by Dani René
“The stapler is real, and Mr. Cat is not real,” Dr. Nickelsen repeats.
“Oh, I’m very real,” Mr. Cat says, his voice an edgy growl, and I feel my lower lip tremble as I fight the urge to look at him. I focus on the stapler, pressing it down to hear and feel the satisfying click as it compresses a staple.
The stapler is real. Mr. Cat is not real.
“Why are you listening to him, Nina? Haven’t I told you that all they do is lie to you? They want to hurt you. They want to keep you here forever and ever.” Mr. Cat props his paws up on the cross bar at the front of the chair, and I try to close my thighs, but I jerk against the straps instead. Still held open.
“Are you okay, Nina?” Dr. Nickelsen asks, concern etched into his forehead, and I nod, offering him the stapler back as I do exactly what he told me to — I ignore Mr. Cat.
“I’m fine, I promise.”
“Good,” he answers with a smile, moving back to his desk to set the stapler down. Then he pauses, looking over the surface before turning to scan the room. “Where did I put my notes?”
“On the table,” I answer, but my voice jumps because Mr. Cat just leaned in and pressed his cold nose into my folds.
Not real. It’s not real.
“Ah, thank you. I swear I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached!” Dr. Nickelsen chuckles a little as he walks over to pick it up, bracing the pad on one hand to scribble something down. I watch him intently, ignoring the flick of Mr. Cat’s rough tongue over my swollen, soaked pussy.
“Is this why you listen to him? Because he pleasures you here?” Mr. Cat growls, dragging his sandpaper tongue over my clit, and I swear I can feel every rough stroke of it on the oversensitive skin. My hips twitch, but I clench my fists tight, driving my nails into my palms as I make myself ignore him.
He’s not real. It’s not really happening.
“Just more lies. I’m very real. Watch,” he purrs, and then he’s back to licking me. It doesn’t feel good. My clit is so sensitive that every abrasive lap over my button hurts. There’s no pleasure in it, and maybe that’s proof. Maybe that’s proof that he isn’t real, that I’m imagining this because my brain is broken.
But, hallucination or not, my body doesn’t seem to care. My thighs jerk, hips bucking in unconscious twitches as I struggle to be still, but Dr. Nickelsen sees it.
“Do you need more, Nina?” he asks, shaking out his wristwatch to check the time. “We still have fifteen minutes if you want me to turn the machine back on.”
“I’m okay,” I answer, but then Mr. Cat nips me with his razor-sharp teeth and I groan, arching against the chair as I squeeze my eyes tight. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see if he drew blood down there, but the whir of the machine coming back on fills my ears and I whine. “No, Dr. Nickelsen, I promise, I’m fine. I just want to go back to the Rec Room. Can I get up, please?”
“Unresolved hysteria will only make it more difficult for you to make further progress, Nina. I understand you may be sensitive, but this will help you until our next session.” A loud click, and Dr. Nickelsen is moving the dildo back inside me, and Mr. Cat laughs through the rumbling purr in his chest as he continues licking me roughly.
“See? I can give you pleasure too, Nina. It’s not complicated. I used to watch you touch yourself before they tied you down every night.” Another nip that makes me whimper as Dr. Nickelsen turns the machine on and it begins to thrust in a devious echo of Mr. Cat’s stroking tongue. “I’m the only one you need. These people don’t want to help you, they want to change you.”
He’s not real. It’s not real. The machine is real, the dildo is real… but the pain feels so real.
“Dr. Nickelsen, please… I just want to get up. I don’t need any more, I promise.”
“Shh,” he hushes me, stroking my cheek before he slides something on the back of the chair and it goes flat, laying me back and leaving my head dangling. “I’ll give you something else to focus on while we treat your hysteria again, Nina. You’ll feel much better after this, and so will I.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, fighting the urge to cry as Mr. Cat nuzzles between my thighs, licking and nipping around the thick, thrusting shaft of the machine. Dr. Nickelsen opens his slacks and I try to feel grateful to him, for his help, for his confidence in me. He helps me so much, the least I can do is make him feel good while I lie to him about Mr. Cat.
I open my mouth and he slowly moves his cock inside, using shallow thrusts at first as I seal my lips against his warm, real skin. He’s real, his steady movements over my tongue are real — the insanity between my thighs is just another hallucination.
Mr. Cat isn’t real. This isn’t happening.
A sharper bite on my inner thigh has me yelping, and Dr. Nickelsen immediately pulls back. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I nod, trying to keep the tears from spilling. “Please, I want to make you feel good.”
“You’re doing so well, just tap me if you need me to slow down or stop, okay?” He smiles down at me and I nod, desperate for him to continue so I can block out the next swipe of Mr. Cat’s tongue.
“You like this, don’t you, Nina?” Mr. Cat says between rough flicks over my clit. “Maybe now you’ll listen to me when I tell you the truth. I can just do this to get your attention when you’re tied down in bed.”
No!
I try to snap my thighs closed, desperate to make him go away, but then Dr. Nickelsen is back in my mouth, pushing deeper, and I suck as best I can. He taught me what he likes, how to show my appreciation for his therapy, which is only fair. I’m sure I disappoint him. No progress in years, not really. He called the shower progress, but I fought hard. They had to force me into it.
And Mr. Cat hasn’t gone anywhere.
As Dr. Nickelsen pushes into my throat, cutting off my air, Mr. Cat drags his claws down both my thighs, leaving fiery streaks of pain behind, and I groan against Dr. Nickelsen’s flesh. It must feel good because I hear him moan, and he starts to thrust faster.
“So good, Nina. You’re doing so well. Here, I’ll pick up the pace for you.”
The machine responds, whirring louder, clicking faster, and the thick shaft starts to pummel my sore pussy… but there’s more than just pain now. As it continues, I can feel the pleasure teasing me on the other side of the ache, and even Mr. Cat’s rough tongue doesn’t hurt as bad anymore. I start to moan, slurping air around Dr. Nickelsen’s cock whenever he pulls back enough for me to breathe, and as much as I hate myself for it, the buzzy effect of Mr. Cat’s self-satisfied purr feels amazing between my legs.
“Yes, you’ve made such progress, Nina. This was the right time to advance your therapy. You’re going to do so well. Just keep sucking right now, take me all the way in.” Groaning, Dr. Nickelsen starts to fuck my face harder. Drool spills past my lips, trailing into my hair as he wraps his hand over my throat and squeezes. “Yes, Nina. Just like that. Good girl, just hold on, I’m almost there. I’ll let you breathe in a moment.”
I feel the panic, but I hold onto the arms of the chair, refusing to push him away even when my head swims, dizzy, and black splotches start to invade the edges of my vision. The hard thrusts between my thighs match Dr. Nickelsen’s rough use of my mouth, and I try to focus on those two things. The real things.
A second later he growls loudly, shoving his cock as far into my throat as he can, burying my nose against his balls, and I feel every jerk of his shaft as he spills his seed into my belly. When he rips himself back, I gasp, choking on air, and the sudden rush feels like an electrical storm in my nerves, tossing me into a breathless orgasm that brings tears to my eyes because it’s too intense. I feel like I’m drowning, unable to catch my breath as wave after wave of ecstasy rolls through my body, driven on by the hard thrusts of the dildo and Mr. Cat’s rough tongue. I’m babbling, moaning, not making any sense at all, but it eventually starts to fade. I’m able to pull in a deep breath, and mercifully, Mr. Cat stops licking. After another m
oment Dr. Nickelsen turns off the devious machine while I twitch and squirm on the chair.
“You were perfect, Nina. I’m so impressed with how you’re handling your therapy.” Gently, he helps me sit up, locking the back of the chair into position again. He strokes his hands over my trembling thighs, undoing the straps, and I almost burst into tears when I look down at my thighs and see bite marks and scratches dotted with blood.
“I’m bleeding,” I whisper, and Dr. Nickelsen looks up at me with alarm as he releases my last ankle. Pushing one of my knees toward my chest, he delicately prods my pussy, eyes narrowed as he looks over my flesh — but he never even looks at my thighs.
“I don’t see any blood, Nina. Are you in pain? Was the machine too rough?” he asks, an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard before.
The blood isn’t real. The bites aren’t real.
He’s real. The chair is real. The desk is real.
“I’m sorry, I thought I saw some.” Forcing a brittle smile, I gently close my legs, feeling the dull ache in my hips as they move. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“All right, well, just tell one of the orderlies if you need me to check you again.” Dr. Nickelsen smiles, patting my leg as he stands upright. “And I’ll speak with Tom about helping with the next stage of your therapy. Would you like that?”
Sniffling, I nod. “Yes, sir. I would. Um… does moving forward in my therapy mean that I get privileges back?”
“What privileges don’t you have, Nina?” he asks, gathering my clothes from the floor to offer them to me.
“Sleeping without the cuffs, art class, and outside time.” I want to walk in the gardens again almost as much as I want to sleep without the restraints… but if I have to choose, I’ll choose getting to turn over in my sleep. Dr. Nickelsen looks like he’s thinking, his handsome face serious with thought, and I hold my breath in anticipation.
“Well, some of those things are absolutely privileges, Nina. I’m afraid, for now at least, that we’ll need to keep you restrained at night. It’s for your own safety.”
“Okay,” I mumble, and he reaches over to squeeze my shoulder.
“You’re doing well, Nina. I’m sure it will be no time before you can go without the restraints. Until then, I’m absolutely fine with you going to art class, and we can look at giving you a little outdoor time. How does that sound?”
I clap my hands, feeling excited at the idea of going out in the sun. “Thank you so much, Dr. Nickelsen!”
“Well, you earned this with your progress. Keep focusing on yourself and practice defining what is real and what isn’t.”
“Mr. Cat isn’t real,” I answer with a smile, covering up one of the bite marks on my thigh.
“That’s right, Nina. Mr. Cat isn’t real, but you are, and you’re doing very well.”
Chapter 6
I’m doing better.
I’m being a good girl.
I haven’t spoken to Mr. Cat since my session with Dr. Nickelsen yesterday. Almost twenty-four hours now, and I’m proud of myself… but he’s so angry.
He woke me up in the middle of the night by clawing my arm and I can still see the trio of scabbed lines on my forearm. Then he yelled at me, demanded that I speak to him, look at him, but I didn’t. I closed my eyes tight and I hummed to myself. I hummed every song I could remember and made up the parts of others that I couldn’t. At some point Mr. Cat went away, and I got a little bit more sleep before Tom came to get me.
Unfortunately, just like with the bites and scratches on my thighs, Tom couldn’t see the bloody claw marks on my arm. If it wasn’t so warm in the Institute I’d have worn long sleeves to hide them so that I didn’t have the constant reminder of what he did — even though he didn’t do it, because he’s not real.
He’s not real.
Eventually this has to work, right? Dr. Nickelsen seems so confident about it, and he’s a doctor so he knows about this stuff. He has the answers, he knows what will help me… I just have to be good. I have to keep trying.
I chew on my lip as we line up outside the art room. People are crowded up close to the door, but I’m hanging back, waiting. Partly because I hate feeling surrounded, and partly because the doorway is breathing. It looks alive. Swelling outward in the middle with each soft inhale, curving inward when it exhales in a whoosh that no one else can hear.
Because it’s not real.
My clothes are real. Elisa is real. The glass windows beside me are real. The easels inside are real.
And as long as I can focus on those things, then I’ll get to paint again. Or maybe we’ll be working with clay today. Or doing one of those projects with yarn that always result in multi-colored messes because I’m not organized enough for those.
Stop obsessing!
I shake my head, straightening my back, and I take a deep breath in time with the door. In, out. Whoosh. Just because it isn’t real doesn’t mean I can’t use it if it’s helpful, and I have to act as normal as possible. I have to be sane so that I can keep coming to the art room. Three days a week Ms. Clover drives up from town to teach us about art. She’s probably close to eighty years old, all thin gray hair and brightly colored clothes, but she’s very nice. She never treats us like we’re crazy, and she says nice things about whatever I attempt to make.
Really, I just want to make something. Anything. I’ve played every game in the Rec Room a hundred times. I’ve read every book in the tiny bookshelf several times over. The art room is the only unique thing inside the Serenity Institute. It’s the only thing that ever changes.
Your therapy is going to change. You’re advancing.
I smile, feeling that warm rush in my chest when I remember Dr. Nickelsen’s compliments, and I know that I can do this. I can make Mr. Cat go away.
“Hello dears,” Ms. Clover says, waving a frail hand at us as she walks to the front of the line to open the door. “Who’s excited to paint some pictures today?”
Several people shout “Me!” and as soon as she has it open, patients are rushing in, laying claim to their favorite easels or seats, but I wait and watch the door breathe. When I get closer, I hold my hand in front of the door frame, waiting for the whoosh of the exhale, but I don’t feel the air move. I see it, I hear it, but… I don’t feel it.
Not real. Not real. Not real.
Taking another deep, slow breath, I jump through the doorway, flinching as I expect some giant maw to snap shut on me and swallow me whole — but nothing happens. I’m just standing inside the art room and Ms. Clover is looking over at me with a sweet smile on her face.
“Well, hello dear. You haven’t been with us in a while, are you feeling better now?” she asks, and I nod at her, returning her smile.
“Yes, I’m—”
“Nina isn’t allowed in art class!” Liz shouts, standing up behind her easel and pointing at me. Her face is flushed as she stomps a foot, raising her voice again, “No, no, NO! Nina can’t be here! She’s not allowed. Someone call the orderlies!”
I glare at Liz, feeling hot anger surging through my veins, but Ms. Clover just waves a hand at her. “Well, if that’s true, then Dr. Sterling will handle it. He’s joining us for the start of art class today.” Turning toward me, she gestures to an easel near the edge of the room, and I follow her lead. “You can sit right there, dear. Don’t fret, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer, smiling at Ms. Clover as I move to my easel. The stool behind it is wobbly, one of the feet at the bottom is missing, and so it tilts awkwardly to one side when I sit down. Shifting my weight, I try to balance it on the other three legs, but every time I move even the slightest bit, it rocks and sends my heart into my throat. Sighing to myself, I decide to just stand up, breathing slowly to stay calm.
Everything is okay.
Dr. Nickelsen said I could be here.
No one is going to make me leave, and I’m going to get to paint.
Across the room Liz is whispering to the newer girl beside her, pointing at m
e, and the girl’s eyes are wide with fear. The girl’s name starts with an A… or an H… not that it matters. Liz is probably already telling her bad things about me, and I know not all of them are true, but the girl will still be afraid of me. She’ll avoid me. She won’t talk to me.
I hate feeling so alone.
“So sorry that I’m late!” Dr. Sterling says, rushing into the room with a broad smile for everyone and I can’t help but return it. He always seems so genuinely happy to see us, and I think that he’s one of the few people in the world that doesn’t see all of us trash to be thrown away. The Institute is beautiful, and he made that happen. It’s his property, and he chooses his doctors carefully. He’s the one who paired me with Dr. Nickelsen, and I know I’m lucky to have him. He rests a hand on Ms. Clover’s shoulder, smiling at her before he looks out at us again. “First, I want to thank Ms. Clover for letting me be a part of this class today. I want us to do something unique, something that will help each of you and your doctors to make real progress here at—”
“Dr. Sterling!” Liz shouts, interrupting him as she shoves her hand high in the air, and I glare at her, feeling my rage building again, but it dissipates when I see the blue-gray tail twitching behind her stool.
Oh no.
“Yes, Liz?” Dr. Sterling’s tone is patient, but I can tell he’s prepared for more of her bullshit. She tattles on everyone, even people who haven’t done anything wrong. Like me.
She points across the room at me, standing up behind her easel again. “Nina is in here and she’s not supposed to be! She got banned from art class when—”
“I’m aware that Nina has re-joined art class. I spoke with Dr. Nickelsen myself this morning, and I’m very glad that she has made such progress.” Dr. Sterling looks over at me with a smile, winking a little, and I roll my shoulders back just to show Liz that I’m not afraid of her. She can say whatever she wants about me, but I am getting better.
