Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The silence in the small holding classroom was worse than the screaming had been.
Stephanie sat on the floor, her back pressed against a cold radiator. Her feet were bare. Sterling had ordered the nylons removed before they were thrown in here—a small mercy that felt suspicious. Her skin felt raw and exposed, the nerves in her soles still buzzing with a phantom itch from the compression and the static.
She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to hide her toes in the hem of her ruined pajamas.
"What did she mean?" Rachel whispered. She was the only one moving, pacing the short length of the chalkboard in an endless, nervous loop. "She said 'demonstration.' She said 'checkbooks.' Who brings a checkbook to a discipline hearing?"
"It’s not a hearing," Lakshmi murmured. She was staring blankly at a periodic table on the wall, her eyes glassy. "You heard her tone. She wasn't talking about expulsion. She was talking about funding."
Samantha wasn't speaking. She was huddled in the corner near the teacher’s desk, wiping the last of the sticky mineral oil from her feet with a crumpled paper towel she’d found in the bin. Her arches were red and bruised.
"They can't just keep us here," Stephanie said, though her voice lacked conviction. The school was isolated, miles from the nearest town. "Someone will notice."
"Who?" Rachel snapped, turning on her heel. "Our parents signed the waivers. 'Total custodial discretion.' We’re ghosts, Stephanie. We’re—"
CLACK.
The classroom door unlocked and was opened.
The sound sucked the air out of the room. Rachel froze mid-step. Samantha curled tighter into a ball.
Two figures stepped into the fluorescent light of the classroom. They were nightmares of efficiency. Massive women, broad as rugby players, dressed not in the school’s usual crisp uniforms, but in heavy, grey rubber butchers' aprons worn over black habits. Their arms were thick, pale, and folded across their chests. They wore heavy rubber boots that squeaked on the linoleum.
They didn't look at the girls’ faces. They looked at their feet, then their hands. Assessing damage. Assessing mobility.
Headmistress Sterling stepped in between them.
She had shed her tweed blazer. She was now wearing a stark, white laboratory coat over her dress, buttoned to the neck. She looked less like a headmistress and more like a lead researcher entering a vivisection ward.
"Up," Sterling commanded softly.
The girls scrambled to their feet, instinctively huddling together.
"Where are you taking us?" Stephanie asked, her voice trembling. "If you're expelling us, just let us pack."
Sterling smiled—a thin, jagged expression that didn't reach her eyes.
"Expulsion implies a return to the manufacturer," she said smoothly. "We do not offer returns. We offer repurposing."
She checked her watch.
"The Board is en route. You have forty minutes to be scrubbed, prepped, and mounted. Do not make us rush. Rushing leads to... bruising."
She nodded to the Matrons.
"Take them to the Undercroft."
The Matrons moved. There was no shouting, no anger. Just the overarching weight of inevitable physics. One Matron grabbed Rachel and Lakshmi by the elbow; the other herded Stephanie and Samantha.
They were marched out of the classroom, but not toward the front exit. They were led down the silent corridor to the blind end of the East Wing, where the hallway terminated at a single, formidable door of dark, aged oak. It was a door every student passed daily, but no one had ever seen open.
Sterling stopped. She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and produced a heavy, dull iron key on a simple wire ring.
She didn't hurry. She inserted the key into the lock with a deliberate, grinding precision.
Thunk-click.
The deadbolt retracted with the heavy sound. Sterling pushed.
The heavy oak door opened onto a narrow, spiraling staircase of raw, unpainted steel that descended steeply into the earth. The smell that drifted up was not the smell of a school—it was damp concrete, rust, and the metallic tang of copper wire.
“Move,” the Matron grunted, shoving Rachel toward the abyss.
One by one, they were forced onto the steel grate stairs, descending out of the world of books and chalk, and down into the wet, humming belly of the institution.
The air grew heavier with every step down.
At the bottom of the stairs, the four girls were shoved into a cavernous, dimly lit space. This was not a finished facility. It was a construction zone carved out of the bedrock beneath the school's foundations. The walls were rough-hewn grey concrete that wept with condensation. Bundles of electrical wiring hung from the ceiling like exposed nerves, buzzing with a low, ominous hum. In the shadows of the alcoves, stacks of lumber, bags of quick-dry cement, and abandoned tools were piled high—evidence of a project being rushed to completion.
In the center of the chaos, an "island" of sterility had been created. A square of the floor had been tiled in stark white ceramic, illuminated by blindingly bright surgical lights suspended from a temporary metal scaffolding.
The matrons turned to face the four terrified girls.
"Strip," the first Matron barked. Her voice echoed off the cold, wet walls.
"What?" Stephanie gasped, shivering as the freezing subterranean air hit her skin. "No, you can't—"
The Matron didn't argue. She stepped forward, her rubber boots squeaking on the tiles, and grabbed the collar of Stephanie’s blouse. Rrrrip. Buttons popped and skittered across the floor like hail.
"Assessment requires a blank canvas," Sterling’s voice drifted down from the stairs. She was descending slowly, looking like the Overseer of the facility.
Within moments, the girls were stripped of their uniforms, their pajamas, and their dignity. They stood shivering, huddled together on the cold tiles, naked and vulnerable in the harsh glare of the work lamps.
"Decontamination," Sterling ordered, checking her watch. "The investors expect pristine samples."
The second Matron uncoiled a heavy black industrial hose attached to a standpipe in the unfinished wall. She twisted the brass nozzle.
HISSSSSSS-THWACK.
A jet of ice-cold water slammed into the group.
"AAAAHH! HHH-UUHH!" Samantha screamed, the breath driven from her lungs by the thermal shock.
The water wasn't just cold; it was freezing. It hammered against their skin, washing away the sweat of the dormitory, the baby oil from the earlier torture, and the warmth of their humanity.
After the hose was turned off and reattached to the standpipe, the Matrons moved in with stiff, long-handled scrubbing brushes.
They scrubbed the legs and arms with brutal efficiency, but when they reached the feet, the cruelty became precise.
The Matron grabbed Samantha’s ankle. She drove the coarse bristles hard into the softened, defenseless arch.
"NNN-GGGHK!" Samantha choked, her leg jerking instinctively, slipping on the wet tiles. The brush rasped like sandpaper against her skin.
Next was Stephanie. The Matron pinned her foot to the floor and scrubbed the sensitive webbing between the toes. "Stop! Aieee! It hurts! Ha-ha-stop!" Stephanie shrieked, the sensation a confused overload of pain and ticklish panic.
"Clean," the first Matron announced, dropping her brush into a bucket of disinfectant.
"Table them," Sterling commanded.
A final blast from the hose stripped away the soap and dead skin before they were hauled, shivering and dripping, toward the tables.
In the center of the tiled area stood four narrow, padded gurneys. They looked like hospital beds, but modified. At the foot of each bed was a complex metal frame with leather loops and adjustable bars.
The girls were lifted—too exhausted and frozen to fight—onto the gurneys.
Then came the linen.
The Matrons worked with the speed of embalmers. They took rolls of heavy, unbleached linen bandages and began to wrap. They started at the ankles and worked their way up, winding the fabric tightly around the girls’ legs, binding them together into an immobile pillar. They wrapped the hips, the torsos, and the arms, pinning them firmly to the girls' sides.
Layer after layer, the girls disappeared. Within minutes, they were no longer individuals. They were four identical, mummified shapes lying on metal tables. Only their heads—propped up on pillows—and their feet—protruding from the bottom of the wrap—were exposed.
The matrons then took heated towels and dried the feet of the four terrified girls. The result was their soles were now hyper-sensitive.
"Anchor them," Sterling said, stepping into the light to inspect the work.
The Matrons moved to the foot of the gurneys. They took thin, strong leather cords attached to the metal frames.
"No... please..." Rachel whimpered, her head thrashing feebly. "Don't tie them..."
The Matron ignored her. She looped a cord around Rachel’s big toe and pulled it outward, tying it off to the frame. Then the second toe. Then the third.
Snap. Tighten. Knot.
By the time they were finished, all four girls had their toes splayed wide and pulled back toward the frame. Their arches were forced upward, the skin of their soles pulled taut as drumheads, completely immobilized and presented for inspection.
Sterling walked down the line, her heels clicking on the tiles. She carried a metal tray filled with specific "priming agents."
She stopped at Lakshmi.
"Subject 3," Sterling murmured. "The intellectual. Prone to over-thinking discomfort."
Sterling dipped a soft camel-hair brush into a jar of fine, grey powder. It was 'itching powder'—made from ground mucuna pruriens pods. She dusted it generously over Lakshmi’s dry, scrubbed soles, ensuring the microscopic barbs settled into the pores and the webbing between the splayed toes.
"Do try to remain still," Sterling whispered as Lakshmi let out a strangled whimper. "These particulates function like tiny fishhooks. Every twitch of resistance simply drives them deeper into the soft tissue."
Sterling then lightly traced her index nail up Lakshmi's arch.
Lakshmi lurched in her bonds and cackled. Then she looked pleadingly at Sterling "It's starting to itch! Help!"
"See?" Sterling said, cruelly.
Sterling moved to Rachel.
"Subject 4. The negotiator."
Sterling didn't apply a substance. Instead, she took a single, magnificent contour feather from a Golden Pheasant. She placed it on the tray table directly beside Rachel’s feet, within the girl's peripheral vision but utterly out of reach. She adjusted the angle of the foot-rest so Rachel’s toes were spread dangerously wide, the sensitive skin between them glistening under the lights.
Then Sterling picked up a pink plastic scalp massager and showed the business end to Rachel. The pink plastic cones catching the artificial light. Then she placed that back on the table beside the feather.
"Anticipation," Sterling noted, "is often worse than the event."
She moved to Samantha.
"Subject 2. The deep-tissue responder."
Sterling pumped a dispenser. A thick, viscous sludge of heavy mineral oil. She gripped Samantha’s heel and drove her thumb hard into the center of the arch, twisting it.
"OHHH! HHH-UH!" Samantha gasped, her head thrashing on the pillow.
"Viscous," Sterling observed, the oil making a wet pop as she withdrew her thumb. "The acoustics of the suction will be marvelous."
Finally, she reached Stephanie.
"Subject 1. The Conductive Element."
Stephanie’s feet were raw and red from the cold water. Sterling produced a packet of industrial, high-compression nylons. She signaled the Matron to untie the toe-anchors on Stephanie's left foot only.
As soon as the cords were loose, Stephanie began to thrash her foot wildly. She shook it side to side, curling and fanning her toes, refusing to present a target.
"No! Not the nylons! You can't!" Stephanie yelled.
Sterling sighed. She didn't try to grab the moving foot. Instead, she turned her attention to Stephanie’s right foot, which was still firmly anchored and helpless.
Sterling raised her hand, her nails glinting under the surgical lights. She brought all five nails down onto the taut, exposed arch of the right foot and raked them upwards with vicious speed, looking into Stephanie's eyes with an eyebrow raised.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! OKAY! OKAY! STOP! STOP IT! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Stephanie’s head slammed back, her resistance shattered instantly by the attack on her vulnerable sole. She went limp, sobbing dryly.
"That's better," Sterling said calmly.
She rolled the nylon down and forced it over Stephanie’s now-compliant left foot. "Mmph…" Stephanie groaned as the suffocating stocking squeezed her toes. Sterling repeated the process on the right. The nylons were a size too small, compressing the flesh, turning the feet into sleek, shimmering sculptures.
The Matrons re-attached the toe anchors. They pulled the nylon-clad toes apart. Snap. Tighten. The fabric stretched thin between the toes, creating a web of tension.
Sterling ran a single fingernail up the nylon sole. Zzzzt.
"YIIIP!" Stephanie jolted, the static discharge hitting her like a live wire.
"Excellent," Sterling whispered, stripping off her gloves.
From the other side of the room, the heavy blast doors unlatched with a groan. Sterling turned to the entrance, smoothing her lab coat.
"Lights to full," Sterling commanded. "The checkbooks are arriving."
The Matrons cranked a lever. The overhead lights intensified, turning the tiled area into a blindingly bright stage.
The clang of the blast doors opening echoed through the undercroft like a funeral bell. The sound of expensive leather shoes on concrete followed—slow, confident steps approaching the lighted tables.
Sterling smoothed her immaculate silver hair and turned, her best "fundraising smile" plastered across her face as she looked towards the arrivals.
Leading the group was Mr. Van Der Hoven. He was a tall, skeletal Dutchman in a tailored charcoal suit, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles with the detached curiosity of a taxidermist examining a rare beetle.
Behind him came Lord Harrington-Smythe, a portly man whose face was flushed with the perpetual bloat of excess. He moved heavily, leaving a trail of cigar smoke that mingled grotesquely with the scent of damp concrete.
Monsieur Dubois was sharp and thin, dressed in blue pinstripes, his eyes darting around the facility, assessing the infrastructure rather than the product.
Trailing slightly was Herr Dietrich, a man who carried a leather notebook and looked at the world as if it were a math problem he was trying to solve.
"Gentlemen," Sterling’s voice was warm velvet over cold steel. "Welcome to the future of St. Brigid’s. Welcome to the Undercroft."
She gestured to the lit stage where the four gurneys stood. The donors stopped. There was a moment of silence as they took in the sight: four young women, mummified in rough linen, their heads pillowed and helpless, their feet elevated and uniquely prepared like dishes at a banquet.
Lord Harrington-Smythe let out a low whistle. "Damn fine presentation, Sterling. Very... Egyptian."
"Efficiency, my Lord," Sterling corrected gently. "The containment wraps ensure that all energy is directed to the point of contact. No wasted motion. Pure reaction."
She walked to the first gurney. Lakshmi.
"Subject 3. The 'Cerebral' Model. Pre-treated with activation powder."
"As you can see, the activation powder has been applied and allowed to settle for a few minutes. The powder creates a phantom itch," Sterling explained, her voice clinical. "A neurological signal that creates a desperate, biological demand for friction. The itch is currently peaking"
"Herr Dietrich? A simple verification of the sensitivity, if you please."
Sterling offered the stiff-bristled brush.
Dietrich stepped forward, his face impassive. He took the brush. He didn't attack; he simply approached the foot with the detached curiosity of an auditor checking a ledger.
"The sensitivity is immediate?" he asked.
"Instantaneous," Sterling confirmed.
Dietrich extended the brush. He lightly tapped the bristles against the center of Lakshmi's powdered arch. Tap.
"Eee-yup!" Lakshmi jolted, her leg twitching violently against the restraint. "Don't! It tickles! It burns!"
Dietrich pulled the brush back instantly, nodding. "Reflexes are sharp," he noted, handing the brush back to Sterling. He adjusted his glasses, looking at Lakshmi’s twitching toes with clinical approval. "The neurological loop is active."
Sterling moved smoothly to the second gurney. Rachel.
"Subject 4. The 'Negotiator'."
Sterling picked up the feather and the plastic shampoo massager to show the donors before placing them back down on the tray.
"This subject believes suffering is a transaction," Sterling said to Monsieur Dubois. "She responds to the threat of texture rather than the application of it."
Dubois set his cognac down. He walked up to the gurney, picking up the feather. He floated it inches from Rachel’s exposed sole, letting the shadow dance over her skin.
Rachel’s breathing hitched. "Please," she whispered, her eyes tracking the plume. "I'll be quiet. Just... just keep the feather away."
Dubois smiled thinly. He didn't touch her. He simply lowered the feather until a single barb grazed the webbing between her toes.
"Hhh-uh!" Rachel sucked in a breath, biting her lip, her eyes squeezing shut in anticipation of a tickle that barely came.
"Fascinating," Dubois murmured. "She creates the sensation in her own mind before contact is even made." He placed the feather back on the tray. "An excellent psychological specimen."
Sterling moved to the third gurney. Samantha.
"Subject 2. The 'Deep Tissue' Model."
Sterling geatured to Samantha’s gleaming arches, coated in oil.
"This subject requires volume," Sterling explained. "The oil eliminates surface friction. To get a reaction, one must bypass the skin and engage the muscle structure directly. Lord Harrington-Smythe? Validate the viscosity, if you would."
Harrington-Smythe grunted. He handed his cigar to a waiter and rolled up his sleeves. He lumbered up to the gurney.
"Let's see the grip," he muttered.
He didn't grind or crush yet. He simply wrapped his massive hand around Samantha’s oiled foot, squeezing firmly to test the slip.
"Ugh... get off..." Samantha groaned, the pressure heavy and uncomfortable.
Her foot slid inside his grip, the oil creating a wet suction sound.Squelch.
"Grimy stuff," Harrington-Smythe grunted… "But you can't argue with the lack of friction. No purchase at all."
"Solid," Harrington-Smythe murmoured, releasing her foot with a wet pop. He wiped his hand on a towel. "She's got good density. Takes a heavy hand to hold onto that."
Finally, Sterling arrived at the last gurney. Stephanie.
"And Subject 1. The 'Conduit'."
Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped closer to the barrier. He stared at the black, shimmering industrial nylons encasing Stephanie’s feet. They were stretched to the bursting point, the fabric weave distorted over her arch.
"Synthetic," Sterling whispered. "High-tension industrial nylon. A size too small. It compresses the nerves while generating a continuous electrostatic field."
She motioned to Van Der Hoven. "The heat retention is also... significant. The fabric traps all perspiration, softening the skin beneath. Sir?"
Van Der Hoven reached out. He didn't use a tool. He pressed his thumb against her nylon-clad heel, holding it there.
Stephanie hissed, trying to pull away, but the leather anchors held her fast.
"Damp," Van Der Hoven murmured, his eyes closing as he felt the wet, frantic heat radiating through the tight black mesh. "Like an incubator."
He ran his thumb slowly up the arch—just once—pressing hard enough to engage the skin beneath the fabric.
Shhh-wick.
The sound was wet and tight. The nylon didn't slide smoothly; it dragged against Stephanie's sweat-soaked sole, the friction generating a sudden, intense line of heat that felt like a rope burn..
"Yip!" Stephanie flinched, the hot, dragging sensation making her toes curl inside the crushing stocking.
"High heat retention," Van Der Hoven whispered, opening his eyes. "The fabric acts as a second skin. It amplifies the friction."
Sterling stepped back to the center of the stage. The demonstration had been clinical, restrained, and professional. The product had been verified.
"The prototype phase is complete," Sterling declared.
The men stood by the gurneys, looking at the girls. The polite distance of the 'showroom' was evaporating. They had touched the merchandise, and now they wanted to use it.
Sterling walked to a small side table and picked up four sheaves of paper—pages from her ledger. The operational manuals.
"You have verified the mechanics, gentlemen," she said, holding the clipboards up. "But static analysis can only tell you so much."
She handed a clipboard to each man.
"To truly understand the investment... one must stress-test the materials."
She stepped back to the edge of the velvet rope, crossing her arms like a conductor stepping off the podium to let the soloists take the stage.
"The manuals list the breaking points," Sterling said, her voice dropping to a permissive whisper. "Try not to exceed them."
"Gentlemen... the floor is yours"
The atmosphere in the Undercroft shifted. The air, previously cold and damp, seemed to thicken with a frantic, nervous heat.
The four men did not hesitate. The hesitation of civilized society had evaporated, replaced by the eager, possessive focus of investors inspecting a high-yield asset.
Herr Dietrich was the first to move. He adjusted his glasses, consulting Lakshmi’s clipboard. "Subject 3. 'Paradoxical response to irregular rhythm.' Interesting."
He stood by Lakshmi’s gurney, checking his watch with the bored impatience of a commuter waiting for a late train. The itching powder had been blooming on Lakshmi’s soles for twenty minutes; her feet were mottled a desperate, inflamed pink, twitching in a chaotic rhythm against the leather restraints.
"It’s burning!" Lakshmi sobbed, her head tossing wildly on the pillow. "It’s crawling inside the skin! Please! Just scratch the heel! The right heel! It's the worst part!"
Dietrich adjusted his glasses, looking down at her writhing feet. "The heel? You are certain? I would hate to file a misallocated effort report."
"YES! THE HEEL! PLEAAASE!"
"Very well. Compliance is noted."
Dietrich picked up the stiff-bristled artist’s brush. He took hold of her ankle with a cold, firm grip to stop the thrashing. He positioned the brush over the center of her right heel—the epicenter of the maddening itch.
He didn't dig in. He didn't scratch. He began to dust the heel, snapping the bristles back and forth with a rapid, fluttering motion that barely grazed the surface of the powder.
Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip.
Instead of relief, the light, feathery contact over the hypersensitive skin sent a shockwave of electric, ticklish agony straight up her leg.
"AAAAHH! NO! NO! HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT LIKE THAT! IT TICKLES! IT DOESN'T HELP! HEEEE-YAAA-HAAAA!"
Lakshmi convulsed, her laughter sharp and panicked. The sensation wasn't scratching; it was just moving the itching powder around, waking up every nerve ending without satisfying a single one.
Dietrich stopped abruptly. He looked offended.
"I apply the friction to the requested sector, and you scream? No 'thank you'? No 'that suffices'?"
"It’s too light!" Lakshmi wept, struggling for breath. "It just makes it worse! You have to dig!"
"Inconsistent data. You reject the heel sector," Dietrich said flatly. "I will migrate to the medial arch. Please calibrate your response."
He moved the brush instantly to the high, soft curve of her inner arch—a spot she hadn't asked him to touch.
"No! Wait! Not there!"
Dietrich ignored her. He drove the bristles in darker, swirling circles right in the softest skin of the arch. He didn't let up.
Scrrr-uff. Scrrr-uff.
"GYAAAAH! STOP! IT’S NOT ITCHY THERE! IT HURTS! TAKE IT AWAY! HA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
"You seem very confused, Subject 3," Dietrich droned, watching her toes curl and splay in desperation. "You ask for the heel. You reject the heel. I move to the arch. You reject the arch. This suggests the data is flawed."
He lifted the brush, hovering it menacingly over her toes.
"I will stop the arch," Dietrich bargained calmly. "But only if you confirm the heel treatment was satisfactory. Was it?"
Lakshmi stared at him, her chest heaving, her mind fracturing under the relentless, crawling fire on her soles. She realized the game. The only way to stop the current torture was to ask for the previous one.
"Yes!" she choked out, tears streaming into her ears. "Yes! The heel! It was good! Thank you for the heel!"
"And would you like to request a new sector?" Dietrich asked, posing the brush like a conductor's baton.
"The toes!" Lakshmi screamed, surrendering completely. "Please! The toes! Do the toes!"
"See?" Dietrich smirked, lowering the brush toward the delicate, powder-dusted pads of her toes. "Manners cost nothing."
Monsieur Dubois stood by Rachel’s head for a moment, looking down at her tear-streaked face. He held the Golden Pheasant feather in one hand and a round, hard plastic shampoo massager in the other. The massager was bright pink—a cheerful color that clashed horribly with the menacing, rigid spikes protruding from its base.
"We make a contract, yes?" Dubois said smoothly. "The scalp massager… designed to exfoliate, yes? But on the sole, these plastic teeth act like a harrow." He tapped the plastic teeth against his palm. Tock-tock. "But the feather? The feather is mercy."
Rachel nodded frantically, her eyes darting between the soft plume and the spiked plastic disc. "Yes. The feather. Please, just the feather."
"The terms are simple," Dubois said, moving to the foot of the bed. "I will apply the feather for ten seconds. If you can remain silent—completely silent—we conclude the transaction. If you make a sound... I use the brush. Do you accept?"
"I accept! I accept!" Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip until it turned white.
"Very well. Un."
He drew the feather softly down the center of her arch. Rachel trembled, her breath hitching, but she held it.
"Deux... Trois..."
He swirled the tip around the sensitive pad of her big toe. Rachel let out a muffled squeak through her nose but kept her lips sealed.
"Quatre... Cinq... Six..."
Dubois smiled. She was doing too well. He couldn't use the brush if she passed.
"Sept... Huit... Neuf..."
Rachel’s body relaxed slightly, sensing victory. Just as Dubois opened his mouth to say "Dix", He glided the quill end of the feather suddenly and sharply down Rachel's taut arch.
"YIIIII-EEEEP!" Rachel shrieked, the surprise shattering her control.
Dubois stopped immediately. He looked at her with faux disappointment.
"Ah. What a pity. You violated the terms at the closing bell."
"No! That wasn't fair! You used the other end! You cheated! YOU LIED!"
"The deal was I use the feather," Dubois corrected coldly. He dropped the feather onto the tray and picked up the pink shampoo massager. He slipped his fingers through the handle loop. "And now, the penalty clause."
He grabbed her ankle tightly. He didn't slash with it; he planted the circular array of eighteen rigid plastic spikes firmly into the center of her soft, vulnerable arch.
"NO! NO! YOU LIED! WAIT!"
Dubois bore down and dragged the massager slowly down the length of her foot. The multiple teeth didn't cut; they plowed. They dug into the fascia and scraped the skin with a maddening, multi-point friction that occupied every nerve ending at once.
Skrrrr-itch. Skrrrr-itch.
"AAAAAHH-HA-HA-HA! IT’S TOO MUCH! IT SCRUBS! STOP SCRUBBING IT! HEEE-YAAA-HAAAA!"
"Maximum coverage," Dubois noted, dragging the spikes back up against the grain, watching the skin flush red in distinct, parallel lines.
Lord Harrington-Smythe lumbered past the instrument tray, discarding his cigar into a bucket of water with a hiss. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, hairy forearms.
"Tools are for amateurs," he grunted, eyeing Samantha’s glistening, oil-soaked feet. "You need to feel the displacement."
He stepped upto the foot of the guerney. He grabbed Samantha’s left foot with his massive left hand, his thumb searching for the sweet spot in her arch.
"Please," Samantha whimpered, slipping and sliding in her bonds. "You’re too heavy... don't crush it..."
"Quiet," he barked.
He drove his thumb into her plantar fascia. He didn't crush the bones; he found the knot of muscle deep inside the oil-slicked arch and leaned into it, grinding with a slow, nauseating precision.
"UUUUUGH! OWWW! GOD! IT HURTS!" Samantha barked, the air forced from her lungs.
"There's the deep note," Harrington-Smythe grinned.
But then, he raised his right hand. He didn't apply pressure. He reached across to her right foot—which was waiting for the pain—and barely grazed the sensitive wrinkling skin of the instep with his fingernails, fluttering them like butterfly wings. They glided over the oil-soaked feet.
"W-What? NO! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! WAIT!"
her brain short-circuited. The left foot was throbbing with deep, grinding agony, while the right foot was sent into spasms of high-voltage ticklish panic.
"Confusing, isn't it?" Harrington-Smythe chuckled. He ground his left thumb harder while speed-walking his fingers spider-like up her right sole.
"I CAN'T—HEEE-HAAA! STOP THE TICKLING! NO, STOP THE CRUSHING! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA! MAKE IT STAAHA-HA-HAP!"
"Delightful range," he noted, playing her feet like a discordant piano.
Finally, Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped up to the velvet rope, waving away the tray of tools Sterling offered. He was fixated on the shimmering, black industrial nylons encasing Stephanie’s feet. The high-tension fabric was stretched to its limit, distorting around the ball of her foot, trapping a visible sheen of moisture beneath the mesh.
"The containment is... efficient," he murmured, his voice thick. "But the aroma. One cannot audit the aroma through a filter."
He leaned in close, his face dangerously near her feet. Stephanie tried to kick, but the toes ties held her feet rigid.
"Stay away from me!" she spat.
Van Der Hoven ignored her. He reached out with a thumb and forefinger and pinched the taut nylon right at the center of the ball of her foot. He pulled the fabric away from the skin, creating a tent.
"Let us vent," he whispered.
He hooked his thumbs into the mesh, straining until the veins in his hands bulged.
RRRRRR-IP.
With a wet, synthetic shriek, the high-tension fabric gave way, splitting from the arch up to the toe-line. Because the toes were still anchored to the frame, the nylon remained trapped there, peeling back like a gruesome husk to reveal the flushed, sodden sole of her foot.
A visible wisp of steam—the trapped heat of her terror—escaped into the cold basement air.
Van Der Hoven closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the heavy, humid scent of fear and perspiration. "Exquisite," he breathed. "A vintage fermentation."
Stephanie gasped as the freezing air hit her sweat-soaked skin, her nerves jangling. "No... put it back... it's cold..."
"It is about to get warmer," Van Der Hoven corrected.
He extended his long, manicured fingernails. He placed them at the base of her exposed heel, right on the sodden, softened skin. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his nails up the length of her arch, scraping through the layer of sweat.
shhh-uck... slide.
"AAAAH! HHH-NO! DON'T!" Stephanie’s head slammed back. The sensation of sharp nails on skin that had been marinading in sweat and heat was electric—too raw, too intimate.
"So sensitive without the shield," Van Der Hoven observed, circling his nails relentlessly over the ball of her foot, relishing the wet, tactile feedback.
The Undercroft erupted into a cacophony of industrialized torment. It was no longer a school; it was a factory floor.
The gurneys shook and rattled on the concrete floor. The girls thrashed in their linen cocoons, their heads tossing wildly on the pillows, their screams merging into a single, dissonant chord of absolute helplessness.
Sterling stood by the blast doors, watching the scene with cold satisfaction. She checked her watch. Ten minutes. That was the threshold for the premium package.
"Gentlemen!" Sterling’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack.
She checked her watch. "The ten-minute threshold has been reached. Continued stimulation without a refractory period damages the nervous system."
The command hung in the air.
Slowly, reluctantly, the men stopped.
The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, wet weeping of the four girls.
Mr. Van Der Hoven stood up straight, his chest heaving slightly. He looked at his hand; his fingernails were glistening with Stephanie’s sweat. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers with slow, deliberate precision, staring at the sobbing girl with a look of terrifying hunger.
Lord Harrington-Smythe grabbed a towel from a nearby rack. He scrubbed the mineral oil from his hairy forearms, his face flushed red with exertion. "Good lord," he breathed, tossing the ruined towel into a hamper. "The resonance on that one. She vibrates right through the bone"
Sterling spread her arms, gesturing to the dripping concrete walls, the exposed wiring, and the rough, unfinished floor of the cavern.
"I know the surroundings are... primitive," Sterling said, her voice echoing in the damp space. "But with the right infusion of capital, this Undercroft won't just be a basement. It will be the premier correction laboratory in the hemisphere. Soundproofed tiling, hydraulic positioning tables, climate-controlled holding cells."
She smiled, a thin, shark-like expression.
"We are building a cathedral of discipline, gentlemen. But cathedrals require patrons."
The men weren't looking at the walls. They were looking at the girls they had just broken. They weren't interested in generic research anymore. They wanted ownership.
"The infrastructure is your concern, Sterling," Van Der Hoven said, his voice steadying as he put his glasses back on. He pointed a slender finger directly at Stephanie, who was shivering on the gurney. "But this one... she is mine."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The leather creak of the checkbook sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"I am sponsoring Subject 1 exclusively," Van Der Hoven declared, uncapping a gold fountain pen. "I don't want anyone else tearing those nylons. She is to be reserved for my account."
"Agreed," Sterling nodded, her eyes remaining cold. "A wise investment."
"I’ll take this one, she needs a firm hand," Harrington-Smythe barked, nodding at the sobbing Samantha. He scribbled a figure that made Sterling’s eyebrows rise. "I want her kept oiled. And I want to know when I can come back."
Dietrich and Dubois were already writing, claiming Lakshmi and Rachel respectively. The transaction was no longer about science; it was an auction.
Sterling collected the checks—four heavy pieces of paper that sealed the girls' fates.
"Your patronage will build this laboratory," Sterling purred, tucking the checks into her lab coat. "As for access... my office will manage the schedule. We can arrange private 'visiting windows' starting next month. Tuesdays and Thursdays are currently open for exclusive sessions."
"Book me for every Tuesday," Van Der Hoven said, clipping his pen back into his pocket.
"Excellent," Sterling said, tucking the checks—the price of four souls—into her lab coat. "My staff will escort you to the lounge for refreshments. The subjects will be... serviced... and returned to storage."
The heavy doors groaned shut as the men left, sealing the sound of civilised society away.
Sterling turned back to the room. The work lights hummed. The four girls lay on the metal tables, bound, exposed, and utterly spent. They looked at Sterling with eyes that held no more defiance—only the hollow, terrified realization of what they had just become.
Sterling walked up to Stephanie. She plucked the plastic comb from the tray and tapped it lightly against the torn nylon sole. Tap. Tap.
Stephanie flinched violently, a whimper escaping her throat.
"You wanted to expose the truth, Stephanie?" Sterling whispered, leaning close enough to feel the heat radiating from the girl's face.
She patted the pocket where the checks were resting.
"Congratulations. You just became the most expensive secret in Europe."
She turned to the Matrons.
"Take them to the West Wing. They don't go back to the dorms. Ever."
The silence in the small holding classroom was worse than the screaming had been.
Stephanie sat on the floor, her back pressed against a cold radiator. Her feet were bare. Sterling had ordered the nylons removed before they were thrown in here—a small mercy that felt suspicious. Her skin felt raw and exposed, the nerves in her soles still buzzing with a phantom itch from the compression and the static.
She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to hide her toes in the hem of her ruined pajamas.
"What did she mean?" Rachel whispered. She was the only one moving, pacing the short length of the chalkboard in an endless, nervous loop. "She said 'demonstration.' She said 'checkbooks.' Who brings a checkbook to a discipline hearing?"
"It’s not a hearing," Lakshmi murmured. She was staring blankly at a periodic table on the wall, her eyes glassy. "You heard her tone. She wasn't talking about expulsion. She was talking about funding."
Samantha wasn't speaking. She was huddled in the corner near the teacher’s desk, wiping the last of the sticky mineral oil from her feet with a crumpled paper towel she’d found in the bin. Her arches were red and bruised.
"They can't just keep us here," Stephanie said, though her voice lacked conviction. The school was isolated, miles from the nearest town. "Someone will notice."
"Who?" Rachel snapped, turning on her heel. "Our parents signed the waivers. 'Total custodial discretion.' We’re ghosts, Stephanie. We’re—"
CLACK.
The classroom door unlocked and was opened.
The sound sucked the air out of the room. Rachel froze mid-step. Samantha curled tighter into a ball.
Two figures stepped into the fluorescent light of the classroom. They were nightmares of efficiency. Massive women, broad as rugby players, dressed not in the school’s usual crisp uniforms, but in heavy, grey rubber butchers' aprons worn over black habits. Their arms were thick, pale, and folded across their chests. They wore heavy rubber boots that squeaked on the linoleum.
They didn't look at the girls’ faces. They looked at their feet, then their hands. Assessing damage. Assessing mobility.
Headmistress Sterling stepped in between them.
She had shed her tweed blazer. She was now wearing a stark, white laboratory coat over her dress, buttoned to the neck. She looked less like a headmistress and more like a lead researcher entering a vivisection ward.
"Up," Sterling commanded softly.
The girls scrambled to their feet, instinctively huddling together.
"Where are you taking us?" Stephanie asked, her voice trembling. "If you're expelling us, just let us pack."
Sterling smiled—a thin, jagged expression that didn't reach her eyes.
"Expulsion implies a return to the manufacturer," she said smoothly. "We do not offer returns. We offer repurposing."
She checked her watch.
"The Board is en route. You have forty minutes to be scrubbed, prepped, and mounted. Do not make us rush. Rushing leads to... bruising."
She nodded to the Matrons.
"Take them to the Undercroft."
The Matrons moved. There was no shouting, no anger. Just the overarching weight of inevitable physics. One Matron grabbed Rachel and Lakshmi by the elbow; the other herded Stephanie and Samantha.
They were marched out of the classroom, but not toward the front exit. They were led down the silent corridor to the blind end of the East Wing, where the hallway terminated at a single, formidable door of dark, aged oak. It was a door every student passed daily, but no one had ever seen open.
Sterling stopped. She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and produced a heavy, dull iron key on a simple wire ring.
She didn't hurry. She inserted the key into the lock with a deliberate, grinding precision.
Thunk-click.
The deadbolt retracted with the heavy sound. Sterling pushed.
The heavy oak door opened onto a narrow, spiraling staircase of raw, unpainted steel that descended steeply into the earth. The smell that drifted up was not the smell of a school—it was damp concrete, rust, and the metallic tang of copper wire.
“Move,” the Matron grunted, shoving Rachel toward the abyss.
One by one, they were forced onto the steel grate stairs, descending out of the world of books and chalk, and down into the wet, humming belly of the institution.
The air grew heavier with every step down.
At the bottom of the stairs, the four girls were shoved into a cavernous, dimly lit space. This was not a finished facility. It was a construction zone carved out of the bedrock beneath the school's foundations. The walls were rough-hewn grey concrete that wept with condensation. Bundles of electrical wiring hung from the ceiling like exposed nerves, buzzing with a low, ominous hum. In the shadows of the alcoves, stacks of lumber, bags of quick-dry cement, and abandoned tools were piled high—evidence of a project being rushed to completion.
In the center of the chaos, an "island" of sterility had been created. A square of the floor had been tiled in stark white ceramic, illuminated by blindingly bright surgical lights suspended from a temporary metal scaffolding.
The matrons turned to face the four terrified girls.
"Strip," the first Matron barked. Her voice echoed off the cold, wet walls.
"What?" Stephanie gasped, shivering as the freezing subterranean air hit her skin. "No, you can't—"
The Matron didn't argue. She stepped forward, her rubber boots squeaking on the tiles, and grabbed the collar of Stephanie’s blouse. Rrrrip. Buttons popped and skittered across the floor like hail.
"Assessment requires a blank canvas," Sterling’s voice drifted down from the stairs. She was descending slowly, looking like the Overseer of the facility.
Within moments, the girls were stripped of their uniforms, their pajamas, and their dignity. They stood shivering, huddled together on the cold tiles, naked and vulnerable in the harsh glare of the work lamps.
"Decontamination," Sterling ordered, checking her watch. "The investors expect pristine samples."
The second Matron uncoiled a heavy black industrial hose attached to a standpipe in the unfinished wall. She twisted the brass nozzle.
HISSSSSSS-THWACK.
A jet of ice-cold water slammed into the group.
"AAAAHH! HHH-UUHH!" Samantha screamed, the breath driven from her lungs by the thermal shock.
The water wasn't just cold; it was freezing. It hammered against their skin, washing away the sweat of the dormitory, the baby oil from the earlier torture, and the warmth of their humanity.
After the hose was turned off and reattached to the standpipe, the Matrons moved in with stiff, long-handled scrubbing brushes.
They scrubbed the legs and arms with brutal efficiency, but when they reached the feet, the cruelty became precise.
The Matron grabbed Samantha’s ankle. She drove the coarse bristles hard into the softened, defenseless arch.
"NNN-GGGHK!" Samantha choked, her leg jerking instinctively, slipping on the wet tiles. The brush rasped like sandpaper against her skin.
Next was Stephanie. The Matron pinned her foot to the floor and scrubbed the sensitive webbing between the toes. "Stop! Aieee! It hurts! Ha-ha-stop!" Stephanie shrieked, the sensation a confused overload of pain and ticklish panic.
"Clean," the first Matron announced, dropping her brush into a bucket of disinfectant.
"Table them," Sterling commanded.
A final blast from the hose stripped away the soap and dead skin before they were hauled, shivering and dripping, toward the tables.
In the center of the tiled area stood four narrow, padded gurneys. They looked like hospital beds, but modified. At the foot of each bed was a complex metal frame with leather loops and adjustable bars.
The girls were lifted—too exhausted and frozen to fight—onto the gurneys.
Then came the linen.
The Matrons worked with the speed of embalmers. They took rolls of heavy, unbleached linen bandages and began to wrap. They started at the ankles and worked their way up, winding the fabric tightly around the girls’ legs, binding them together into an immobile pillar. They wrapped the hips, the torsos, and the arms, pinning them firmly to the girls' sides.
Layer after layer, the girls disappeared. Within minutes, they were no longer individuals. They were four identical, mummified shapes lying on metal tables. Only their heads—propped up on pillows—and their feet—protruding from the bottom of the wrap—were exposed.
The matrons then took heated towels and dried the feet of the four terrified girls. The result was their soles were now hyper-sensitive.
"Anchor them," Sterling said, stepping into the light to inspect the work.
The Matrons moved to the foot of the gurneys. They took thin, strong leather cords attached to the metal frames.
"No... please..." Rachel whimpered, her head thrashing feebly. "Don't tie them..."
The Matron ignored her. She looped a cord around Rachel’s big toe and pulled it outward, tying it off to the frame. Then the second toe. Then the third.
Snap. Tighten. Knot.
By the time they were finished, all four girls had their toes splayed wide and pulled back toward the frame. Their arches were forced upward, the skin of their soles pulled taut as drumheads, completely immobilized and presented for inspection.
Sterling walked down the line, her heels clicking on the tiles. She carried a metal tray filled with specific "priming agents."
She stopped at Lakshmi.
"Subject 3," Sterling murmured. "The intellectual. Prone to over-thinking discomfort."
Sterling dipped a soft camel-hair brush into a jar of fine, grey powder. It was 'itching powder'—made from ground mucuna pruriens pods. She dusted it generously over Lakshmi’s dry, scrubbed soles, ensuring the microscopic barbs settled into the pores and the webbing between the splayed toes.
"Do try to remain still," Sterling whispered as Lakshmi let out a strangled whimper. "These particulates function like tiny fishhooks. Every twitch of resistance simply drives them deeper into the soft tissue."
Sterling then lightly traced her index nail up Lakshmi's arch.
Lakshmi lurched in her bonds and cackled. Then she looked pleadingly at Sterling "It's starting to itch! Help!"
"See?" Sterling said, cruelly.
Sterling moved to Rachel.
"Subject 4. The negotiator."
Sterling didn't apply a substance. Instead, she took a single, magnificent contour feather from a Golden Pheasant. She placed it on the tray table directly beside Rachel’s feet, within the girl's peripheral vision but utterly out of reach. She adjusted the angle of the foot-rest so Rachel’s toes were spread dangerously wide, the sensitive skin between them glistening under the lights.
Then Sterling picked up a pink plastic scalp massager and showed the business end to Rachel. The pink plastic cones catching the artificial light. Then she placed that back on the table beside the feather.
"Anticipation," Sterling noted, "is often worse than the event."
She moved to Samantha.
"Subject 2. The deep-tissue responder."
Sterling pumped a dispenser. A thick, viscous sludge of heavy mineral oil. She gripped Samantha’s heel and drove her thumb hard into the center of the arch, twisting it.
"OHHH! HHH-UH!" Samantha gasped, her head thrashing on the pillow.
"Viscous," Sterling observed, the oil making a wet pop as she withdrew her thumb. "The acoustics of the suction will be marvelous."
Finally, she reached Stephanie.
"Subject 1. The Conductive Element."
Stephanie’s feet were raw and red from the cold water. Sterling produced a packet of industrial, high-compression nylons. She signaled the Matron to untie the toe-anchors on Stephanie's left foot only.
As soon as the cords were loose, Stephanie began to thrash her foot wildly. She shook it side to side, curling and fanning her toes, refusing to present a target.
"No! Not the nylons! You can't!" Stephanie yelled.
Sterling sighed. She didn't try to grab the moving foot. Instead, she turned her attention to Stephanie’s right foot, which was still firmly anchored and helpless.
Sterling raised her hand, her nails glinting under the surgical lights. She brought all five nails down onto the taut, exposed arch of the right foot and raked them upwards with vicious speed, looking into Stephanie's eyes with an eyebrow raised.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! OKAY! OKAY! STOP! STOP IT! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Stephanie’s head slammed back, her resistance shattered instantly by the attack on her vulnerable sole. She went limp, sobbing dryly.
"That's better," Sterling said calmly.
She rolled the nylon down and forced it over Stephanie’s now-compliant left foot. "Mmph…" Stephanie groaned as the suffocating stocking squeezed her toes. Sterling repeated the process on the right. The nylons were a size too small, compressing the flesh, turning the feet into sleek, shimmering sculptures.
The Matrons re-attached the toe anchors. They pulled the nylon-clad toes apart. Snap. Tighten. The fabric stretched thin between the toes, creating a web of tension.
Sterling ran a single fingernail up the nylon sole. Zzzzt.
"YIIIP!" Stephanie jolted, the static discharge hitting her like a live wire.
"Excellent," Sterling whispered, stripping off her gloves.
From the other side of the room, the heavy blast doors unlatched with a groan. Sterling turned to the entrance, smoothing her lab coat.
"Lights to full," Sterling commanded. "The checkbooks are arriving."
The Matrons cranked a lever. The overhead lights intensified, turning the tiled area into a blindingly bright stage.
The clang of the blast doors opening echoed through the undercroft like a funeral bell. The sound of expensive leather shoes on concrete followed—slow, confident steps approaching the lighted tables.
Sterling smoothed her immaculate silver hair and turned, her best "fundraising smile" plastered across her face as she looked towards the arrivals.
Leading the group was Mr. Van Der Hoven. He was a tall, skeletal Dutchman in a tailored charcoal suit, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles with the detached curiosity of a taxidermist examining a rare beetle.
Behind him came Lord Harrington-Smythe, a portly man whose face was flushed with the perpetual bloat of excess. He moved heavily, leaving a trail of cigar smoke that mingled grotesquely with the scent of damp concrete.
Monsieur Dubois was sharp and thin, dressed in blue pinstripes, his eyes darting around the facility, assessing the infrastructure rather than the product.
Trailing slightly was Herr Dietrich, a man who carried a leather notebook and looked at the world as if it were a math problem he was trying to solve.
"Gentlemen," Sterling’s voice was warm velvet over cold steel. "Welcome to the future of St. Brigid’s. Welcome to the Undercroft."
She gestured to the lit stage where the four gurneys stood. The donors stopped. There was a moment of silence as they took in the sight: four young women, mummified in rough linen, their heads pillowed and helpless, their feet elevated and uniquely prepared like dishes at a banquet.
Lord Harrington-Smythe let out a low whistle. "Damn fine presentation, Sterling. Very... Egyptian."
"Efficiency, my Lord," Sterling corrected gently. "The containment wraps ensure that all energy is directed to the point of contact. No wasted motion. Pure reaction."
She walked to the first gurney. Lakshmi.
"Subject 3. The 'Cerebral' Model. Pre-treated with activation powder."
"As you can see, the activation powder has been applied and allowed to settle for a few minutes. The powder creates a phantom itch," Sterling explained, her voice clinical. "A neurological signal that creates a desperate, biological demand for friction. The itch is currently peaking"
"Herr Dietrich? A simple verification of the sensitivity, if you please."
Sterling offered the stiff-bristled brush.
Dietrich stepped forward, his face impassive. He took the brush. He didn't attack; he simply approached the foot with the detached curiosity of an auditor checking a ledger.
"The sensitivity is immediate?" he asked.
"Instantaneous," Sterling confirmed.
Dietrich extended the brush. He lightly tapped the bristles against the center of Lakshmi's powdered arch. Tap.
"Eee-yup!" Lakshmi jolted, her leg twitching violently against the restraint. "Don't! It tickles! It burns!"
Dietrich pulled the brush back instantly, nodding. "Reflexes are sharp," he noted, handing the brush back to Sterling. He adjusted his glasses, looking at Lakshmi’s twitching toes with clinical approval. "The neurological loop is active."
Sterling moved smoothly to the second gurney. Rachel.
"Subject 4. The 'Negotiator'."
Sterling picked up the feather and the plastic shampoo massager to show the donors before placing them back down on the tray.
"This subject believes suffering is a transaction," Sterling said to Monsieur Dubois. "She responds to the threat of texture rather than the application of it."
Dubois set his cognac down. He walked up to the gurney, picking up the feather. He floated it inches from Rachel’s exposed sole, letting the shadow dance over her skin.
Rachel’s breathing hitched. "Please," she whispered, her eyes tracking the plume. "I'll be quiet. Just... just keep the feather away."
Dubois smiled thinly. He didn't touch her. He simply lowered the feather until a single barb grazed the webbing between her toes.
"Hhh-uh!" Rachel sucked in a breath, biting her lip, her eyes squeezing shut in anticipation of a tickle that barely came.
"Fascinating," Dubois murmured. "She creates the sensation in her own mind before contact is even made." He placed the feather back on the tray. "An excellent psychological specimen."
Sterling moved to the third gurney. Samantha.
"Subject 2. The 'Deep Tissue' Model."
Sterling geatured to Samantha’s gleaming arches, coated in oil.
"This subject requires volume," Sterling explained. "The oil eliminates surface friction. To get a reaction, one must bypass the skin and engage the muscle structure directly. Lord Harrington-Smythe? Validate the viscosity, if you would."
Harrington-Smythe grunted. He handed his cigar to a waiter and rolled up his sleeves. He lumbered up to the gurney.
"Let's see the grip," he muttered.
He didn't grind or crush yet. He simply wrapped his massive hand around Samantha’s oiled foot, squeezing firmly to test the slip.
"Ugh... get off..." Samantha groaned, the pressure heavy and uncomfortable.
Her foot slid inside his grip, the oil creating a wet suction sound.Squelch.
"Grimy stuff," Harrington-Smythe grunted… "But you can't argue with the lack of friction. No purchase at all."
"Solid," Harrington-Smythe murmoured, releasing her foot with a wet pop. He wiped his hand on a towel. "She's got good density. Takes a heavy hand to hold onto that."
Finally, Sterling arrived at the last gurney. Stephanie.
"And Subject 1. The 'Conduit'."
Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped closer to the barrier. He stared at the black, shimmering industrial nylons encasing Stephanie’s feet. They were stretched to the bursting point, the fabric weave distorted over her arch.
"Synthetic," Sterling whispered. "High-tension industrial nylon. A size too small. It compresses the nerves while generating a continuous electrostatic field."
She motioned to Van Der Hoven. "The heat retention is also... significant. The fabric traps all perspiration, softening the skin beneath. Sir?"
Van Der Hoven reached out. He didn't use a tool. He pressed his thumb against her nylon-clad heel, holding it there.
Stephanie hissed, trying to pull away, but the leather anchors held her fast.
"Damp," Van Der Hoven murmured, his eyes closing as he felt the wet, frantic heat radiating through the tight black mesh. "Like an incubator."
He ran his thumb slowly up the arch—just once—pressing hard enough to engage the skin beneath the fabric.
Shhh-wick.
The sound was wet and tight. The nylon didn't slide smoothly; it dragged against Stephanie's sweat-soaked sole, the friction generating a sudden, intense line of heat that felt like a rope burn..
"Yip!" Stephanie flinched, the hot, dragging sensation making her toes curl inside the crushing stocking.
"High heat retention," Van Der Hoven whispered, opening his eyes. "The fabric acts as a second skin. It amplifies the friction."
Sterling stepped back to the center of the stage. The demonstration had been clinical, restrained, and professional. The product had been verified.
"The prototype phase is complete," Sterling declared.
The men stood by the gurneys, looking at the girls. The polite distance of the 'showroom' was evaporating. They had touched the merchandise, and now they wanted to use it.
Sterling walked to a small side table and picked up four sheaves of paper—pages from her ledger. The operational manuals.
"You have verified the mechanics, gentlemen," she said, holding the clipboards up. "But static analysis can only tell you so much."
She handed a clipboard to each man.
"To truly understand the investment... one must stress-test the materials."
She stepped back to the edge of the velvet rope, crossing her arms like a conductor stepping off the podium to let the soloists take the stage.
"The manuals list the breaking points," Sterling said, her voice dropping to a permissive whisper. "Try not to exceed them."
"Gentlemen... the floor is yours"
The atmosphere in the Undercroft shifted. The air, previously cold and damp, seemed to thicken with a frantic, nervous heat.
The four men did not hesitate. The hesitation of civilized society had evaporated, replaced by the eager, possessive focus of investors inspecting a high-yield asset.
Herr Dietrich was the first to move. He adjusted his glasses, consulting Lakshmi’s clipboard. "Subject 3. 'Paradoxical response to irregular rhythm.' Interesting."
He stood by Lakshmi’s gurney, checking his watch with the bored impatience of a commuter waiting for a late train. The itching powder had been blooming on Lakshmi’s soles for twenty minutes; her feet were mottled a desperate, inflamed pink, twitching in a chaotic rhythm against the leather restraints.
"It’s burning!" Lakshmi sobbed, her head tossing wildly on the pillow. "It’s crawling inside the skin! Please! Just scratch the heel! The right heel! It's the worst part!"
Dietrich adjusted his glasses, looking down at her writhing feet. "The heel? You are certain? I would hate to file a misallocated effort report."
"YES! THE HEEL! PLEAAASE!"
"Very well. Compliance is noted."
Dietrich picked up the stiff-bristled artist’s brush. He took hold of her ankle with a cold, firm grip to stop the thrashing. He positioned the brush over the center of her right heel—the epicenter of the maddening itch.
He didn't dig in. He didn't scratch. He began to dust the heel, snapping the bristles back and forth with a rapid, fluttering motion that barely grazed the surface of the powder.
Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip.
Instead of relief, the light, feathery contact over the hypersensitive skin sent a shockwave of electric, ticklish agony straight up her leg.
"AAAAHH! NO! NO! HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT LIKE THAT! IT TICKLES! IT DOESN'T HELP! HEEEE-YAAA-HAAAA!"
Lakshmi convulsed, her laughter sharp and panicked. The sensation wasn't scratching; it was just moving the itching powder around, waking up every nerve ending without satisfying a single one.
Dietrich stopped abruptly. He looked offended.
"I apply the friction to the requested sector, and you scream? No 'thank you'? No 'that suffices'?"
"It’s too light!" Lakshmi wept, struggling for breath. "It just makes it worse! You have to dig!"
"Inconsistent data. You reject the heel sector," Dietrich said flatly. "I will migrate to the medial arch. Please calibrate your response."
He moved the brush instantly to the high, soft curve of her inner arch—a spot she hadn't asked him to touch.
"No! Wait! Not there!"
Dietrich ignored her. He drove the bristles in darker, swirling circles right in the softest skin of the arch. He didn't let up.
Scrrr-uff. Scrrr-uff.
"GYAAAAH! STOP! IT’S NOT ITCHY THERE! IT HURTS! TAKE IT AWAY! HA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
"You seem very confused, Subject 3," Dietrich droned, watching her toes curl and splay in desperation. "You ask for the heel. You reject the heel. I move to the arch. You reject the arch. This suggests the data is flawed."
He lifted the brush, hovering it menacingly over her toes.
"I will stop the arch," Dietrich bargained calmly. "But only if you confirm the heel treatment was satisfactory. Was it?"
Lakshmi stared at him, her chest heaving, her mind fracturing under the relentless, crawling fire on her soles. She realized the game. The only way to stop the current torture was to ask for the previous one.
"Yes!" she choked out, tears streaming into her ears. "Yes! The heel! It was good! Thank you for the heel!"
"And would you like to request a new sector?" Dietrich asked, posing the brush like a conductor's baton.
"The toes!" Lakshmi screamed, surrendering completely. "Please! The toes! Do the toes!"
"See?" Dietrich smirked, lowering the brush toward the delicate, powder-dusted pads of her toes. "Manners cost nothing."
Monsieur Dubois stood by Rachel’s head for a moment, looking down at her tear-streaked face. He held the Golden Pheasant feather in one hand and a round, hard plastic shampoo massager in the other. The massager was bright pink—a cheerful color that clashed horribly with the menacing, rigid spikes protruding from its base.
"We make a contract, yes?" Dubois said smoothly. "The scalp massager… designed to exfoliate, yes? But on the sole, these plastic teeth act like a harrow." He tapped the plastic teeth against his palm. Tock-tock. "But the feather? The feather is mercy."
Rachel nodded frantically, her eyes darting between the soft plume and the spiked plastic disc. "Yes. The feather. Please, just the feather."
"The terms are simple," Dubois said, moving to the foot of the bed. "I will apply the feather for ten seconds. If you can remain silent—completely silent—we conclude the transaction. If you make a sound... I use the brush. Do you accept?"
"I accept! I accept!" Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip until it turned white.
"Very well. Un."
He drew the feather softly down the center of her arch. Rachel trembled, her breath hitching, but she held it.
"Deux... Trois..."
He swirled the tip around the sensitive pad of her big toe. Rachel let out a muffled squeak through her nose but kept her lips sealed.
"Quatre... Cinq... Six..."
Dubois smiled. She was doing too well. He couldn't use the brush if she passed.
"Sept... Huit... Neuf..."
Rachel’s body relaxed slightly, sensing victory. Just as Dubois opened his mouth to say "Dix", He glided the quill end of the feather suddenly and sharply down Rachel's taut arch.
"YIIIII-EEEEP!" Rachel shrieked, the surprise shattering her control.
Dubois stopped immediately. He looked at her with faux disappointment.
"Ah. What a pity. You violated the terms at the closing bell."
"No! That wasn't fair! You used the other end! You cheated! YOU LIED!"
"The deal was I use the feather," Dubois corrected coldly. He dropped the feather onto the tray and picked up the pink shampoo massager. He slipped his fingers through the handle loop. "And now, the penalty clause."
He grabbed her ankle tightly. He didn't slash with it; he planted the circular array of eighteen rigid plastic spikes firmly into the center of her soft, vulnerable arch.
"NO! NO! YOU LIED! WAIT!"
Dubois bore down and dragged the massager slowly down the length of her foot. The multiple teeth didn't cut; they plowed. They dug into the fascia and scraped the skin with a maddening, multi-point friction that occupied every nerve ending at once.
Skrrrr-itch. Skrrrr-itch.
"AAAAAHH-HA-HA-HA! IT’S TOO MUCH! IT SCRUBS! STOP SCRUBBING IT! HEEE-YAAA-HAAAA!"
"Maximum coverage," Dubois noted, dragging the spikes back up against the grain, watching the skin flush red in distinct, parallel lines.
Lord Harrington-Smythe lumbered past the instrument tray, discarding his cigar into a bucket of water with a hiss. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, hairy forearms.
"Tools are for amateurs," he grunted, eyeing Samantha’s glistening, oil-soaked feet. "You need to feel the displacement."
He stepped upto the foot of the guerney. He grabbed Samantha’s left foot with his massive left hand, his thumb searching for the sweet spot in her arch.
"Please," Samantha whimpered, slipping and sliding in her bonds. "You’re too heavy... don't crush it..."
"Quiet," he barked.
He drove his thumb into her plantar fascia. He didn't crush the bones; he found the knot of muscle deep inside the oil-slicked arch and leaned into it, grinding with a slow, nauseating precision.
"UUUUUGH! OWWW! GOD! IT HURTS!" Samantha barked, the air forced from her lungs.
"There's the deep note," Harrington-Smythe grinned.
But then, he raised his right hand. He didn't apply pressure. He reached across to her right foot—which was waiting for the pain—and barely grazed the sensitive wrinkling skin of the instep with his fingernails, fluttering them like butterfly wings. They glided over the oil-soaked feet.
"W-What? NO! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! WAIT!"
her brain short-circuited. The left foot was throbbing with deep, grinding agony, while the right foot was sent into spasms of high-voltage ticklish panic.
"Confusing, isn't it?" Harrington-Smythe chuckled. He ground his left thumb harder while speed-walking his fingers spider-like up her right sole.
"I CAN'T—HEEE-HAAA! STOP THE TICKLING! NO, STOP THE CRUSHING! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA! MAKE IT STAAHA-HA-HAP!"
"Delightful range," he noted, playing her feet like a discordant piano.
Finally, Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped up to the velvet rope, waving away the tray of tools Sterling offered. He was fixated on the shimmering, black industrial nylons encasing Stephanie’s feet. The high-tension fabric was stretched to its limit, distorting around the ball of her foot, trapping a visible sheen of moisture beneath the mesh.
"The containment is... efficient," he murmured, his voice thick. "But the aroma. One cannot audit the aroma through a filter."
He leaned in close, his face dangerously near her feet. Stephanie tried to kick, but the toes ties held her feet rigid.
"Stay away from me!" she spat.
Van Der Hoven ignored her. He reached out with a thumb and forefinger and pinched the taut nylon right at the center of the ball of her foot. He pulled the fabric away from the skin, creating a tent.
"Let us vent," he whispered.
He hooked his thumbs into the mesh, straining until the veins in his hands bulged.
RRRRRR-IP.
With a wet, synthetic shriek, the high-tension fabric gave way, splitting from the arch up to the toe-line. Because the toes were still anchored to the frame, the nylon remained trapped there, peeling back like a gruesome husk to reveal the flushed, sodden sole of her foot.
A visible wisp of steam—the trapped heat of her terror—escaped into the cold basement air.
Van Der Hoven closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the heavy, humid scent of fear and perspiration. "Exquisite," he breathed. "A vintage fermentation."
Stephanie gasped as the freezing air hit her sweat-soaked skin, her nerves jangling. "No... put it back... it's cold..."
"It is about to get warmer," Van Der Hoven corrected.
He extended his long, manicured fingernails. He placed them at the base of her exposed heel, right on the sodden, softened skin. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his nails up the length of her arch, scraping through the layer of sweat.
shhh-uck... slide.
"AAAAH! HHH-NO! DON'T!" Stephanie’s head slammed back. The sensation of sharp nails on skin that had been marinading in sweat and heat was electric—too raw, too intimate.
"So sensitive without the shield," Van Der Hoven observed, circling his nails relentlessly over the ball of her foot, relishing the wet, tactile feedback.
The Undercroft erupted into a cacophony of industrialized torment. It was no longer a school; it was a factory floor.
The gurneys shook and rattled on the concrete floor. The girls thrashed in their linen cocoons, their heads tossing wildly on the pillows, their screams merging into a single, dissonant chord of absolute helplessness.
Sterling stood by the blast doors, watching the scene with cold satisfaction. She checked her watch. Ten minutes. That was the threshold for the premium package.
"Gentlemen!" Sterling’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack.
She checked her watch. "The ten-minute threshold has been reached. Continued stimulation without a refractory period damages the nervous system."
The command hung in the air.
Slowly, reluctantly, the men stopped.
The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, wet weeping of the four girls.
Mr. Van Der Hoven stood up straight, his chest heaving slightly. He looked at his hand; his fingernails were glistening with Stephanie’s sweat. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers with slow, deliberate precision, staring at the sobbing girl with a look of terrifying hunger.
Lord Harrington-Smythe grabbed a towel from a nearby rack. He scrubbed the mineral oil from his hairy forearms, his face flushed red with exertion. "Good lord," he breathed, tossing the ruined towel into a hamper. "The resonance on that one. She vibrates right through the bone"
Sterling spread her arms, gesturing to the dripping concrete walls, the exposed wiring, and the rough, unfinished floor of the cavern.
"I know the surroundings are... primitive," Sterling said, her voice echoing in the damp space. "But with the right infusion of capital, this Undercroft won't just be a basement. It will be the premier correction laboratory in the hemisphere. Soundproofed tiling, hydraulic positioning tables, climate-controlled holding cells."
She smiled, a thin, shark-like expression.
"We are building a cathedral of discipline, gentlemen. But cathedrals require patrons."
The men weren't looking at the walls. They were looking at the girls they had just broken. They weren't interested in generic research anymore. They wanted ownership.
"The infrastructure is your concern, Sterling," Van Der Hoven said, his voice steadying as he put his glasses back on. He pointed a slender finger directly at Stephanie, who was shivering on the gurney. "But this one... she is mine."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The leather creak of the checkbook sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"I am sponsoring Subject 1 exclusively," Van Der Hoven declared, uncapping a gold fountain pen. "I don't want anyone else tearing those nylons. She is to be reserved for my account."
"Agreed," Sterling nodded, her eyes remaining cold. "A wise investment."
"I’ll take this one, she needs a firm hand," Harrington-Smythe barked, nodding at the sobbing Samantha. He scribbled a figure that made Sterling’s eyebrows rise. "I want her kept oiled. And I want to know when I can come back."
Dietrich and Dubois were already writing, claiming Lakshmi and Rachel respectively. The transaction was no longer about science; it was an auction.
Sterling collected the checks—four heavy pieces of paper that sealed the girls' fates.
"Your patronage will build this laboratory," Sterling purred, tucking the checks into her lab coat. "As for access... my office will manage the schedule. We can arrange private 'visiting windows' starting next month. Tuesdays and Thursdays are currently open for exclusive sessions."
"Book me for every Tuesday," Van Der Hoven said, clipping his pen back into his pocket.
"Excellent," Sterling said, tucking the checks—the price of four souls—into her lab coat. "My staff will escort you to the lounge for refreshments. The subjects will be... serviced... and returned to storage."
The heavy doors groaned shut as the men left, sealing the sound of civilised society away.
Sterling turned back to the room. The work lights hummed. The four girls lay on the metal tables, bound, exposed, and utterly spent. They looked at Sterling with eyes that held no more defiance—only the hollow, terrified realization of what they had just become.
Sterling walked up to Stephanie. She plucked the plastic comb from the tray and tapped it lightly against the torn nylon sole. Tap. Tap.
Stephanie flinched violently, a whimper escaping her throat.
"You wanted to expose the truth, Stephanie?" Sterling whispered, leaning close enough to feel the heat radiating from the girl's face.
She patted the pocket where the checks were resting.
"Congratulations. You just became the most expensive secret in Europe."
She turned to the Matrons.
"Take them to the West Wing. They don't go back to the dorms. Ever."
