Strange Desires

by Joe Simpson Walker

  ‘Here we are.’

  As Dr Beck spoke, the trolley rolled through a pair of doors. This was the ‘prep room’. Caroline felt her heart beat harder, but found reassurance in the thought that she knew what was coming. Dr Beck had talked her through the procedure in detail. The incisions that were to be made would be tiny ones, mere slits at the very bottom of her breasts’ lower curve. What followed would be a matter of sucking and sliding: first sucking away the subcutaneous fat that gave a breast its natural shape, then sliding in the bag of silicone to replace it. A certain amount of massage to manipulate the implants into proper position, then the slits would be sewn up and the op done. Nothing mysterious or unforeseen would happen. Dr Beck had even invited Caroline to sit in an observation room which adjoined theatre and watch a woman having collagen extracted from her thighs. Caroline had taken a glimpse in at the surgical team getting ready, all in masks, rubber caps like swimcaps, scrubs (loose-fitting shirts and pants, like tracksuits made of white rubber), and short white boots, but hadn’t stayed to see them at work. That was so squeamish! she thought. Why didn’t I stay? They’d only been doing then what they were doing now: preparing for a simple, routine, brief piece of surgery.

  Yes, an implant was only a short business. And for Caroline, even the little while it took would pass in a second. The nurses’ eyes looked down at her reassuringly. Something wet was being rubbed on to her right wrist. Through a mask came words that sounded like ‘Comfortable? Good. Just count down from twenty to one.’

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen... A pain ran through her wrist, sharp enough to make her wince a little, though she knew it was dulled by the anaesthetic that had been rubbed into the spot. Long before she could finish the countdown, the injection took effect and Caroline was out.

  Her eyes were open, but she was dazzled, unable to see, or to make sense of what she was seeing. White light shone down on her, not in strips now, but in a wide, brilliant circle. Everything around her smelt powerfully of antiseptic, and rubber, and another smell that took Caroline a moment to recognise. When she did her bewilderment was only increased, because the air was heavy with perfume.

  ‘Here she comes,’ a voice said.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ another said. ‘Now for our fun.’

  Caroline knew them. One was a nurse, Nurse Bennett. The other was Dr Beck.

  ‘Doctor?’ Her tongue was numb and her voice seemed slurred. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Dr Beck said. ‘The implant went off without a hitch. This is just a small extra procedure.’

  ‘What?’

  Caroline reared her head, and with the effort, her eyesight seemed to snap back to normal. She was in the operating theatre, on the table, surrounded by Dr Beck and her surgical team. But everyone had changed.

  They were still dressed in rubber, but their outfits were no longer loose-fitting functional scrubs. Instead, the nurses were all clothed in tight white dresses, which left their shoulders bare but for belt-like straps with big buckles, and which were styled with bodices that pushed the bosom upwards into two jutting cones. The skirts were pencil slim and rippled between their thighs as they moved. On their arms were skin-tight white gloves which reached up to the armpits; on their legs, seamed black stockings, and on their feet, patent leather court shoes with heels at least five inches high. Of their other uniforms, only the white face masks remained, strapped over their mouths. Above the masks, eyes gleamed with mischief and delight. One or two were stroking themselves with gloved fingers, out of Dr Beck’s view.

  The doctor herself was clad from head to foot in a white catsuit, tailored to the exact shape of her magnificent body. White rubber clung like a second skin to her waist, her hips and thighs. It revealed the full shape of her breasts - huge, perfectly rounded, studded at the tips with large protuberant nipples. From mid-thigh downwards her legs were clad in white leather, in close-hugging boots that zipped all the way up from the insteps. Like the nurses, she was gloved and masked. She looked down at Caroline with an air of calm satisfaction.

  ‘We did an excellent job,’ she said. ‘You can see, can’t you?’

  Caroline had already discovered that she was naked. Dr Beck had told her that once anaesthetised a patient was undressed, but that except for the area that was being operated on the body was completely covered up in sterile sheets. If the sheets had been used, they were gone. She was fully awake now, but unable to move beyond lifting her head from the table, because she was strapped down. Her ankles and knees, wrists and elbows and waist, were all bound with huge thick straps of white leather. Down below were a pair of breasts that she knew to be her own, but that didn’t look like hers. They were big and rounded, like Dr Beck’s and even at that moment, they had a look of voluptuousness.

  ‘Now, dear, don’t be alarmed,’ the doctor said. ‘This procedure is completely safe. I’ve undergone it myself. It’s a test for your new appendages - checking their sensitivity. If I were you I’d lie back and enjoy it.’

  ‘Help!’ Caroline cried. ‘Help!’

  ‘Sssh,’ Dr Beck murmured. Then she rapped out an order to the nurses: ‘O2, seventy percent.’

  Shiny-gloved hands took hold of Caroline’s head at either side to keep her still. A black rubber breathing mask was clamped on to her nose and mouth, and held there. With a soft hiss, gas flowed from a cylinder. Above the table, a black rubber bag - the peak flow meter, as Dr Beck had named it to Caroline - began to expand and contract.

  ‘Pure oxygen,’ Dr Beck said. ‘See what it does to your nipples.’

  Some of Caroline’s panic had already faded, as the oxygen filled her lungs and travelled swiftly to her brain. She became light-headed. The thought that she was tied down and helpless somehow lost its note of alarm. And she saw what the doctor meant about her nipples. In less than a minute they became hard as horns and startlingly erect, thrusting outwards from her chest further than they’d ever before reached, even in the wildest sexual thrills. The dark brown areolae stood up like twin high-arched domes, topped by teats like bells.

  ‘Excellent,’ Dr Beck said. ‘Now for the second stage.’

  It must have been a cue, for at once a machine was set running. Caroline couldn’t see it yet, but she could hear its motor. It made a thin piercing whine, like something small but powerful and very fast.

  ‘Magnifiers,’ Dr Beck rapped.

  A nurse placed something like a cross between a pair of glasses and binoculars deftly on to her face. With the mask, she was completely hidden.

  ‘Micro drill.’

  The machine was put into her hands. It was smaller than an ordinary domestic drill, and tapered to an end thinner than a pencil, with a bit that was lighter than a sewing needle.

  ‘We penetrate each nipple on either side.’ Dr Beck’s voice came calmly through her mask. ‘The exact point and depth of entry are of course precisely judged. Can you feel?’

  As she spoke her final words, Caroline gave a shriek, muffled by rubber. The micro drill was burrowing into her left nipple. It was a tiny, tiny thing, less than a pinprick, and yet her whole body seemed to explode with feeling. A blow from a spear could hardly have made more impact. And the explosions went on, and on, as Dr Beck pushed the drill onwards by fractions of an inch. It stopped still, then began to withdraw. Caroline felt she was going to faint with relief; but the feeling was short-lived as Dr Beck did not pause, but right away began drilling into her nipple from the opposite side.

  Then her right nipple was subjected to the same careful, unhurried, agonising procedure. Or was it agony? Even with pure oxygen in her lungs, she panted for breath. Sweat ran from everywhere, from her shoulders, back, belly, crotch and thighs. But as the second hole was drilled, then the third, her emotions were changing. Sheer pain became violent passion. It was only another step to pleasure.

  The drill stopped, and she was r
elieved; but at the same time felt cheated, denied. Then it resumed for the final time. Yes, now she wanted it. She groaned under the mask. Her new breasts tingled with electrifying sensuality. The rubber-coated table beneath her seemed to be wet, running with her moisture, and though all she could smell was rubber, she seemed to taste the flavour of female excitement. The nurses were gathered close round, and in their eyes she read her own changing reactions to this bizarre procedure. As they watched they were touching, feeling, stroking one another. Here a nurse’s shoulders shook slightly up and down; there, a white rubber mask parted from the lips to which it clung, blown loose by a gasp.

  Meanwhile Dr Beck stood perfectly still as she handled the micro drill. An observer might have thought she was unaware that the body she worked on was vibrating under its restraining straps, or that the naked skin shone with sweat. But her own breasts were distended into a shape the same as Caroline’s, as the cups of her rubber suit showed clearly. And when she brought the drill to a stop, at exactly the same moment Caroline let out a scream of mingled anguish and delight, the doctor released a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Hi.’

  Caroline came round. She realised that she was in her room, and was being welcomed back to consciousness by Nurse Bennett. The nurse was smiling and had no mask on.

  ‘How do you feel? A little bit strange?’ she asked, with a touch of friendly concern. ‘Everything’s all right. It went off without a hitch.’

  ‘I had a dream,’ Caroline said haltingly. ‘It was so vivid.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was - it was - ‘ Caroline broke off. ‘It was awful. Weird. And it felt really real.’

  ‘It’s the anaesthetic. People tell us their dreams all the time. If it was a bad one it’s best forgotten. Dr Beck will be in to see you soon.’

  She left the room. Alone in the quiet, Caroline recalled her dream. She could hardly have told Nurse Bennett that she’d dreamed of her and her colleagues masturbating while clad in rubber fetish wear, but every detail was clear in her memory: the straps, the oxygen, the drill... a shudder of feeling ran through her, uncomfortable but at least half pleasant. It was like watching herself as the star of a horror film; but the images were exciting, erotic even. When finally she put it out of her mind, it was with the reflection that anaesthetic could turn you kinky.

  Dr Beck arrived, and Caroline opened her gown for an examination. Some time would have to pass before she became used to her breasts as they were now; their new size and weight made them feel constantly odd to carry. But she was very pleased. A look in the mirror told her that she now had a chest that could compete with anyone’s. Dr Beck was in a thoughtful mood; she examined Caroline slowly, as usual, but almost without speaking. That wasn’t like her. But she seemed satisfied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said as if thinking aloud. ‘The shaping, cutting and suturing are all exactly right. Ten out of ten.’

  ‘You never know,’ Caroline said cheerfully. ‘You might see them in GQ or Loaded one of these days.’

  Dr Beck took a moment to answer. Her surgical-gloved hand paused in its progress across Caroline’s right breast. A fingertip rested on the areola, and just touched the nipple. There were marks there, and on its companion: four holes, made by a microscopic drill. The girl would never find out. Dr Beck had sharp eyes, but couldn’t see them. No need: she knew they were there, souvenirs of a secret pleasure.

  She laughed. ‘They’re things of beauty, anyhow,’ she said. ‘You know, you have lovely nipples.’

  Cruel Games

  Sue Eltham had always thought that if she were attacked, even taken by surprise, she’d put up a fight. But now a man’s arm was round her throat, and in her own flat Sue was paralysed.

  Her assailant had been waiting behind the front door. She’d stepped inside, and the arm had seemed to come out of nowhere. The clenched elbow gripped her neck like a horrible collar, pulling back her chin and squeezing her windpipe. For a few moments it had been so tight as to make her almost black out. When the grip loosened slightly, Sue knew that it was only by her captor’s permission that she continued to breathe.

  She heard the front door pushed gently shut. A head bent down, and a voice whispered into her ear.

  “Are you going to co-operate?”

  The grip tightened again. Without trying to look around, Sue nodded.

  “Good.”

  She was pushed forward, down the hallway and into her living room.

  It hadn’t been ransacked. Everything was just as she’d left it, a few hours before, except that a straight-backed chair had been placed standing in the middle of the floor. Then she noticed some other things on the floor nearby: three or four lengths of a thin black cord, rolled up into neat coils; a man’s necktie, with a cotton handkerchief folded round it midway along. She’d never seen them before.

  The arm released her neck, a hand shoved her towards the chair. Gasping and stumbling, Sue turned round and saw the intruder.

  He was a young man, dressed neatly in dark clothes and although he was tall, he was thinner than the strength of his arm had suggested. He had long dark hair, and was good-looking in a long-chinned, thin-lipped way; but his eyes were cold.

  “Hold on,” he said as Sue was about to sit in the chair. “Take your coat off.”

  Sue fumbled to unfasten her overcoat. Beneath it, she was dressed in her working clothes: the black blouse and short skirt of a waitress at the Galaxy Bistro.

  “I like your outfit,” the intruder said.

  “I’ve just finished work,” Sue said.

  “And I’ve just started. It’s your bad luck that our schedules have collided.”

  Sue looked down at the cords, tie and handkerchief. “You brought that stuff with you.”

  “I believe in being prepared. Sit down.”

  She sat down, and the intruder knelt behind the chair to bind her hands; without being told, she’d put her wrists together.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked as he pulled the cord tight.

  Sue nodded, and gave a gasp as he tightened it a little more.

  “Have you ever been tied up before?”

  She shook her head.

  “You can still speak to me if you want,” he said. “That is, you can if you want to within the next few minutes. After that, speaking will be a bit problematic.”

  He wasn’t whispering now, and his voice was of a kind Sue was used to hearing as she moved from table to table at the Bistro: cool, languid, and cultivated. “What do you want me to say?” she asked. “Do you want me to beg you, please don’t hurt me?”

  “Oh, no. I like a woman with some spirit. Lean forward.”

  He threw three or four loops of black cord over her shoulders, and trussed her arms to her sides before securing her back to the chair. Then he knelt in front of her, and tied each ankle to a front leg. In addition he bound her legs together above the knees, looping cord around, tightening it with loops tied in between.

  Only the folded handkerchief and the necktie remained. The intruder wrapped the handkerchief around the tie, midway along its length.

  “Open up.”

  He stuffed the handkerchief into her mouth, then fastened the tie around her head: first at the back of her neck, then bringing the ends around again, and pulling them tight between her jaws, pushing the gag still more firmly into place. Sue’s hair was long and dark, like his own. He was careful to lift it out of the way.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked, as he brought the ends together and was about to knot them, finally, just below her left ear.

  Sue kept her head still and made no sound.

  With a shrug, the intruder fastened the gag and got up. “Well, that’s you taken care of. I’ve got a job to do.”

  He began to go through the flat, moving in an unhurried way from one ro
om to another. There wasn’t much of value, but everything that was, he stowed methodically into a black leather holdall, which he left on the floor in the living room. He came and went, and didn’t glance once at his captive; evidently he took it for granted that she had no chance of struggling free or calling for help.

  He was right. While he was out of sight, Sue ventured to try her bonds. Not only were they so tight as already to be restricting her circulation, sending pins and needles through her with every movement, but they seemed to be so contrived as to draw tighter when pulled against, even slightly. The gag was equally effective: even if she could have squealed out loudly enough to be heard by the neighbours, it would have taken a long time for her noises to be recognised as cries for help. Sue lived alone, with no boyfriend or flatmates: with a chill, it came into her mind that even if the intruder bore her no malice, even if he intended simply to rob her and go, if he left her like this she might not be rescued...

  The holdall was full and with a slight effort, the intruder pulled the zip shut. He rose to his feet. “Well, parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said, without looking Sue’s way.