by Van ©2015
		Chapter 4

By the time Nurse Kim arrived to take Frankie to "Exam-1," the captive-of-the-wheelchair had worked herself up into a serious frenzy.  Okay, she was bound head to foot with white rope, strapped to the chair, and tape-gagged, so "frenzy" might not have been the best description of her pointless and well-restrained struggles, but it was quite clear that she wasn't happy—or it should have been clear.  Dr. Stanton continued tapping menu choices and scrolling through various files on her iPad, ignoring Frankie completely.  The doctor did glance up every now and then, but it was to smile and appreciate Frankie's flopping breasts in particular, rather than the patient in general.

Anyway, Kim entered without knocking or speaking.  Stanton had no last minute instructions and Kim wheeled Frankie from the office.

Their destination was a room on the second floor.  The walls were painted an allegedly soothing shade of salmon-pink and in the center of the room, under the collective glare of the grid of spotlights overhead, was—"Mrrrk?"—a machine.

The thing was stainless steel—brushed panels, articulated arms with gears and dangling straps, a curved vertical post, also with dangling straps, and finally, a steel saddle with black rubber padding. The straps were black nylon webbing with padding and steel snap-buckles.  Off to one side was a control console with a tasteful logo embossed on the side.  It read "Salamandras Medical," and featured what appeared to be a salamander coiled around a winged staff.  And speaking of the saddle—"Urrrk?"—prominent on its curved, padded surface were a pair of black rubber ridges studded with stubby bristles and a rounded cylinder—a phallus!

Needless to say, Frankie wanted nothing to do with the thing.  Granted, she was naked and tied up and strapped to the wheelchair, but she knew that Kim had to get her out of the chair and onto the saddle, and Frankie resolved to make that task as difficult as possible.  But just then, Nurse Clark entered the room, making it two against one.  Add the force-multiplier of Frankie's bondage, and...  She heaved a gagged sigh, but was still resolved to fight.

And fight Frankie did!

However, Kim and Clark knew all the tricks, all the tactics a bound and gagged patient might employ to prevent herself from being hoisted onto the saddle, impaled on the short, stubby phallus, and strapped in place.  Frankie didn't make it easy, but eventually she was, in fact, impaled and strapped to the machine.  Her legs were splayed to either side with her ankles strapped to the ends of adjustable steel arms mounted on either side of the saddle.  Additional straps across her thighs further anchored her in place.  Her rope bonds remained intact, with her back and box-tied arms against the upright post and straps around her waist and upper arms and torso, above and below her breasts, securing her to the post.

The phallus was slippery enough to penetrate her vagina without discomfort.  Also, it wasn't very long.  The saddle's bristle-studded ridges nestled against her slightly squashed labia.

Next, Kim peeled the tape from Frankie's lips.  This gave the patient a chance to share her innermost feelings.  "Let me go, you mother-fu—rrrf!"  Kim held Frankie's head against the post while Clark thrust a rubber plug attached to a rubber panel with dangling straps into her mouth.  The gag also had a pair of flexible hoses trailing away to either side.  Clark and Kim tightened the straps, pinning the back of Frankie's head against what amounted to an adjustable headrest and sealing her mouth and lower face behind a half-mask of tightly stretched rubber.  Frankie squirmed and complained.  "Mrrrpfh!"  And she really complained when Kim used a nose-clamp to seal her nostrils!  "Urrk!"

Frankie was now more or less immobilized.  It wasn't quite as bad as drugged paralysis, a condition with which Frankie now had recent, firsthand experience, but it was bad enough.  Also, she could only breathe through her mouth.  She rolled her eyes and stared daggers at Kim and Clark as they pasted small sensors with trailing wires to her forehead, over her heart, and to her inner thighs.

Kim stepped to the front with an iPad while Clark manned the machine's control console.  They began running a checklist.

"Initial auto-lube engaged," Kim intoned.

"Check," Clark responded.

"Respiratory monitoring."

"Check."

"Cardiac monitoring."

"Check."

"Encephalographic monitoring."

"Check."

"Adductor magnus and Gracilis twitch response monitoring."

"Check."

"Stimulis routine on active frustration, level one."

"Level one."  Clark threw a switch.  "Check."

"Tracking routine on continuous mode."

"Check."

"Five minute initial countdown."

"Five minutes," Clark responded.  "Check."

Kim smiled.  "Checklist complete."

Clark turned a key on the console.  "The Salamandras thirty-one hundred is prepped and locked."  She pocketed the key and joined Kim to smile at Frankie.

Frankie's response was to stare more daggers.  She had a limitless supply.

"I understand the thirty-two hundred will have nipple suckers," Kim purred.

Clark nodded.  "I read the brochure.  I wonder when we'll get the upgrade."

"I only work here," Kim shrugged, then both nurses turned and left the room.

Frankie heard a key turn in the lock, and she was alone... bound, gagged, strapped to the machine... and waiting.  The only sound was the whistling of her breath in the gag-mask's breathing tubes.

One minute... two minutes... three...

More for something to do than as a serious effort to free herself, Frankie struggled.  Her rope bonds and the machine's padded straps remained in place... and so did she.

Five minutes.

There was a metallic click, followed by a quiet hum, and then...  "Urrrk?"  The ridges pressed against Frankie's labia began to vibrate, as did the phallus.  This continued for about a minute... then two... and slowly, Frankie realized the vibratory effect was intensifying, and arriving in waves... and the frequency of the waves was slowly increasing.

Frankie's skin began to glow.  Intellectually, she knew that being too hot was better than being too cold, but right now Frankie could do with a cool breeze, or maybe a cold shower.

And then—"Mrrrf!"—the phallus began to move!  To be precise, it began sliding up, into her vagina... and then down... and then up, again.  Like the waves of vibration, the penetration was deliberate, even stately.  At the same time, Frankie felt a wet, squishy sensation inside her pussy.  Probably the 'initial auto-lube' on the nurses' checklist, she realized.  Apparently, the phallus was oozing some sort of oil or gel.  It was disgusting... and slick.

The stimulation continued, as did the overall crescendo, and Frankie's body began to react.  Glowing became actual sweating, and she began panting into her combination breathing mask/gag.  Her breasts began to heave, as much as the straps binding her to the post would allow, and her nipples grew rigid and erect.

Inexorably, the machine worked its magic.  Frankie could feel an orgasm coming—or cumming, as the case may be.  It was horrible being at the mercy of the "Salamandras 3100," to be the plaything of mechanical and cybernetic technology.  On the other hand, Frankie reasoned, it beats the hell out of being strapped in a straitjacket and left to rot in a padded cell for hours... if not days.

The intensity and complexity of the vibrations continued to build, and the phallus was becoming more and more enthusiastic as it cycled up and down and in and out of her well-lubricated pussy.

Climax was eminent!  The machine buzzed and pumped.  Frankie panted and squirmed.  And then... and then... it stopped.

"Mrrrf!"  Frankie's complaint was well-muffled, but the thought behind the complaint quite clear:  Mother!  Fucker!

She'd been sooooo close.  It was unfair, colossally unfair!

Frankie continued panting and her breasts continued heaving.  Eventually, she felt her body calming down... relaxing... not cumming.  It was unfair, and infuriating.

Time passed.

The sweat on Frankie's helplessly restrained body dried.  Even her nipples decided to take a break, were no longer throbbing and erect, as best she could tell.  The gag/mask straps pinning her head to the post didn't let her actually look at them.  Her pussy was still somewhat squishy, and the phallus was still there, inside her... but all was quiet in Exam-1.

And then—Click, hum—the vibrations returned!  And once again, at first they were barely perceptible... but the intensity was building... definitely building.  Yes, without a doubt, it was starting all over again!

"Mrrrpfh!"

Dr. Stanton strolled down the second floor corridor.  Exam-1 was just ahead, and she knew exactly what she'd find when she unlocked and opened the door.  Hidden video-cameras documented everything that happened in the chamber, and Stanton had been following the action for the past three hours, both on the monitor of the desktop computer in her office and the iPad mini in her lab coat pocket.  She paused to unlock the door, composed herself as she pocketed her keys, then opened the door—and smiled.

Patient "F" was bound in rope and strapped to the Salamandras 3100, exactly as Kim and Clark had left her.  Well, not exactly as they'd left her.  Still smiling, Stanton walked a slow circle around Frankie and the machine.

Frankie was panting through her gag/mask, her breasts heaving, and her skin was flushed and dripping with sweat.  Strands of her tousled hair were plastered to her forehead.  Clearly, she was in a state of sexual frustration—in the sense that the surface of the sun might be described as "toasty."  She stared at Stanton with tired, desperate eyes as the doctor strolled across her rather limited field of view... then focused on the theoretical horizon when Stanton passed behind the machine.  When Stanton came back into Frankie's view she was standing at the machine's control console, inserting a key.  Frankie watched as she turned the key, threw several switches, then turned and withdrew the key, once again.

Stanton strolled to Frankie's front, her smile unchanged.  "That concludes the first phase of your evaluation," she purred.  "There will be a one hour pause for you to hydrate.  There's a drip-line built into your oral plug that will deliver a liter of electrolyte solution, 'sports drink,' if you will.  After that, phase two will automatically commence.  It will be more of the same, but this time with the frustration threshold removed."  She spun on her heel and gracefully, elegantly, strolled to the door and made her exit.

Frankie wanted to be strong, defiant, angry... but enough was enough.  The machine was going to finally make her cum?  That was good... maybe.

Frankie became aware of a wetness in her mouth.  Apparently, the gag was delivering some sort of fluid, as promised.  It was... lemon-lime?  Maybe.  Frankie was relieved to find she could swallow, despite the rubber plugging her mouth.

The hydration continued... as did Frankie's wait for the commencement of "phase two."

Phase two was glorious!  It started out the same as phase one... and then... it didn't stop!  That is, the machine buzzed and pumped and diddled Frankie like crazy!  And then...

It didn't stop!  After a glorious multiple orgasm, there was a brief pause... no more that five or six minutes... and then the machine buzzed and pumped and diddled Frankie like crazy!  Again!

Lather, rinse, repeat!

By the time Kim and Clark came to collect her, Frankie was a mess—a sweaty, frazzled, overly-satisfied, and slightly sore mess.  The nurses released the straps, extracted her from the Salamandras 3100, and deposited her in the wheelchair.  Actually, they sort of poured her into the chair.  Frankie didn't resist.  Nor did she resist as they strapped her to the chair, wheeled her down the hall to a washroom, transferred her to a stainless steel stool, gently rinsed her off, and dried her with fluffy towels.  This time, Kim was the one that blow-dried, combed, and brushed Frankie's hair.

Once again strapped to the chair and being wheeled down the hallway, it was only then that Frankie realized she wasn't gagged.  She licked her lips, opened her mouth... then closed it again.  She couldn't think of anything to say... and she was tired... so very tired.

They rode the elevator... up... Frankie didn't bother to keep track of the buttons being pushed or the numbers flashing on the panel.  She could barely keep her eyes open.  Finally, the doors opened and Clark wheeled her from the elevator and out onto a floor that was different from the rest.

The walls were paneled with richly grained wood and the ceiling was complicated, a series of timber joists and beams at various angles.  They passed a bank of windows and Frankie beheld a very picturesque vista of the surrounding mountains, as well as the peaked roofs of the neighboring buildings of the Quaking Aspens compound.  Frankie surmised she was on the top floor of the main building, and from the angle and quality of the light it was very close to sundown.

Their destination was a very pleasant dining room.  More windows provided another view of the mountains, there was a table with a white tablecloth and two place settings, and seated before one setting was Dr. Stanton.  On her plate were mixed vegetables, seasoned rice, and a fillet of fish, possibly blackened salmon.

"Excellent," Stanton purred, pausing to sip white wine from a stemmed glass.  "I hope you don't mind that I've started eating.  I have a teleconference scheduled to discuss your evaluation and want to go over the results one last time."

Meanwhile, Clarke had wheeled Frankie and her chair in front of the second place setting.  Frankie stared at Stanton with a sullen expression.  "Look," she sighed, "let me go and I won't..."  Frankie's eyes widened.  Clark had lifted the stainless steel cover from the plate in front of Frankie—and her empty stomach growled.  The food on the plate was more or less identical to Stanton's meal: veggies, rice, and fish.  Conspicuous in its absence was any form of kibble or pet food.  "I, uh..."  Frankie's mouth was watering.

Clarke settled into a chair at Frankie's side, leaned close and loaded a fork with a bite of fish, then lifted it to Frankie's mouth.

"Enjoy your dinner," Stanton purred.

Frankie chewed and swallowed the bite of fish.  "Okay," she muttered.  Outrage, threats of retribution, appeals to morality, possibly a little begging—all of that could wait.  The fish, and it was blacked salmon, was delicious.

Clark fed Frankie, Stanton fed herself, and the meal continued.  It wasn't exactly companionable silence, but Frankie was perfectly willing to keep her objections to being kidnapped and mechanically diddled on hold.  The salmon really was delicious.  Also, and it was a little creepy, Stanton kept staring at Frankie's breasts... maybe.  Frankie wasn't really sure.

Stanton had a bit of a head start, but Frankie was hungry and ate as quickly as Clark would allow.  The salmon was good, the rice was good, and the vegetables were good.  Everything was good-good-good.  And then, everything was gone.  Both plates were empty and Stanton was patting her lips with her napkin.

Frankie licked her lips and tried to decide what she should say.  Somehow, she had to convince Stanton that it was safe to let her go.  Somehow she had to—"Mrrrpfh!"  Clarke had left her chair, stepped behind the wheelchair, stuffed a cloth of some kind into Frankie's mouth and was using a roll of gauze tape to first cleave her mouth and then cover her lower face, all the while being careful not to trap any of her patient's tousled locks.  It just went to show how out of it Frankie was in her current state.  She hadn't even realized Clark was about to gag her... not that she could have done anything to prevent it from happening.

"Her room is ready?" Stanton inquired, sipping the last of her wine.

"Of course, doctor," Clark purred, then rolled Frankie and her chair towards the dining room door.

"I'll be in my office," Stanton added.

"Yes, doctor," Clark replied, and they were across the threshold.

Clark wheeled Frankie to the elevator and down to the second floor.  Box-tied, strapped to the chair, tape-gagged, her tummy full of delicious blackened salmon, and above all, exhausted from her hours riding the Salamandras 3100, Frankie just sat there as they passed door after door.  Frankie thought she might have heard moaning noises (gagged mewling?) coming from one of the rooms as they passed, but couldn't be sure.  Up ahead was an open door, and as they came even with the threshold—"Urrk?"—Frankie's eyes popped wide, despite her exhaustion.

The room beyond was a typical private hospital room, not as big or well appointed as the room Frankie had seen with Judge Bowden tied to the bed, but nice, nonetheless.  Closed drapes on the far wall suggested a window, and on the adjustable hospital bed was a naked woman.  She was quite fit, with a curvaceous body, and Frankie was pretty sure she was "J," the brunette patient she'd seen being led on a rope leash soon after her capture.  She couldn't be absolutely sure because the brunette's lower face was mummified under tight bands of medical tape, much like Frankie's.  Also, she was on her stomach on the neatly made bed and was hogtied... very hogtied.

J's heels were resting in her hands and her wrists were lashed to her ankles.  Additional ropes bound her elbows together, pinned her upper arms to her torso and yoked her shoulders, bound her legs together at the thighs, and above and below her knees.  If J had been on the floor or some other hard surface, Frankie was sure she'd be rocking on her tummy with her breasts and thighs in the air.  Kim was putting the finishing touch on J's predicament, tightening and knotting a taut rope that tied the captive's big toes together and linked them to her rope-wrapped and folded ponytail.  It lifted J's chin, pulled her head back, and forced her to point her feet.

Clark let Frankie stare at her fellow patient for a few seconds, then wheeled her down the hall.  She unlocked and opened the next door, then wheeled Frankie into a hospital room more or less identical to J's (with the exception that J wasn't hogtied on the bed, of course).  Once inside, Frankie could see there was a small bathroom, little more than a deep alcove, and with the same models of washbasin/drinking-fountain and commode/bidet she'd used in the sub-basement.

Clarke released the straps keeping Frankie in the wheelchair, lifted her to her feet, helped her to the bed, then helped her to recline.  Still box-tied and tape-gagged, Frankie watched as Clarke used a length of rope to bind her ankles together.

Nurse Clark smiled down at Frankie's naked, bound, and gagged form for a few seconds, then nodded towards the washroom alcove.  "Feel free to hop in there and use the facilities during the night."

Frankie watched Clarke leave her room, locking the door behind her.  Thanks to her gag, using the washbasin/fountain wouldn't be possible, but it was good to know she'd be able to take a tinkle if she felt the need.  Clarke's permission wasn't relevant, as far as Frankie was concerned, but the fact that Clarke hadn't tied her to the bed was relevant.  Hopping would be awkward and humiliating, but it was an option.  Frankie was grateful... or pissed off... or both.

The room was dark, the only light coming from a nightlight in the bathroom, a second nightlight somewhere to the right of the bed, and the last light of the daylight causing the margins of the opaque drapes to glow.

This would be Frankie's best opportunity yet to escape from Quaking Aspens.  She resolved to find some way to wiggle out of her rope bonds, somehow get out of the hospital room, find something to wear, steal a car, etc., etc.  But first, she'd rest her eyes, just for a minute or two.

Frankie closed her eyes—and almost instantly was fast asleep.