The Clinic is the Best Place For You

I am Doctor Hecate, urologist, famous for my findings on female arousal. It was I who revealed the clitoris to be ten times larger than the mere button male scientists had chosen to portray it as. It extends deep into a woman’s body and, packed with sensitive nerves, gives her the gift of intense, multiple orgasms. So size does matter. Here at my centre for Sexual Dysfunction, I see to it that no man wastes one little inch of this precious gateway. This is my true vocation and I love its multiple roles!Sent here by his long-suffering wife, number 11 (as he will be known here) cannot achieve an erection. He kneels before me stripped beneath the rough white cotton of his shapeless hospital gown and I frown at his measly appendage. My dedicated, sensual, rubber clad nursing staff, have been stimulating and punishing him routinely for weeks. They relish their work, but without result. This is very irregular given that my personnel are busty, strong, and demonstrative. The erotic stimulate is ripe in such a context and easily triggered so I am intrigued to know what makes this case different. Intriguing! I must deal with the case personally. He is looking imploringly at the treasures of my form: finely muscled legs and arms, encased in see-through rubber. My trim waist emphasising my burgeoning breasts. My close fitting uniform hardly covers my crotch. My body feels more fully alive when I am dressed like this. I am also quite aware of the effect on him of catching sight of my black rubber panties, and the split between my swelling mound, because he is trembling. My thigh length boots with five-inch heels highlight the haughty length and power of my legs. My see-through latex frock does not hide the meaty succulence of my perfect bottom, my taut nipples boring through my outfit. My glasses remind him of my status as director. Still he does not harden but soon he will be under my spell.

My heels click as I stride decisively towards him clutching my clipboard. I inform him that I must examine his natural functions. I command him to suck on my rubber fingers. Interesting for me but no reaction below his waist. His mute mouth continues to suck eagerly and while he is completing his task I attempt to stimulate his excuse for a penis - some stiffening, although it’s hard to tell, as the growth is so slight. I attach a silver ring with wires round the root of his penis to measure nocturnal erections. It slips off. Oh dear, perhaps a narrower aperture. This machine will reliably inform me of what I need to know, my eyes are not used to straining to see if an erection is occurring.

I lecture him. I will not let him stand (or not stand) in the way of my 100% success rate. I am going to change his life. He will be remoulded. His fantasies and responses will be in my controlling hand. My initial tests have taken me beyond the remit of the original treatment. He must learn to get an erection only under the torturing hand of a female - when to do otherwise would be an insult to a dominant female’s beauty. His lack of size means he must be taught to worship a woman manually and orally. He senses that I mean business and that my cure might be worse then the condition!

We begin, then, with the “Hecate technique”. My procedures and techniques are as multifarious as my personality would imply. They debase and confuse 11 and add to the pleasure of women. He does not know it but my subtle and central psychological device breaks his masculine mental grid of constituency. It is paradoxical and mind numbing - all to my benefit. In a moment of intensity I know what aesthetics to employ. I freely avail myself of technology developed by nerds such as he.

I strap 11 to the apparatus. Its various whirring and crackling noises assail his ears. These noises are completely unnecessary to the functioning of the machine but are for theatrical effect only. Now a visor is clamped over his head. He is blind to what is happening to him. Before his eyes is a screen on which will flash various images. He hears my five-inch heels click-clack across the white and hard tiled floor. “Is there another pair of high heels?” he asks, though he wonders if it is merely the echo of Dr Hecates black stilettos. “How can such high heels support her long-legged magnificent voluptuous body?” he thinks. I place my patented “Stimulo Gorel” over his tiny flaccid penis. Brush-like devices will draw and stimulate his member, cutting off before orgasm, should he prove capable of release.

I flick a switch. Computer generated images come to life before his eyes: a series of erotic vignettes, “starring” me, Dr Hecate, his tormentor and tutor exploring my full and vast sexuality. He cannot interpret, however, only experience his confusion. Perfume assails his nostrils. Dr Hecate’s surely? Heady and musky. But! His head swims. Is that not my wife’s perfume?

The flickering images begin - naked woman, erect men, and then (accompanied by a photograph of Dr Hecate supporting her ample E-cups in her hands, the aureoles more revealed than concealed) the text of a page from a contact magazine. “M007, breast worshippers rqd. VWH heavy creamers, no wimps, photo and worshipful letter ensures reply for generous older gentleman.” 11’s mouth hangs open; his incredible innocence is begging to be corrupted. The image cuts to my “pleasure room”. My breasts fill the screen. My elegant long nails pull down the small pieces of lacy red material of my bra to reveal my magnificent globes. I grip and twirl my round pink nipples. The image pans to my face, imperious, austere, yet somehow sensual. The black choker with velvet and gold thread emphasises my slender white neck. 11 looks in disbelief. A man’s brown hands are properly worshipping my breasts, my mouth is slightly open as if purring and moaning, I am plainly aroused.

The images change: the tightly corseted curves of my waist, constraining and emphasising the increased rapidity of my breathing, my knicker less behind, the white expanse of my thigh to black net stocking tops. Then abruptly away from my body and across to the organ of my worshipper, his face being surplus to requirements. Although it is being unstimulated, the shaft is rigidly erect, purple headed and thick. It is as large as the gadget filled tube that encases the whole of 11’s limp member. Pre come drips from the head. “Dr Hecate can not have noticed this impudence,” 11 thinks. The sacred ritual of breast worship has broken asunder. Dr Hecate’s breasts have been over stimulated; the light bush between her legs is glistening with sex honey. My image pushes the man’s shoulders back; he leans back on his knees, his penis swollen and bobbing gently up and down to his pulse. I slide myself onto his rigidity. Gyrating my hips and letting my breasts bounce and quiver I pleasure myself. 11 is dimly aware of movement around the Stimulo Gorel and does not realise I am using it, as he views the image as a dildo. I withdraw the worshipper and snap my fingers, signifying that he is to bring himself to completion. The man does so and I smile as his milky cum, a fountain in honour of my womanly sexuality anoints my breasts. 11 has never been able to produce such a result.

Despite himself 11 is aroused, as everything about me is designed to ravish him. His little willy, subjected to my exuberant sexuality and to the sucking of the pump increases in size. The pins that are fitted into the stimuli tube soon cure his state of semi erection. 11 has been aware almost subliminally of sounds and activity in the clinic. He is now fully conscious of soft moans. This though he will never know and precisely because he will not find out is the final humiliation of the technique. When the image began, and before I straddled the stimuli tube I pressed a button and a curtain parted revealing to my eyes only an exact duplicate of the pleasure room, except of course the wall being the curtain. 11’s wife bares her breasts to the same worshipper 11 saw cinematically. His spouse who 11 believes to be so well behaved wraps her proud opinionated mouth with its soft red lips around his cock head. The worshipper groans in pleasure. 11 is only mere yards away and unaware of the contradictory and self-directed power of female desire. I am proud of the perversity of my technique, which meets several aims at once. Time slows for 11 like a fly caught in a puddle of honey. He both knows me and does not know me. It is his fantasy and yet not his. Does his own wife humiliate him? Yes and no, I am an image, I am not an image, I am his wife, I am a Goddess. Yet I am Dr Hecate, urologist and keeper of sacred images, curer and controller of men.

I release him and he crawls to my feet and with pitiful supplications, applies his parched lips to my shoes, bending as low as he can to lavish placating kisses on my wicked heels as he begs to be spared. I enjoy the desperation in his voice, the sound of his pleading. I cynically listen to all that he promises he will do for me if I will only be gentle with him and spare him a shred of dignity. His backside exposed and up in the air, on hands and knees, I reflect that this should be the natural station in life for all men. His body is exposed and vulnerable. In reply I lift my foot so that he has access to the roughened sole under the toe of my shoe. He laps with broad strokes and his long tongue makes it easy for me to step on it pinning him to the ground. I twist my shoe and he groans in pain. I consider stamping on his undersized organ but decide it must not be damaged until further tests have been run.

I place a mask across my lips giving me a sinister appearance; above it my eyes are shining. I order him to crawl to the examining couch and secure him face up, stripped and bare, legs spread with his cock and balls dangling openly and uncontrolled. I make his body immobile with straps, tubes, bandage and other instruments. I dangle my heavy, heaving breasts, near his face and brush them across him. I display myself in front of him as my caressing, invasive rubber hands run all over him. I force him to look at my pleasure as I flex my body over his. He will succumb to me and be enveloped in my presence. Objects are shoved into his rectum and mouth with swift, precise movements as he is told to lift one knee up to his stomach (which he obligingly does). The afflicted area is examined, tested, moved and stretched. I shave his hair in that very personal area of his body to prepare him for further levels of attentions and treatment. Fluids are drawn from his body, breathing, pressure; pain and pulse rates are put through their paces. I tell him, “Hold this, let go of that; don’t try to move” thrashing out orders in a way that defies refusal.

He whimpers pathetically for me not to hurt him but I tell him I don’t like cry-babies and it is being like that, which has taken away his manly vigour. His attitude only draws more of my contempt. I lace a head restrainer with eye covers and mouthpiece over his face and secure his testicles. The eye cover is removed and he can see it is a miniature guillotine that his balls are held in. I assure him that it is fully functional. Despite his fear he is forced to admit and admire its ingenuity and beauty. The uprights are carved with the intricate crest of the clinic. I then display a spiked penis cage and attach electric shock clips to it. Smiling cruelly, I point to a small switch mounted at the top of the cage, and explain that should this switch be closed the blade will be released and he will be gelded. An erection is all that it will take to lose his balls and also that if he doesn’t perform, as women demand that they will be no use to him anyway.

I place a small wicker basket decorated like the guillotine, beneath his testicles. I then remove his mouth cover and standing astride his face, look towards the guillotine and order him to unzip my uniform with his teeth. I lasciviously wiggle out of my uniform to reveal a long white corset with lots of silver buckles. I inform him that there is a manual release, so that if he spends too much energy on remaining soft and not enough on pleasing me with his tongue I can release the blade or torture him with the electricity. I release the safety catch and tell him that his destiny is in his own miserable penis; this is sheer poetic justice since men have been led by their pricks, causing suffering to woman for centuries. I reverse the power play and insist that cocks are only one of the, admittedly very meagre ways, women can avail themselves of pleasure. Therefore I own his miserable prick, as my property it is my right for it to perform on command.

He hears my rich, mocking laughter as I lower myself over his face ordering him to put his tongue at my disposal. He works to give me several orgasms, beginning by wetting my bottom with his tongue, long eager laps that have me writhing in ecstasy. There is one place for little butt sniffers like him and that is lying flat on his back with his nose firmly flattened beneath my buttocks. I want to brainwash him to believe that the privilege of licking my plump butt is the solution to his problems, though in reality taunting him with its cause. I see his difficulty well; too much time spent eyeing up women from afar concentrating on his own submissive fantasies and not enough attention given to thinking about their pleasure. His groans are muffled, desperate as I wiggle on the pivot of his nose. I bounce up and then settle down to toy with him again. I finish by making him apply his best efforts to my clitoris. My climaxes are achieved not so much by his ministrations but by the excitement at his predicament. I am a highly orgasmic woman and it is primarily for females that I set up my centre so that I could teach them to overcome any mental blocks to achieving their pleasure. Men can only be accepted if referred by women. Whilst undergoing treatment male patients are used to serve the women clients so that females come to feel it is normal to demand sexual attention whenever they feel like it from crawling, grovelling debased men.

I flick the switch and turn the dial. The straps hold him in place as his body struggles to break free. A pure current of pain hits him. In time this will become unnecessary, as he will perform these duties deliriously, aching to kiss the globe of fat and muscle that is the perfect symmetry of my bottom. His life has been wasted up until now. His only purpose for existing will be to be used as a face squat. He has not been fully conditioned but it will be all too easy to do. He needs the jolt of the electricity to remind him of his true station in life. He never becomes excited enough to geld himself, and even though I consider his performance derisory I don’t release the blade myself. He survives intact only to become an “outpatient” in my “clinic” for the rest of his worthless and hopelessly un-Adonis-like life. Over time the treatment aims have altered. He is kept as a pet for our sexual satisfaction and we use him for the most degrading procedures we can devise. He is forbidden to orgasm even when he can. It is no longer about a cure in the traditional sense of the word but he can never leave our care, becoming hopelessly institutionalised and over

Marquise