Patient #945723 The Asylum — Compulsive Masturbator to Medical Play Scenarios — True Stories, In fact, Toned Down…

Devin Marks had always been a prisoner of his desires. His days revolved around one thing: satisfaction. Porn tabs cluttered his browser like a digital mausoleum of wasted afternoons. His nights were a hollow carnival of masturbation, his life a carousel that never stopped spinning but went absolutely nowhere. Conversations with women felt like a foreign language he could never quite grasp, his every word betraying the unspoken craving simmering beneath his skin.

He was deviant, pathetic even, and he knew it. But shame was just another wave in the relentless tide of his addiction.

That’s when he found the ad.

“The Asylum: Where Deviants Go to Heal.”

A stark black and white flyer, buried between escort ads and dubious self-help seminars. It promised salvation — or annihilation. Either way, Devin was ready to roll the dice.

The Asylum wasn’t what Devin expected. It wasn’t a crumbling hospital or a dimly lit dungeon of horrors. It was a room — a strange, forgotten space perched atop the highest floor of an old Masonic lodge in San Francisco. The building itself was a relic of another era, with ornate stonework and high, arched windows that overlooked a city bustling below, oblivious to the secrets housed within.

The room was sparse, its walls lined with towering bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes that looked older than the lodge itself. In the center, a worn wooden desk sat under a single flickering light, the only modern intrusion a laptop that hummed faintly on its surface.

And then there was her.

Doc stood by the window, her blonde hair catching the late afternoon sun, a stark contrast to her casual outfit — a pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. She didn’t look like a doctor or a therapist, and certainly not like the kind of person Devin had imagined running a place like this.

“What are you here for, Devin?” she asked, her voice flat, almost bored, as if she’d asked this question a thousand times before and already knew the answer.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned closer, the faintest edge of disdain curling her lips. “You know, I don’t like people,” she added, her tone sharpening. “And I definitely don’t like you.”

Devin flinched but said nothing.

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as if studying a particularly disappointing specimen. “What is it? Masturbating too much? Can’t keep your hands off yourself?”

Before he could muster a reply, she pulled a small flashlight from her back pocket. Without warning, she clicked it on and shone the beam directly into his eyes, forcing him to blink and turn away.

“Look at me,” she snapped, her voice cutting through his discomfort like a whip.

He hesitated, then met her gaze again, the flashlight’s glare illuminating the fear etched across his face.

“That’s better,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, as if he were just another patient in her endless parade of broken men.

“Well, it’s clear we’ve got ourselves a little masturbatory habit here,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery as she angled the flashlight downward, the beam landing squarely on the bulge in his pants.

Devin shifted uncomfortably, but her steady gaze — and the light — didn’t waver.

“So,” she continued, her voice calm but laced with cruel amusement, “how are we going to fix this, hmm? How about this — every time you so much as think about touching yourself, your body rebels. Violently. I’m talking stomach-turning, gut-wrenching, uncontrollable vomiting.”

Her words hung in the air, deliberate and chilling, as she tilted her head, studying him like a scientist observing a lab rat.

“Sound like fun?” she asked, her lips curving into a cold smile.

“How did you even get this office? It’s so… strange,” Devin said, glancing around at the shadowed corners and towering bookshelves. “You’re at the top of a Masonic lodge, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied flatly, her gaze not leaving his face. She leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms with a casual confidence that made him feel even smaller.

“It’s called being important,” she said, her tone cutting like a knife. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

“So, let’s talk about masturbating for a moment,” she said, her voice light but laced with an undercurrent of menace.

Devin’s mouth went dry as Doc turned to a small metal tray on the desk. She picked up a pair of eye drops, holding them up to the dim light as if inspecting their purity.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to a worn leather chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. He hesitated for a moment too long, and she tilted her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Now.”

He sat.

In a swift, practiced motion, she loomed over him, gripping his jaw with one hand and forcing his head back. With the other, she carefully dropped a bead of liquid into each eye. The cold sting forced his eyes open wider than he thought possible, and before he could blink, she attached clamps to his lids, holding them apart in a grotesque parody of attentiveness.

“Perfect,” she murmured, stepping back to admire her work.

Doc leaned over him, her face close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath. With a casual smirk, she pulled off her T-shirt, revealing a plain black sports bra beneath.

Without missing a beat, she used the crumpled shirt to wipe the tears streaking down his cheeks.

“Oops,” she said, her tone mockingly sweet, pressing a little too hard against his face. “A little too much, huh?”

She let out a short, sharp laugh and tossed the damp shirt onto the desk, as though the whole act was nothing more than an afterthought.

“Don’t worry,” she added with a smirk, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “We’re just getting to the good part.”

Behind him, a screen descended from the ceiling, flickering to life with a cacophony of moans, squeals, and slick sounds that made his stomach churn. The images began — pornography that played out every dark, shameful fantasy he’d ever indulged in. Latex-clad figures loomed on the screen, snapping gloves and grinning with sadistic glee. Medical scenarios that once thrilled him now seemed twisted and garish under the relentless, unblinking light.

She moved to his side, syringe in hand, and without a word, injected something cold and burning into his arm. Almost immediately, the room began to spin, and a wave of nausea gripped him with merciless force.

“Don’t fight it,” she said, her tone almost soothing. She placed a metal bucket by his feet.

As the images on the screen intensified, his body betrayed him. His stomach heaved violently, and he bent forward, retching into the bucket.

“Oh, look at that,” she said mockingly, crouching beside him. “Your little kink isn’t so fun now, is it?”

The smell of bile mixed with the sounds and images assaulted his senses, creating an unbearable feedback loop of disgust. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but the clamps held firm, forcing him to watch every degrading second.

“You’ll thank me for this,” Doc said, her voice cold and clinical. “Every time you think about touching yourself, you’ll remember this moment — the smell, the taste, the sickness. You’ll remember how it feels to lose control.”

“Oh, you want more of this bullshit?” she sneered, her hand darting to the volume control. With a sharp twist, the sound blasted through the room, a piercing cacophony of high-pitched moans and the exaggerated crack of a whip. It was deafening, the kind of noise that vibrated in his skull and made his hands clench involuntarily.

On the screen, a woman in latex strutted around, pretending to be a dominatrix, her actions exaggerated and ridiculous.

Doc walked back to him, her steps slow and deliberate. She crouched to his level, gripping his cheeks in one hand and forcing his face toward the screen.

“You like this fake shit, huh?” she spat, her voice cutting through the din. “Why not try some real shit?”

Her fingers dug into his skin, her eyes cold and furious. “Look, you pig. Look! That’s what you’re wasting your life on — cheap, fake bullshit. You think a woman would actually do that to you? In real life? Without you having to sell a goddamn kidney to afford it?”

She released his face with a shove, standing back and crossing her arms. “You can’t even pay your bills, Devin. And yet here you are, jerking off to fantasies that’ll never be yours. Pathetic.”

The woman on the screen let out another exaggerated moan, and Doc glanced at it with a snort of disgust. “This is what you’ve reduced yourself to,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re not even a man. You’re a joke.”

Doc stepped closer, her voice dropping to a smooth, hypnotic tone that seemed to fill the space around him, drowning out the cacophony from the screen. She gripped his chin firmly, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze.

“Look at me, Devin,” she said softly, her voice wrapping around him like a velvet chain. “That’s it. Look deep into my eyes.”

Her pupils seemed to expand, drawing him in, her presence overwhelming every inch of his mind. The room, the screen, the sounds — they all faded away as her voice became the only thing that mattered.

“Let go,” she whispered, her words seeping into him. “Sink. Deeper. Down. Now.”

Devin’s body sagged into the chair, his head lolling slightly, his breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.

“Good boy,” she said with a faint smile. Her grip on his chin softened, and she leaned in closer, her voice a gentle, commanding current. “Now, Devin, I want you to imagine something for me. Picture it clearly. You’re sitting right here, just as you are, and she’s there — the fake dominatrix, all dolled up in her shiny latex, pretending to be something she’ll never really be.”

Her tone hardened slightly, but it was still smooth, like a knife cutting through silk.

“And as you look at her, Devin, you feel it. Deep in your stomach. That churning, sickening twist. It starts small, like a tickle, but it grows and grows until you can’t hold it in anymore. You open your mouth, and you vomit — profusely, violently — all over her. Every sound she makes, every move she makes, makes you sicker. The smell, the taste, the sensation — burn it into your mind.”

Her voice became almost tender now, laced with mock sympathy. “See it, Devin. Feel the bile rising in your throat, feel the way your body rebels against her, against everything she represents. It’s uncontrollable. Every time you think of her — or anything like her — you’ll feel it all over again. The sickness. The shame. The disgust.”

She paused, letting the imagery sink deeper, her eyes locked on his vacant, slack expression.

“Good,” she murmured. “You’re doing so well. And every time you even think about touching yourself to that kind of garbage, you’ll remember this moment. You’ll see her, drenched and pathetic, and you’ll feel that nausea flood through you again. Won’t you, Devin?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, his lips trembling.

“Good boy,” she said again, her smirk returning. “Now sink even deeper. Let it become a part of you.”

Her fingers released his chin, and she straightened, watching as his body slumped further, completely under her control. She crossed her arms and stared down at him with satisfaction.

“By the time I’m done with you,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, “you’ll never even think about this crap again.”