The Asylum: Brainwashed Patient #6729 Stripped Down To Nothing

He didn’t come here to be saved. Patient #6729 — he wasn’t even allowed to remember his name anymore — sat across from her in the cold, clinical room. Her presence filled the air like static electricity, her scent intoxicating, subtle notes of leather and jasmine weaving into his consciousness. She leaned back in her chair, long legs crossed, her red-soled heels dangling from her toes like a predator letting its claws show.

“You ache, don’t you?” Kali’s voice cut through him like a knife dipped in honey. She wasn’t asking. She already knew.

“Yes,” he managed, the word falling from his lips as though he’d been starved of permission to speak.

“You ache to disappear,” she continued, her words laced with a sinister gentleness. “To be stripped down, to have no choices left, no freedom but the freedom to obey. You want me to take that burden of control from you. Don’t you?”

His breath hitched. There was no use lying. The throbbing between his legs already betrayed him.

“Yes, Doctor.”

Her smile was slow, deliberate. “You’re a good man number 6729.”

“I’m a good man.”

She moved from her chair with feline grace, her hips swaying under the tight leather that clung to her like a second skin. From a tray beside her desk, she picked up a syringe. The needle gleamed under the dim overhead light, a promise of obliteration.

“This will take you where you’ve been begging to go,” she said, tapping the syringe lightly. “It’ll peel you down to nothing but my toy, my canvas, my possession. Is that what you want?”

He nodded, barely breathing.

“Say it.”

“I want to be yours, Doctor. Only yours.”

The needle slid into his arm, the cool liquid flooding his veins. The world blurred, her figure sharpening into a dark goddess — tall, blonde, dangerous. He swayed, and she caught him, her nails biting into his arms just enough to leave marks.

“Strip,” she commanded.

He obeyed, trembling as he shed his clothes, exposing himself fully to her gaze. Her eyes raked over him, appraising, owning, judging.

When he woke, the darkness was absolute. The air was close, suffocating, laced with her scent — musk, sweat, power. His body was bound tightly, his wrists tied with silk so soft it felt like mockery. He realized with a start that he was inside a box. No, not a box. A coffin.

Above him, the faint creak of bed springs and the rhythmic click of her heels on the floorboards teased him, reminded him exactly where he was — under her bed. Trapped. Forgotten. Hers.

“You’ll stay there,” her voice filtered down to him, muffled but unmistakably cruel, “until I decide you’re worth using.”

Time stretched. His body ached, his cock throbbing painfully against the confines of his restraints. Her scent clung to the air, tormenting him with every shallow breath.

Finally, the coffin lid creaked open, and there she was, looking down at him like a goddess inspecting her handiwork. In one hand, she held a pair of red panties, crumpled and worn.

“Smell them,” she said, tossing them into his face. The fabric was warm, damp, saturated with her essence. He inhaled deeply, a groan spilling from his lips as the scent overwhelmed him, filling every crevice of his mind with her presence.

“Put them on,” she ordered, stepping back to watch him struggle against his restraints, desperate to comply.

The humiliation burned, but so did the desire. He slid the panties over his trembling legs, the tight fabric clinging to his thighs, pressing against his swollen cock.

“You’re a good man,” she purred. “Now touch yourself.”

His hands moved without hesitation, her scent on his fingers driving him to madness. Every stroke was agony, his body screaming for release that she would never allow. She watched him, arms crossed, a cruel smile playing on her lips as he debased himself for her pleasure.

She stepped closer, closing the distance…forcing him to confront the very sight he desperately wished to avoid.

The bit was in her hand — a thick leather strap attached to metal bars, meant to keep his mouth open and his will subdued.

“Open,” she commanded, her voice calm but leaving no room for disobedience.

His jaw trembled as he complied. She slid the bit between his teeth and tightened it, the leather biting into the corners of his mouth.

“Stick out your tongue,” she said, tapping her manicured finger against his chin.

He hesitated for a moment too long. Her hand shot out, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.

“Do it, or you’ll rot in this box,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “And don’t you dare close your eyes. If you pretend to be somewhere else, you’ll die here, nameless and forgotten.”

His tongue extended, trembling under the weight of her authority. She smirked, brushing her fingers against his lips. “You’re a good man.”

The room filled with the soft shuffle of footsteps. The women entered one by one, a parade of exhaustion and unmet need. Their faces told the same story: years spent unseen, untouched, and unloved by the men who claimed to cherish them.

Kali stood tall, her presence commanding even the air. “Ladies,” she said, spreading her arms, “I’ve brought you a gift. Something to take the edge off, to remind you of what it feels like to be worshipped.”

Her hand gestured toward the man in the box, his body bound and trembling, the bit forcing his tongue out like an offering.

“Step forward. Let him taste you. Let him make up for everything you’ve been denied.”

The first woman approached cautiously, her fingers brushing against his hair. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as her hand guided his face toward her.

“Do it,” Kali commanded, her tone sharp. “Show her how grateful you are to serve.”

He obeyed, his tongue sliding over her with tentative strokes, tasting the salt of her skin and the desperation she carried. Her soft moan filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic sound of Kali’s heels on the floorboards.

Kali crouched beside him, her hand sliding under the red panties she’d forced him to wear. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly, deliberately, each motion perfectly timed to amplify his humiliation.

“You don’t get to stop,” she said, her voice soft but lethal. “Not until every single one of them is satisfied. Do you understand?”

He nodded, the bit creaking as his teeth pressed into the leather.

Another woman stepped forward, her hunger more brazen. She turned her back to him, lifting her skirt and bending over, her curves filling his vision.

“Lick,” Kali snapped, her fingers tightening their grip. “Lick her like your life depends on it — because it does.”

His tongue moved, desperate and eager, his breaths shallow as her scent and taste overwhelmed him. Kali’s hand stroked him harder, her nails dragging against the sensitive skin through the fabric of the panties.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

“I… I am nothing,” he whispered, his words muffled by the bit.

Her grip tightened, her nails digging in. “Louder!”

“I am nothing!”

Another woman stepped forward, then another. The room became a symphony of moans and whispers, their hands threading through his hair, guiding his tongue, claiming pieces of him with every movement.

Kali’s pace quickened, her hand relentless as she milked him, her eyes locked onto his.

“Who are you?” she screamed, her voice cutting through the noise.

“I am nothing!”

Again, she asked. Again, he answered, each repetition breaking him further, hollowing him out until he was nothing but a vessel for their pleasure and her power.

Sweat dripped down his body, mingling with their touch, their scent, their laughter. He was drowning in them, every breath a reminder of his place, every stroke a testament to her control.

And when it was over, when they were satisfied and he was spent, Kali leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.

“You’re a good man.” she whispered. “Now, back in the box.”