WARNING!!! The following story contains bondage, domination, and extremely adult sexual situations. If this isn't the kind of thing you're interested in, for heavens sake DON'T READ IT!!! You should be OVER 21 YEARS OF AGE to read this, as it is intended for adults only.
This story is written as satirical fiction for entertainment purposes only, and is not intended to gather monetary recompense in ANY WAY, SHAPE, or FORM...it is freely offered for interested readers only.
The original creations of Wonder Woman, the Justice League, J'onn, Grodd, Steve Trevor, and Gorilla City are copyrighted by DC Comics.
Wonder Woman: Slave of Gorilla City Part II – The Nurse’s Examination
The stone floor was cold beneath Diana’s bare feet, her wrists chafed raw from the leather straps binding them above her head.
Her cell reeked of damp earth and musk, the walls slick with condensation. Dim torchlight flickered across carvings of apes in worshipful poses, their stone eyes following her every movement. A single barred window near the ceiling let in slivers of jungle heat, teasing her with glimpses of freedom.
Diana knelt in the center of the chamber, her naked body gleaming with sweat. The magic lasso that encircled her neck, once her greatest weapon, kept her from testing the bars of the cage.
It had been seven days since Grodd had leashed her, overcoming her with surprising strength of both his overdeveloped mental powers and the vast numbers of his ape army. Since pulling her leashed, nude form along the narrow footpaths of the cavernous Gorilla City, Diana had spent her captivity in silent resistance.
Grodd seemed to intend her to be -at best- a consort and at worst a sexual slave, and he had worked hard to achieve either end: stripped of her Amazonian attire, kept nude, leashed and confined in a dank cell, subjected to nightly telepathic assaults meant to erode her will. But Diana was no stranger to hardship or discipline. She had endured worse than this—not physically, perhaps, but mentally. The Amazons had trained her in the art of resistance, in the quiet strength of patience.
Each night of her captivity so far, when the torches guttered low and the jungle's chorus swelled outside her cell, Grodd had come for her—not in flesh, but in whispers. His telepathy slithered into her skull like warm oil, thick and deliberate, pressing against the seams of her will. At first, it had been crude: phantom hands groping her in the dark, the mental projection of his rank breath on her neck, the imagined weight of his massive simian body pinning her. But Diana had clenched her teeth and turned her mind to Themyscira’s windswept cliffs, to her mother’s voice reciting the litanies of endurance.
By the third night, Grodd grew cunning. He didn’t just show her his desire—he showed her hers. Twisted reflections of her own cravings, forced into her unconscious from years of nearly asexual self-discipline: the occupants of these visions were too vague to identify, but the motions were seductive and fierce, slicked bodies and grunts as they pushed into one another. But again she resisted, pushing back against such thoughts, squeezing until his visions fractured.
By the fifth night, Grodd snarled in frustration. His mental intrusions had become jagged, erratic—like a sculptor hacking at marble. Diana, meanwhile, had turned her cell into a temple of defiance. She traced the carvings on the walls with her fingers, reciting Amazonian war poetry under her breath, each syllable a shield. When Grodd’s phantom hands pawed at her breasts, she winced but did not surrender...and envisioned snapping his spine across her knee.
But Grodd was not one to concede. Each morning, he arrived in the flesh—an ominous silhouette framed by torchlight, his massive silverback form draped in a cloak of woven gold. The scent of crushed herbs clung to him, sharp and medicinal. Diana tensed as he crouched wordlessly beside her, his leathery knuckles stroking her thigh, upward towards her womanhood. Always the lasso compelled her to be still, to endure his inspection. She longed to be able to remove it from her neck and use it against him, but its magic made that impossible: she had to obey.
His thick fingers probed her folds with clinical precision, searching for dampness, for the telltale flush of arousal—proof his telepathic torments had taken root. Finding none, he’d grunt, amused, his breath hot against her ear. "Stubborn little goddess," he'd rumble, his voice like gravel underfoot. He wasn’t angry. No, his yellowed canines gleamed in something like delight at the challenge she presented.
Seven nights. Seven mornings. Seven inspections. Diana had counted them by the ache in her thighs, by the chafing in her wrists, by the pain of the lasso about her neck. And yet—she’d won this much: her mind refused to betray her.
But victory could be brittle, she knew. The question coiled in her gut like a venomous snake: How much longer? Grodd’s patience was surely a slow-burning fuse. She’d seen the hunger in his simian guards’ eyes as they lingered outside her cell, their knuckles dragging along the bars. Their musk thickened the air, a promise of violence barely leashed. She’d seen in the jungle what they would do to her, had they their King’s indulgence.
And so, alone in the dark, the question slithered back: Would surrender be so terrible? Grodd’s touch was singular, at least. His guards reeked of rutting season, their yellowed fangs dripping when they leered at her. Last night, one had shoved his cock between the bars, grunting as he taunted her. And there were so many. Their ravishings would be endless, if Grodd unleashed them upon her.
But no, she shook her head. She could not allow Grodd to take her. Not like this. That she even considered it a possibility, she knew, was merely a sign of his hypnotic power.
Wonder Woman clenched her thighs together, the ghost of his last intrusion still prickling along her skin. His telepathy wasn’t brute force anymore; it was a whisper in her marrow, coaxing her to arch into the emptiness of her cell, to imagine the weight of him between her legs. But regardless, she would -she must- fight.
On the eighth morning, after a particularly rancid set of images thrust into her mind by Grood, Diana lifted her head from her position chained against the cavern wall to the creak of the iron door.
And what stood there—blonde, flushed, incongruous—was a human woman.
Diana blinked. The girl—no, the nurse—was young, early twenties perhaps, with a cap of golden curls pinned neatly beneath a starched white cap. Her uniform was a mockery of medical propriety: a tunic so high-cut it barely grazed the tops of her thighs, cinched at the waist with a red sash. White stockings sheathed her legs, vanishing into heels that clicked sharply against the stone floor.
The nurse said nothing as she wedged a rusted iron wedge beneath the cell door, propping it open with practiced efficiency. The hinges groaned in protest, but held. Then she turned, gripping the handles of a wheeled medical cot—its leather straps dangling—and maneuvered it inside with a grunt. The wheels squeaked, a sound that set Diana’s teeth on edge.
"Hello?" Diana croaked, throat dry from disuse. Her fingers twitched against the manacles. "Can you—can you free me?" The plea tasted like ash. She already knew the answer. The nurse’s pupils were too wide, her movements too deliberate—like a puppet tugged by unseen strings. Still, hope fluttered weakly in Diana’s chest. "Please?"
The nurse’s lips parted—then twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "I—I want to," she gasped, her voice suddenly her own, high and desperate. Her hands, meanwhile, worked methodically, unbuckling Diana’s restraints with cruel efficiency. "Oh god, I’m so sorry. They took me from the Médecins Sans Frontières camp near Kinshasa. He dressed me in...this," she said, her voice a sigh.
"Who?" Diana asked. "Who took you?"
The nurse shuddered as she began to unbuckle Diana's first manacle, her arm falling limp to her side. The nurse—now that Diana could see her clearly—was efficient, capable: a strong woman. "Grodd," she said, matter of factly. "Master,” she said again, with a tone of correction. “He... he has charged me...with, um, helping you."
Diana blinked, confused. "Helping me? How?"
The nurse’s fingers trembled as they worked the second manacle loose. She slowly helped massage Diana's wrists, bringing blood flow back into them. It was the first gentle touch Diana had experienced in days, and she gave a slight moan, despite herself.
The nurse then straightened up, rolling her shoulders back—too stiffly, like a marionette tugged upright. "The Master," she began, her voice clipped, clinical, "has commanded an evaluation of your... responsiveness." Her cheeks flushed pink, but her tone remained detached, as if reciting a grocery list. "He requires information."
Diana frowned, flexing her freed wrists. "Information? What kind of—"
"Physiological metrics," the nurse interrupted, her voice low and oddly precise—like she was fighting to keep it steady. She turned to the cart, unrolling a leather bundle that revealed an array of gleaming instruments: speculums, glass rods, Ben Wa balls. "Specifically," she continued, throat bobbing as she swallowed, "your susceptibility to... stimulation." The last word came out brittle, as if she'd bitten down on it.
Diana seized the woman's wrist, her fingers pressing into the delicate blue veins beneath the skin. "Listen to me. You don’t have to do this. Grodd’s control isn’t absolute—you can fight him, I have!" The nurse’s pulse fluttered like a trapped bird against Diana’s thumb. "You know this is wrong."
The nurse’s lips trembled—then flattened into a thin line. In one sharp motion, she yanked the golden coil of the lasso from Diana’s neck and twisted it around her own fist, the slack pulled taut between them. "Lie down," she said, her voice hollowed out, robotic. The leash hissed against stone as she dragged Diana forward by the collar. "Do not be a naughty patient."
Diana stumbled, her naked thighs bumping against the medical cot’s edge. The nurse’s grip was iron, her movements jerky, as if her joints were oiled with someone else’s will. "Please—" Diana started, but the nurse procedurally maneuvered her weakened form backwards onto the leather slab. Metal stirrups yawned open at the foot of the bed like hungry mouths.
The nurse’s hands, suddenly gentle again, cupped Diana’s ankles—soothing the raw skin where manacles had chafed—before guiding her feet into the cold metal loops. "Lift," the nurse murmured, her breath hitching as she fought whatever command Grodd had seared into her skull. Diana obeyed, her calves tensing as the nurse buckled the restraints with a series of metallic clicks. The position was obscene: legs splayed, knees bent, her sex exposed to the damp, torchlit air.
A sponge appeared in the nurse’s grip, dripping lukewarm water tinged with something herbal—lemongrass, maybe, or citronella. She dragged it up Diana’s inner thigh with slow, methodical strokes, the rough texture catching on fine golden hairs. "You’re filthy," the nurse observed, her voice cracking halfway through. The sponge circled Diana’s knee, then glided higher, leaving trails of goosebumps. When it brushed the crease of her thigh, Diana flinched, her hips jerking involuntarily. The nurse paused, her pupils dilating—then pressed the sponge firmly against Diana’s mound, swirling it in tight, deliberate circles. Water trickled down the cleft of her ass, pooling beneath her on the leather.
"Would you prefer it colder?" the nurse whispered suddenly, her lips barely moving. Her free hand drifted to a basin of water crusted with ice shards. "Or—" She dipped two fingers into a steaming copper bowl, withdrawing them pink and glistening. "Warmer?" The question hung between them like a dare. Diana’s breath hitched, but the lasso compelled her to answer true.
"Warm. Please."
The words escaped Diana's lips before she could stop them, the lasso's magic wringing honesty from her like juice from a crushed fruit.
The nurse's made a quick note on a nearby clipboard, then plunged the sponge into the steaming basin. The scent of jasmine unfurled in the air, thick as syrup. Water sluiced down the nurse's wrist as she lifted the dripping sponge, her knuckles brushing Diana's inner thigh in a way that was anything but clinical.
"You're tense," the nurse observed—though her own fingers trembled, betraying the conflict beneath her starched facade. She dragged the sponge along Diana's belly with practiced precision, the heat seeping into her flesh like a slow-burning brand. Each pass lingered just a heartbeat too long, the rough texture catching on sensitive skin. Diana's toes curled against the stirrups, her breath shallow between parted lips. The nurse's thumb, calloused from years of fieldwork, pressed against Diana's pelvis—not enough to stimulate, just enough to test. A bead of moisture welled beneath the sponge's path, glistening in the torchlight.
The nurse exhaled sharply, as if startled by her own handiwork. She moved upward with deliberate slowness, her fingers skimming Diana's ribs until the sponge met the underside of her breast. The contrast was electric: the steaming cloth against already-pebbled skin, the way Diana's nipple hardened further at the first swipe. The nurse hesitated—then squeezed, letting hot water trickle in rivulets down the slope of Diana's chest. Her other hand rose, cupping the weight of Diana's breast with a grip that was neither gentle nor cruel, but calculating. The sponge circled her nipple in tightening spirals until Diana gasped, her back arching off the cot.
"Close your eyes, Princess," the nurse dictated. Again, the magical compulsion made Wonder Woman obey.
The nurse's fingers traced the swell of Diana's breast, circling closer to her nipple with each pass—not touching yet, just skirting the edge where sensation sharpened into anticipation. The sponge followed, dripping warmth that ran in slow rivulets between her breasts. Diana clenched her jaw, but her breath betrayed her, hitching when the nurse finally—finally—dragged the rough fabric across her stiffened peak.
Then, without warning, the nurse's other hand dipped lower. Not a tease, not a testing brush—just two fingers plunging into Diana's slick heat, knuckle-deep before the Amazon could even gasp.
Clinical. Efficient.
That’s what the nurse kept telling herself, her fingers moving with detached precision as she parted Diana’s slick folds, the sponge’s rough texture dragging along the Amazon’s collar bone. The scent of jasmine mixed with something muskier—Diana’s arousal, undeniable despite her clenched teeth and shallow breaths. The nurse’s thumb pressed against Diana’s swollen clit, not to tease, but to measure. To record. She circled twice, counting the seconds between Diana’s hitched breaths, then dipped lower, tracing the flushed entrance with the sponge’s edge. Water dripped into the tight furl of Diana’s ass, making her hips jerk involuntarily.
“How does this make you feel?” the nurse asked, her voice steady—too steady, as if reading from a script scrawled by someone else. Diana’s lips parted, her body twisting against the restraints, but the lasso tightened around her throat, forcing honesty.
“Humiliated,” Diana gasped. The confession tore from her throat like barbed wire. “Angry. And—” Her hips bucked involuntarily as the nurse’s fingers curled inside her, pressing against a spot that sent sparks licking up her spine. “Aroused. Goddesses help me, aroused.” The last word came out broken.
The nurse’s breath hitched—whether from her own horror or Grodd’s gleeful interference, Diana couldn’t tell. The woman’s fingers stilled, slick with proof of Diana’s betrayal. “Would you—” The nurse swallowed hard, her gaze darting to the shadows beyond the cell door. “Would you like the Master to do this to you?”
Diana’s thighs trembled. The lasso’s magic slithered up her spine, forcing her lips to part. “I don't know,” she hissed, the word searing her tongue. The admission tasted like venom, but truth poured from her anyway. “Not—not like this. Not forced. But if he—” Her hips jerked again, traitorous, as the nurse’s thumb found her clit once more. “I don't know."
The nurse exhaled sharply—whether in sympathy or frustration, Diana couldn't tell. Her fingers withdrew with a slick pop, glistening in the torchlight. The cold metal of the speculum replaced them, pressing against Diana’s entrance before she could steel herself. The nurse’s device hesitated outside her vulva, not yet penetrating.
"How big a cock have you taken?" The nurse’s voice was clinical, but her pupils dilated as she asked. The lasso compelled Diana to answer.
"None," Diana gasped. The confession ripped from her throat like a bandage torn from a wound. "Only women—on Themyscira—when we trained together. Or..." Her hips jerked as the nurse traced her slick folds with the chilled metal. "Alone. With carved ivory. Never—ah!—never anything like..." Her words dissolved into a whimper as the speculum breached her, its cold jaws spreading her wider than any Amazon lover had dared.
The intrusion was clinical, alien—not the teasing stretch of fingers or the yielding warmth of another woman’s tongue. This was steel and purpose, the nurse’s hand steady as she cranked the mechanism wider. Diana’s breath came in shallow bursts, her thighs trembling against the stirrups. She'd endured spear thrusts in battle, the crush of a hydra’s coils—but this slow, measured invasion made her feel like a specimen pinned under glass. The nurse adjusted the angle, and suddenly the speculum’s hinges clicked, locking her open with a sound that echoed obscenely in the cavernous cell. Torchlight glistened off the slick inner walls of Diana’s womanhood, exposed utterly.
"Have you seen the Master’s cock?" the nurse whispered suddenly, her voice thick with something between dread and fascination. Her fingers—still glistening with Diana’s arousal—traced the stretched rim of her entrance where the metal pressed cruelly outward.
Diana's breath hitched. The lasso coiled tighter around her throat, forcing the truth from her lips before she could bite it back. "Yes. Mostly." The words dripped like honey—hot and shameful.
The nurse's fingers stilled. "Describe it."
Diana's throat worked against the golden coil. The words came anyway—hoarse, unwilling, but unstoppable. "Thick." Her hips twitched as the nurse's thumb brushed her swollen clit. "Like—like a log. Dark. Veined." Each syllable burned. "It's...huge."
The nurse exhaled sharply, her fingers hovering just outside Diana's stretched entrance. She then selected a glass rod from the tray—smooth, unyielding, cool against Diana's overheated skin. Without preamble, she pressed the rounded tip against Diana's slick folds, the resistance minimal. The rod slid in effortlessly, gliding along the path the speculum had laid bare.
"Like this?" the nurse murmured, her voice barely audible over Diana's ragged breathing. She twisted the rod slowly, watching as Diana's muscles fluttered around the intrusion. "Or thicker?" The nurse withdrew slightly, then pushed back in with deliberate slowness, her fingers guiding the glass deeper.
Diana's toes curled against the cold metal stirrups. The rod was smooth, unrelenting—nothing like the warm press of an Amazon lover’s thigh between her legs. "Th...thicker. Bigger." The truth was ripped from her lips.
The nurse selected another glass rod—wider, its surface frosted with condensation from the chilled basin. She dragged the tip through Diana’s slickness before pressing inward. The stretch burned. Diana’s breath hitched, her body arching despite herself. The nurse twisted it slowly, watching the way Diana’s inner muscles fluttered around the intrusion. "Tell me," the nurse murmured, her own breath uneven. "Does the Master’s cock curve? Like this?" She angled the rod upward, pressing against the spongy wall just behind Diana’s pubic bone.
Diana’s thighs trembled. The lasso’s magic coiled tighter around her throat, forcing the words out. "Y-yes. Upward. Like—" Her voice broke as the nurse twisted the rod deeper, the glass cooling her overheated flesh. "Like a—a cudgel. But thicker. Much thicker." The admission dripped from her lips like honey, thick with shame.
The nurse’s breath hitched. Her fingers, slick with Diana’s arousal, tightened around the rod. A bead of creamy moisture gathered at the base, glistening in the torchlight. Without hesitation, the nurse withdrew the glass and held it up, examining the viscous strands clinging to its length. "Subject exhibits increased vaginal lubrication," she recited, her voice hollow as she reached for the clipboard. The pen scratched against parchment, deliberate and slow. "Consistency: viscous. Color: translucent pearl." She paused, her gaze flickering to Diana’s flushed face. "Hypothesis: subject is aroused by verbal descriptions of Master’s anatomy."
Diana’s stomach twisted. The words carved into her pride deeper than any blade.
The nurse’s hands—deceptively soft for someone who’d spent years stitching wounds—gripped her hips with unyielding authority. "Turn over," she commanded, her voice laced with a tremor Diana couldn’t decipher. The lasso’s magic slithered through Diana’s veins like liquid fire, forcing compliance before her conscious mind could protest. Her body obeyed, rolling onto trembling hands and knees, the leather cot creaking beneath her weight. The position was obscene, degrading—her spine arched, her ass raised like some common bitch in heat. The stirrups’ cold imprint still lingered on her thighs, but this—this was worse. Exposed. Vulnerable. Waiting.
The nurse’s fingers traced the curve of Diana’s spine, pausing at the dimples above her ass. "How does this position make you feel?" she murmured, her breath hot against Diana’s shoulder blades.
Diana clenched her fists. "Exposed," Diana gasped, the lasso wrenching honesty from her clenched teeth. "Like prey." Her thighs trembled, slickness glistening between them. The admission was a knife twisted in her gut.
The nurse exhaled sharply. Cool fingers traced the swell of her ass, skimming dangerously close to forbidden territory. Then, without warning, a fingertip circled the tight furl of her anus, pressing just enough to make Diana flinch. "And this?" The nurse's breath hitched—her own conflict buried beneath Grodd's compulsion. "Does Princess Diana like being touched here?"
Diana's spine arched involuntarily, her muscles locking. "No." The word tore from her throat like shrapnel, raw and immediate. Not arousal, not curiosity—just visceral rejection. The nurse's finger stilled, then withdrew as if burned. For a fleeting moment, Diana saw her own humiliation reflected in the woman's glassy eyes before Grodd's control slammed back into place.
The nurse straightened, her voice regaining its clinical detachment. "Lie still." She selected another instrument from the tray—a smooth, tapered glass rod slicked with something oily and cool. "We'll proceed without resistance." The rod's tip traced Diana's perineum in slow circles, pressing just enough to make her thighs twitch. "Subject exhibits involuntary clenching," the nurse murmured to her clipboard. "Hypothesis: reflexive denial masking latent receptivity." She hesitated, then whispered: "Could you learn to like being touched there, Wonder Woman?"
Diana's nails dug into the leather. The lasso burned against her throat, its magic coiling around her ribs like a serpent. She fought it—oh gods, she fought—but the truth spilled out anyway: "Yes." After all, anyone could learn to like nearly anything sensual, she knew. It was what she believed, so she had to admit it as truth.
The nurse's pen scratched against parchment, recording every minute observation. The sound was obscenely loud in the dripping silence of the cell. Diana's cheeks blazed—not just from the admission, but from the molten shame pooling in her gut. She'd faced down gods and monsters, but never had she felt so small as she did now, bent over like livestock while a stranger documented her darkest vulnerabilities.
"Master has instructed me to reward you," the nurse murmured, her voice low. "For your honesty." She set the clipboard aside with deliberate slowness, her fingers tracing the cold steel of the speculum still spread wide between Diana's thighs. A click echoed through the cell as she adjusted the mechanism, the metal jaws widening further with a series of precise turns. Diana's breath hitched—the stretch burned now, her slick walls fluttering around the intrusion. "Relax," the nurse soothed, though her own hands trembled as she stepped behind Diana. "This won't take long."
Diana tensed as something cold brushed her inner thigh—not metal this time, but smooth, rounded glass. The nurse rolled two small spheres between her fingers, their surfaces frosted from the chilled basin. They clicked together softly, a sound like distant temple bells. "Have you heard of Ben Wa balls, Princess?" she asked, her voice hushed.
Diana swallowed. "Yes." The admission was dragged from her throat by the lasso's magic. "But I've never—"
"—used them?" The nurse's fingers circled the polished spheres, her thumb testing their weight. "They're older than your island, Princess. Chinese concubines wore them for emperors—to keep themselves ready." She tilted one between her fingers, letting torchlight glint off its slick surface. "Grodd prefers them chilled. Says it makes the clenching more... noticeable." Without warning, she pressed the first ice-cold sphere against Diana's stretched entrance, the glass kissing her slick folds. Diana gasped—the contrast was electric, the cold biting into her overheated flesh.
It slid in effortlessly, guided by her own traitorous wetness. The nurse twisted it slowly, watching Diana's inner muscles ripple around the intrusion before releasing it with a soft pop. The second sphere followed, larger, its smooth surface already warming from her body heat. The nurse pushed this one deeper, her fingers lingering just outside Diana's fluttering rim as the glass settled beside its twin. Then—suddenly—she pressed both inward with a single thrust, seating them snug against Diana's g-spot.
The effect was immediate. Diana's thighs trembled, her back arching off the cot. The spheres were cool but not painful, their weight an alien presence inside her—not filling, not stretching, just there, a constant, maddening reminder of her vulnerability. Worse, every clench of her muscles sent them rolling against each other, the faint click of glass-on-glass echoing obscenely in the damp cell.
She tried to focus—on Themyscira's morning hymns, on the scent of olive groves after rain—but the sensations dragged her attention back like hands twisting in her hair. The nurse's fingers traced the taut line of Diana's abdomen, circling lower until they brushed the sensitive skin just above her pubic bone. "Do you feel them?" she murmured, pressing down lightly—and gods, Diana felt them, the spheres shifting with the pressure, nudging against some deep, untouched place that made her toes curl involuntarily.
"Describe it," the nurse commanded, her voice fraying at the edges—half order, half plea. The lasso tightened its golden grip. Diana's lips parted, the truth spilling forth before she could swallow it:
"They're—ah—cold. Heavy. Like river stones inside me." Her thighs clenched involuntarily, sending the spheres rolling against that impossible spot again. The nurse's fingertips pressed down on her lower belly, coaxing another broken admission: "They make me... want to push back. Take more. Feel them—oh gods—deeper."
The nurse's breath hitched. Her free hand slid between Diana's legs, fingers gliding through slick heat to circle the protruding base of the speculum. "Do they make you want a cock, Princess?" The question slithered into Diana's ear, venomous and sweet. The lasso flared gold against her throat, its magic a branding iron on her pride.
Diana's lips parted—to deny, to defy—but her body betrayed her first. Her hips jerked forward, forcing the nurse's fingers deeper against the chilled glass spheres inside her. The movement was instinctive, primal, her muscles clenching around the intrusion as if trying to milk some phantom length. "Nnngh—" The sound escaped before she could cage it, raw and needy. The nurse's thumb pressed down on her clit, relentless.
"They do," the nurse murmured, not a question anymore. Her voice had gone thick, her own breath ragged, but she was in this now, as hypnoitcally invested as Wonder Woman. The woman's free hand slid up Diana's sweat-slicked back, fingers tangling in her hair, and when next she spoke, her words sounded so much more like Grodd's than her own. "You're dripping around them," she whispered against Diana's ear. "Like an animal in season. Listen, and-" she twisted the speculum wider with a metallic click, exposing Diana's flushed, twitching walls to the humid air, "-repeat after me: 'I will think of his cock while I cum.'"
Diana's throat worked against the lasso's golden coil. The words bubbled up like tar—thick, choking, inevitable. "I will—" Her hips jerked as the nurse's fingers found her clit again, circling with cruel precision. "Think of his cock—ah!—while I cum." The admission tore from her lips, slick with shame.
And then the realization struck like a lightning bolt through fog—this wasn't a test.
Diana's gasp echoed off the cavern walls as the lasso's golden coils pulsed with cruel luminescence, its magic not just compelling her words but rewriting her. The nurse's fingers inside her weren't merely measuring—they were sculpting, carving neural pathways into her flesh with every twist of glass spheres and every hissed command. Grodd hadn't sent this woman to evaluate resistance; he'd engineered a slow, methodical conditioning.
The nurse's thumb circled Diana's clit with clinical precision, her other hand pressing down on Diana's lower abdomen to make the Ben Wa balls grind against her g-spot. "Again," the nurse whispered—but the cadence was wrong, the vowels too guttural. Grodd's telepathic fingerprints smeared across her syllables. "Say it with conviction, Princess."
Diana's thighs trembled, her sweat dripping onto the leather cot. The lasso's magic coiled around her neck like a python, squeezing the words from her burning throat: "I will think of his cock while I cum." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw with the shame of how close she was—how easily her body betrayed her now.
The nurse's fingers didn't stop. They curled deeper, pressing the chilled Ben Wa balls against that swollen, spongy place inside Diana until her hips jerked forward without permission. The movement was animal, instinctive—her pelvis grinding against the nurse's knuckles like a common tavern slut chasing her pleasure.
"Again," the nurse growled—and Wonder Woman felt her expert fingers twitch. It would be the last time she was told.
Diana's thighs trembled, her breath coming in ragged bursts. The Ben Wa balls rolled inside her with every shallow gasp, their weight maddening. The lasso's coils pulsed gold against her throat, its magic a branding iron against her will. "I—" Her hips jerked forward, her body moving without her. "I will think of his cock while I cum." The words tasted like bile and honey—bitter on her tongue, thick with arousal she couldn't deny.
The nurse's fingers twisted inside her, pressing the glass spheres deeper, harder. "Cum, Diana," she commanded, her voice layered with Grodd's telepathic resonance—a growl beneath the clinical tone. "Cum, Wonder Woman." The order wasn't just spoken; it slithered into Diana's skull, wrapping around her thoughts like vines, squeezing until obedience was all that remained.
Diana's thighs locked. The Ben Wa balls rolled against her g-spot with merciless precision, their weight dragging her toward climax like stones sinking into a warm ocean. Her breath hitched—then shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, sudden and brutal, her back arching so sharply the leather cot groaned beneath her. Wetness gushed around the nurse's fingers, streaking down her thighs, pooling beneath her on the medical table.
And in that moment of perfect vulnerability—when her body was molten and her thoughts liquid—Grodd struck her mind from afar.
Images flooded Diana’s thoughts, unbidden, searing behind her eyelids as her orgasm crested: Grodd’s thick, veined cock, darker than mahogany, curving upward like a weapon. The phantom weight of it pressed against her inner walls, stretching her wider than the glass spheres ever could. His musk—earthy and primal—clogged her throat as vividly as if he knelt behind her now, his massive hands gripping her hips. Worst of all was the heat—the imagined pulse of him inside her, the way his girth would throb as he claimed her…
The nurse didn't let up, didn't relent—her thumb circled Diana's clit faster, coaxing out every last spasm until Diana's vision nearly whited out, her body convulsing like a marionette with its strings cut.
When Diana came back to herself, she was sprawled bonelessly across the cot, her limbs trembling, sweat-slicked skin sticking to the leather. The nurse withdrew slowly, her fingers glistening with proof of Diana's betrayal. The spheres inside Diana shifted with each ragged breath, reminding her of their presence even now. Grodd's victory. The nurse wiped her hands on a cloth, her movements mechanical, but her breath came too fast, her cheeks flushed—whether from exertion or humiliation, Diana couldn't tell. The woman's eyes flickered to the shadows beyond the cell door, her lips pressing into a thin line before she forced her next words out: "Subject exhibited... prolonged vaginal contractions." Her voice cracked. "Lubrication increased by approximately..." She swallowed hard. "Two-hundred percent."
Diana barely heard her. Every muscle in her body felt liquid, her thighs still twitching with aftershocks. The nurse stepped closer, her fingers tracing Diana's abdomen with clinical detachment—but her touch lingered a heartbeat too long. "Now," the nurse murmured, her voice low and strained, "expel them." Diana blinked, her breath hitching as the command registered. The nurse's fingers pressed down on Diana's lower belly, firm and unyielding. "Use your muscles. Push them out."
For a moment, Diana hesitated—then clenched hard. The Ben Wa balls shifted inside her, rolling against oversensitive walls. She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. The nurse watched, her pupils dilated, lips parted just enough to reveal the faintest tremor in her breath. "Harder," she urged, her voice thick with something Diana couldn't name.
Diana bore down, muscles straining. The first sphere breached her entrance with a slick pop, tumbling onto the cot with a sound like dropped marble. The second followed—slower, heavier—as if reluctant to leave her clenching heat. Diana shuddered, her thighs slick with the evidence of her own betrayal. The nurse scooped them up without comment, the glass still glistening with Diana’s arousal.
The nurse wiped them clean mechanically—too mechanically—her fingers trembling as she held one up to the torchlight. "Subject retained both foreign objects for nine minutes post-climax," she recited to her clipboard, voice hollow. Her pen scratched across parchment, detailing every humiliating observation: involuntary pelvic contractions, vocalizations, the exact viscosity of fluids expelled. Then—abruptly—her hand froze mid-sentence.
Diana saw the exact moment Grodd's telepathy seized her anew. The nurse's spine straightened unnaturally, her pupils dilating until the irises were thin golden rings, her breath coming in ragged bursts as unseen claws raked through her mind. When she spoke next, the word was simple and direct, a conveyed instruction: "Up."
Wonder Woman's thighs trembled as the nurse looped the loose end of the golden lasso around her wrist—not tugging, not yanking, but guiding with unsettling firmness. The nurse's grip was unyielding yet oddly considerate, her free hand supporting Diana's elbow as she helped her rise from the sweat-slicked cot. The contrast was jarring—this woman who had just orchestrated her humiliation now steadying her with clinical care, her touch betraying neither malice nor pity. Only obedience.
Diana’s arms lifted automatically when they reached the rusted shackles bolted to the cavern wall—a conditioned response after days of captivity. But the nurse caught her wrists midair, her fingers pressing Diana’s forearms back down with surprising insistence. "No," the woman murmured, her voice frayed with exhaustion or some deeper conflict. The lasso’s glow pulsed faintly against Diana’s throat as the nurse secured it instead to a hook embedded in the stone—high enough to keep Diana standing, slack enough to allow her to slump against the wall if needed. The nurse’s hands lingered for a breath too long on the coiled rope, her knuckles whitening before she forced them away.
Then, just before stepping back, she leaned in. Close enough that Diana felt the heat of her breath against her sweat-damp shoulder. "I am sorry," the nurse whispered—three words thick with something between guilt and candor. Her lips barely moved, as if afraid the shadows themselves might report her transgression. Diana tensed. Was this remorse for the glass spheres still cooling on the tray? For the speculum’s cruel spread? For something yet to come?
It didn't matter. "Athena forgives you, sister," Diana whispered...and meant it, for she knew the nurse's struggle.
The nurse's breath hitched—a sharp, wounded sound. Then, without warning, her lips crashed against Diana's, hot and desperate. The kiss tasted of salt and something darker—not passion, but confession. The nurse's fingers trembled against Diana's jaw, her thumbs brushing the Amazon's cheeks before she tore herself away.
Then, she turned—without another word—and wheeled the medical cot out the cell door, sealing and locking it behind her. The iron hinges screamed like a dying animal. Diana's knees nearly buckled, the lasso's slack the only thing keeping her upright as the nurse's footsteps faded into the dripping silence of Gorilla City's underbelly.
It wasn't long before, in her exhaustion, Wonder Woman fell into slumber.
The sleep shattered like glass between her teeth.
Diana bolted upright—or tried to—before the lasso’s golden coils yanked her back against clammy stone. Her breath came in ragged bursts, sweat-slicked thighs pressed together instinctively. The cell stank of salt and iron and something darker—she looked around; the cell was empty except for her. Of course. What time was it?
Midnight? Later? She couldn't tell—but she knew. Felt it like a stormfront pressing against her skull before the first lightning strike. Grodd was coming. Not physically—not yet—but his mind would slither into hers with the same inevitability as tide swallowing shore. She clenched her jaw, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the rough-hewn wall behind her.
With the lasso around her throat, she'd been unprepared to resist the nurse's ministrations. But this—this was familiar terrain. She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back until her spine aligned with the wall's curve. The posture was deliberate—Amazonian meditation stances didn't require lotus positions, only disciplined awareness. Let him come. She'd carved his intrusions from her mind seven nights running. She'd do it again.
Except—
—her hands moved before she could stop them.
And even as they did so, Diana realized why her wrists were left unbound.
Diana's fingers twitched against her thigh, the ghost of the nurse's touch still seared into her skin like brands. The lasso hadn't compelled this—no, this betrayal was hers alone. Her palm slid up her inner thigh with traitorous certainty, fingertips gliding through slickness that hadn't fully dried from the earlier violation. No, she thought desperately, even as her middle finger circled her clit with practiced precision. Suddenly, Grodd's voice entered her mind in the least complicated intrusion he had yet attempted: a simple word.
"Yes."
The word was only half hers, but it slithered from Diana's lips nonetheless—not a whisper, not a gasp, but a shuddering exhale of defeat. Her fingers moved with cruel precision, circling her clit in tight, unforgiving spirals. The lasso didn't compel this. Grodd didn't command it. This was her body revolting against her will, her traitorous muscles remembering the nurse's clinical fingers and the weight of her pussy finally feeing full after decades.
She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, but her hips rolled forward anyway.
"Yes."
The word dripped from Diana's lips like honey from a split comb—thick, golden, inevitable. Her fingers moved with a rhythm not her own, circling her swollen clit with the same clinical precision the nurse had used hours before. She tried to stop—gods, she tried—but it felt so good.
She was numb now—not just physically, but ideologically. The feminist ideals of Themyscira, the Amazonian code of resistance—they felt like distant myths compared to the molten heat coiling in her belly. Her thighs trembled, her hips rolling forward to meet her own touch with a shamelessness that would’ve horrified her yesterday. But now? Now she needed it. Needed more.
Her fingers moved faster, circling her clit with desperate precision—yet nothing happened. No crescendo, no release. Just an endless, aching almost. Frustration clawed at her throat. Why wouldn’t her body obey? She was right there, teetering on the edge—so why couldn’t she—?
Then, like a shadow slipping beneath a door, the image surfaced: Grodd’s cock, thick and curved, darker than the jungle earth. It hovered at the edges of her mind, unwanted yet undeniable, its veined length pulsing with primal heat. Diana gasped, her fingers stuttering. No—she wouldn’t. She couldn’t—
But the ache between her thighs throbbed louder than her pride.
Diana's fingers stilled—not in resistance, but revelation. The truth coiled in her gut like smoke: she needed this. Not just the physical release, but the break that surrender would yield. Seven days of defiance had left her raw, every muscle taut as a bowstring. What if—just this once—she let the image in? Not acceptance, not submission, but... tactical retreat. A breath before the next battle.
The thought slithered between her ribs like a knife between armor plates. What was the harm? Grodd already kept her prisoner—wasn’t it smarter to hoard whatever shards of pleasure she could salvage? Her thighs trembled, still sticky from the nurse’s earlier violations. The lasso wouldn't forced this, and the nurse was gone. This choice would be hers alone.
Diana exhaled—slow, deliberate—and let the image unfurl behind her eyelids: Grodd’s cock, thick as her fist, darker than temple mahogany. The fantasy burned at first, humiliation licking up her spine—but then the weight of it pressed against her mental barriers, undeniable, real. Her fingers moved faster, circling her clit in tight, filthy spirals. She imagined his hands—massive, furred—pinning her hips as that monstrous girth split her open. The fantasy should have revolted her. Instead, her cunt clenched around nothing, aching to be stretched.
She came with a guttural cry, her back arching off the stone wall. The orgasm ripped through her like a jungle storm—violently, relentlessly. Her thighs shook, her toes curling against the damp floor as pleasure crested and broke over her in waves. Wetness ran down her inner thighs, her body pulsing around the phantom intrusion. Grodd’s telepathic presence coiled around her climax, savoring each spasm as if it were his fingers drawing them out.
Then—silence. Panting. The slow drip of sweat down her spine.
Diana's fingers fell away from her slick flesh like traitors caught mid-crime. The aftershocks still rippled through her, but already the disgust rose like bile in her throat. How? How could she—? Her breath hitched, raw and ragged. She'd fought gods. Wrestled titans. Yet here she lay—sprawled against cold stone, thighs glistening with her own betrayal—bested by her own hands.
The realization struck like a spear through ribs: she had given Grodd this victory. The rocking hips—hers. The broken moan when she'd finally—Athena's mercy—pictured that thick, simian girth pressing inside? All hers. Diana squeezed her eyes shut, but the memories burned brighter behind her lids: how good it had felt to stop fighting. To let the fantasy take her.
But no more. Never again.
Diana's fingers curled into fists against her sweat-slicked thighs, her nails biting crescents into her palms. The sting grounded her—a counterpoint to the lingering tremors still vibrating through her oversensitive flesh. Grodd had established a beachhead in her mind tonight, yes—a toehold of telepathic influence she'd allowed through momentary weakness. But dawn would find her reforged. She would become the tide that drowned his foothold, the storm that scoured his presence from her shores.
She only prayed to her goddesses that they would give her the strength to keep her vows.