The Asylum

My face blushes a deep red as I’m stripped down to my boxers by a tall, bearded man in scrubs. So far he hasn’t been particularly aggressive or mean with me, but he has threatened to sedate me if I act out while my cuffs are off. He hands me some folded clothes and tells me to put them on. I unfold the shirt - it’s white, long-sleeved with a couple buckles on the sides and ends of the sleeves. I put it on over my head and slide my arms through the sleeves. They’re long on me - extra sleeve approximating the length of my forearm goes past my hands. The nurse wraps the sleeves around the front of my torso so I’m effectively hugging myself, and buckles the ends of the sleeves to the straps on my sides. It’s like a comfortable, simplistic and probably weaker straitjacket, but nonetheless I’m not strong enough to break free, and I’m smarter than to try to get it off over my shoulders.

The nurse helps me put on the rest of the clothes - long, white, loose-fitting cotton pants that you get in a hospital, and a pair of socks with grippy plastic on the soles to keep me from sliding around on the smooth linoleum floors. I’m led through a door taking me into the main ward area, where several other patients are hanging out, sitting at tables and on plastic couches. Some of them are restrained by their shirts, but most of them have it so the sleeves are rolled up and snapped to snaps on the biceps so their hands can peek through and allow for free movement. 

“You have an appointment with your psychiatrist at 6:00, then dinner at 7:00,” the nurse informs me before leaving me alone to chat with the other patients. I introduce myself to some of them, then explain how I got here. I’d been arrested for trying to flee my country without paying the fees (which I couldn’t afford as I was attempting to escape a life of servitude where I’d been living paycheck-to-paycheck). The sentence was 5 years working for free in a labor camp, or $2,000 bail. I knew I would never be able to make bail, so my only choice was to take the sentence. Living in a servant’s class hardly scraping by after paying rent and other expenses was already miserable enough that I would’ve preferred taking my chances as a refugee; five years working hard labor for free (basically legal slavery) and having no job to return to sounded absolutely unbearable. I decided that I would prefer to end my life right there, and attempted to hang myself in my cell. I was caught, and because my body is considered property of the state, was pink slipped into a psychiatric correctional facility for convicts. I was given a psych eval and diagnosed with depression, anxiety, psychosis, and oppositional defiant disorder (a disorder that’s frequently assigned by the state to adults who oppose servitude). I was told that I was to serve my five-year sentence under a close eye in the mental health facility instead of prison, where I was deemed a threat to myself and possibly others.

I was, understandably, terrified and devastated, knowing I would have no choice but to live through my sentence. The fact that the option to end my life had been taken away from me is much worse than the labor sentence, and I wish now that I could go back in time and tell myself not to do it.

I decide to get to know some of the other patients and their stories. This is the unit for behavioral disorders - fighting against the state, cynicism, disabling addiction, suicide attempts, basically anything that could stand to threaten the ruling establishment. I’m considered a high risk in particular, due to both my attempt to escape the county and to make my body unprofitable. It had also been stated in the record that, in a fit of hysteria, I had acted violently against the guard that interrupted my suicide attempt. So that was my third offense.

I have my psych appointment at the scheduled time, and am informed by Dr. Chen that I would be prescribed an SSRI to help with my depression and anxiety. But it would take a few weeks for it to kick in. I ask why, if I’d been diagnosed with psychosis, I’m not being prescribed an antipsychotic. Dr. Chen explains that she doesn’t find it necessary, which tells me that the whole diagnosis is bullshit anyways.

As we eat our school-cafeteria-quality dinner (I have to have it fed to me by one of the nurses since I’m restrained), one of the other patients, a fellow named James that I’m already starting to like (he’d been arrested for attempting to organize a union), asks me if I know yet who my Specialist is going to be. Dr. Chen had informed me that my Specialist would basically be like my personal supervisor - he’d be in charge of my schedule and would observe and take notes on my behavior, as well as make authoritative decisions about my treatment plan. He’d basically have complete control over my entire life in the ward. I tell James what Dr. Chen had told me: that my Specialist is some guy named Dr. Richard Green.

James immediately gasps as soon as he hears the name. Some of the other patients who are sitting nearby halt their conversation and turn their heads towards me.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“Isn’t that the guy from the Willows ward?” James asks the lady sitting next to him, who’d earlier introduced herself as Angela. She nods.

“What’s the Willows ward?” I ask with increasing concern.

“That’s where they send the patients who are erratic, violent, and schizoaffective. Security there is WAY tighter, and way stricter… and more aggressive. The doctors there are more deranged than the patients. Seriously sadistic,” Angela explains.

“People come out of that ward twice as traumatized as they are when they’re admitted,” James adds.

“A spot opened up in our ward, and Dr. Green volunteered to fill the position. Apparently he’s fucking batshit.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask desperately.

The table goes quiet as nobody is quite sure how to break it to me gently. “I mean, I’ve had the same Specialist for three years now. And I’ve asked for a new one several times,” James says.

I whimper in fear, my heart pounding in my chest. The fluorescent lights in the room seem to get brighter and the chatter of the patients gets louder. I can hear the blood rushing through my ears. 

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up to see another nurse standing over me. “Dr. Green wants to see you soon, Whynne. Your room is number 13. Please go there and wait for him,” she orders.

I swallow a dry lump in my throat and nod, my heart beating ever harder. I stand up and start down the hallway where rooms 10 through 20 line the walls. I walk up to room 13 and I can hear ringing in my ears, my heart feeling like it’s going to leap out of my chest. In a fit of panic and feeling like the only thing I can do is try to run away, I keep walking down the hall. I turn a corner and come to another hall where a couple more doors are standing, including the Janitor’s closet and the laundry room. Both of these rooms are locked and can only be opened with one of the nurse’s ID badges. I cower down in the corner between the two doors, trying to calm down. I’m hyperventilating and attempt to slow my breathing, but after less than ten minutes two men in scrubs turn the corner.

“There he is!” one of them says. It’s the nurse who helped dress me earlier. 

“We were wondering where you’d run off to,” the other man says. I don’t recognize him. He’s about as tall as the nurse - six feet, with stubble on his face. “I’m Dr. Green, and I’ll be your Specialist during your stay,” he says with a devious smirk.

“P-please don’t hurt me…” I beg with wide, pleading eyes.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it,” Dr. Green retorts in a way that’s the exact opposite of reassuring. I feel my breathing start to quicken again. “I’m in charge of you while you’re here, and if you want this experience to go as smoothly as possible, you’d damn well better do as I say.”

“No… No… Please…” I whimper as tears well up in my eyes.

“Fucking scared pussy,” Dr. Green taunts. He takes out a filled syringe and takes the cap off the needle. “Kris, please help me hold him down so I can sedate him.”

The nurse walks towards me with outstretched hands. I feel a surge of adrenaline in my body and start to kick in protest as he grabs my legs. Dr Green holds the syringe between his teeth and comes over to hold my shoulders. The two of them turn me around so I’m pressed against the floor on my stomach, and Dr. Green pulls down my pants and boxer briefs so my ass is exposed. He quickly sticks the needle in the muscle and injects the sedative, and I rapidly start to feel my body relax.

The nurse, Kris, picks me up by my legs and Dr. Green lifts my upper body. The two of them carry me, limp and drowsy, to room 13 and lay me down on the bed. The bed has leather straps that they use to restrain me so I can’t sit up or turn my body, strapping me across my chest, stomach, forehead, thighs, lower legs and ankles. They also secure some extra straps to loops on the shoulders of my shirt. I sniffle as tears leak from my squinting, tired eyes.

Dr. Green and Nurse Kris leave me alone in the room and I fall asleep strapped down to the bed.

I’m awoken to the sound of the door to my room opening and closing as Dr. Green walks in and towards my bed. He removes the straps holding down my legs and ankles and removes my pants, leaving me in my underwear. I try to blink the tiredness from my eyes and I suddenly realize that my underwear is also being removed. I gasp and try to lift my head but remember it’s held down by the strap.

“Stop!” I cry out as my boxer briefs slide down over my ankles.

Dr. Green guffaws. “Wow! I noticed the sex in your papers said ‘other’, but I didn’t realize you’d come equipped with both!”

My face turns beet red with my genitals fully exposed - a labia and a vagina sit between my legs, comfortably situated above my asshole and below my smallish balls and 3-inch penis, which stands at full attention as I’ve just been woken up from a dream about being cornered. Dr. Green kneels between my legs. I want to kick him away from me, but as soon as I lift my leg he grips it firmly and pushes it back down. 

“Now now, you don’t want to make this worse for yourself, Whynne. Be a good boy and hold still.”

He gets closer in between my thighs, so I couldn’t kick him if I tried. I can’t see what’s going on as I’m stuck staring straight up at the ceiling. My heartbeat picks up once again and I can feel it drumming heavily in my chest.

“I have complete control over you while you’re here,” Dr. Green reminds me. “I can do whatever I want to your body, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. If you try, the pain will only be worse.”

I can suddenly feel flesh between my outer lips, and I immediately know what it is. The tip of his cock is pushing against me, causing me to whimper in fear and more tears leak from my eyes.

“I’m going to fuck you, Whynne, and I’m going to cum in you. And when I do, I’ll be certifying my control over your body. It’s already been signed off on paper - I legally have the authority to administer any type of treatment I see necessary. I can do literally whatever I want to your body.”

I let out a sob as I feel his cock push into me, slowly going deeper until the tip hits my cervix.

“If I want to rape you, then that’s what’s going to happen. If I want to punish you - hell, if I decide to torture you, then that’s what I’ll do.” He starts to steadily fuck me, and I’m now sobbing at this point, less from the devastation of being assaulted but more from the terrible fear he’s instilling in me with his words. Despite this though, my cock is standing at full attention, dripping precum. “I can torture you physically or psychologically. I can flog you, or deprive you of sleep, or lock you in solitary for months. If you want to avoid the worst of my treatment, you have no choice but to obey my every order, and it will only get so bad.”

He pumps faster into me, and I sob louder. “I own you now, Whynne. I own your body. I decide what happens to it. I decide when and how you feel pain or relief. I get to use your body for sex. You’ll be the subject of painful medical experiments. I can even expose you to the rest of the ward if I want to.” As he unloads into my pussy and fills me up with his seed, he reminds me one last time, “I own you.”

I finally think the assault is over, but suddenly I feel his hand grip firmly around my cock and pump it slowly, lubricated by my own precum. Its length is completely covered by the palm of his hand. “Now, it’s your turn to cum for me, Whynne, and when you do you’ll be giving up every bit of control over your life and your body. From now on, I decide what and when you eat, drink, use the bathroom, shower, sleep, and exercise. I decide when you feel pain or pleasure. I decide when you cum. I will have eyes on you every minute of the day, either directly or through a camera. You have no chance of escaping, so the best thing you can do for yourself is obey my directions. I control your actions. I control your body, and every hour of your life.” As Dr. Green jerks me off and continues to remind me of my new place under his control, I feel myself orgasm in his hand, shooting ropes of cum onto my shirt. I sniffle, knowing my place under him, at his mercy, is now one hundred percent solidified.

“Good boy,” Dr. Green praises me. “Breakfast starts in an hour. In the meantime, I think you ought to get acquainted with the punishment bench, as you’ll be strapped to it quite often while you’re here.”

“Please don’t,” I beg. “I’ll do what you say, I promise, just please don’t hurt me…”

“You’re already forgetting your place, Whynne, and I won’t have that. If you don’t comply then I’ll have to force you, and your pain will be worsened,” he says as he undoes the straps holding me down to the bed. He helps me sit and stand up, and encourages me to walk forward. I feel my body freeze and I feel weak trying to keep my balance. I sink down to my knees and tuck my head in until my forehead is pressed against the floor, breathing heavily and quickly.

“Get up and walk, bitch,” Dr. Green demands, and I feel an intense and sudden surge of pain in my testicles as his shoe makes a swift collision. A shudder shoots up my back and releases itself as an anguished cry. I recoil and fall over to my side, curling up in the fetal position.

Dr. Green groans and walks out the door to my room, leaving me crying on the floor. He returns less than five minutes later, turns me onto my back, and holds me down with his own weight by straddling my upper body. I look up at him and watch as he holds up a leather collar with metal circles lining the inside. He places the collar around my neck, slides a metal loop through a slot on the back and secures it with a padlock. The collar has four loops in total - the one on the back with the padlock, one on the front and one on each side. There are also small, black plastic boxes in between the loops. Dr. Green then reaches to my side and grabs a chain leash, the end of which he hooks to the front loop of my collar. He stands up and tugs on the leash by a leather handle.

“Stand up,” he orders sternly. I hesitate, knowing it won’t be easy to do so with my arms restrained. He places his free hand on his hip and presses a button on a small remote on a keyring along with his ID badge. I scream and arch my back as I feel an intense and painful current of electricity shoot out from my neck all the way down my back and restrained arms. I quickly figure out that the collar he put on me is a shock collar, that the boxes on it are battery packs, and the metal circles on the inside are electrodes.

“Stand up,” he says again. I let out another sob but use my legs to turn myself onto my stomach, then prop myself up with my knees, and slowly stand. “Good boy,” Dr. Green praises me. I sniffle and swallow a gob of snot. “Come on,” he says, tugging on the leash and leading me towards the door to my room. As soon as we step out into the hallway, I become incredibly self-conscious about the fact that my waist-down is completely exposed to anyone we pass. He leads me down the hall and into the common area, where some of the other patients are hanging out and waiting for the call to breakfast. They turn their heads and stare at us, and my face flushes a deep red. My already below-average penis is shriveled up and all that can be seen is the foreskin-covered head and the small, high-hanging pair of balls underneath. Plus my ass, and probably my pussy if someone gets a good enough look.

Dr. Green leads me across the common area and down another hall of patient rooms, towards the end of which is a heavy metal door without a label. He swipes his ID badge to allow us entry and leads me inside. The first thing I see is an operating table in the middle of the room, with metal bars along the sides and leather straps dangling off them, as well as a large light overhead. The room is filled with items that look like a gross crossbreed of medical equipment and torture devices - one of the most obvious examples being a stainless steel St Andrew cross.

Dr. Green doesn’t close the door behind us - instead he sticks a doorstopper under it, leaving it halfway open. He leads me to a padded spanking bench. I hesitate but not for long as I see him put his hand on the remote at his hip, then slowly place my knees on the lowest platforms and lean forward so my stomach is laying on the main bench. With my arms still hugging me in the front I’m not able to put my elbows on the platforms for them. 

Dr. Green straps my legs and torso down to the bench with nylon straps and buckles them in place, leaving me completely immoble, bent over and exposed. Dr. Green walks away from me for a minute, and I can’t see where he goes, but I hear the beep of his ID swipe and a door being opened, then closed. As he returns I can hear the sound of swishing and leather smacking against itself. He walks around in front of me and swishes a flogger in circles where I can see it. I whimper loudly in fear.

“I’m not sure yet how much of this you can take before it starts to become torturous. I’ll have to find out what your tolerance for pain is before I can assign proper punishments for misbehavior. You and my impact tools are going to get to know each other quite well this morning.”

“No no no no…” I mutter under my breath, squirming a bit on the bench. Dr. Green walks behind me and the flogger makes impact with my bare ass. I grunt softly and my body tenses up from a decent thud and a slight sting. He hit me pretty hard, but I could tell he was holding back. He hits me again, harder this time. The leather sprawls across my cheeks, amplifying the dull pain of the last hit. After ten hits, my soft grunts turn into restrained cries of pain. Ten more and I’m unable to hold back; each hit evokes a loud cry that surely carries through the open door and down the hall to wake up any other patients that might still be sleeping.

After forty or so hits, my ass is bruised, burning and definitely red. Tears and snot stream down my face as Dr. Green eases up and allows me a moment to catch my breath.

“How are you enjoying yourself so far?” he asks, placing a hand on my sore and sensitive cheek.

I groan loudly. “Enough. Please, I’ve had enough,” I beg. 

“But you’ve only felt one of my tools. I have plenty more to share with you,” the doctor taunts me.

I shake my head. “No, no, no, please…”

Dr. Green ignores my plea and goes back into what I assume is a closet or backroom. He returns with another flogger, allows me to see it, and smacks me with it, utilizing what I  dearly hope is his full strength. The thud on this one is a little less intense, but the sting is unbearable. I scream and pull on the restraints holding down my legs.

I’m faced with another twenty lashes, and by the end of it I’m sobbing uncontrollably. My skin is raw and I can feel my heartbeat in my butt, which if you told me was on fire I’d probably believe it.

“Stop! Stop, please! No more,” I plead again through my sobs.

“We’re not done yet,” Dr. Green responds. I wail as he goes back to the closet to grab another tool. “Your pain tolerance is lower than I was hoping, Whynne. It makes me want to punish you even harder.”

I hear a sharp whistle slice through the air, and I feel a long, thin cane gently touch my inflamed skin.

“NO! NO!” My begging is interrupted as I hear the whistling again, and the cane comes at me with full force, slicing my skin as easily as it sliced through the air. The feeling on my already incredibly sensitive and sore ass is enough to make me scream and shake the bench with my struggling. I receive thirty agonizing lashes before the doctor finally eases up.

“One more thing,” Dr. Green says. At this point I’m defeated and don’t bother begging for mercy. The last tool is a wooden paddle with holes drilled through it. My skin is open and the muscle is bruised and exhausted from flexing, and this final insult is enough to add a throbbing sensation that’s impossible to ignore. Luckily I’m graced with a little bit of numbness to dull the torture of ten forceful swats.

“Alright, I’d say that’s enough.” I’m awash with relief at the sound of those words, but the damage is already done. I’m still a sobbing mess, and I know I’ll be carrying the marks from this for weeks. I wonder how long it’ll be before I can sit down comfortably again. Dr. Green unstraps me from the table and yanks on my collar. My legs feel weak from the constant flexing and struggling, making it a difficult task to stand up.

He hands me a clean pair of boxers and my loose-fitting pants, then unbuckles the straps on my shirt keeping my arms restrained. He rolls up my sleeves and snaps the ends to snaps on the biceps so my hands and arms are freed. Despite being free, I return my arms to the protective hugging position.

“Breakfast is over by now, but the staff should have saved you some food in the common area. Go eat.” The doctor unhooks the leash from my collar and smacks my ass, causing me to yelp in pain. I sniffle and try to stop crying as I walk out the door and down the hallway. My legs are hardly able to keep me up, and I’m tempted to crawl, but my inhibitions tell me to keep walking. As soon as the other patients see me, I’m greeted with looks of concern and pity. They all heard what I’d just been put through. I sniffle and wipe my face with my sleeve, trying to make myself look tough, although I’m clearly very shaken.

I make my way to the nurse’s station and ask for my breakfast. The lady pushes a tray through a slot in a plexiglass barrier. She also passes me a small cup with a pill in it. I take the pill and thank her, chasing it down with a cup of water.

“This can’t be legal,” I tell her, my voice cracking as I feel like I might cry again. She gives me a slightly sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry, Whynne. But your Specialist can legally administer any treatment he sees necessary to make you a compliant, reformed citizen.”

“Is there anything that can be done? Can I request a different Specialist? This kind of treatment is cruel and unnecessary.”

“I’m afraid not. There’s nothing I can do about it. Sorry.”

I whimper a complaint and take my tray. I see James, Angela, and a couple other people sitting at a table. Angela waves me over. I see that she’s put a couple pillows down on an empty seat at their table, and I smile at the compassionate gesture. 

“Thank you,” I say. I sit down very slowly, wincing and inhaling sharply as I’m still pushing through significant discomfort. 

“Are you okay, honey?” she asks. “That sounded brutal.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m mostly worried about how it’s going to feel tomorrow. Hopefully this is the worst of it.”

“Yeah, could be he’s just hazing you so you’ll be too scared to fight him.”

“I hope so.”

Despite my empty and growling stomach, I feel nauseous and don’t have much of an appetite. I force myself to stomach some of the cafeteria-quality sausage and egg patty, but I can’t finish it. I’m afraid if I take another bite I’m going to throw up.

I sit quietly for a while after deciding I’m finished with my breakfast, and eventually a nurse comes up to me. He takes my vitals and hands me a sheet of paper.

“This is your schedule for today, assigned by your Specialist.”

I look over the sheet and read the schedule.

6am: Wake up / orientation

7am: Breakfast

10am: Behavioral therapy with Dr. Green 

12pm: Lunch

1pm: Physical examination with Dr. Green

3pm: Individual therapy with Dr. Kapoor

4pm: Group DBT

5pm: Dinner

6pm: Outdoor time

7pm: AA/NA meeting (optional)

8pm: CBT with Dr. Green

9pm: Bedtime

I take a deep breath to try to calm my rising nerves. I would have to meet with Dr. Green three more times today - at least. It doesn’t look like he plans to torture me again today, but then again the treatment I received this morning isn’t listed on the schedule (except for the misleading “orientation”). Anything could happen, and I have no way to mentally prepare myself for it. I haven’t met my individual therapist yet, so I try to focus my mind on that to distract myself from the dread I feel.