The Doctor's Reprimand

You step into Dr. Carter's office, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your pulse quicken. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and old books, the kind of space that feels more like a forgotten study than a medical suite—shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes on psychology, a single potted fern wilting in the corner as if it's given up on life. Your boss's email had been blunt: reports of your "unsociable behavior" at work, whispers from colleagues about your constant distractions, your hands wandering where they shouldn't during meetings. You'd laughed it off at first, but here you are, Grace, summoned like a truant student.

Dr. Carter looks up from his desk, his brow furrowing into a deep frown that etches lines across his forehead. He's older than you expected, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him the air of a stern headmaster from some bygone era. His eyes, sharp and assessing, lock onto yours, and you feel a strange pull, like he's already peering into the chaos of your thoughts.

"Miss Grace," he says, his voice clipped and authoritative, each word enunciated like a reprimand in assembly. "I've received a rather detailed account from your employer. Complaints about your... persistent arousal. Inappropriate conduct in the workplace—touching yourself, they say, without regard for decorum or professionalism. This is not behavior befitting an adult in a shared environment."

You shift in the chair opposite him, your cheeks warming under his gaze. There's something disarming about his tone, not cruel, but unyielding, like he's used to corralling wayward souls back into line. You open your mouth to protest—"It's not like that, Doctor, it's just... stress"—but he holds up a hand, silencing you with a look that pins you in place.

"Excuses won't suffice," he continues, leaning forward, his fingers steepled. "Hypersexuality of this magnitude disrupts not just your life, but those around you. I've reviewed the reports; it's clear you're in need of intervention. My only recourse, I'm afraid, is to recommend involuntary commitment to a specialized facility. There, we can address this compulsion until you learn to behave appropriately. It's for your own good, young lady."

The words hang in the air, heavy and inescapable. Commitment? Your heart races, a mix of fear and that familiar, unwelcome heat building low in your belly. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "No, wait—this is ridiculous. I can handle it myself."

But before you can bolt for the door, it swings open, and two burly orderlies step in, their presence filling the room like shadows. Dr. Carter nods to them, his expression unchanging. "Prepare her for transport."

Panic surges through you. You dart toward the exit, skirt fluttering, but strong hands grab your arms, halting you mid-stride. They pull you back, and with a firm shove, you find yourself slammed onto a nearby gurney, the cold metal biting into your back. You struggle, twisting against their grip, but it's futile—their hold is professional, unyielding.

Dr. Carter sighs, standing and adjusting his tie with evident annoyance. "Such a feeble attempt at defiance, Miss Grace. It only prolongs the inevitable." He gestures to the men. "Flip her over. We need to ensure she's ready for the journey— a quick behavioral modification to impress upon her the seriousness of this."

They comply without hesitation, turning you onto your stomach, your hips elevated awkwardly against the gurney's edge. The vulnerability hits you like a wave, your breath coming in short gasps. Dr. Carter steps closer, his presence looming just behind you, and you feel the air shift as his hand comes down—firm, measured spanks that sting through your skirt, each one a sharp reminder of his control. It's not rage, but discipline, the kind that speaks of boundaries redrawn. Five, six times, and then he stops, his voice softening just a fraction. "There. Let that serve as a lesson in restraint."

The orderlies flip you back, securing the straps across your wrists, ankles, and torso with efficient clicks. You strain against them, eyes meeting Dr. Carter's again. There's no malice in his gaze—only a quiet resolve, and beneath it, something else you can't quite name, a flicker that makes your skin tingle despite the circumstances.

"For your safety—and ours," he says, producing a soft gag from a drawer, "we'll ensure quiet during transit." He leans in to secure it gently over your mouth, his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw in a touch that's almost tender, lingering a second too long. Your eyes widen, locking with his, and in that charged moment, you see it: curiosity, perhaps even a spark of intrigue mirroring your own hidden turmoil.

He straightens, his expression stern once more. "Now, to prepare you properly." With clinical precision, he takes a pair of scissors from the desk, the snip-snip echoing as he carefully cuts away your clothes—blouse, skirt, undergarments—layer by layer, until you're exposed but for the air's chill. You feel the flush creep over your skin, a mix of humiliation and that insistent arousal, but his eyes never waver from professionalism, though they do pause, just briefly, as if noting something unexpected.

From a cabinet, he retrieves an item that makes your breath hitch—a diaper, patterned with whimsical yellow ducks, soft and absurdly innocent against the gravity of the moment. "It'll be a long trip," he explains, his voice dropping to a murmur as he fastens it around you with steady hands, the material crinkling softly. His proximity is electric; you can smell his cologne, faint and woodsy, and when his knuckles graze your hip in adjustment, a jolt runs through you, unspoken tension coiling like a spring. He doesn't rush, his touch efficient yet careful, and for a heartbeat, your gazes entwine again—yours defiant, his appraising, a silent conversation passing between you.

Finally, he drapes a thin white sheet over you, tucking it in with a finality that feels oddly protective. "Take her to the facility," he instructs the orderlies, stepping back as they wheel the gurney toward the door. But as they move, he places a hand on the rail, stopping them briefly. "Miss Grace," he says, leaning close enough that you catch the warmth of his breath through the gag, "this isn't the end. Treatment begins now, but remember—discipline can lead to clarity. Perhaps even understanding."

The words linger as they push you out into the hallway, the office door swinging shut behind. The ride to the facility is a blur of fluorescent lights and distant voices, your mind replaying that frown, those touches, the way his eyes held yours like he saw beyond the surface chaos to the woman yearning for control. Strapped down, diapered and sheeted, you should feel defeated, but instead, a strange anticipation builds, along with your craving for your usual compulsion. As the excitement grips, you try to get some relief by grinding on the restraints. The orderly spots you and smirks, "look the shut can't even make it 5 minutes before try to gratify herself. He remove the sheet covering, saying you would need to be watched more carefully. Then you feel a prick in your arm and everything goes black.