to squeeze into the narrow gap between your thighs and private parts. Your attempt and inability to grip her hand between your thighs only made it feel more intrusive and sensuous. Gradually, she became more intentional as she pressed two fingers against your entrance and gave it a good massage. 

You were now giddy with the desperation to go to the toilet and the distracting stimulation was driving you nuts. The pressure on both fronts built up quickly and was spiralling out of control. 

“I need to go,” you blurted out in between your grunts.

“Let me give you a bed pan just in case.” She lifted your bottoms slightly and slipped a bed pan under you. 

“No, I really need to go,” you pleaded.  

“Hhmmmph,” you bit your lips as another wave of stomach cramps washed over you. You were now squirming and trembling uncontrollably. The bedpan made it difficult for you to sit up. It was a question of time before you exploded but you really didn't want to embarrass yourself in front of the nurse. 

Seeing your desperation, she became even more relentless with her fingering. She penetrated deep into you under your things and started curling and scissoring her two fingers inside your slick tunnel. You could feel her finger rubbing the bulb of the enema nozzle over the thin membrane between your two tunnels. At the same time, she started tugging the enema nozzle shifting it in and out of your rectum. Losing yourself, a first spray of the enema escaped from your anus. 

“Oh, you are doing so well. You can just let go. I've got your covered,” she said as she worked both her hands even harder. You could hear the squelching as her fingers moved in and out and being penetrated on both fronts was driving you close to the edge.

"I am going to remove the nozzle now," she said as she released the air in the two bulbs. You were clenching them even more tightly now as you were afraid to soil yourself. But she continued with her relentless pumping as she pulled the nozzle from your anus.

It was too much for you as you arched your back and clamped your buttocks to hold the liquid in. Then you just couldn't take it any more, you tried to release the pressure on your sphincter to let a bit of liquid out but once you let go, you just lost all control and exploded. At the same time, you tipped over the edge and reached a violent climax. 

You jerked uncontrollably as liquid gushed out of both your holes. Your body was trembling violently as you were cramping all over. The sensation was so overwhelming your eyes rolled to the back of your head as wave after wave of spasms coursed through your body.

You were groaning and moaning uncontrollably as you thrashed on the narrow examination table. And when you finally calmed down, you were totally exhausted and drifted off.

“Wakey wake, Patient S34, the operating room is ready for you,” you heard Nurse Amy as she patted your shoulder. You were feeling giddy and hard to concentrate. You realised you were already on a gurney and she was wheeling you out of the room.

As you were just at the corridor outside the treatment room, they wheeled a patient out. The same familiar sight of a patient post “treatment” - unconscious, hair matted under the hair cap, covered with hospital blanket to the chin, probably naked underneath, with visible black straps securing her to the gurney. You recalled your last visit and your imagination ran wild with what they were going to do to you this time. The fact that you had been prepped for surgery this time only added to your excitement.  

As you entered the room, you saw Nurse Rita was waiting.

“Oh hi Patient S34. Aren't you the leaky one?” 

Despite you feeling a bit groggy, this reminder brought your attention to the trickle of juice flowing down your thighs. You were feeling quite aroused from anticipation. However, you didn't forget the purpose of your visit.

“Erm, yes. I need some serious help this time. I suspect I am pregnant and I, erm, would prefer not to continue to be, if you know what I mean…” you said haltingly, trying to read her reaction.

She smiled assuringly as she read your records and nodded approvingly. Then she said we should do a quick scan and examine your cervix to confirm. You were transferred from the gurney to the operating table. Your legs were spread wide on the stirrups and secured with black straps. You were conscious how wet you were, hoping that she would not notice but you could already see the shimmer on your thighs.

She put on her gloves and mask, and came back between your legs and adjusted the light to shine between your thighs. To your dismay, she said, “oh look how leaky you are!” She glided her gloved fingers up and down your perineum, scooping up your juice and then spread it over your labia. You trembled in excitement as you felt another trickle of your syrupy juice down to your anus.

“Looks like there is no need for additional lubrication,” she said as she inserted two fingers into your vagina and ran them around your vagina wall before going deep to feel your cervix. In the process, she made sure to have her thumb linger on your erect clitoris. 

“Hhmm… your cervix is hanging a little low,” she said as she continued to feel around, with deep but gentle thrusts.

It hit a sensitive spot deep within you and through your drugged stupor, elicited a long slurry moan which you instinctively covered with the back of your hand.

“It's ok,” she said as she continued to feel around, “pregnancy can cause some sensitivity.”

With that, she untied the string on the shoulder and pulled down your gown below your breasts.  You could see your nipples erect like bullets. With her other hand, she pinched your nipple and you gasped at how sensitive it was. Then she started rubbing it with her two fingers which sent waves through your body and to your brain.

You were biting into the back of your hand as you tried not to make too much noise as your legs shivered against the stirrups. 

“OK, no lactation yet and your breasts feel normal,” as she palpated your breasts. Then she lifted the gown to cover your breasts again. 

At this point, a fully gowned Nurse Nancy entered the room with an ultrasound machine and brought it close to your feet and started inserting the trans-vaginal transducer into a condom. Looking at how she rolled on the condom was firing your imagination to overdrive.  

She brandished it in the air as she coated it sparingly with surgilube. Then she inserted it slowly into you. You squirmed at the initial touch at the entrance but luxuriated the long steady thrust as it went towards your cervix. A long satisfying moan left your lips as you tilt your head back and closed your eyes as you were consumed with pleasure. 

The echoey sound of the machine filled the room as she manipulated the wand deep inside you. 

“Good. Excellent. It is growing well….” she said as she clicked repeatedly on the machine, taking measurements. 

“We can prepare the patient for the procedure,” she said when she was done.

You should be paying attention but she were too drowsy and your sensitive canal was sending fireworks to your brain which caused your body into uncontrollable spasms whenever you were touched. Your brain was starting to feel really mushy.

You were also distracted by Nurse Nancy who was now at the head of the table. She glided her hand under your gown and started to fix electrodes to your chest and shoulders. Then the room started to beep with your heart beats. She would make it a point to brush your erect nipples as she manipulated the electrodes which drew involuntary gasps from you.

Then without warning, the transducer started to vibrate intensely. Nurse Rita tilted it upwards to make sure the handle rested on your clit. With her other hand, she rubbed your dripping juice down your perineum and spreaded it around your anus. With one firm push, she inserted two gloved fingers into your rectum and began thrusting in and out in long slow motion.

You were thrashing against the legs restraints, unable to control yourself. You tried to muffle your moaning with your hands but whenever she hit a sensitive spot, you would jump and allowed a high pitched groan to escape. 

Seeing your “distress”, Nurse Nancy caressed your cheeks with her gloved hands and told you to relax. Then she lowered your gown and exposed your breasts. With both hands, she started to pinch and tease your nipples. You wanted her to stop but it was such a relief to have her ease your yearning. She was bent over your head with her tummy pressed against the top of your head while her ample bosoms rested on your forehead. With your eyes closed, you could smell the antiseptic in the laundered scrubs. Your world was a spinning mix of the premedication and ultra-sensitive physical stimulation. 

They were both unrelenting and you were now thrusting your hips uncontrollably while both your hands were on Nurse Nancy's gloved hands over your breasts.  Before long, you crossed the threshold and came in uncontrollable spurts. Your legs thrashed against the restraints on the stirrups as your body writhed on the table causing your abdomen to cramp up.

“Good girl…. Very good…” You heard her say in between your orgasmic spasms. 

“Patient S34…. Patient S34, you are with us?” you heard as you slowly came back to earth. You slowly opened your eyes, realising that you had dozed off. “How are you feeling?” asked Nurse Nancy as she wiped the sweat off your face and gave you an oxygen mask.

“Everything seems to be in order,” said Nurse Rita. “You are two months pregnant and the foetus Is growing well.” You knew it all along but the confirmation still caused some consternation. 

“I know it's a bit hard to focus right now, but we need you to make an important decision.”

You squint your eyes to get the world back to focus but it was not helpful. Beyond the fatigue of the intense orgasms, you felt drugged and sluggish. Your body was still hyper sensitive and your brain felt like cotton. You wondered what drug they gave you earlier but it was impossible to focus. You tried your best to listen to what she was saying. 

“We need to you to confirm that you want to proceed with the procedure.”

You tried very hard to focus and remembered why you came to the clinic.

“Yes, I want an abortion,” you said weakly. 

“OK, good. We will need you to sign an authorisation form. In the event of any emergency, we will admit you to The Fertility Institute,” she said as she brought a form on a clipboard. You tried to read but it was pointless. You simply initialled when she held your hand to the dotted line. 

“Very good, Patient S34. We shall proceed with the procedure,” she said and things started to move really fast, especially to your sluggish brain. 

Nurse Nancy wheeled the ultrasound rack out of the room and came back with an anesthesia rack. Two other nurses in full scrubs came in to assist. The sudden change in atmosphere added a clinical edge to the room. You realised that you were indeed going to have an operation and you felt more alert as adrenaline rushed through your system. There was a sudden sense of apprehension and uncertainty.

Nurse Nancy started securing your right hand to the arm rest and hooked you up to a saline drip. As you instinctively lifted your left hand, another nurse caught hold of it and brought it down onto the other arm rest and secured it. You tried to sit up but it was impossible to do so with the restraints and the drug coursing through your veins. 

Another nurse slipped a donut ring under your head and gently but firmly pulled your chin back to rest your head on it. You felt weak and helpless.

“We are going to sedate you for the procedure,” she said as you saw from the corner of your eyes Nurse Nancy placed a tray with several loaded syringes by your hand.

As she started emptying a couple of the syringes into your IV port, warmth spread from the site to the rest of your body and a sudden wave of nausea hit you immediately. You shut your eyes tightly hoping that it would stop but you found yourself floating. You opened your eyes and the world was spinning. 

“Relax… we will take good care of you..” said the nurse holding your head. You could only see her eyes above her mask and they were floating in and out of focus. You felt your strength draining away. Your struggles slowed to just occasional twitches. You laid there helpless, and pliant.  You drifted in and out of consciousness. Everything that happened after felt detached as you had intermittent spells of blanking out.

“You are not unfamiliar with the procedures. We will start by shaving you clean down here,” Nurse Rita said as she ran her gloved fingers around your private parts, then down the perineum and around your anus. You felt the thick and warm lather, then the scraping of the razor… then warm cloth wiping your smooth hairless bottom.

“Next comes the Foley catheter to take care of your liquid waste.” You heard the sound of tearing plastic bags, and squirting of jelly. There was a generous lather of antiseptic aroind your entire groin area. Then you felt fingers on your labia, unsheathing your urethra, and a stinging burning sensation and a sudden urge to go. The pressure continue to mount as you felt your bladder bloating up. And shortly after, you felt it drain. 

“Good. We are almost done. The final prep, the rectal catheter,” she said as she unwrapped another sterile pack with coiled tubes. You felt her coating your anus with lubricant and the catheter tip glided with her finger. Then you felt it inflating until it was firmly lodged while your sphinchter wrapped around the tube.

You wonder why the need for a rectal catheter but you were finding it hard to think with the flurry of sound and activity around you. Moreover, the plugs in your urethra and rectum were distracting enough to make your head swim.

“Patient is fully prepped and we are ready to go,” announced Nurse Rita as she removed her gloves.

You took it that they were going ahead with the abortion. Despite the drug's, you started experiencing mild excitement and the beeping of your heart rate started to pick up speed accordingly. Between the two plugs below which was attracting a lot of your attention, you felt another trickle of your syrupy juice flow from your slit down your anus. 

Then you felt the hand under your chin tightened locking your head against the tummy of the nurse. As you look up, you saw her reaching out for the mask from the anesthesia rack. At the same same, she nodded to Nurse Nancy. Following her gaze, you saw Nurse Nancy picked up the last syringe filled with a white milky drug. The Propofol! She screwed the syringe into the IV port and pressed down the plunger. You could feel the drug flowed up your vein and spread across your chest. 

Just then, the translucent mask came into sight and filled your entire view. It then cupped firmly over your mouth and nose. “Breathe,” you heard the nurse said. The mask hissed as you breathed. The nurse worked some dials and the clean fresh air turned thick and heavy, leaving a chemical sweet after taste at the back of your throat. 

“Yes, good deep breaths. Yes, that's it,” said the nurse as she egged you on.  Her eyes now filled your entire vision. Your world was now spinning wildly as you were hit by waves of drowsiness. Your body jerked instinctively as you felt yourself falling as you transitioned between being awake and asleep. 

“Relax. Just let go,” said the nurse. Your visioned tunnelled. Her eyes became the only thing you saw, sky blue that kept glowing brighter until all was white. “Yes, close your eyes and sleep. Gooooodd…” you heard her saying.

Just as you were drifting off, you heard a voice said, "Proceed to intubate and insertion of nasogastric tube for feeding. Patient is ready for incubation at The Fertility Institute." You realised too late that they were not proceeding with the abortion as you lost consciousness...

[invivoinsomnium]

New scenario ahead...

A sinister adoption agency that is kidnapping women who fit specific genetic profiles for their wealthy clients. They have their own secret hospital where the women are artifically inseminated, cared for to ensure successful pregnancies and where they give birth without any pain medication. Everything they do is recorded so the clients can watch the pregnancy progress and they are given copies of all ultrasounds.

Sometimes the women are kept sedated throughout the entire pregnancy only to be awakened when it is time for them to be induced and give birth. The women are never set free instead used as surrogates to create the so call 'perfect' offspring for clients.

[mabduct]

Volunteered for the Program

The "Volunteers" were carefully selected for their good genes. Once targeted for the Breeders Program, they never escaped. Some would accept their pregnancies. But for those who didn't, they would be cared for differently.