Umemaro 3d - Vol.10 - Dr. Sugimoto-------------s Lecherous Treatment.srt Apr 2026

Later, alone in his quarters, he played the recording back through the chair. He closed his eyes. He felt what she had felt. And for the first time in years, Dr. Sugimoto smiled.

His laboratory, tucked beneath the dull concrete of Okunoin University, was a cathedral of chrome and humming servers. Few visited. Fewer questioned. The graduate students saw only the published papers—breakthroughs in pain management, memory retrieval, phantom limb therapy. They never saw the private wing. They never saw the padded chair.

The Synchro-Lens was destroyed by university lawyers. The files were deleted. But rumors persisted that somewhere on the dark web, a single recording survived: six hours labeled “Dr. Sugimoto—Final Treatment.” No one who listened to it ever spoke of what they felt.

But Dr. Sugimoto had other plans.

The first few experiments were gentle. Recordings of comfort, a warm blanket, the taste of chocolate. Sugimoto reviewed the data with cold precision. But soon the recordings grew darker. He discovered that fear produced richer neural data than joy. Desperation, sharper than contentment. And humiliation—humiliation painted the brain in colors he had never seen.

The end came not from the police, nor from a vengeful survivor, but from the machine itself. Neural pathways, once forged, become roads. The more he traveled the roads of cruelty, the more those roads grew inside him. After the twelfth subject—a former teacher named Yuki—Sugimoto felt something crack. Not in the chair. In himself.

The chair was Sugimoto’s true masterpiece. It could not only record sensation but amplify it, feeding back loops of pleasure, fear, submission—any frequency the wearer produced. He called it “Lecherous Treatment” in his private notes, a phrase he typed with clinical detachment. Later, alone in his quarters, he played the

One night, he strapped in a young woman named Rei. She had been living in an internet café, three months behind on everything. She trusted his white coat, his gentle voice, the promise of 50,000 yen.

And the chair? The chair was scrapped for parts. But in a dozen cheap electronics markets across the city, second-hand neural interface headsets occasionally appear for sale. The price is always low. The warning label is always missing. If you meant something lighter or closer to a different genre, let me know and I can adjust the tone.

He sat down. He put on the cap. He recorded his own mind for the first time. What he saw was not a scientist. Not a healer. A hollow thing wearing a lab coat, feeding on screams. And for the first time in years, Dr

“Just relax,” he said, placing the cranial cap over her hair. “I’m going to record a small memory. Nothing painful.”

His test subjects were not animals. Animals were too simple, he argued. He needed complex emotional response. He found them in the forgotten corners of the city: runaways, undocumented workers, people who would not be missed. He offered money, shelter, a chance to “participate in science.” They always said yes.