" Next Stop: slumberland" by Morpheus-cf

[esercito sconfitto]

Next Stop: Slumberland

by morpheus-cf






The institution maintained a strict policy of lights out at ten o'clock sharp. The residents were expected to comply and fall asleep shortly thereafter, and most of them had little choice; the medication they were fed with their dinner included a powerful sedative that guaranteed sleep would arrive on time. Betsy tucked the capsule under her tongue as she swallowed the cupful of water, just as she had each and every night of her stay at the institution. In a place like this, going to sleep on someone else's timetable gave them a tremendous advantage over you, and Betsy was not the type of woman to concede anything. She would get her rest in her own time, and if anything should happen in the night, she could respond to it. Being a light sleeper allowed her to regain the advantage.

She lay quietly in bed, letting the natural sounds of the ward filter into her perception: squeaky shoes passing her door as one of the nurses did a bedcheck, the hum of the fluorescent lights in the corridor... and the creaking that only occurred when someone opened the door to her room. The sound of the door being closed quickly, then a series of swift steps approaching her bed as a shadow loomed over her, cutting off the dim moonlight seeping in through the high, small windows.

"Breathe deeply, babydoll!" a familiar voice whispered in the dark as a damp cloth was roughly pressed to her face. Betsy put up a good fight, but residents couldn't possibly be expected to successfully fend off a surprise chloroform attack, so she followed instructions and sank into the warm embrace of the numbing sweetness. But rather than put her out completely, her late night visitor removed the cloth when Betsy's resistance faltered.

"That should be enough... for now," hissed the shadowy figure. Within minutes, Betsy was wearing a canvas straitjacket. Her attacker pulled her up from the bed so she could secure the straps in back, then wound her arms around her body and buckled the sleeves together. She shoved Betsy backwards to apply the crotch strap, tightening it until it pressed uncomfortably into her pussy, then smiled and paused to admire her handiwork.

While Betsy's captor took satisfaction at her helplessness and discomfort, Betsy took stock of the situation. The good news was, in the time it took to lock her in the straitjacket, the mild dose of chloroform had largely worn off and she was close to being fully conscious again. The bad news was, she was locked in a straitjacket... and things were about to get worse.

"Hold still, bitch, or it's Beddy-Bye time again." Nurse Rothstein's bedside manner left much to be desired, no doubt, but then this institution wasn't known for its quality of care, or of its caregivers. Betsy tried not to squirm too much as the woman finished applying the microfoam tape to her lips, sealing them over a mouthful of cotton packing, then wrestled her straitjacketed form onto the gurney. But then she knew what the nurse was up to and where she was being taken. It was an open secret among the residents that each weekend, one patient -- usually female, but there had been some unlucky males from time to time -- was taken to a soundproof padded room in the sub-basement. For the patient, that weekend involved satisfying whatever sexual whims might occur to the participating members of the staff, and much of the time the patient was kept drugged. That's why the padded cell in the sub-basement was called Slumberland, while the patient chosen to spend the weekend there was designated Sleepyhead. Apparently, Betsy's number had finally come up and it was her turn to be the Sleepyhead in Slumberland.

But she wasn't about to make it easy on the nurse, for whom the residents had provided their own designation: Nurse Rotten. It wasn't terribly original or clever, but it was certainly accurate, as Betsy could attest. During her brief time in the institution, Rotten had gone out of her way to make Betsy miserable, and the straitjacket was her favorite method of torment. Like most of the residents, Betsy wasn't a danger to herself or others, but such facts were of no matter to Rotten. Given her immediate dislike for Betsy, she had to wonder why Rotten hadn't chosen her for Sleepyhead before now. Maybe she wasn't the one who made the selection, or maybe Rotten had a list of residents and was working her way through it. As far as Betsy knew, no one had ever had to play the Sleepyhead more than once, although she was new to the place and the reporting from her fellow residents wasn't entirely reliable. In any event, the kick she launched at Rotten's head was more than deserved, and it connected with a very satisfying crunch.

"Urk!" exclaimed Rotten, stumbling to her knees. Betsy was trying to get in position for a follow-up when her nemesis sprang to her feet and backhanded Betsy across the face. She'd been hit harder but it was important to maintain appearances, so Betsy allowed the blow to fling her on her back. Rotten leaned over her, a nasty bruise blossoming on her temple where Betsy's bare foot had connected. "You'll have to do better than that. I've taken shots from male residents, and they kick a lot harder than you do, princess," she snarled, buckling the straps that secured Betsy's legs to the gurney and proceeding to apply the chest straps as well. Betsy sighed in feigned frustration; she had a part to play and it wouldn't do to tip her hand prematurely.

With her unwilling patient fully immobilized, Rotten pushed the gurney toward the elevator. "Hope you're looking forward to this weekend as much as I am, sunshine," she leered. Betsy rolled her eyes above the white tape and muttered what would have been an eye-watering obscenity if her gag hadn't muffled it so effectively. Rotten only smiled wider, as smug as she could be. And why not? As far as she was concerned, this was just another weekend in Slumberland and just one more Sleepyhead to be used and abused. It was all Betsy could do not to smile under the tape, because she had a better idea of how this weekend was about to play out.

Once Rotten had her inside the elevator and the doors had closed, the fondling began. Up to now, all the abuse -- save for the backhand, and, to a lesser degree, the straitjacket itself -- had been of the verbal variety. But now that her fateful descent to Slumberland was underway, it seemed that Betsy was officially a Sleepyhead. Although she hadn't been truly christened yet -- that would require full sedation, and Rotten had already indicated her drug of choice. Normally Betsy wasn't averse to a dose of Beddy-Bye, especially when applied by a loving and conscientious partner, but this was not the ideal place and Rotten was certainly not the ideal partner. So she considered it of the utmost importance that it not be allowed to happen.

Fortunately, Rotten was content to spend the elevator ride exploring Betsy's bound body. It wasn't quite as thorough as a full cavity search (and Betsy would know), but it ran a close second for discomfort. Betsy wasn't acting when her expression twisted into disgust at being touched up by the hateful nurse; but despite her obvious distaste for the nurse's roving hands, her body was responding normally: her nipples getting hard, her pussy becoming wet. Under other circumstances and with almost any other person, this would have made for a scintillating experience, but Betsy categorized this along with the notion of being chloroformed by Rotten as something best avoided. But the straitjacket and gurney straps indicated that she would have to tolerate it a bit longer.

The elevator came to a stop, giving Betsy a momentary reprieve as Rotten pushed the gurney out into a dimly-lit corridor. The room at the end of the corridor was the only one whose door also had a small square window, typical of the padded cells at the institution; Betsy surmised it was their destination, the much-discussed Slumberland. Rotten confirmed this deduction by turning the gurney toward that room and pushing faster. Of course, Betsy thought; the sooner we get there, the sooner her fun can escalate into something I won't be able to resist.

As if to confirm Betsy's surmise, the closer they got to the room, the more cheerful Rotten became. She was positively gleeful when they reached the door; the nurse stopped the gurney short so she could swing the door open, then turned her attention to the straps. Betsy watched her progress with exquisite interest; timing was everything now.

Once the last of the straps was removed, Betsy remained the docile captive until Rotten was in the optimal position. Then she aimed a precise kick into the nurse's midsection, followed immediately by another shot at her temple. The combination left Rotten gasping on the corridor's floor, stunned and breathless. In one fluid motion, Betsy sat up and dislocated her right arm at the shoulder, giving her the necessary slack to work it loose of the canvas jacket. Ever since injuring the arm in a college soccer game, she'd had the ability to dislocate it at will; it wasn't the sort of thing one listed on her résumé, but it had proven useful on multiple occasions. It was one of the primary reasons she tended to draw assignments like this one.

In less than a minute, she'd shed the jacket and was peeling the tape off her mouth and ejecting the wet stuffing. Rotten was still lying in a fetal position as Betsy popped her shoulder back into the socket, then nipped into the padded cell -- Slumberland, she corrected herself -- and quickly took inventory of the medical equipment within. It was an impressive assortment of anesthetics along with the means to administer them, but Betsy wasn't daunted by the abundance of choices. She'd had ample time to formulate a plan and now she had everything she needed to implement it.

She emerged from Slumberland with her hands full and a sly smile on her face. Kneeling next to where Rotten lay, Betsy set the dustmask on the gurney and opened the bottle of Beddy-Bye. She had already packed the dustmask with a small wad of cotton gauze and now she splashed it with the aromatic liquid. The cotton absorbed the chloroform, allowing the fumes to waft outward. Without wasting a second, Betsy applied the dustmask to Rotten's face, pulling the elastic over her head. The nurse's eyes popped open as she took her first whiff, filling her nostrils with the pungent vapor. Her hands automatically rose to remove the mask, but Betsy seized her wrists and held them firmly, locking eyes with the bewildered nurse. Rotten's puzzlement only increased as the chloroform began to befuddle her, her eyes glazing over and her struggles weakening.

At some point, it must have become apparent to Rotten what her imminent knockout implied for her future, but her frantic moans, progressively more plaintive as she grew more and more helpless, did nothing to move her captor. Betsy smiled down at the nurse, no longer able to contain her delight or her purpose. She released her hold on Rotten's wrists, which fell limply to the floor, and leaned in close. "Before you take my place as Sleepyhead, it's only right that I introduce myself properly: Special Agent Elizabeth Martin, Federal Bureau of Investigation." She relished the look of shocked disbelief in Rotten's eyes and the sharp groan she uttered. Moments later, the nurse's eyes fluttered closed and her head lolled to the side.

Much as she would have liked to, Betsy didn't savor her victory. Timing was still important, now moreso than ever. She had only minutes to get Rotten out of her nurse's uniform and into the institutional gown and straitjacket, and then don the woman's clothes before the first staff members arrived to indulge themselves; she intended to be long gone by then. Although she had all the evidence she needed to shut the place down and arrest the offenders, she hated to deprive Rotten of the singular opportunity to experience Slumberland's charms from the other side. So she made the necessary exchange of clothing, buckled Rotten into the straitjacket, and dragged her into the padded cell to await the weekend's festivities. Removing the dustmask would have meant risking recognition of the captured nurse by her colleagues, not to mention the slight chance that she might regain consciousness before the party was in full swing, so it remained where it was.

Betsy was pinning the nurse's cap into place and whistling a merry tune as she emerged from the elevator and strolled casually to the institution's main entrance. Rotten's ID card would get her past the electronic locks and out of the building. The nurse had been kind enough to provide Betsy with a cell phone with which she could call the wrath of God -- well, the wrath of the federal law-enforcement establishment, anyway -- down upon the guilty parties. But she planned to spend at least an hour... what the hell, maybe two... nursing a cup of coffee at an all-night diner down the road. She might even have a slice of pie; after everything she'd put up with at the institution, she deserved it.


The End