In the Rays of the Star of Life: Order Chronicles
Copyright© 2026 by GAUMER
Chapter 1: The First Altar
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: The First Altar - Dear reader, Step into the world of medical femdom, CFNM, and dystopian female domination under the Red Star of Life. In this chapter I share the brief history (Andro-9 virus leak, societal collapse, Order's rise), main terms (collars, Satara, N.U.R.S.A., purification rituals), and unbreakable rules of male submission. Expect forced milking, sterile exams, chastity enforcement, and absolute control. All characters 18+. Introductory lore only — heavy dark fantasy/erotica with femdom, medical feti
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Alternate History Post Apocalypse FemaleDom Humiliation Spanking Anal Sex Enema Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Pegging Petting Sex Toys Voyeurism Doctor/Nurse
Dear Reader,
In this story, I have slightly expanded the origin of the Order’s emblem — the very same red Star of Life that now burns in the sky of this new world.
You can also explore the deviations I created, inspired by the most striking moments of the text — each one a frozen fragment of power, surrender, and “care” that never was.
Here is the original photograph from which the Order’s emblem was born:
In this world, where the Red Star of Life has long eclipsed the sun, legends abound about the birth of its symbol: a naked man crucified upon six rays, aroused and utterly helpless, eternally captured at the center of the blood-red emergency medical emblem.
Some claim it was the first punished Wild One, lashed to a massive shield in the central square.
Others swear it was the offering of the inaugural ritual, when a Priestess first declared: “Orgasm is a privilege granted only to obedient boys.”
Yet if your rank is Senior Valkyrie or higher, you may petition for access to the N.U.R.S.A. archive.
There, buried in the most restricted folder—”Priestesses: Early Dossiers”—lies the truth.
That story.
From the era when the Order bore no formal name, when the world was only beginning to heal from Andro-9, and the hierarchy was still forming in the shadows.
It began the day a white ambulance SUV—its flank still marked with the original red emblem, not yet repainted—rolled into the courtyard of a vast complex that never fully became the psychiatric hospital it was intended to be.
The engine died.
The doors swung open nearly in unison.
Elvira emerged first.
Tall and powerfully built, her frame still echoed the discipline of rowing—heavy oars, relentless water, shoulders and arms forged in rhythmic strength.
Raven-black hair cascaded in thick spiral curls to her shoulder blades, curls that seemed to writhe under the flickering red emergency lights.
Bright emerald-green eyes—the sort that forced others to avert their gaze.
She wore a short white cargo medical dress reaching her knees, top buttons undone, the plunging V-neck exposing the swell of high, firm breasts, nothing beneath.
Light-blue nitrile gloves clung to her hands; she had not yet removed them.
She stepped out first and paused, gazing up at the building’s facade.
As though returning home.
Next came Taisiya.
Powerful and athletic, her shoulders and arms built from years of hauling stretchers under fire.
Caramel-light-blonde hair drawn into a high, tight ponytail, a few loose strands brushing her face.
Warm grey-blue eyes — direct, stripped of illusions.
A short white military-style blouse, unbuttoned nearly to the navel, dark-burgundy cargo trousers, high white combat boots.
Gloves on her hands, a red stethoscope draped around her neck.
She stepped out without a sound, slammed the door, and immediately swept the perimeter with her gaze — as if on a mission.
Last to emerge was Alya.
The youngest, the most delicate in appearance.
Long light-wheat blonde hair in a high, smooth ponytail, a few strands softly framing her face.
Large light-blue eyes, a warm, almost childlike smile.
A short white blouse fastened by a single button, deep V-neck, light medical trousers to mid-calf, white clogs.
A red stethoscope around her neck — one she still didn’t know how to wield properly.
She stepped out last, a touch hesitant, but as her eyes settled on the building, something new sparked within them.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Elvira slowly turned her head toward the building.
Her spiral curls stirred, as if catching a faint breeze.
And yet ... I’m here.
“Ladies,” she said quietly, her voice weighted with memory, “welcome to the place that never became the medical center it was meant to be — for containing patients with sexual psychiatric deviations. It was intended to be a breakthrough in psychiatry. Here, we weren’t supposed to merely confine perverts — we were to help them, reshape them into normal people once more. But alas, the normal world collapsed before the doors could open.”
She sighed.
“Our task is to assess the building’s condition, inventory the equipment, and assist the council in deciding its fate: either this place becomes a medical center, or everything is stripped and evacuated. It looks abandoned, but not ruined. Be ready for surprises. Taechka, you’re the most experienced in these matters — you take point. The little one and I will follow your lead in everything.”
Taisiya straightened, her caramel ponytail swaying as she scanned the facade. She was ready — gloved hands clenched into fists, grey-blue eyes like steel under a cloudy sky. A former military paramedic, she was accustomed to these kinds of raids: field hospitals where the wounded roared in pain, and she pinned them down to save their lives. Now salvation wore a different face.
“Alright,” she replied curtly, voice flat and military. “I go first. El, stay behind me — your eyes will spot what we miss. Alya, bring up the rear, but don’t lag. Any noise — signal immediately. No heroics. This isn’t a game.”
She advanced on the doors, boots thudding dully against cracked concrete. The entrance was ajar — a rusty hinge groaned as Taisiya shoved it open with her shoulder. Inside lay half-darkness, thick with the scent of mold and stale chemicals. The flashlight on Taisiya’s belt snapped on, its beam slicing through the gloom to reveal corridors with peeling paint, shattered lamps, and abandoned instrument carts.
Alya brought up the rear, her clogs whispering softly over dusty linoleum. She glanced around with wide eyes — not fear, but the same curiosity that once drove her to bandage the paws of her plush bears.
The corridor wasn’t the grim nightmare of old horror films. Soft daylight filtered through windows where the glass had miraculously survived — gray and muted, but alive. It striped the floor, falling across scattered carts, overturned stretchers, and scattered patient files. Everything resembled an ordinary hospital abandoned mid-shift: someone had stepped out for lunch and never returned.
She clutched the red stethoscope around her neck like a talisman. As a child, she had treated plush bears, whispering to them: “Hush, hush ... I’ll take care of you.” Now the world was teaching her that care demanded strength. Elvira and Taechka had already demonstrated that.
Alya paused beside one of the stretchers designed for transporting patients in a semi-reclined position. She traced her fingers over the cold metal frame and the wide straps with their reliable fasteners.
“If it weren’t for these restraint straps ... I wouldn’t have guessed this was a psychiatric facility,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Just an ordinary hospital...”
Elvira, walking ahead, slowed slightly and glanced back over her shoulder. Her spiral curls stirred in a faint draft.
“Light, yet unbreakable,” she replied quietly. “Remember that, little one. That’s exactly what we need.”
Taisiya, leading the column, suddenly spun around — sharp and utterly silent. She pressed a finger to her lips in a stern military gesture: silence. Her grey-blue eyes narrowed, her caramel ponytail swaying.
Ahead, at the corridor’s end, behind two closed doors, one stood clearly ajar by a few centimeters.
A sound drifted from within — a rustle, or perhaps just the wind weaving through empty rooms.
Without a word, Taisiya signaled: I go first, Elvira covers, Alya back.
She advanced noiselessly, hand already on the grip of the old electroshock device at her belt.
Elvira’s lips curved in a faint smile — her emerald eyes flashed with interest.
Alya swallowed hard but stepped forward, fingers tightening around the stethoscope at her neck.
They neared the ajar door.
The rustle came again — distinct, unmistakably human.
Someone was inside.
Taisiya signaled her companions to hold: palm open, fingers down — the military “stop.”
She slipped forward with a graceful, cat-like gait, silent as in field hospitals under fire. She pressed against the wall beside the door, peering through the narrow crack to take in everything inside.
Alya caught only Taisiya glancing in, nodding to herself — and before she could blink, it happened.
The paramedic drew her taser lightning-fast from its holster on her hip, kicked the door open, and aimed into the opening.
A man’s cry — sharp, raw with rage and shock — fused with the crackle of discharge and Taisiya’s leap inside.
It all unfolded in a single heartbeat.
Then Taisiya’s calm voice from the room:
“Clear. Come in.”
When Elvira and Alya stepped inside, the scene was already mastered.
On the floor lay a man — strong, muscular, in ragged marauder clothes, hair disheveled, eyes burning with the lingering fire of the virus. He twitched from the shocks, muscles spasming in aftershocks.
Atop him sat Taisiya — her knee dug into his back, one hand pressing the taser firmly into his side, the other pinning both his arms to the floor, wrists twisted painfully.
Her caramel ponytail was slightly disheveled, but her face held only a faint, knowing smirk.
She turned to the others without easing her hold.
“You said it was abandoned,” Taisiya said, nodding at the man beneath her. “Look — there’s life.”
The man rasped a curse, tried to wrench free — Taisiya simply bore down harder with her knee, and he froze, chest heaving.
Elvira stepped closer.
Her raven-black spiral curls shifted, as if sensing prey.
Her emerald eyes drifted slowly over his body — from the clenched muscles to the unmistakable arousal the virus wouldn’t let him conceal, even now.
“Life,” she echoed softly, a smile threading her voice. “And such ... responsive life.”
Alya lingered in the doorway, clutching her stethoscope.
Her heart hammered.
“Yes, wild,” Elvira confirmed, her emerald gaze lingering on the twitching form. “And perhaps even intelligent life.”
She turned to Alya.
“Alechka, fetch that stretcher you admired in the corridor. Our warrior enjoys sitting on men, but she can’t do it forever.”
The girl darted out in a flash. Seconds later, the stretcher appeared in the doorway — Alya wheeled it in confidently, though her hands betrayed a slight tremble from the adrenaline.
As it rolled into the room, Alya approached Elvira. In her palm rested a small strap — not leather, but a soft material laced with thin metallic threads, flexible yet unbreakable. Magnetic clasps glinted at the ends.
“I still don’t understand where it came from,” Alya said quietly, offering it.
Elvira took the strap, turned it in her fingers, eyes scanning the stretcher’s frame. A slow smile curved her lips.
“No, it didn’t come loose. It was designed to be separate.”
She unclipped a small device from the stretcher’s frame — a compact remote resembling a desk lamp switch, with a side wheel. Her finger tested the button. A faint spark danced along the strap — weak, but unmistakable.
“Perfect.”
Elvira stepped toward the man on the floor. With one foot she pinned his wrist to the ground — gently, yet with unyielding firmness that made escape impossible. Taisiya, still straddling him, reached out and took the strap.
Elvira pressed her other foot against his second wrist and nodded.
“Fit it around his neck. I think it will suit him.”
Taisiya smirked and leaned in closer. The man jerked, growled — but the paramedic’s grip was ironclad. She deftly wrapped the strap around his neck and snapped the magnetic clasp shut. Not tight — just enough for him to feel its presence, constant and inescapable.
Alya stood beside them, eyes wide. Her breathing quickened.
Taisiya turned the wheel on the remote — barely a notch.
A light vibration hummed through the strap, followed by a weak discharge — not painful, but sufficient to arch the man’s body in a sudden spasm.
He exhaled — a guttural mix of growl and groan.
Elvira leaned down, her raven curls nearly brushing his face. Her voice was a whisper that sent chills racing down the spine — soft, hypnotic, laced with cold steel:
“Hush ... We won’t do anything bad to you. We’ll take care of you. This little thing around your neck will ensure you don’t do anything to us. Be a good boy. She’s getting off you now, and you’ll stand up and walk to the stretcher yourself.”
She nodded to Taisiya.
Taisiya rose slowly, releasing him, but remained looming over him — feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over her chest, caramel ponytail swaying slightly. Her grey-blue eyes gazed down without a trace of pity.
The man lay there, breathing heavily, muscles still twitching from the discharge. His gaze darted from one woman to another — from Elvira’s hypnotic emeralds to Taisiya’s steely confidence, then to Alya, who stood a little aside with the stretcher, smiling warmly yet gripping her stethoscope so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Elvira straightened but did not step away. In her fingers she held the small remote — pinched between index and middle, thumb resting on the button. She displayed it to him, slowly turning the wheel to maximum.
“I set it to full power,” she said quietly, her voice still a whisper, but now laced with a smile. “One wrong move — and the taser will feel like a tickle.”
Taisiya, now fully upright with hands on her hips, barked the order — short, parade-ground sharp:
“Stand up! Hands behind your head! To the stretcher!”
Elvira nodded, her gaze locked on the man.
“I’ll count to three,” she added calmly. “One...”
The man jerked, but stayed down — virus-fueled rage burning in his eyes, tangled with raw fear.
“Two...”
Alya stepped closer, her voice soft, almost affectionate:
“Hush, hush ... We’re taking care of you, after all.”
Taisiya leaned forward slightly, muscles coiling in her arms.
“Three,” Elvira finished.
Her finger pressed the button.
The discharge surged through the strap around his neck — not lethal, but powerful enough to arch his body in a violent spasm, ripping a hoarse, guttural groan from his throat.
He collapsed back to the floor, gasping, eyes wide with shock.
Elvira released the button and smiled — slowly, almost tenderly, but her emerald eyes held not a trace of pity.
“This one won’t walk on his own. Put him on the stretcher and strap him down.”
Taisiya didn’t hesitate. She seized the still-twitching body — one hand gripping the collar of his torn clothing, the other under his arm — and hauled him upright in a single, effortless jerk. He was heavy, muscular, but no match for the paramedic’s military strength. Alya darted to the other side, wrapping her arms around his waist — less to support than to restrain, preventing any last struggle. Together they dragged him to the stretcher.
The man wheezed, feet scraping uselessly, but the shocks had drained him — his legs buckled. Taisiya simply kneed him behind the knees, and he crumpled onto the stretcher in a half-sitting slump. The metal rang coldly beneath him.
Alya set to work on the straps at once — her nitrile-gloved fingers swift yet precise as they encircled wrists, ankles, thighs. She pulled them tight, exactly as Taisiya had taught her: not to the point of pain, but leaving no room for movement.
“Tighter,” Elvira murmured from beside her, her voice still that chilling whisper. “That look on his face isn’t just the virus. He’s healthy enough. It’s simply that nasty male nature.”
Alya nodded, cheeks flushing slightly — from exertion or from the words, it was impossible to tell. She tugged the chest strap harder, pinning him firmly to the backrest. He growled, jerked — the neck strap vibrated faintly in warning.
Taisiya secured the last fasteners on his legs — wide straps with metal reinforcements. The clasps clicked shut with finality.
Taisiya brushed off her hands.
“Ready. Like cargo on a stretcher. Only this cargo will live.”
The man lay on the stretcher, breathing heavily. The shocks had released their hold, and he recovered quickly — muscles tensed beneath the straps, eyes darting from one woman to another. The arousal the virus amplified even in moments like this betrayed him unmistakably, visibly.
He gathered himself and spoke — loud, defiant, in the commanding tone of a man used to being obeyed:
“Do you even know who I am? Do you realize what will happen to you? You’re all fired! I’ll—”
Taisiya tensed, stepped forward, fists clenched. But Elvira shook her head — don’t interfere.
She stepped back a pace, admiring him: eyes blazing with rage, cheeks flushed, lips trembling with fury. Just a minute ago, he had been certain the world still revolved around him.
Then she stepped close.
She placed her palms on his strapped hands — tenderly, almost caressingly.
She bent one knee and pressed it directly into his groin — painfully, precisely, mercilessly.
Her face hovered mere centimeters from his.
For several seconds, she allowed him to look down — at the deep V-neck of her dress, at the skin nothing concealed.
Allowed him to remember how he once demanded exactly that gaze from women, in exchange for positions and privileges.
Then Taisiya, on a silent cue, seized his hair and yanked his head back.
Elvira’s emerald eyes pierced into him — deep, like a knife into old memories
She raised her hand and struck — not with a fist, but an open palm, sharp and humiliating, the kind of slap reserved for someone who has forfeited the right to speak. The sound rang out, echoing in the empty room.
A cat’s smile — the one that has caught the mouse — spread across her beautiful face.
Her knee still pressed painfully into his groin.
“I know who you are,” she whispered, each word dropping like a heavy stone.
“Councilor of the Medical Institutions Oversight Fund.
The one who traded positions for women’s bodies.
One of those who brought down the old world.
The one who once held power.”
She pressed her knee a little harder — he flinched, exhaling sharply through clenched teeth.
“You don’t remember me.
But I remember you.
I remember how you offered me the directorship of this center ... in exchange for a night.”
Elvira pulled back, her smile growing wider, colder.
“See how things turned out?
I’m the one in charge here after all.
And today, I’ll play with your cock.
Only you won’t get a drop of pleasure from it.”
Alya, standing nearby, let out a quiet breath — her eyes a mix of admiration and faint fear.
Taisiya smirked, released the man’s hair, and crossed her arms over her chest.
The man was silent.
All his former power — threats, connections, the commanding tone he once used on women — had evaporated in a single slap and those green eyes gazing down at him from above.
He understood: he hadn’t fallen into the hands of just any women.
He had fallen to the one who hated him.
And now she would cure him of himself.
Elvira stood before him, casting one more scorching glance — the same one that once made subordinate women tremble in his office. Now he looked up at her from below, strapped down, helpless.
She extended the remote to Alya — the girl’s small, trembling hand accepted it as if it were a sacred relic.
“Girls,” Elvira said, her voice calm and commanding, “make sure our important guest doesn’t get bored while I take a short walk down the corridor to find a suitable room for working with him.”
She turned and walked away — unhurried, hips swaying gracefully beneath the short dress, spiral curls bouncing lightly with each step. She vanished around the corner, peering into doors, opening them one by one — like a mistress reclaiming a long-abandoned domain.
Taisiya immediately placed her heavy palms on the captive’s shoulders and leaned in close to his ear — her whisper venomous, sending chills racing across his skin:
“Don’t even breathe too deeply. See how the girl’s hands are shaking? She might press the button by accident — and you’ll jerk so hard the stretcher will rattle.
Or she’ll do it on purpose.
To show you: now you’re in her power.
Just as you’re in mine.
And in hers.”
Alya stood beside them, clutching the remote with both hands. Her large light-blue eyes gazed down at the man — a warm smile on her lips, but already laced with a new, unfamiliar steel.
Meanwhile, Elvira, strolling the corridor, entered one of the doors — the one ajar a little wider than the rest.
A minute later she emerged.
From the far end of the corridor, her emerald eyes burned brighter, a predatory, satisfied smile spreading across her face.
She raised one hand and beckoned her companions with a single finger — slowly, imperiously: bring him to me.
Taisiya gripped the stretcher handles, Alya pushed from the other side. The wheels creaked softly over the dusty linoleum. The man jerked in his restraints — futilely.
When the stretcher drew near, Elvira spoke — her voice brimming with triumph and refined mockery:
“Mr. Councilor ... allow me to invite you to the modern experimental procedure room of this cutting-edge center. Here we have the most advanced equipment for examination, treatment, and — most importantly — complete control of patients with sexual deviations.”
She entered the room first.
The stretcher rolled in behind her.
At the sight, he jerked so violently that the straps cut into his skin.
Alya’s clear voice rang out — gentle, almost pitying:
“No, please ... I don’t want to hurt you.”
Taisiya, pushing the stretcher from behind, added in a low, satisfied tone:
“At least not yet.”
Having wheeled the stretcher into the procedure room, the women stepped inside — and instantly understood why their captive had trembled with such terror.
The room was impeccably sterile, evoking the best pre-war days: bright clinical light from the surgical lamps flooded everything in a cold bluish glow, walls lined with gleaming white tile, shelves and carts laden with orderly rows of instruments, monitors, boxes of nitrile gloves. Everything radiated professional care.
But in the center stood it.
A large round procedure table — an exhibition model, the clinic’s pride, designed specifically for the “correction of sexual deviations.” The table’s surface was deep blue, smooth and cold to the touch, with a subtle non-slip coating. And across the entire surface — an enormous six-pointed EMS emblem, glowing blood-red, its rays stretching to the very edges, pulsing faintly like a living heart.
On each ray — several wide white straps with magnetic clasps, ready to secure wrists, elbows, ankles, thighs. In the central hub — additional restraints for chest and pelvis, plus ports for probes, electrodes, catheters. On the sides — small panels with indicators blinking dimly but insistently: pulse, pressure, arousal level.
Around the table — carts with instruments: transparent catheters of varying sizes, electrodes with wires, medical-grade vibrators, bottles of gel, prostate stimulation monitors, stethoscopes, syringes of anti-androgens. Everything neatly arranged, ready for use.
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