Quality Testing

Content Note: this is pure fiction but contains some elements which may appear to hint at non-consensual sex. Rest assured, the imaginary characters are all very happy with what they’re doing, however if you have sensitivities around medical play, coercion, chemsex or restraint then this story may not be your thing.

A posh private Harley Street clinic, no less – all Regency stonework on the outside and gleaming chrome within. So posh and private, it doesn’t even have a plaque outside, or a Twitter account. Smooth.

Rahul himself greeted you just inside the smoked-glass security door. “Welcome!” he beamed, pumping your hand enthusiastically and looking astonishingly happy to make your acquaintance. “Thank you so much for participating in this research programme! Your contribution is invaluable, so we shall try to make your time with us as enjoyable as possible. Now, come with me please-“ and he escorted you gently but unyieldingly, deeper into the building.

Product quality testing, said the advert. You had no idea what any of that actually meant when you registered, but the money was good. And they’d asked for ‘open-minded individuals’, which told you that the products would be a bit more interesting than the next-gen steam mop or self-driving pet feeder. So, you’d signed up there and then.

Induction; a lot of paperwork and enthusiastic technobabble. As it turns out; you’re testing a sex toy. The next generation of sex toy, apparently. Something to do with biofeedback; you glance vaguely at the booklet handed to you but don’t pay much attention, skimming over a whole chunk of small print before signing the forms. The lack of dildos so far has been disappointing, but perhaps that’s about to change.

They give you something to drink, something that looks and tastes like water, but which makes you drowsy and light-headed. A rather comfortable feeling.

You must have dropped off to sleep in the plushy waiting-room armchair shortly afterwards. You don’t mind, a nap is a nap and even if it gets weird, it’s still better than breaking your back for ten hours a day running about in a distribution warehouse for minimum wage and no benefits.

The walls of the testing room are white, a strong, thick, gleaming white that shrieks of bleach and lavish budgets. The floor is the same non-slip, granite-effect tiles as you’d find in any hospital, although their cold sparkle under the bluish fluorescent lights indicates that these are probably much cleaner.

There are straps around your wrists and ankles, straps across your shoulders and thighs. Soft, padded restraints which cradle your body in a firm but kindly grasp. Unexpected, but not uncomfortable. You’re supported by some kind of webbing, like a hammock, only firmer, and more upright.

Are you testing an advanced form of Wanking Hammock?

You definitely remember ticking a box next to a paragraph that included interesting words like masturbation, penetration, and stimulation, thinking it all sounded rather exciting. Now, you’re wondering if maybe you should have read the small print a bit more carefully.

Your clothes are missing, you realise. Except…that’s not quite true. You seem to be wearing a sheer bodystocking, some kind of smooth, slick polymer that fits you like a snake’s skin. It’s so light and thin that you can clearly see the dark outlines of your nipples, the veins branching across your forearms, your fingernails – the suit has fingers and toes as though you’ve been quickly dipped into a vat of latex paint and left to dry encased to the neck. Its all-over touch is both reassuring and sensual; you take a moment to admire your curves and planes beneath its sheen.

The mirror on the opposite wall suddenly darkens, revealing the watchers beyond the two-way glass.

You open your mouth to call out to them, ask them what you’re supposed to be testing, but before you can form the words, a pair of hands appears from behind you, and fills your mouth with a silicone gag, part riding-bit, part dental shield. Silenced, you watch wide-eyed and with stirrings of arousal as the hands – belonging to an anonymous figure in white scrubs and a surgeon’s mask – check your pulse and pupils, then place a headband Rambo-style over your forehead, before withdrawing to leave you facing your shadowy audience.

“Start the programme.” says someone, somewhere.

A tingling sweeps through your skin. No, not through exactly. Across. Upon. Around, maybe. It’s like being immersed in soda water, billions of tiny bubbles forming and collapsing on your surface. Not quite tickling, but something. Definitely something. Something enjoyable, for all its strangeness.

“Calibrate” says the voice.

Sensation begins to concentrate in shifting patches; here, on your inner thigh, there, on the soles of your feet. Fleeting from neck to knees, belly to biceps; you’re mapped and measured, tested and teased. The suit is…electroconductive? Speculation on the mechanics is set aside as you realise you’re now in a state of considerable excitement. What next? Your mind roams the familiar landscape of fantasy; the tall dark handsome stranger who lovingly holds you tight and presses himself slowly inside you-

-wait, what-

-you can feel it. The suit is stretching, inverting and hardening against your cleft, mimicking the taut head of the imaginary dick you’ve conjured up for your imaginary lover. And his hands are no longer only imagination; finger-shaped indentations are appearing on the surface of the material enveloping you. You close your eyes, and he traces the outline of one nipple with his tongue. Every move your mind makes for him, the suit conjures up the sensation.

”Level two”

You feel his weight bearing down on you, his shaft sinking deep inside you, his mouth roaming your skin, coolness in the wake of his tongue’s passage and the heat of his body moving against yours. Your fingers reach and clench, yearning to fill your hands with his plump buttocks and push him harder, faster, until-

Abruptly, he is gone. You open your eyes, blinking in confusion at the dazzling sterile walls. The gag, unfastened, drops from your mouth unheeded as you wail in protest.

“That’s enough for now.” says Rahul kindly, appearing at the window. “Too much time in the suit can be a bit of an overload if you’re not used to it. We can schedule another session for later, if you’re happy to continue?”

“Just try and stop me!” you manage to splutter, and break into beaming smiles at the round of applause that greets your verdict. Yes, you’ll be staying. Technology this revolutionary demands a thorough investigation.

Wicked Wednesday

17 thoughts on “Quality Testing

        1. Aw that’s a shame (if you’re not just being hard on yourself!). Any suggestions for scenes/plot I could launch from would work just as well

  1. That’s deliciously perverted! You need to pass me Rahul’s number! I loved the technology you sketched out for this, you’re very good at the futuristic erotica.

Comments are closed.