Sleep Study

The lights never really turned off in the clinic. Even during designated "rest phases," they just dimmed to a sterile hum, cool, bluish, like moonlight filtered through a laboratory.

I hadn't slept in over 72 hours.

That was the point, of course. A government-funded university study on cognitive drift and inhibition under sleep deprivation. I volunteered out of curiosity and a desire to disappear for a while. No phone, no obligations. Just observation.

By the third night, reality had started to lose shape. I was floating through soft-edged hallucinations, barely tethered to my body. Time stopped working. My skin was more sensitive. Every sound in the clinic, the beeping machines, the HVAC buzz, the soft squeak of shoes, hit like a whisper directly against my nerves.

That's when I started noticing him.

Ronnie. One of the nighttime RAs.

He didn't talk much. Never smiled. He moved with robotic precision, adjusting wires on patients, logging data silently into his tablet. His uniform was clean, his shoes always the same dull gray. He never made small talk. Just watched. Measured.

I first noticed his cock on night four.

It was hard beneath his pale blue scrubs, straining slightly to the left, long and thick. At first I thought I was hallucinating, some side effect of sleep loss. But then it happened again. And again. Always when he was near me. Always when I was half-naked under the blanket, electrodes suctioned to my body, my mind somewhere between dreaming and dissolving.

He never acknowledged it.

Until he did.

It was just after 2:30 AM when he came into my partitioned room. He closed the curtain and tapped gently on the monitor screen beside my bed. I was lying flat, wired up, bare from the waist down with a thin sheet covering me.

"Still no sleep?" he asked. His voice was flat, monotone. More of a data entry prompt than a question.

"No." My throat was dry. My lips cracked. "Can't relax."

He stood at the edge of my bed, tablet in hand. But he wasn't tapping anything. Just watching me. Or parts of me.

I glanced down. His scrubs were tented.

He stood still for a second, like he was buffering. Then he said:

"I can help. If you're open to physical stimulation."

Just like that. No hesitation. No euphemism. Just clinical suggestion stated as fact.

My chest tightened. Not in fear, more in recognition. My body responded before my mind did. I nodded.

Instead of leaning in, instead of touching me gently, he just stood there as I reached out and pressed my hand against the front of his uniform. His cock was hot through the fabric, already firm. I traced the outline through the material, thick, blunt, growing harder with each stroke. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood straight, breathing slowly, as if this too were part of the protocol.

When he was fully erect, pushing tight against the fabric, he finally spoke again:

"Get on all fours. I'll prep you."

I laid the clinic-issued towel down over the plastic mattress. Pulled the curtain closed tighter. Got on all fours, my bare ass exposed, face pressed to the cool fitted sheet. The smell of disinfectant and latex filled my lungs.

Ronnie's gloves snapped on. I heard the bottle of lube click open.

Then silence.

Then his breath on me. Not the breath of a lover, there was no hunger in it. Just presence. Just intention.

He spread me open with gloved hands and began to lick me. Slowly. Methodically. No moaning. No playfulness. Just warm, steady pressure. His tongue traced me like he was studying terrain. I felt the chill of the clinic air on my wet hole, then the sharpness of his tongue again. Again.

I moaned into the mattress. He said nothing.

He licked me for what felt like forever.

The rhythm of his tongue was mechanical, consistent... like a scan. Like he was gathering data with each stroke. There was no teasing, no moaning, no praise. Just the sound of latex brushing against my skin as his gloved hands held me open, and the wet repetition of his tongue tracing the folds of my ass with measured precision.

Each lick made me twitch. The clinical chill of the room made the warmth of his mouth feel obscene. I could smell the faint mint of hospital soap on his skin, the sterile lube, and something darker, his scent, subtle, like worn cotton and sweat barely held in check.

Then I felt him shift behind me.

There was a pause, the sound of his glove being removed, then the unmistakable sensation of skin. Flesh. Warm and bare. His cock, heavy and firm, nudging blindly at my entrance. He was hard, rock solid, and thick. The head pushed against me, missed, then again. Too blunt. Too direct. I reached back, fingers trembling, and grabbed him. Lined him up.

He didn't say thank you. Just pushed.

And the world left me.

The first inch broke me open. My breath left in a jagged exhale, and I collapsed forward onto the mattress, chest flat, face buried. My spine arched instinctively, my hole stretched wide around him.

It wasn't slow. It wasn't gradual. His cock plunged deep into me with a single, brutal drive, thick, unrelenting, eight inches of raw pressure filling me to the brink. I cried out, not in pain exactly... more in shock. My entire body was a taut wire of sensation, my ass ringed tight around something that should not have fit but somehow did.

He paused inside me, buried to the hilt.

My asshole pulsed around him, trying to adjust, clenching and failing. I could feel the heat of him deep inside, my own heartbeat fluttering in my hole, my stomach tight with the stretch.

Still... he said nothing.

No grunt. No moan. I pushed back onto his veiny cock. His hands gripping my hips as he began to move.

He pulled back until my hole his the base of his huge cock, then pushed me forward, I gasped at the sudden emptiness. Then he drove back in, hard. Again. Again. The sound of his hips slapping against me echoed in the quiet room. The bed creaked softly beneath us, rhythmically, as he pumped.

There was no variation. Just deep, full strokes... back and forth, back and forth. Like a metronome measuring my surrender.

I flipped onto my back, lifting my legs without a word.

Ronnie took my thighs in his hands and spread me open. His eyes scanned my face like he was checking vitals, blank, unreadable. Then he entered me again, and I gasped, clawing at the sheets. My hole welcomed him, stretched and sore but greedy now... hungry for the next thrust.

He fucked me harder now, each slam sending a dull, wet thud into the mattress. My ass burned, but I loved it. The pain was perfect. It bloomed into pleasure. I felt loose, ruined, but strong. Full.

There was something holy about the silence. About being used like a body, not a person. No performance. No seduction. Just his cock owning my hole.

He'd pull almost all the way out, stretching me wide, leaving me gaping... then slam back in, flattening me under the weight of him. I could feel the sweat at my temples, the lube and slickness pooling beneath me. I was wrecked. I was proud.

I whispered, hoarse:

"Keep going... just like that..."

He didn't respond. But he obeyed.

When he came, it wasn't loud. There was no breathy climax, no growl. Just a pause. One last deep thrust. A twitch. Then stillness.

He pulled out slowly, and I felt the emptiness instantly.

My hole stayed open. Gaping.

There was a long, quiet moment where I felt the air rush inside me, cold and humiliating. I couldn't close. I could barely move.

Cum oozing out and dripping down my ass onto the towel.

Ronnie wiped himself off with a towel. Pulled his gloves back on. Logged something into his tablet.

Then he left without a word.

I lay there, ruined.

The sheet beneath me was damp with sweat, lube, and the faint residue of latex powder. My legs were still spread, twitching occasionally. My hole refused to close. It pulsed gently, raw, open, tender. Every breath made me aware of the emptiness inside me. A vacuum left in the shape of him.

The overhead lights buzzed softly. Somewhere beyond the curtain, another patient coughed. Machines beeped. The world carried on.

But I didn't move. I didn't speak. I didn't even cry.

I just... listened to the silence inside my body.

When I finally stood, slowly, gingerly, I felt it immediately: the soreness. Deep, dull ache in my lower back. The burn between my cheeks. My asshole still loose, still slightly gaped. I shuffled to the bathroom, careful, gripping the metal rail for support.

I sat on the toilet and winced.

No blood. Just soreness. A lingering stretch. My muscles were confused, still half open, fluttering around nothing. My own body now echoed with the absence of him.

I washed. Dried. Dressed. Slowly.

My skin smelled like antiseptic and latex. My fingers shook slightly as I folded the towel and placed it back on the bed like nothing had happened.

The next 48 hours were a blur.

I couldn't stop shifting in my seat, wincing as the soreness pressed against the hard plastic chairs of the observation lounge. My walk had changed, slightly wider stance, subconscious bracing.

I was healing.

But I didn't want to.

Every time I felt my asshole clench naturally again, I felt a pang of sadness. Of longing. It was closing. Forgetting. Rebuilding.

And I... didn't want to forget.

I started watching Ronnie more closely. He avoided eye contact as always. Took his notes. Ran his wires. Didn't acknowledge what had happened. Didn't smirk. Didn't check in.

He was the same cold, efficient presence.

That made it worse.

That made me crave it more.

The next night, I couldn't sleep--not from the deprivation, but from the need. The ache had become desire. My hole still remembered. My body buzzed with the memory of being filled... stretched... used.

I wanted to be gaped again. I wanted to feel the pressure. The silence. The tension.

But this time... I wanted to capture it.

During morning vitals, I asked:

"Hey... can I ask you something?"

Ronnie looked up from his clipboard. His eyes locked on mine. Flat. Patient.

"Yes."

I swallowed. My voice cracked slightly.

"Do you think you could... next time... take a picture? Of your cock in me?"

No reaction.

"I'd like to remember it. And maybe a video. I... I think I want to see what I look like while you're inside me."

Still no change in expression. He wrote something in his notes.

Then simply:

"Do you consent to being recorded for personal use?"

My cock twitched.

"Yes. I want to. I'm proud I can take you."

The request was logged. Of course it was.

This was a clinic. Everything needed a protocol, even when it was sex.

The next night, Ronnie didn't say a word when he entered my room. Just drew the curtain, placed his tablet on the counter, and pulled a new set of gloves from the wall dispenser.

I was already ready.

I had laid out the towel. Removed my clothes. Got on all fours. Waiting. Open.

My hole was tight again... but not fully. Not the way it had been before him. It pulsed in anticipation, remembering the shape of him, the burn, the stretch.

Ronnie reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out my phone. I'd given it to him before lights-out. The camera app was already open.

"Would you like to confirm recording settings?" he asked, clinically.

"Just hit record," I whispered, pressing my cheek to the mattress. "I want to see it all later. Everything."

The first thing I heard was the faint click as the record button was pressed.

Then silence.

Then his hands on my hips, steady, gloved. The cold kiss of lube smeared between my cheeks. And finally, the thick head of his cock nudging at my entrance, slippery, eager.

My breath caught.

The camera was rolling. The room was quiet. And Ronnie... was already pushing inside me.

The stretch was blinding.

Even though my body remembered him, the first inch felt like fire. I whimpered. My hole resisted... then gave way. The familiar pain bloomed again, sharp and addictive. My fingers clawed the sheets. My back arched. I looked toward the nightstand, imagining the lens catching every angle.

Get it all. Get how I take it.

He sank deeper, slow and steady. No teasing. No pause.

I could hear the squelch of lube. The slap of skin. The creak of the mattress. I imagined the camera capturing it all: my gaping hole swallowing him, my back slick with sweat, my mouth open in silent moans.

He began to move.

This time, he was even more mechanical. More consistent. It wasn't emotion, it was rhythm. Precision. His hips pumped into me with quiet force, filling me completely with every thrust. My hole stretched open, gaped, welcomed him.

And I... was proud.

Proud of how wide I opened. Proud of how deep he could go. Proud of how I moaned and shook and still stayed on all fours, presenting for him and the camera.

I reached back, spread myself wider.

"Film it," I whispered. "Film my hole... see how I take you."

Ronnie moved the phone briefly. Adjusted the angle. His cock never left me.

When he pulled out fully, I could feel the air rush into me, cold, humiliating, euphoric. I stayed stretched, wide open. Gaping. The echo of him, visible.

"Push back in," I begged. "Make me gape again."

He obeyed.

This time harder. He slammed back in, and I cried out. My eyes blurred. My spine snapped into a bow. My body accepted him, welcomed the burn, craved the destruction.

I was being fucked and filmed. Used and documented. Worshipped in silence by the camera's unblinking eye.

When he finally came, it was just like before, no warning, no grunt, just a final deep thrust... a stillness... then retreat.

He pulled out, and I collapsed forward, wrecked. Open. Pulsing.

I turned over and spread my legs, still panting. I looked at him.

"Show me."

Ronnie handed me the phone.

I watched the video in silence.

My hole, gaping, red, stretched wide around his cock. My back arched. My body shaking. My mouth slack. I looked like a man being broken and loving it.

I didn't cry. I didn't flinch.

I smiled.

I took it. I took all of him. And I want more.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay in bed, sore and open, rewatching the footage. My ass still tingled, still remembered him. Every clench, every twitch reminded me I was his subject. His experiment.

I wanted another session.

I wanted to document every inch of surrender.

Because now I wasn't just a patient.

I was his favorite test case.

Ronnie didn't say goodbye.

After pulling out of me, slow, controlled, my body slack and gaping, he placed the phone gently on the side table, wiped his cock, and re-gloved his hands. Just like always, he tapped something into his tablet, then stepped through the curtain and disappeared into the fluorescent-lit hallway like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't just rearranged me from the inside out.

I lay there for a while, twitching.

My hole pulsed open, fluttering around nothing. Still wet. Still hot. Still aching in that delicious way where pain blurred into ownership. I hadn't closed yet. I didn't want to.

I reached for the phone.

The screen lit up, my face, barely visible in the video's thumbnail, mouth slack, eyes wide.

I hit play.

And there I was... exposed. On all fours. Back arched. Hole glistening. Ronnie's cock sliding in slow, stretching me wider than I thought possible. My own moans low and distant, echoing faintly through the room like some ghost of my restraint breaking apart.

I stared at myself.

Watched his cock disappear into me again and again. Watched my body recoil and open. Watched myself beg.

"Push back in... make me gape..."

I heard my own voice and felt my cock swell instantly.

One hand slid down between my thighs. My fingers wrapped around my shaft, still damp with sweat. I stroked slowly, timed with the thrusts onscreen. Each time he pulled out and left my hole yawning open, I paused the video.

I stared at the gape.

My gape.

Ruined. Proud. Glistening.

That's me. That's my ass. I took him.

I rewound and played it again. The slapping of hips, the quiet squelch, the clinical hum in the background. I imagined Ronnie still in the next room, expressionless, logging data, while I jerked off to what he'd just done to me.

I came hard.

Silently. Almost violently. My legs shaking as cum splattered across my stomach, warm and sudden. I didn't even look away from the screen as I finished. Just kept watching my asshole being wrecked on repeat, jaw slack, hole stretching, fingers digging into the mattress as Ronnie used me like a task on his clipboard.

Afterward, I didn't wipe up right away.

I just lay there. Spent. Sore. Open.

The video played again in a loop beside me. My own destruction now my favorite porn. My own gape now the only image that got me hard.

I wasn't ashamed.

I was proud.

And I knew I'd ask for another session soon.

Not because I wanted to feel loved.

Because I wanted to feel used.