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.
romaincrisis
dededos
germansingergirl
janainaart
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
