Chapters The Service Model Chapter 7
The next two months in the cart proceeded much the same as the first day, and they were all equally degrading. Besides the testing and fitting, small adjustments to the frame, Assa was trapped in her new chair, and the man she soon identified as Doctor assured her she would stay there unless she needed cleaning, which became twice-weekly baths, real ones in the lovely water unlike the wipe-down she experienced other days, blind and deaf in the hands of her Nurse in the tub. It didn’t matter anyways, there was no reason to leave the machine except for her dignity, which was obviously of no concern in the wake of the “innovations” her Doctor sought.
Her life was simpler now. Every night after the last employee left the office, Assa would retreat to her designated corner to recharge, refill her food tank, and drain her waste tank. For these mandatory hours she was locked there, until 9am when the office would open again. When her alarm went off, three short shocks would pierce her nipples to wake her, and her hearing and sight would turn on. Her usual routine back home of going to the bathroom to pee became irrelevant, as every night a panel would eject from her seat and cover what Doctor called her “face.” Assa knew this wasn’t really her face but she couldn’t prove it anymore, or reply to him at all, so she eventually succumbed to his reasoning. There were valves in her plug and later her urethra which the panel connected to for flushing and draining overnight. It then filled her in the morning with her breakfast enema. Two more meals would sit in her for an hour each day and then be flushed out, as well as two more bladder releases, which she was always thankful for due to her diet being mostly water-based. Other than these basic maintenance functions, if she had serviced anyone she would get a short “mouthwash,” as Doctor called it. The panel covering her only line of sight was always claustrophobic, but living as a deafblind quadruple amputee with a webcam shoved up her ass had redefined that word for her.
She had a couple minutes from wakeup and breakfast to drive over to the front reception area, join her new friend Bunny, and wait for the Doctor’s employees to walk in. Regularly, she’d be taken aside and fucked by either the tall man who always kissed Nurse, or any of the other men in the office down the hall, the ones with maps and pictures of women on the walls. On the rare occasion neither Bunny or her were used, she could usually get the dumb blonde’s attention by shaking her hips slightly or gently driving into her, after which the woman would notice her over-lubricated slit, bend down, and lick her to a few deep orgasms. Assa couldn’t really tell her to stop, not that she would want to, so she usually just enjoyed herself until the woman got distracted by a passing employee and hopped off in search of greener pastures.
This moderately helped her most recent problem: her new, hypersexual tendencies. These were intensely worrying, but in an environment where any sort of aphrodisiac or hormone cocktail could be going into her enema solution, she still couldn’t explain her severe mental break from the first day in the chair, and any “daily service count” below her quota resulted in late-night nipple shocks interrupting her solitary sleep, it was no wonder she was turning into the sextoy they wanted of her. A “toy girl,” as Doctor called her.
Oh, she had tried to resist, especially in the first week after her shameful realization that she now inexplicably became wet to the point of dripping whenever she was approached for use by a man. The firm padding under her clit had vibrated a bit during these times the first few days, and Assa rightly-assumed it had been a positive-reinforcement training program like she had learned about in first-year psych class, but Doctor soon said it wasn’t necessary, and now only used it to punitively edge her overnight or reward her for good behaviour.
Resistance came with opportunity and, well, it turned out that driving her new wheelchair around was surprisingly simple, she just had to think of walking to roll forward, or running to accelerate. Early on, she had to consciously extend her non-existent legs, flexing her butt cheeks for all to see, but now it was second-nature; just the thought moved her forward. It was objectively horrifying to remember the sea breeze against her body, sweaty from exertion, and now have that same feeling on her “face” due to her wetness and desire, rolling through this office where awful people ruined the lives of countless girls like her, but she had no choice, so she carried on. Doctor was very clear that if she tried to ram down the front door again or escape in any other way, he would put her chair on autopilot, dormant and trapped unless someone called for her. But that threat was overkill after the tortuous edging and shock session she had experienced for 14 hours straight the night of her escape attempt.
This wasn’t the truly degrading part, though. She hated the feeling of their rough hands on her now-prominent hips, how she couldn’t look away as they unzipped their pants and brought out their erect cocks (she almost knew these office-goers by their genitalia, not by face as those were too high up). Then, it was always her responsibility to mentally lock her wheels, visualize standing or sitting down to mechanically raise or lower the height of her new mouth to align with their needs, and then wait for them to grasp her ass, shoulder, or hair (which seemed to have been left unmarred for this exact purpose), pound her pussy till they unloaded into her, all the time listening to the sloppy sounds from the microphone right next to her tight, wet mouth as she waited for either a command or their finishing thrust.
The commands she accepted were “tighter”, “looser”, or “help”. “Tighter” would make the interior shaft of her anal plug inflate, pressing into her vaginal cavity, and “looser” was the inverse. These were initially very uncomfortable, a more acute pressure than her enemas, but she grew used to the other sensorial benefits of feeling more from her intruders. “Help” activated a sort of quick oscillating motion in her seat or the actuators below which would force her tiny body back and forth like a jackhammer, stroking their shaft. It gave her a very bad headache the first few times, and Doctor had to do some work to make the motion more “livable,” as he called it. But the thing she hated most of all, beyond the degrading acts themselves, was how much she craved that finish, that knowledge as the semen dripped from her mouth into the collection tray below, that whether she came or not, she had been a good girl, and if she did cum it was a gift.
This utterly foreign frame of understanding would fill her mind for a blissful 5 or 10 minutes after she completed someone’s servicing, and the comedown was harsh. It was not uncommon to hear a high whistling as she screamed silently at what had happened to her, or for Doctor’s tablet to describe ‘self-hate’ and ‘despondency’ as primary emotions during these fits. Frankly, Assa was concerned that even after two months, she had already changed internally as much as externally, and she had forgotten how to get back to her old self. And if that wasn’t scary enough, she was acutely concerned with how much she desperately wanted to avoid this hangover effect, and how what would’ve been sob-ridden moments in her corner a couple weeks ago were now spent in search of her next fuck to get back to that submissive high, to be reminded of Julio fucking her with his rough hands on her legless hips, like he used to before he abandoned her.