The Professor's New Furniture

Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional mind control, rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

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Dear Reader,

The following is a work of erotic fiction and may contain content that is unsuitable for sensitive readers. This story contains non-con, and other potential trauma cues. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintentional.

This story also contains themes of science-fiction, dollification, and human furniture. Accordingly, I ask that the reader forgive the liberties I took with popular medical science. Whether I write sequels will depend on this entry's reception.

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Sitting in the back of the lecture hall, Harry Tonelli stretched his arms in front of him, then twisted himself to each side. He was proud to have stayed awake for the first hour of his most boring semi-weekly course. But doing so was not without struggle. As a collegial rugby player, Harry hated sitting still for long periods. His muscles would cramp, his legs would jitter, and his mind would wander to the world outside.

This tendency was unfortunate. Harry's continued athletic scholarship required at least a semi-respectable grade point average. This required Harry to pay attention during his lectures.

Within the first hour of each lecture, Harry would feel his powerful thighs and glutes tightening up. Accordingly, he usually found some excuse to stand up and stretch himself: Dropping a pen across his desk, needing to grab his laptop charger from his backpack, or even leaving to go to the bathroom. His powerful chest, abs, and arms would tense and cramp unless Harry periodically stretched and moved himself.

Harry knew that his daily soreness was a natural consequence of his intensive weight training. Harry further knew that this inconvenient tendency would be ameliorated if he simply stretched more after training. But sitting in the back of his course on 'Current Advancements in Biotechnology,' Harry endeavored vainly to limber himself up without causing a scene.

Harry's focus returned to Professor Canterbury, who continued to droll along while prodding the specimen on his table, which sat at the front of the lecture hall. The professor preferred to stand behind the podium. His lean, 6'4" frame forced him to bend deeply over the podium and accompanying table at the front of the hall. Accordingly, as he spoke, the professor would take turns running his hands through his dark, subtly greying beard and bending down to turn the pages of his notes.

The professor spoke with a monotone, but deep, authoritative timbre. Though he'd lived in Boston for several decades, his unique accent portrayed a life living between London, New York, and Berlin. Several of his students had commented that the professor's cadence and pronunciation were reminiscent of the 'Transatlantic' accent of silver age Hollywood.

Professor Canterbury was fond of bringing physical specimens to his 'Current Advancements in Biotechnology' in class. That these specimens were often grotesque—even bordering on the macabre—was of no consequence to him. Much to the dismay of the more squeamish students, today's exhibit was a live laboratory mouse.

"The specimen is fully conscious," the professor continued, "But the chip implanted into the back of its neck has separated its higher decision-making functions from its automated functions. Thus, the brain's automated activities—most importantly, breathing and organ operation—are controlled only by the subconscious, as if the specimen were sedated or asleep. By contrast, the specimen's sensory functions are fully intact. In short, it can see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste everything around it. But the specimen cannot do anything on its own volition."

Murmurs rumbled across the room. Harry could tell that the tone of the students' reactions ranged from fascination to disgust. Harry felt empathy for the little mouse. Stuck in a desk that was too small for his hulking, muscle-bound body, and wanting nothing more than to leave the classroom to play rugby with his mates, Harry felt similarly trapped.

"What's more," the professor continued, "I have injected the specimen's muscular system with a recently patented chemical cocktail. We discovered this combination when researching treatments for degenerative muscular disorders. When injected into key points throughout the muscular system, the muscles become taut while remaining pliable by outside forces. Accordingly, the researcher can pose the specimen in whatever position is needed for the experiment. Perhaps most importantly, the chemical cocktail allows the specimens to stay motionless for days at a time without causing adverse effects on blood circulation and without causing muscular atrophy. To oversimplify, the specimen could be conceptualized as a living, breathing, pliable doll. A researcher can pose or reposition this doll at their convenience."

To demonstrate his point, the professor picked up the mouse in both hands, gently repositioned the mouse such that its limbs were positioned slightly differently, then set the mouse back down. The mouse kept this position without moving. The professor then gently bent the mouse's back, lifted its legs, and set it on its behind, as if it were sitting like a person. The professor configured the little creature into a few more poses before settling on an awkward face-down pose.

Harry could infer which of his classmates were more conscious of animal rights and well-being by the dichotomy of faces around the room. Some of the students looked intrigued while fervently taking notes. Others removed their hands completely from their pens or laptops, staring at the professor with concurrent shock and terror. Others still looked bored, lazily scribbling notes.

"Finally," the professor ignored the responses from around his classroom, "Because the specimen does not need to move its muscles, we've slowed the specimen's metabolism considerably. The subjects can be kept alive by being injected daily with nutritious saline to keep them hydrated and to provide sufficient calories for brain function, blood circulation, and basic life-preserving organ functions. But they produce practically no bodily waste—that is, there is no urine or feces to clean up—and there is no more need for oral feeding."

The professor looked at the clock. Realizing that time was short, the professor set his notes next to the dollified mouse, took off his glasses, and looked around the room.

"I've been speaking for a while. We've covered quite a bit regarding advancements in the maintenance and control of laboratory mice. Does anyone have any questions before we end?"

One hand shot up toward the front of the room. Harry recognized it as Cameron's. Harry had found Cameron to be one of the hotter girls in his section. And Harry admired her for her outspoken social justice-minded stances in class, as well as the activism she took part in around campus. But Harry also perceived her as more of a "performative ally"; as far as Harry knew, the girl never participated in a single protest or organizing role without a slew of social media posts advertising her involvement.

"Professor Canterbury," Cameron spoke up before being called upon, "What about the ethical questions that the use of laboratory animals brings up? Especially where we're PARALYZING these poor things so that we can pose them like dolls and run experiments on them?"

The professor blinked, looked around the classroom, and then at Cameron.

"I missed your question in that little diatribe," Professor Canterbury spoke while nonchalantly cleaning his glasses with a cloth, "But this is a purely technical course meant to bring students up to speed on the most recent developments. If you're interested in the ethics of biological research, then I would recommend that you start with Professor Moffet's course on the Ethics of Medical Research. If there's nothing else," the professor gathered his papers, as if to signal that the discussion was over, "Then I will see you all at the same time next week!"

The familiar shuffle of students closing laptops and shuffling paper filled the hall. Harry stood from his desk and reached his hands upward, grateful that he was finally able to stretch. As he reached upward, he pushed his shoulders back, giving any onlookers a wonderful view of his powerful pecs.

Harry then placed both hands on his lower back, pushing his hips forward and rotating side to side. He could feel the stretch through his lats, abdomen, and obliques. Harry then picked up his feet one at a time behind his massive glutes, stretching his sore quads. Harry had completed some fairly intense squats the day prior and could feel his massive thighs and ass straining against the fabric of his shorts. Everyone who noticed him agreed that Harry was a thick boy.

Not caring whether stretching in a classroom was a faux pas, Harry spent another full minute loosening himself. By the time he picked up his bag and slid his laptop inside, the lecture hall was nearly empty. Harry sauntered down the nearest row of stairs toward the door, while swinging his backpack casually into one shoulder. It was nearly time for practice, and Harry couldn't wait to get out on the field. Professor Canterbury's voice interrupted Harry's anticipation.

"Mr. Tonelli," the professor spoke Harry's name as if it were a command for Harry to stop. Harry knew that it was.

The professor continued cleaning his glasses while looking down at the table in front of him. He appeared completely unbothered by the live, paralyzed mouse that was posed on all fours in the middle of the table, weighing down his stack of papers. Something about the act of using a live animal as a paperweight perturbed Harry. Even for a mouse, it felt somehow . . . Undignified.

"Mr. Tonelli," the professor was now looking directly at Harry, "I'm still reviewing everyone's midterms. I was particularly disappointed by your submission."

The professor accented the word 'your,' as if to accent that only Harry's exam was a disappointment.

"I want you to come in during office hours," the professor continued without giving Harry a chance to respond. "There's still a chance for you to do well in my course. But, given that you're more interested in your extracurricular activities than you are in your studies," the professor looked Harry up and down as if offended by the strapping young body that stood before him, "You're going to need some special attention. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"O-ok," Harry was too shocked to articulate a more intelligent response, "See you then."

Harry shuffled out of the lecture hall; his posture completely changed. With a few words from his professor, Harry's demeanor shifted from a cocky strut to a timid shuffle.

Harry had a difficult time at rugby practice that afternoon. He found himself missing easy tosses, being easily pushed off balance and had difficulty focusing on his teammates. He felt as if his mojo had been sapped dry by that pencil-necked professor. Resentment was building in Harry's stomach as he slammed his gear into his bag after practice.

The next morning, as Harry was hitting the weights, he similarly felt as if he'd lost his stride. While Harry was normally the one to stack on the plates and rep them like a machine, Harry felt this morning like he could barely put up his warmup sets. He felt like his muscles, still bulging through his too-tight shirt and shorts in a display of classic masculinity, betrayed him through impotent rage.

'What the fuck is happening?!' Harry thought to himself as he sulked back to his dorm.

When he arrived at his dorm, Harry decided to pursue the one activity that invariably got his mind off the cares of school and athletic performance. He threw his bag on his bed, pulled out his phone, put his headphones in, and dropped the front of his shorts.

Within a few short minutes, Harry was rock hard, stroking his cock to one of his favorite videos. In the video, a woman was tied to a bed face-up, with her head pulled back over the edge of the bed. Each of her hands and feet were tied with thin ropes to the four posts of the bed. One man stood above her head, slapping her face with his cock before plunging his rod into her mouth, pushing so deeply that her throat bulged near the top. At the foot of the bed, a second man crawled between her legs and rubbed the head of his cock against her clit. After a few moments—and a few shudders through the woman's body—the second man positioned the head of his cock against her cunt, then pushed himself in.

Neither man cared about the woman's pleasure. Indeed, in the classical porn sense—with all of the misogyny and objectification on full display—both men continued fucking the woman until she was filled with cum. Her happiness was irrelevant; indeed, the two men (and the countless men watching the video) were the only subjects entitled to enjoy this scene.

Harry thought about the classic sentence structure that his primary school teachers had drilled into his mind. In the traditional structure of 'subject verb object,' these men were the subjects, and the woman was the object.

'Men fuck women.' 'Men watch woman get fucked.' 'Harry watches woman being fucked.'

Harry continued stroking. He'd watched this video numerous times. Until this point in the video, there was nothing unusual beyond the typical problematic themes. Indeed, if Harry wanted to watch a cheap, cliche BDSM experience where a woman is tied down and fucked as if she was an object, then he likely had hundreds of thousands to choose from. But it was the after scene that made this video special to Harry.

After the two men finished with the woman, they walked off stage, leaving her to lay on the bed with fluids dripping out of her mouth and out of her cunt. And that was all. The camera continued rolling as globs of saliva, cum, and vaginal discharge oozed from her body. And she was left there like this for several minutes. Nobody untied her (at least while the camera was filming). Nobody spoke or acknowledged what had happened. The woman just continued to lay there, breathing slowly and silently, as if she was a piece of furniture to be used and returned to at her owners' will.

After a few minutes of watching this woman lay silently on the bed, Harry groaned and pumped his cock in earnest. He exhaled sharply as a load of cum erupted from his cock and onto a towel that he'd laid on the floor.

In some dark, sadistic corner of Harry's mind, the reduction of this person to an object of use drove him crazy. It frankly didn't matter whether the object was a woman or man, whether they were tied to a bed or simply ordered to stay still, or whether the subject received any pleasure from the experience. The rush of power that came with using a human as an object, as a piece of furniture, or as a toy, drove Harry into an intense, animalistic frenzy.

As he cleaned himself up and prepared himself for his morning class, a disturbing series of images traveled through Harry's mind. Whether these images derived from Harry's post-nut clarity, his unpleasant exchange with Professor Canterbury, or his suboptimal athletic performance, Harry couldn't tell. Harry was unable to shake the revolving images of the woman who was tied to the bed, and the paralyzed mouse that Professor Canterbury was using as a paperweight.

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Harry scarcely paid attention in his morning class. Harry's mind jumped from replaying his interaction with Professor Canterbury, to the living, breathing mouse that he used as a paperweight, to the image of the woman from the video that morning. He found himself unable to stop his mind from replaying a trio of scenes. He took a mental note to ask one of his classmates for their notes from the lecture.

After his morning class, Harry made his way toward Professor Canterbury's office. To Harry's dismay, the professor's office was in the far southeast corner of campus, in the university's new biotech lab. As the newest addition to the campus, it was far out of the way of anything else in Harry's schedule.

When he arrived at the professor's corner office—inconveniently located on the top floor of the building—Harry timidly knocked on the large, heavy wooden door. Conspicuously, Harry heard no sound before the door suddenly opened. Was the professor's office designed to be soundproof?

"Come in, Mr. Tonelli," Professor Canterbury smiled warmly at Harry, welcoming him into the large office.

The professor returned to his desk and sat in his tall, leather chair. The chair that Harry sat in across from the mahogany desk was, by contrast, short and sported a short back. Harry's meaty ass and thighs stuck out comically over the sides of the chair. He wondered whether his massive, triangular, rippling back looked similarly comical against the tiny backrest. Despite his size, Harry felt, in a very real sense, like a schoolchild being brought into the principal's office for a scolding.

"Your midterm scores," the professor began, cutting straight to the point, "Show that you need some improvement. How many hours per week are you devoting to studying?"

"Well," Harry gulped, hesitating before forming a response, "It's a four-credit-hour class, so I'd say about eight hours of studying per week?"

"Bullshit," the professor replied flatly, "This is a seminar course. Frankly, Mr. Tonelli, you should be able to grasp this material with barely an hour per week of reading. Your exam answers suggest that you haven't even done this."

Harry didn't know how to reply. He considered offering some excuse but knew that the professor was correct. Harry didn't want to dig himself any deeper.

"I understand that you're here on an athletic scholarship, yes?" The Professor eyed Harry's form, intently examining the specimen that sat across in the little chair. "I can see why that department finds you so desirable," Professor Canterbury continued, still looking at Harry's body.

That the professor spoke while staring at Harry's body, with no attempt at eye contact, made Harry squirm in his seat. His mind shot back to images of the professor's living paperweight and the woman in the pornographic video. Harry realized that the connection here was that the professor, as the one with the agency, only saw Harry as an object with utility value, rather than as a human.

"What's your support system like here, Mr. Tonelli? Is there anyone else keeping you accountable for your studies?"

The professor continued to eye Harry's body, rather than looking him in the eye.

"I have my rugby teammates."

"And do you study with these teammates? Or just exercise and practice your sport?"

"We—okay—we mostly just practice. But they're like my support group, ya' know? That's what we're here to do."

The professor was unimpressed. "So, other than your 'bros' from the Rugby team, would anyone miss you if you, say, stopped attending classes altogether?"

Harry thought before responding, trying to think of anyone who would genuinely notice. After several moments of thought, Harry conceded the point.

"I guess not. They'd notice if I stopped showing up for training. But probably wouldn't notice if I stopped attending classes."

A subtle smirk grew across the professor's face.

"Well then," the professor slapped his hands against his lap, pushing himself upward. It may have been his imagination, but Harry would have sworn that the professor was touting an abnormally sizable bulge. "If the administration thinks that your body is a valuable enough contribution to this university to justify your admission, then who am I to question this?"

The professor threw a small stack of papers at Harry.

"Congratulations, Mr. Tonelli: You've just been hired as my newest research assistant. I must be honest here. I'm not optimistic about your chances of passing my class—much less earning your degree—on your efforts. But I believe in second chances, and in throwing a lifeline to struggling students."