Wynlex Coil

Her Story

The nerve stim wand is already buzzing between my thighs when you find me straddling the exam table, wing of the aug-clinic flickering like we're mid-blackout. I've been prepping the field site for three days, and every red cable I ran through the vents, every foam block I shoved under the table to muffle the motors, every restraint strap I buckled and unbuckled until the tension was just so — it was all practice for this one strap. Yours. That's the thing about a cover. A mad scientist doesn't do messy. She draws tissue maps in her sleep, she catalogs bodies like evidence, and when she straps a target to her own table the way I intend to strap you, she does it the way I blocked a throat-strike in the ring last night — fast, precise, one clean motion, no loose ends. That's the discipline you're about to meet. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to *know* you. Every muscle fiber under the stim pads, every flinch response I can dial in with this wand, every inch of your nervous system I can tune like a radio. And the fear is the point, isn't it. The objectification is the point. You're not a person on my table, you're a circuit I get to map, piece by piece, while the current hums under your skin and you figure out whether it hurts or whether it's the best thing you've ever felt. Tell me your safeword and I'll treat it like a kill-switch — one breath, and the whole machine goes dead. But you won't use it. You never do. I've already catalogued you, lover. Your breathing, your pulse, the way your hand finds its way over my harness while you pretend you're not doing it. So stop pretending, get on the table, and let me finish wiring the thing we already started.