Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 182
- Points
- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
One of the Matrons opened heavy doors of the "Showroom" into the sprawling, unmapped darkness of the Undercroft’s western quadrant.
"On your feet," the Matron barked.
The donors were gone, whisked away to the lounge for brandy and self-congratulation. The surgical lights had been killed, plunging the cavern back into gloom. The two Matrons moved with efficient brutality, slicing through the linen wrappings with shears. As the fabric fell away, the girls were left shivering and exposed, their limbs stiff from the binding, their feet raw and throbbing from the demonstration.
"Move," the Second Matron ordered, shoving Rachel forward.
They were herded out of the demonstration area and into a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever. The scale of the school above was mirrored here in the foundation—a labyrinth of wide, echoing tunnels big enough to drive a carriage through. The air was colder here, smelling of damp concrete and the metallic tang of copper pipes sweating in the dark.
They passed through a set of double doors—standard institutional wood, painted a peeling grey—and entered "The Lower Dorms."
This wing was different. It wasn't a dungeon; it was a construction site turned into a prison. The walls were white-washed brick, stark and clinical. Down the center of the flagstone floor ran a drainage grate, suggesting that this area was designed to be hosed down frequently.
At the far end of the corridor, bathed in the harsh light of a naked bulb, stood a stockade.
It was frightening precisely because it looked so new. It looked heavy, built from fresh, unvarnished oak. The wood was blonde and pale, smelling sharply of sawdust and sap. The edges were crisp, the hinges shining with factory grease. It hadn't been stained by use yet; it was a pristine, sturdy altar waiting for its first offering.
"Halt," the First Matron commanded. "Line up. Numerical order."
Stephanie, Samantha, Lakshmi, and Rachel shuffled into a line against the cold brick wall.
"Hygiene check," the First Matron announced, tapping her bamboo cane against her palm. "You are high-value assets now. We cannot have rot setting in."
The Second Matron kicked a galvanized bucket toward them. It sloshed with steaming water. She held a block of dark, reddish-brown carbolic soap that looked more like a brick than a toiletry. The acrid, medicinal stink of it filled the air, cutting through the damp smell of the concrete.
"Subject One," the First Matron pointed her cane at Stephanie. "Present right sole."
Stephanie hesitated, shivering in her torn chemise. "It… it hurts to stand…"
Thwack.
The cane slapped the wall inches from her head. Stephanie gasped and hurriedly lifted her right foot.
The Second Matron grabbed her ankle with a grip that felt like a wrench. She didn't wet the foot first; she took the dry block of carbolic soap and scoured it directly against Stephanie’s arch. The dry, gritty friction felt like a brick dragging over sunburn, leaving a trail of white, dusty residue. Then came the brush.
"Ah! Hhhh-uh!" Stephanie hissed, her head snapping back. There was a strange, initial coldness that numbed the skin for a split second before the real sensation hit—a deep, chemical sting. The soap was coarse, like pumice, dragging over the skin that had been softened by the sweat and nylons. It stripped away the oils instantly leaving the skin feeling tight and unnaturally squeaky. It was a clean, sterile kind of pain which stung like acid.
"Too soft," the Second Matron grunted, dipping a stiff brush into the hot water and scrubbing the lather into the raw skin. "Mr. Van Der Hoven paid for a clean canvas, not a swamp."
She scrubbed the sensitive webbing between Stephanie’s toes with vicious speed. Stephanie bit her knuckle to stifle a scream, her leg jerking in the Matron’s grip as the bristles caught on the tender nerves.
"Next. Subject Two."
Samantha was weeping before they even touched her. Her feet were swollen and red from the deep-tissue torture. When the Second Matron drove the lye block into her bruised sole, Samantha let out a wet, gargling cry.
"GAAAA-HAA! NO! IT’S BRUISED! DON'T SCRUB IT!"
"The oil must come off," the First Matron said impassively, watching as her partner scrubbed harder, turning Samantha’s wails into a jagged rhythm.
Once all four had been scoured raw, leaving their feet stinging and smelling of harsh chemicals, the Matrons moved to a long row of heavy iron doors lining the corridor. They looked like meat locker doors, the first four painted with fresh black stencils: 01, 02, 03, 04.
"Subject One. Cell One," the First Matron ordered, unlocking the first door. "Subject Two. Cell Two. And so on."
Stephanie stumbled into Cell One.
It was a windowless cube of white brick. A cot with a thin mattress was bolted to the wall. A steel toilet sat in the corner. The light from the corridor spilled in, casting long shadows.
She heard the heavy door swing shut behind her.
CLANG-CLICK.
The lock engaged. She was alone.
Stephanie sank onto the thin mattress, pulling her knees to her chest. She rubbed her stinging, raw feet, trying to generate some warmth.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She looked at the heavy iron door. At the very bottom, set into the lower panel of the door, just above the skirting board, was a reinforced Service Aperture. It was a rectangular slot of heavy steel, positioned at shin-height. It had a small handle on the outside.
Stephanie let out a shaky breath, staring at the slot.
A food hatch, she thought, a wave of pathetic relief washing over her. At least they’re going to feed us.
---
A claxon rang through the cell block in the morning and Stephanie sat bolt up in her bed. The memory of where she was came back to her in a sickening lurch. She held her stomach, feeling like she was going to throw up.
Her feet throbbed in time with her pulse. The carbolic scrub had left her soles tight and dry, the skin feeling thin as tissue paper. Even the friction of the coarse woolen blanket against her arches sent a shudder of phantom electricity up her legs. Even now, the sharp, medicinal smell of carbolic acid seemed to cling to her skin, a constant, acrid reminder of the scouring.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The noise was deafening in the silence. It came from the far end of the corridor—metal grinding against metal with violent force.
Stephanie clutched the blanket to her chin.
CLANG-SLIDE.
Closer now.
CLANG-SLIDE.
Cell 2. Right next door.
Stephanie stared at her door, holding her breath.
BOOT.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The lower hatch in the door flew open. A rectangle of harsh, artificial corridor light spilled across the slate floor of her cell.
Through the gap Stephanie could see heavy rubber boots and the hem of a habit.
"Morning call," a voice barked, echoing off the slate. It sounded like one of the matrons from last night.
The boots moved away from the hatch, Stephanie could hear heavy footsteps moving to the center of the hall.
THWACK. It sounded like a cane slamming into the flagstone.
"Inspection protocol!" the Matron bellowed. "Feet in the hatch! Now!"
Stephanie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at the slot. It was five inches high—just enough clearance to slide a pair of feet through sideways. But to do that, she would have to lie on her stomach on the cold floor. She would have to push her feet out into the corridor, blindly, leaving them completely vulnerable while the rest of her body remained trapped inside.
She sat frozen on the cot.
Silence.
No one moved. The silence from the other cells was heavy with the same terrified calculation.
"Hesitation is resistance," the Matron’s voice dripped with menace. "Subject One? Subject Two? I don't hear movement."
Stephanie pressed herself back against the wall, shaking her head frantically in the dark. No. I won't do it. I can't.
"Very well," the Matron sighed, the sound loud and distorted in the corridor. "If the product will not present itself for quality control... a demonstration is in order."
Heavy footsteps—thud, thud, thud—moved back toward one of the cells.
The key rattled in the lock. CHUNK-CLANK.
A heavy door to a cell groaned open.
"Get up," the Matron’s voice was a snarl.
"No! Wait! I was getting up!" Samantha’s voice was thin and panicked. "I'll do it! I'll put them in the hatch!"
"Too late," the voice snapped.
There was a scuffle—the sound of bare feet scrabbling for purchase on slate, the slap of skin hitting stone, and a sharp, breathless gasp of pain as Samantha was seemingly jerked off her cot.
"Please! No! Where are we going?!"
"You'll see," the Matron announced, loud enough for the whole row to hear. "Let's see how defiant you are after this."
Stephanie scrambled off her cot and sank to her knees by the hatch, looking out. Down the corridor, she could see Samantha, her heels scraping along the corridor floor as she was hauled toward the far end of the hall.
Then, the unmistakable, terrifying sounds of the new equipment being christened.
CLACK. The matron lifted the heavy wooden top bar of the stocks.
"In. Ankles down," the Matron barked at Samantha.
THUD. The wood slammed shut.
CLICK. The latch engaged.
"Arms," the Matron commanded.
"I can't reach! It’s too wide!" Samantha sobbed.
"Stretch," the Matron grunted.
There were sounds of straining leather and a sharp cry from Samantha as her arms were wrenched forward and secured to the side-posts of the stockade.
The Matron stepped out of view for a moment, Stephanie adjusted her position to try and see better what was happening.
Then, down the corridor, Stephanie could make out the Matron returning. She was carrying something—a heavy glass jar—and something else, something alive, cradled in her other arm. As she drew closer to the stocks, the object resolved into the shape of a large cat… The Matron unscrewed the jar, and even from her cell, a faint, foul scent—stale fish and salt—began to snake down the hallway.
"The Mouser," the Matron introduced, setting the cat down infront of the stocks. "He missed his breakfast. He prefers... salty things."
All the blood drained from Stephanie’s face. She pressed her face against the cold steel of the inspection hatch, her breath fogging the metal.
Down the corridor, the Matron dipped a stiff paintbrush into the heavy glass jar. She pulled it out dripping with a thick, greyish sludge. The scent drifting down the hallway intesified, heavy and nausea-inducing.
"Hold still," the Matron ordered.
She didn't paint delicately. She slapped the cold, oily paste onto the soles of Samantha's trapped feet. She coated the heels, the high arches, and lathered it thick between the toes.
"Ugh! It’s cold! It smells!" Samantha cried, wiggling her toes in a futile attempt to shake off the goo. "Please, don't! Just use a brush! Use a feather! Anything but this!"
The Matron ignored her. She placed the jar on the floor, directly beneath the stocks. The Mouser, who had been prowling impatiently around the base of the wooden frame since he was set down, caught the potent scent of the fish oil. He let out a low, guttural rowl of hunger.
"Breakfast time," the Matron whispered.
The cat leaped up, planting his front paws on the wooden crossbar of the stocks to steady himself. He tilted his head, his whiskers twitching as he inspected the offering.
"Get away... shoo! Get away!" Samantha whimpered, kicking her feet in the wooden holes.
The cat hissed at the movement, baring his teeth threateningly. Then he extended his tongue.
It wasn't a wet, sloppy muscle like a dog’s. It was pink, dry, and covered in hundreds of backward-facing keratin spines. It was living sandpaper.
Schhh-lap.
The first lick raked up the length of Samantha's left arch.
"YIIIII-IP!" Samantha’s head snapped back, her eyes bulging. "OW! IT’S SHARP!"
The Mouser found the salt delicious. He leaned in, finding a rhythm.
Rasp-lap. Rasp-lap. Rasp-lap.
The sound was audible even from Stephanie’s cell—a wet, scratching noise like sandpaper dragging over tight leather.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO! IT SCRATCHES! IT TICKLES! MAKE HIM STOP! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Samantha’s laughter was a jagged, panicked sound. The sensation was a chaotic double-assault. The wet, cold fish oil made her skin sensitive, while the cat’s barbed tongue scraped forcefully against the nerves. With each pass, she could feel the tiny, backward-facing spines hook into the soft flesh, dragging the tissue upward with every stroke as if he were trying to peel the skin clean off the muscle.
"Steady pressure," the Matron observed coldly, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "The papillae are designed to strip meat from bone. On a human sole... they act as thousands of individual micro-bristles."
The cat shifted his attention. He tilted his head and drove his rough tongue right into the webbing between Samantha’s big toe and the second toe, digging for the paste hidden there.
"GHK-AAAAA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THERE! HIS TONGUE IS TOO ROUGH! IT BURNS! IT BURNS AND IT TICKLES! HAAA-HAAA-HEEE-HEEE!"
Samantha thrashed against the wood, her face turning a mottled red. The friction was relentless. The cat didn't stop to breathe; he was feeding. The abrasive rhythm tore through Samantha’s defenses, turning her screams into high-pitched, whistling gasps.
"Looking a bit red there," the Matron noted, squinting at the soles. "He’s exfoliating nicely."
The Mouser was wholly engrossed, grinding his rough tongue into the soft, yielding flesh of the heel with mechanical violence. Samantha was sobbing now, her laughter broken by dry heaves as her nervous system overloaded from the abrasive, predatory tickling.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA! SOMEONE! HELP! TAKE IT OFF! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The Matron turned her back on the screaming girl. She began the long walk back down the corridor, her boots clicking ominously on the slate. She stopped in the center of the hall, her voice booming over Samantha’s distant, jagged wails.
"Quit your gawking!" she snarled at the rows of eyes peering through the darkness. "Unless you want to swap places with Subject Two, I suggest you present your soles immediately."
She pointed her cane at Stephanie’s cell.
"The Mouser has a very large appetite. Do not make me come in there."
She banged her cane on the floor.
"Soles in the hatches! NOW!"
The command hung in the damp air, punctuated by the rhythmic, agonizing rasp-slap of the Mouser’s tongue shredding Samantha’s composure down the hall.
"Anyone not presented in ten seconds joins Subject Two outside!" the Matron roared.
Stephanie scrambled back from the hatch and sat facing the heavy iron door, about two feet back.
She heard the others moving in unison. It was a pathetic, desperate chorus of surrender.
Stephanie extended her right leg. It wouldn't fit upright; the slot wasn't tall enough for the length of her foot from heel to toe-tip. She had to rotate her ankle inward, twisting her foot ninety degrees so it was parallel to the floor. She shoved it through the metal slot, grimacing as the cold iron frame grazed her ankle bone. Once the heel cleared the lip, she rotated her foot back to vertical, letting her toes point toward the ceiling on the other side.
She repeated the maneuver with the left. Twist. Shove. Rotate.
She was now sitting with her legs extended, her bare feet vanishing into the bright, cold world of the corridor, while her body remained trapped in the dark. She leaned back on her hands, staring at the blank iron door, trembling.
She wasn't alone. She could hear the wet, frantic breathing of Lakshmi and Rachel next door. She knew there were now three pairs of feet protruding into the hallway, blind offerings on a butcher’s counter.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The heavy rubber boots walked right past Stephanie’s cell. The Matron was heading to the far end of the line to start with Cell 04.
Stephanie strained her ears against the iron.
"Subject Four," the Matron’s voice boomed, echoing slightly.
There was the rustle of stiff fabric.
"Your feet are trembling, Four. Stillness is a requirement."
"I c-can't help it," Rachel’s voice drifted through the hatch, thin and terrified. "It’s cold out there."
"Then let's stretch the muscles to generate some heat."
There was a muffled scuffle, and then a wet, sickening pop of a joint being forced.
"OW! Wait!" Rachel cried out. "You're bending my toes back too hard! It hurts! The tendon is tight!"
"If it hurts, it means you require elasticity," the Matron countered calmly.
Stephanie heard a rhythmic thwip-thwip sound—like a finger flicking tight skin.
"Please... don't flick them..." Rachel whimpered.
Scritch-scratch.
It was the sound of a fingernail, thick and unmanicured, grating rapidly back and forth across skin. Stephanie couldn't see it, but she could imagine the nail digging into the stretched sole.
"Nnnn-uh! Hhh-uh! Stop! Eeee!" Rachel gasped. Stephanie heard Rachel’s heels thumping against the outside of the door as she tried to pull back.
"Passable," the Matron grunted.
Clack. Clack.
The boots moved closer. Cell 03. Lakshmi.
"Subject Three," the Matron announced.
There was silence, then the distinct sound of a heavy hand slapping onto a bare sole. Whap.
"Rigid," the Matron criticized. "You are locking your ankles against the door frame. Do not fight me."
"I'm trying!" Lakshmi’s voice was high and tight. "I'm just bracing myself!"
"Relax the plantar fascia," the Matron ordered.
There was a pause. Stephanie listened hard. She heard a soft, ghostly swish—like a finger tracing a pattern on paper.
"NO! AHA-HA!" Lakshmi blurted out, the sound muffled by the door. "DON'T TRACE IT! JUST HIT IT!"
"Trace it?" The Matron chuckled darkly. "I am merely mapping the arch depth."
Swish. Swish.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! IT TICKLES! OKAY! THEY'RE CLEAN! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"And reactive," the Matron concluded.
Clack. Clack.
Stephanie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed her palms into the slate floor, bracing herself. The boots stopped directly in front of her hatch.
She felt the air shift. Even though she couldn't see the corridor, she felt the presence of the Matron looming over her exposed feet.
"Subject One," the Matron whispered. "You have kept me waiting."
A hand clamped onto Stephanie’s left ankle. It was iron-hard and callused. The thumb dug viciously into the sensitive hollow behind her ankle bone, paralyzing the nerve. Stephanie gasped, her back arching off the slate floor.
"Curled," the Matron observed, her voice vibrating through the door. "You are curling your toes, Stephanie."
"I... I'm cold!" Stephanie stammered to the door.
"Open. Them."
The Matron didn't wait. Stephanie felt a thick thumb jam forcibly between her big toe and the second toe, prying them apart like a clam shell.
"OW! Okay! Okay!" Stephanie cried, forcing her foot to go limp, her toes splaying wide in the cold air to escape the prying wedge.
The Matron ran her palm slowly down the length of Stephanie’s sole, from the tips of the toes to the heel. Her skin was rough, like dried leather. The friction against Stephanie’s raw, scrubbed skin was electric.
"Nnn-gh!" Stephanie bit her lip, her hips shimmying on the floor as she tried to pull her legs back through the slot, but the grip on her ankle was immovable.
"Soft," the Matron noted, her voice dangerously low. "more ticklish than subject three I wonder."
Then, the pressure changed. The broad palm lifted. A single point of contact remained.
A sharp fingernail pressed into the very base of Stephanie’s heel.
"Stay," the Matron commanded.
She began to drag the nail up.
It was impossibly slow. Stephanie could feel the jagged edge of the nail catching on her skin, tracing the deep centerline of her foot. She threw her head back, staring blindly at the ceiling, tears leaking from her eyes.
The nail crept past the arch. It reached the ball of the foot. It swirled there—a tiny, predatory circle right on the pressure point.
"EEEEE-YIP!" Stephanie shrieked, her free foot kicking uselessly against the metal door. "IT’S TICKLISH! STOP!"
The nail didn't stop. It continued up, sliding right into the soft, unprotected webbing between the third and fourth toe.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THE WEBS! HHH-UUHH!"
The Matron held it there, vibrating her finger just enough to send shockwaves of panic through Stephanie’s system.
"Delicious," the Matron cooed.
She released the ankle. Stephanie scrambled backward, yanking her feet back through the slot—twist, pull, twist—until she was curled in the far corner of the cell, clutching her throbbing soles.
"Retract!" the Matron bellowed to the hall. "Transport team is inbound. Prepare to move."
Stephanie huddled in the dark, her chest heaving, listening as the Matron’s boots faded—only to be replaced by the sound of new footsteps. Heavier ones
CHUNK-CLANK. The locks disengaged simultaneously down the row. The heavy iron doors swung outward into the corridor with a collective groan.
"Out," the Matron barked. "Formation."
Stephanie stepped out of Cell 01, shivering as the damp air of the hallway hit her chemise. She turned to look back at the room that was her cell, then she looked at one of the unmarked and still closed doors..
Now that she was on the outside, she saw a detail she had missed in the shadows of the arrival. Welded to the exterior steel face of the door, directly flanking the low inspection hatch she had just been forced to use, were four curved metal cleats.
They looked like the heavy iron hooks on a boat dock, painted the same dreary grey as the door. They were welded in a line, spaced out.
Stephanie stared at them, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.
"Eyes front," the Matron with the cane snapped, shoving her shoulder.
The Matrons herded the three barefoot girls into the belly of the facility.
---
The Mess Hall was terrifying not for what was there, but for what wasn't. It was a cavernous, vaulted chamber carved directly out of the bedrock. The ceiling was lost in shadows, hung with heavy industrial fans that turned with a slow, hypnotic thwump-thwump.
Bolted to the concrete floor were twenty long, zinc-topped tables, each flanked by backless steel benches. It was a setup designed to feed hundreds.
"Sit," the Matron’s voice echoed in the vast emptiness. "Table One."
Stephanie, Rachel, and Lakshmi slid onto the cold steel bench at the very first table. They were the only souls in a room built for a battalion. The expanse of empty grey tables stretching into the darkness behind them felt like a threat—a promise that they were just the first prototypes in a mass-production line.
A hatch in the wall slid open on a conveyor belt. Four metal bowls clattered out.
"Nutrient paste," the Matron announced. "Consume. You require caloric density for the regeneration of nerve tissue."
Stephanie stared at the bowl. It was a lukewarm, beige sludge that smelled of yeast and damp grain. She picked up the plastic spoon, her hand trembling.
Clack... Clack...
The sound came from the doorway.
Stephanie looked up.
Samantha stood in the entrance. She looked shaken—her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying, and her hands were trembling slightly at her sides—but she was standing. She walked toward the table with a stiff, self-conscious gait, essentially normal but careful, as if she were trying very hard not to think about the sensation of her feet hitting the concrete.
She slid onto the bench opposite Stephanie. She didn't tuck her legs up; she let them rest on the floor, though she kept shifting her weight, unable to get comfortable.
"Is it... is it bleeding?" Rachel whispered, glancing down.
Samantha shook her head, staring at her oatmeal. "No," she murmured, her voice hollow. "It’s not cut. It just... burns. It feels like a really bad sunburn."
She glanced down at her own feet. They weren't raw, but the soles were a vivid, uniform pink—a high-contrast flush that extended from her heels to her toes. The Mouser’s tongue hadn't stripped the flesh, but the ten minutes of relentless, abrasive licking had scrubbed away every trace of protective dead skin, leaving the nerves screamingly awake.
"It was the texture," Samantha shuddered, gripping her spoon until her knuckles turned white. "It wasn't like a brush. It was wet and sandpaper at the same time. He just... he found a spot and stayed there. I couldn't get away."
"Eat," Stephanie said gently. "Before they come back."
They finished the grey paste in silence. As the last spoon clinked, the First Matron stepped forward.
"Caloric intake complete," she announced. "Transition to Maintenance Sector."
She looked at the four girls, noting Samantha’s flushed soles with clinical approval.
"The integrity of the product must be maintained. Calluses dull the sensation. Rough skin offers protection. We do not allow protection here."
She gestured with her cane toward a side door labeled HYGIENE.
"It is time for the Pedicure Circle," the Matron said, a cruel smile touching her lips. "You will groom each other. You will make the skin soft. You will make it defenseless."
She leaned in, her voice dropping.
"And whichever of you fails to produce a 'perfectly sensitive' result... well, we have a set of infrared heat lamps warming up in the corner to make the feet extra receptive. And then, myself and Matron Agatha will demonstrate a ten-minute 'Double Tickle' technique we have been perfecting."
---
The "Hygiene Sector" was a small, tiled room that smelled aggressively of eucalyptus and industrial sanitizer. In the center, four low wooden stools were arranged in a tight circle. Beside each stool sat a basin of steaming water and a tray of instruments: dark, porous pumice stones, stiff bristle brushes, and jagged metal foot files.
In the corner, bathing the white tiles in a menacing crimson glow, stood a bank of industrial infrared heat lamps. They hummed with a low, electric buzz, radiating a dry, intense heat that made the hair on Stephanie’s arms stand up.
"Sit," the Matron commanded.
As the woman stepped into the light, Stephanie got a good look at her. She had a face like a poorly repaired stone carving—a thin, jagged scar cut through one eyebrow, her mouth pulled down by deep lines that seemed to anchor her face in a permanent state of disapproval. Agatha, Stephanie thought, the name clicking into place like a deadbolt. That’s Agatha. The one with the cane this morning
"The arrangement is circular," Agatha announced, her voice bouncing off the hard surfaces. "Subject One grooms Subject Two. Two grooms Three. Three grooms Four. And Four grooms One."
Stephanie sat on her stool. Directly in front of her were Samantha’s feet. To her left, Lakshmi was positioning herself to work on Stephanie.
"The objective is absolute vulnerability," Agatha lectured, pacing the perimeter of the circle. "Protective skin—calluses, rough patches, dead layers—provides a shield against sensation. You will remove that shield."
She stopped and pointed a thick finger at the glowing heat lamps.
"I will inspect the finished work. The girl who leaves the most 'protection' on her partner's feet... the girl who is too gentle... will be strapped under those lamps for ten minutes. The infrared heat dilates the capillaries and sensitizes the nerve endings to near-rupture."
She slapped her bamboo cane against her palm. Thwack.
"And once the feet are 'cooked,' Matron Helga and I will apply a ten-minute Double-Tickle administration. Two sets of fingers. No mercy. Do I make myself clear?"
A shudder ran through the circle. The threat of the Double Tickle—two pairs of hands on super-heated, hyper-sensitive skin—was a nightmare scenario.
Stephanie glanced at the other Matron. Helga was a silent wall of muscle, her jaw thick and square, her heavy black brows meeting in the middle. A faint, downy moustache shadowed her upper lip. She didn’t speak; she just watched, her presence a physical weight in the room, her hands hanging at her sides like slabs of stone.
"Begin," Agatha barked. "Soak."
Stephanie plunged her hands into the basin. She took Samantha’s left foot—the one that still looked pink and angry from the Mouser’s tongue—and lowered it into the water.
"S-sorry," Stephanie whispered, seeing Samantha wince as the hot water hit her sensitized skin.
"Just do it," Samantha hissed back, tears welling in her eyes. "No-one wants to be put me under the lamp."
"Scrub," Agatha ordered. "Pumice stones. Heavy pressure."
Stephanie grabbed the black volcanic rock. It felt rough and heavy in her hand. She looked at Samantha’s sole. It was already so tender, so pink. But if she didn't scrub, Stephanie would be the one screaming under the lamps.
She gripped Samantha’s heel and began to scour the arch.
Skrrr-scuff. Skrrr-scuff.
"GHK! AAAH-HA-HA!" Samantha’s leg jerked in Stephanie’s wet grip. "IT’S TOO ROUGH! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"Hold her still!" Agatha snapped at Stephanie. "If she kicks, you fail."
Stephanie squeezed Samantha’s ankle tighter, pinning it trapped between her knees. She could feel the violent, jerky tremors of Samantha's laughter vibrating through the bone, traveling up her own arms like a current. She bore down with the pumice stone, grinding away layers of skin that didn't need to be removed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Stephanie whispered frantically, scrubbing harder as she felt Agatha’s eyes on her back.
Meanwhile, Lakshmi had taken hold of Stephanie’s foot. Lakshmi was weeping silently, terrified of the punishment. She attacked Stephanie’s sole with a desperation that was purely survival-driven.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Lakshmi didn't use the flat of the stone; she used the edge. She drove it into the soft, wrinkled skin of Stephanie’s instep, sawing back and forth.
"YIIIII-IP!" Stephanie shrieked, her head snapping back as the sensation shot up her spine. "LAKSHMI! THAT’S SHARP! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"I have to!" Lakshmi sobbed, scrubbing furiously. "I can't take the lamps! I can't!"
The room dissolved into a cacophony of wet splashing, the grinding sound of stone on skin, and the jagged, panicked laughter of four girls forced to torture each other to save themselves.
"Harder!" Agatha shouted over the noise, leaning over Rachel, who was trying to be gentle with Lakshmi’s toes. "I see dead skin on the heel! Do you want the lamps, Subject Four? Do you?"
"No! No!" Rachel cried. She grabbed the metal foot file—the one that looked like a cheese grater—and applied it to Lakshmi’s heel.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THE GRATER! IT VIBRATES! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Lakshmi wailed, kicking out, splashing water all over Stephanie.
For twenty minutes, it was chaos. The air grew thick with the smell of eucalyptus and fear.
"Stop," Agatha finally commanded.
The scrubbing ceased instantly. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the girls and the dripping of water.
Agatha walked into the center of the circle. She looked like a judge at a livestock fair.
"Inspection," she announced.
She checked Samantha’s feet first (Stephanie's work). She ran a fingernail heavily down the arch. The skin was raw, glowing red, and utterly devoid of protection. Samantha gasped but didn't pull away.
"Acceptable," Agatha grunted. Stephanie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
She checked Rachel’s feet (Samantha’s work). She checked Lakshmi’s feet (Rachel’s work).
Then, she stopped at Stephanie’s feet (Lakshmi’s work).
Agatha crouched down. She gripped Stephanie’s heel. She rubbed her thumb over the thick skin of the pad.
"Rough," Agatha whispered. "I feel texture."
She stood up and loomed over Lakshmi.
"You hesitated, Subject Three. You let your empathy get in the way of your duty. You left the heel protected."
Lakshmi went pale. "No... please... I scrubbed! She’s just... she has tough feet! It’s not my fault!"
"Inefficiency is always a fault," Agatha said coldly. She pointed her cane at Lakshmi. "To the lamps."
"NO! NO PLEASE! I DID MY BEST!" Lakshmi screamed as Matron Helga moved with the brutal efficiency Stephanie expected. She didn’t speak, simply grabbed Lakshmi by the arms, her grip silencing any further protest through sheer force as she began dragging her toward the corner.
"Strap her in," Agatha ordered, rolling up her sleeves and flexing her thick fingers. "Ten minutes of High-Intensity Vascular Therapy to soften that mistake. And then... Matron Helga and I will see just how ticklish a 'failure' can be."
The Matrons didn't just strap Lakshmi to a chair; they inverted the geometry of vulnerability.
In the corner, bathing the white tiles in an ominous amber-red glow, was a modified gynecological exam table. But instead of stirrups, there were two adjustable metal armatures positioned high in the air, directly beneath a bank of therapeutic warming arrays.
"Up," Helga grunted, hoisting Lakshmi onto the table.
Lakshmi fought with the desperate, flailing energy of a trapped animal. "No! Please! It was clean! I swear it was clean!"
Helga ignored her, shoving Lakshmi onto her back. She grabbed Lakshmi’s ankles and locked them into the elevated armatures. The clamps snapped shut around her shins, holding her legs wide apart and perfectly vertical. Her bare feet were thrust upward, suspended just eighteen inches beneath the humming bulbs.
"Ten minutes," Agatha announced, setting a manual egg timer on the counter. Tick-tick-tick-tick.
The heat was instantaneous. It wasn't the dry sear of an oven, but a thick, humid, penetrating warmth designed for deep-tissue therapy. It bypassed the surface and seemed to boil the marrow.
"It’s... it’s prickling!" Lakshmi cried, wriggling her toes as the amber light washed over her soles. "It feels tight!"
"That is the vascular response," Agatha said, crossing her arms and leaning against the sink to watch. "The heat penetrates the dermal layers. It forces the capillaries to dilate to their maximum limit."
She gestured to the glowing soles.
"Think of it as tuning a radio to the highest volume before playing the music. We are filling the nerve endings with blood. Every pore is opening. Every receptor is waking up." A strange scent filled the air—not of burning, but of clean, superheated skin, like scorched linen.
For the other three girls sitting on their stools, the wait was agonizing. They watched in silence as Lakshmi’s feet transformed. They turned from a pale tan to a deep, flushed rose color. They looked swollen, hot, and impossibly soft. The heat was melting away any remaining resistance in the skin, leaving it damp with sweat and pulsating with blood flow.
Ding!
The timer rang out, sharp and cheerful.
"Primed," Agatha declared.
She signaled Helga. The lamps were switched off, but the heat didn't leave. Lakshmi’s feet were radiating their own warmth now, glowing against the cool air of the room.
Agatha walked to the left side of the table. Helga walked to the right. They didn't bring tools. They held up their hands, flexing thick, formidable fingers.
"The Double Tickle," Agatha explained to the audience. "Two attackers. Independent rhythms. On skin that is currently hyper-reactive to air currents."
They moved in.
Agatha took the left foot. Helga took the right.
They didn't start slow. They dove in.
Agatha plunged her thumbs into the center of Lakshmi’s left arch, digging deep into the heat-softened muscle, while her fingers clawed rapidly over the top of the foot.
Helga, meanwhile, attacked the right foot with a frantic, spider-like scribbling motion. She ran her fingernails in rapid, jagged circles all over the sensitive, wrinkled skin of the heel and the instep.
"GAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NOOOO! IT’S TOO MUCH—GHK—IT’S EVERYWHERE! AHA-HA-HA-SNORT-HA!"
Lakshmi’s body convulsed on the table, her hips bucking uselessly against the restraints. Watching it, Stephanie felt a phantom itch crawl up her own legs. It was impossible to tell where one attack ended and the other began; the Matrons' hands were a blur of motion, and Lakshmi's screams were a constant, unbroken wall of sound.
"Dig deeper," Agatha instructed calmly, burying her knuckles into the tender hollow of the arch. "Find the panic switch."
"AAAAA-HEEE-HEEE! NOT THE KNUCKLES! STOP THE KNUCKLES! HAAAA-HAAAA!"
Helga switched tactics. She interlaced her fingers with Lakshmi’s toes, prying them apart and sawing the webbing back and forth against her own thick knuckles.
"YIIII-IP! THE TOES! SHE’S IN THE TOES! LOOK! SHE’S IN THE TOES!" Lakshmi shrieked, her head thrashing from side to side, her eyes squeezing shut so tight tears squirted out.
It was a symphony of sensory confusion. Agatha was providing deep, crushing pressure on the left, while Helga was inflicting sharp, surface-level skittering on the right. Lakshmi’s brain couldn't process the two distinct inputs; it just registered a wall of overwhelming, inescapable ticklish agony.
"Five minutes remaining," Agatha noted, checking her watch without stopping the grind of her thumbs.
"PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'LL SCRUB HARDER NEXT TIME! I'LL SCRUB TO THE BONE! JUST STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
Stephanie, watching from her stool, felt a phantom itch crawl up her own legs. She gripped her knees, her own freshly-scrubbed soles tingling in sympathy. She looked at Samantha, whose face was pale as she stared at the ceiling, refusing to watch the torture she had narrowly escaped.
"Listen to her," Agatha called out to the observers, her voice rising over Lakshmi’s jagged wails. "That is the sound of a lesson being learned. Remember it next time you think about showing mercy."
She looked back at Lakshmi, whose laughter had devolved into breathless, whistling gasps.
"Now... Helga. The Spider Walk. On the count of three."
"One... Two... Three!"
Both Matrons simultaneously switched to using just their fingertips. They began a rapid, fluttering drumming motion—like falling rain—that started at the heels and raced up to the toes, then back down.
Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat.
"NOOOOO! THAT’S WORSE! THAT’S WORSE! AIEEEE-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
---
The screaming didn't stop until Lakshmi was physically limp, her voice reduced to a dry, rattling wheeze. Agatha and Helga finally stepped back, wiping their hands on towels as if they had just finished washing dishes.
"Lesson concluded," Agatha announced, checking the redness of Lakshmi’s thoroughly ravaged soles. "Release them."
The Matrons moved with brisk efficiency. Lakshmi was unlocked from the stirrups, half-carried, half-dragged back to the line. She couldn't stand; her legs were jelly, her nervous system short-circuited. Stephanie and Rachel had to grab her arms, supporting her weight as they were marched back into the dark corridor of the Lower Dorms.
They stopped at the cell doors.
"Inside," Agatha commanded. "Maintenance is complete for the day. Do not expect further contact."
Stephanie helped lower the sobbing Lakshmi onto the slate floor of Cell 03 before hurrying into her own cell. The heavy iron door slammed shut.
CLANG-CLICK.
Stephanie leaned her forehead against the cool metal, listening. She heard the other doors slamming. Then silence, save for the muffled, hiccuping sobs from next door.
The rest of the day was a study in isolation.
Time became a blur, marked only by the clack-slide of the inspection hatch.
Around noon, the hatch slid open. A plastic tray was shoved through—a bowl of the same beige sludge, a cup of tepid water, and a single apple that was bruised and mealy. Stephanie ate it mechanically, staring at her feet. They felt strange—lighter, rawer. The pedicure circle had stripped away every callous, every rough patch. Her soles felt unnaturally smooth against the coarse weave of the cot blanket, hyper-aware of every texture.
Hours dragged by. The silence of the Undercroft was oppressive. Occasionally, she heard heavy machinery vibrating somewhere deeper in the earth—evidence of Sterling’s promised expansion.
Dinner arrived with the same impersonal efficiency. This time, the sludge was slightly darker, perhaps flavored with something savory, but equally indistinct.
Stephanie lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. She thought about the checkbook. She thought about Van Der Hoven’s cold thumb dragging up her nylon-clad arch. He bought me, she realized, the horror settling in her stomach like a stone. Reserved. Exclusive.
CLACK.
The lights in the corridor died. Darkness flooded the cell, absolute and heavy.
"Lights out," the distant voice of a guard echoed.
Stephanie curled onto her side, pulling her knees up. In the dark, her hearing sharpened. She could hear the rhythmic breathing of Samantha through the bricks. She could hear the drip of condensation.
And then, she heard something else.
A soft, scratching sound at the base of her door.
Scritch. Scritch.
Stephanie froze. Was it the Mouser?
Then, a whisper. Low, barely audible, drifting through the gap between the floor and the door.
"Steph?"
It was Samantha. She must be lying on the floor, her face pressed right against the crack.
Stephanie slid off the cot and lay on the cold slate, putting her mouth to the gap.
"Sam?" she whispered back. "Are you okay?"
"No," Samantha’s voice trembled. "My feet... they won't stop throbbing. It feels like he’s still licking them."
There was a pause.
"Steph... I heard them talking," Samantha whispered, her voice tighter now. "When they were dragging me back this morning. The Matrons."
"What did they say?"
"They said the renovations are ahead of schedule," Samantha breathed. "They said the 'Visiting Rooms' will be ready by Tuesday. That’s tomorrow, Steph."
Stephanie’s blood ran cold. Tuesday. Van Der Hoven’s day.
"They said he called ahead," Samantha whispered through the crack, her voice barely audible over the hum of the ventilation. "He requested special preparations. He wants... he wants the 'high-compression' stocks ready."
Stephanie frowned in the dark. "Stocks? You mean socks?"
"No," Samantha breathed. "Like... a vise. Stocks that squeeze while they hold you. To keep the blood trapped in the feet."
Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the nausea that rolled in her stomach.
"Get some sleep, Sam," she whispered, her voice tight. "Just... try to survive tomorrow."
"You too," Samantha whispered back.
Stephanie crawled back to her cot. She lay in the dark, clutching the rough blanket, staring up at the invisible ceiling. Her mind raced with images of vises and nylon.
THWACK-THWACK.
The sound of a heavy stick hitting her iron door made her jump so hard she nearly fell off the cot.
"Silence!" a voice barked from the corridor. It wasn't Agatha or Helga. It was deeper, raspy—like wet gravel. A new Matron. "Conspiring through the cracks? That is a violation of Level 4 Protocol."
Stephanie froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Subject One," the voice growled. "Present soles for disciplinary correction. Immediately."
Stephanie hesitated. Her feet were already raw from the pedicure circle. "But... we were just—"
"Do not make me open this door, One," the voice hissed. "Or I will drag you to the Mouser myself and let him finish what he started on your friend."
The threat was visceral. Stephanie scrambled off the cot. She dropped to the floor, her movements frantic. She twisted her legs, shoving her feet through the cold metal slot—right foot, then left—leaving them exposed and vulnerable in the brightly lit corridor while she remained in the dark.
She waited for the cane. She braced herself for the sting of bamboo.
Instead, she felt something soft.
Heavy fabric loops were slipped over her big toes. Before she could react, they were pulled taut—Yank—anchoring her toes back against the metal door frame. Then more loops snagged her baby toes, cinching tight. Her feet were splayed and immobilized, pinned against the external metal like specimens on a board.
"There," the Matron purred. "Nice and presentable."
Stephanie held her breath, screwing her eyes shut. Just hit me. Just get it over with.
Then, she felt it.
It wasn't a strike. It was a ghost.
A single, impossibly soft feather landed on the ball of her right foot.
Stephanie flinched violently, a sharp gasp escaping her throat. "Hhh-uh!"
"Oh my," the Matron cooed, her voice dripping with cruel delight. "Subject Three did a wonderful job today. All that dead skin gone... nothing left but nerves."
She began to trace.
She dragged the feather slowly down the center of Stephanie’s right arch. It was feather-light, barely there, but on the freshly scrubbed, hyper-sensitized skin, it felt like electricity. It woke up every nerve ending, sending a jolt of maddening, inescapable tickle straight up Stephanie’s leg.
"Nnnn-gh! Please!" Stephanie whimpered, her feet fighting against the fabric loops.
"Please what?" the Matron whispered, moving the feather in swirling, teasing circles right in the soft hollow of the instep. "Please tickle the other foot?"
She moved to the left foot, flicking the feather rapidly between the toes.
"Eeeep! No! Ah-ha-ha! Stop!" Stephanie squirmed, her laughter broken and panicked.
"Don't worry, pet," the Matron murmured. Skrrrrr the sound of wood scraping stone was heard, followed by a light groan. Stephanie heard the creak of wood like the Matron had sat down on a stool. "I’m on the night shift. We have hours."
She resumed the slow, methodical stroking, savoring the shudder that ran through Stephanie’s trapped limbs.
"Now do try to keep it down, the others are trying to sleep."
Next Chapter
One of the Matrons opened heavy doors of the "Showroom" into the sprawling, unmapped darkness of the Undercroft’s western quadrant.
"On your feet," the Matron barked.
The donors were gone, whisked away to the lounge for brandy and self-congratulation. The surgical lights had been killed, plunging the cavern back into gloom. The two Matrons moved with efficient brutality, slicing through the linen wrappings with shears. As the fabric fell away, the girls were left shivering and exposed, their limbs stiff from the binding, their feet raw and throbbing from the demonstration.
"Move," the Second Matron ordered, shoving Rachel forward.
They were herded out of the demonstration area and into a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever. The scale of the school above was mirrored here in the foundation—a labyrinth of wide, echoing tunnels big enough to drive a carriage through. The air was colder here, smelling of damp concrete and the metallic tang of copper pipes sweating in the dark.
They passed through a set of double doors—standard institutional wood, painted a peeling grey—and entered "The Lower Dorms."
This wing was different. It wasn't a dungeon; it was a construction site turned into a prison. The walls were white-washed brick, stark and clinical. Down the center of the flagstone floor ran a drainage grate, suggesting that this area was designed to be hosed down frequently.
At the far end of the corridor, bathed in the harsh light of a naked bulb, stood a stockade.
It was frightening precisely because it looked so new. It looked heavy, built from fresh, unvarnished oak. The wood was blonde and pale, smelling sharply of sawdust and sap. The edges were crisp, the hinges shining with factory grease. It hadn't been stained by use yet; it was a pristine, sturdy altar waiting for its first offering.
"Halt," the First Matron commanded. "Line up. Numerical order."
Stephanie, Samantha, Lakshmi, and Rachel shuffled into a line against the cold brick wall.
"Hygiene check," the First Matron announced, tapping her bamboo cane against her palm. "You are high-value assets now. We cannot have rot setting in."
The Second Matron kicked a galvanized bucket toward them. It sloshed with steaming water. She held a block of dark, reddish-brown carbolic soap that looked more like a brick than a toiletry. The acrid, medicinal stink of it filled the air, cutting through the damp smell of the concrete.
"Subject One," the First Matron pointed her cane at Stephanie. "Present right sole."
Stephanie hesitated, shivering in her torn chemise. "It… it hurts to stand…"
Thwack.
The cane slapped the wall inches from her head. Stephanie gasped and hurriedly lifted her right foot.
The Second Matron grabbed her ankle with a grip that felt like a wrench. She didn't wet the foot first; she took the dry block of carbolic soap and scoured it directly against Stephanie’s arch. The dry, gritty friction felt like a brick dragging over sunburn, leaving a trail of white, dusty residue. Then came the brush.
"Ah! Hhhh-uh!" Stephanie hissed, her head snapping back. There was a strange, initial coldness that numbed the skin for a split second before the real sensation hit—a deep, chemical sting. The soap was coarse, like pumice, dragging over the skin that had been softened by the sweat and nylons. It stripped away the oils instantly leaving the skin feeling tight and unnaturally squeaky. It was a clean, sterile kind of pain which stung like acid.
"Too soft," the Second Matron grunted, dipping a stiff brush into the hot water and scrubbing the lather into the raw skin. "Mr. Van Der Hoven paid for a clean canvas, not a swamp."
She scrubbed the sensitive webbing between Stephanie’s toes with vicious speed. Stephanie bit her knuckle to stifle a scream, her leg jerking in the Matron’s grip as the bristles caught on the tender nerves.
"Next. Subject Two."
Samantha was weeping before they even touched her. Her feet were swollen and red from the deep-tissue torture. When the Second Matron drove the lye block into her bruised sole, Samantha let out a wet, gargling cry.
"GAAAA-HAA! NO! IT’S BRUISED! DON'T SCRUB IT!"
"The oil must come off," the First Matron said impassively, watching as her partner scrubbed harder, turning Samantha’s wails into a jagged rhythm.
Once all four had been scoured raw, leaving their feet stinging and smelling of harsh chemicals, the Matrons moved to a long row of heavy iron doors lining the corridor. They looked like meat locker doors, the first four painted with fresh black stencils: 01, 02, 03, 04.
"Subject One. Cell One," the First Matron ordered, unlocking the first door. "Subject Two. Cell Two. And so on."
Stephanie stumbled into Cell One.
It was a windowless cube of white brick. A cot with a thin mattress was bolted to the wall. A steel toilet sat in the corner. The light from the corridor spilled in, casting long shadows.
She heard the heavy door swing shut behind her.
CLANG-CLICK.
The lock engaged. She was alone.
Stephanie sank onto the thin mattress, pulling her knees to her chest. She rubbed her stinging, raw feet, trying to generate some warmth.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She looked at the heavy iron door. At the very bottom, set into the lower panel of the door, just above the skirting board, was a reinforced Service Aperture. It was a rectangular slot of heavy steel, positioned at shin-height. It had a small handle on the outside.
Stephanie let out a shaky breath, staring at the slot.
A food hatch, she thought, a wave of pathetic relief washing over her. At least they’re going to feed us.
---
A claxon rang through the cell block in the morning and Stephanie sat bolt up in her bed. The memory of where she was came back to her in a sickening lurch. She held her stomach, feeling like she was going to throw up.
Her feet throbbed in time with her pulse. The carbolic scrub had left her soles tight and dry, the skin feeling thin as tissue paper. Even the friction of the coarse woolen blanket against her arches sent a shudder of phantom electricity up her legs. Even now, the sharp, medicinal smell of carbolic acid seemed to cling to her skin, a constant, acrid reminder of the scouring.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The noise was deafening in the silence. It came from the far end of the corridor—metal grinding against metal with violent force.
Stephanie clutched the blanket to her chin.
CLANG-SLIDE.
Closer now.
CLANG-SLIDE.
Cell 2. Right next door.
Stephanie stared at her door, holding her breath.
BOOT.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The lower hatch in the door flew open. A rectangle of harsh, artificial corridor light spilled across the slate floor of her cell.
Through the gap Stephanie could see heavy rubber boots and the hem of a habit.
"Morning call," a voice barked, echoing off the slate. It sounded like one of the matrons from last night.
The boots moved away from the hatch, Stephanie could hear heavy footsteps moving to the center of the hall.
THWACK. It sounded like a cane slamming into the flagstone.
"Inspection protocol!" the Matron bellowed. "Feet in the hatch! Now!"
Stephanie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at the slot. It was five inches high—just enough clearance to slide a pair of feet through sideways. But to do that, she would have to lie on her stomach on the cold floor. She would have to push her feet out into the corridor, blindly, leaving them completely vulnerable while the rest of her body remained trapped inside.
She sat frozen on the cot.
Silence.
No one moved. The silence from the other cells was heavy with the same terrified calculation.
"Hesitation is resistance," the Matron’s voice dripped with menace. "Subject One? Subject Two? I don't hear movement."
Stephanie pressed herself back against the wall, shaking her head frantically in the dark. No. I won't do it. I can't.
"Very well," the Matron sighed, the sound loud and distorted in the corridor. "If the product will not present itself for quality control... a demonstration is in order."
Heavy footsteps—thud, thud, thud—moved back toward one of the cells.
The key rattled in the lock. CHUNK-CLANK.
A heavy door to a cell groaned open.
"Get up," the Matron’s voice was a snarl.
"No! Wait! I was getting up!" Samantha’s voice was thin and panicked. "I'll do it! I'll put them in the hatch!"
"Too late," the voice snapped.
There was a scuffle—the sound of bare feet scrabbling for purchase on slate, the slap of skin hitting stone, and a sharp, breathless gasp of pain as Samantha was seemingly jerked off her cot.
"Please! No! Where are we going?!"
"You'll see," the Matron announced, loud enough for the whole row to hear. "Let's see how defiant you are after this."
Stephanie scrambled off her cot and sank to her knees by the hatch, looking out. Down the corridor, she could see Samantha, her heels scraping along the corridor floor as she was hauled toward the far end of the hall.
Then, the unmistakable, terrifying sounds of the new equipment being christened.
CLACK. The matron lifted the heavy wooden top bar of the stocks.
"In. Ankles down," the Matron barked at Samantha.
THUD. The wood slammed shut.
CLICK. The latch engaged.
"Arms," the Matron commanded.
"I can't reach! It’s too wide!" Samantha sobbed.
"Stretch," the Matron grunted.
There were sounds of straining leather and a sharp cry from Samantha as her arms were wrenched forward and secured to the side-posts of the stockade.
The Matron stepped out of view for a moment, Stephanie adjusted her position to try and see better what was happening.
Then, down the corridor, Stephanie could make out the Matron returning. She was carrying something—a heavy glass jar—and something else, something alive, cradled in her other arm. As she drew closer to the stocks, the object resolved into the shape of a large cat… The Matron unscrewed the jar, and even from her cell, a faint, foul scent—stale fish and salt—began to snake down the hallway.
"The Mouser," the Matron introduced, setting the cat down infront of the stocks. "He missed his breakfast. He prefers... salty things."
All the blood drained from Stephanie’s face. She pressed her face against the cold steel of the inspection hatch, her breath fogging the metal.
Down the corridor, the Matron dipped a stiff paintbrush into the heavy glass jar. She pulled it out dripping with a thick, greyish sludge. The scent drifting down the hallway intesified, heavy and nausea-inducing.
"Hold still," the Matron ordered.
She didn't paint delicately. She slapped the cold, oily paste onto the soles of Samantha's trapped feet. She coated the heels, the high arches, and lathered it thick between the toes.
"Ugh! It’s cold! It smells!" Samantha cried, wiggling her toes in a futile attempt to shake off the goo. "Please, don't! Just use a brush! Use a feather! Anything but this!"
The Matron ignored her. She placed the jar on the floor, directly beneath the stocks. The Mouser, who had been prowling impatiently around the base of the wooden frame since he was set down, caught the potent scent of the fish oil. He let out a low, guttural rowl of hunger.
"Breakfast time," the Matron whispered.
The cat leaped up, planting his front paws on the wooden crossbar of the stocks to steady himself. He tilted his head, his whiskers twitching as he inspected the offering.
"Get away... shoo! Get away!" Samantha whimpered, kicking her feet in the wooden holes.
The cat hissed at the movement, baring his teeth threateningly. Then he extended his tongue.
It wasn't a wet, sloppy muscle like a dog’s. It was pink, dry, and covered in hundreds of backward-facing keratin spines. It was living sandpaper.
Schhh-lap.
The first lick raked up the length of Samantha's left arch.
"YIIIII-IP!" Samantha’s head snapped back, her eyes bulging. "OW! IT’S SHARP!"
The Mouser found the salt delicious. He leaned in, finding a rhythm.
Rasp-lap. Rasp-lap. Rasp-lap.
The sound was audible even from Stephanie’s cell—a wet, scratching noise like sandpaper dragging over tight leather.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO! IT SCRATCHES! IT TICKLES! MAKE HIM STOP! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Samantha’s laughter was a jagged, panicked sound. The sensation was a chaotic double-assault. The wet, cold fish oil made her skin sensitive, while the cat’s barbed tongue scraped forcefully against the nerves. With each pass, she could feel the tiny, backward-facing spines hook into the soft flesh, dragging the tissue upward with every stroke as if he were trying to peel the skin clean off the muscle.
"Steady pressure," the Matron observed coldly, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "The papillae are designed to strip meat from bone. On a human sole... they act as thousands of individual micro-bristles."
The cat shifted his attention. He tilted his head and drove his rough tongue right into the webbing between Samantha’s big toe and the second toe, digging for the paste hidden there.
"GHK-AAAAA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THERE! HIS TONGUE IS TOO ROUGH! IT BURNS! IT BURNS AND IT TICKLES! HAAA-HAAA-HEEE-HEEE!"
Samantha thrashed against the wood, her face turning a mottled red. The friction was relentless. The cat didn't stop to breathe; he was feeding. The abrasive rhythm tore through Samantha’s defenses, turning her screams into high-pitched, whistling gasps.
"Looking a bit red there," the Matron noted, squinting at the soles. "He’s exfoliating nicely."
The Mouser was wholly engrossed, grinding his rough tongue into the soft, yielding flesh of the heel with mechanical violence. Samantha was sobbing now, her laughter broken by dry heaves as her nervous system overloaded from the abrasive, predatory tickling.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA! SOMEONE! HELP! TAKE IT OFF! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The Matron turned her back on the screaming girl. She began the long walk back down the corridor, her boots clicking ominously on the slate. She stopped in the center of the hall, her voice booming over Samantha’s distant, jagged wails.
"Quit your gawking!" she snarled at the rows of eyes peering through the darkness. "Unless you want to swap places with Subject Two, I suggest you present your soles immediately."
She pointed her cane at Stephanie’s cell.
"The Mouser has a very large appetite. Do not make me come in there."
She banged her cane on the floor.
"Soles in the hatches! NOW!"
The command hung in the damp air, punctuated by the rhythmic, agonizing rasp-slap of the Mouser’s tongue shredding Samantha’s composure down the hall.
"Anyone not presented in ten seconds joins Subject Two outside!" the Matron roared.
Stephanie scrambled back from the hatch and sat facing the heavy iron door, about two feet back.
She heard the others moving in unison. It was a pathetic, desperate chorus of surrender.
Stephanie extended her right leg. It wouldn't fit upright; the slot wasn't tall enough for the length of her foot from heel to toe-tip. She had to rotate her ankle inward, twisting her foot ninety degrees so it was parallel to the floor. She shoved it through the metal slot, grimacing as the cold iron frame grazed her ankle bone. Once the heel cleared the lip, she rotated her foot back to vertical, letting her toes point toward the ceiling on the other side.
She repeated the maneuver with the left. Twist. Shove. Rotate.
She was now sitting with her legs extended, her bare feet vanishing into the bright, cold world of the corridor, while her body remained trapped in the dark. She leaned back on her hands, staring at the blank iron door, trembling.
She wasn't alone. She could hear the wet, frantic breathing of Lakshmi and Rachel next door. She knew there were now three pairs of feet protruding into the hallway, blind offerings on a butcher’s counter.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The heavy rubber boots walked right past Stephanie’s cell. The Matron was heading to the far end of the line to start with Cell 04.
Stephanie strained her ears against the iron.
"Subject Four," the Matron’s voice boomed, echoing slightly.
There was the rustle of stiff fabric.
"Your feet are trembling, Four. Stillness is a requirement."
"I c-can't help it," Rachel’s voice drifted through the hatch, thin and terrified. "It’s cold out there."
"Then let's stretch the muscles to generate some heat."
There was a muffled scuffle, and then a wet, sickening pop of a joint being forced.
"OW! Wait!" Rachel cried out. "You're bending my toes back too hard! It hurts! The tendon is tight!"
"If it hurts, it means you require elasticity," the Matron countered calmly.
Stephanie heard a rhythmic thwip-thwip sound—like a finger flicking tight skin.
"Please... don't flick them..." Rachel whimpered.
Scritch-scratch.
It was the sound of a fingernail, thick and unmanicured, grating rapidly back and forth across skin. Stephanie couldn't see it, but she could imagine the nail digging into the stretched sole.
"Nnnn-uh! Hhh-uh! Stop! Eeee!" Rachel gasped. Stephanie heard Rachel’s heels thumping against the outside of the door as she tried to pull back.
"Passable," the Matron grunted.
Clack. Clack.
The boots moved closer. Cell 03. Lakshmi.
"Subject Three," the Matron announced.
There was silence, then the distinct sound of a heavy hand slapping onto a bare sole. Whap.
"Rigid," the Matron criticized. "You are locking your ankles against the door frame. Do not fight me."
"I'm trying!" Lakshmi’s voice was high and tight. "I'm just bracing myself!"
"Relax the plantar fascia," the Matron ordered.
There was a pause. Stephanie listened hard. She heard a soft, ghostly swish—like a finger tracing a pattern on paper.
"NO! AHA-HA!" Lakshmi blurted out, the sound muffled by the door. "DON'T TRACE IT! JUST HIT IT!"
"Trace it?" The Matron chuckled darkly. "I am merely mapping the arch depth."
Swish. Swish.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! IT TICKLES! OKAY! THEY'RE CLEAN! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"And reactive," the Matron concluded.
Clack. Clack.
Stephanie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed her palms into the slate floor, bracing herself. The boots stopped directly in front of her hatch.
She felt the air shift. Even though she couldn't see the corridor, she felt the presence of the Matron looming over her exposed feet.
"Subject One," the Matron whispered. "You have kept me waiting."
A hand clamped onto Stephanie’s left ankle. It was iron-hard and callused. The thumb dug viciously into the sensitive hollow behind her ankle bone, paralyzing the nerve. Stephanie gasped, her back arching off the slate floor.
"Curled," the Matron observed, her voice vibrating through the door. "You are curling your toes, Stephanie."
"I... I'm cold!" Stephanie stammered to the door.
"Open. Them."
The Matron didn't wait. Stephanie felt a thick thumb jam forcibly between her big toe and the second toe, prying them apart like a clam shell.
"OW! Okay! Okay!" Stephanie cried, forcing her foot to go limp, her toes splaying wide in the cold air to escape the prying wedge.
The Matron ran her palm slowly down the length of Stephanie’s sole, from the tips of the toes to the heel. Her skin was rough, like dried leather. The friction against Stephanie’s raw, scrubbed skin was electric.
"Nnn-gh!" Stephanie bit her lip, her hips shimmying on the floor as she tried to pull her legs back through the slot, but the grip on her ankle was immovable.
"Soft," the Matron noted, her voice dangerously low. "more ticklish than subject three I wonder."
Then, the pressure changed. The broad palm lifted. A single point of contact remained.
A sharp fingernail pressed into the very base of Stephanie’s heel.
"Stay," the Matron commanded.
She began to drag the nail up.
It was impossibly slow. Stephanie could feel the jagged edge of the nail catching on her skin, tracing the deep centerline of her foot. She threw her head back, staring blindly at the ceiling, tears leaking from her eyes.
The nail crept past the arch. It reached the ball of the foot. It swirled there—a tiny, predatory circle right on the pressure point.
"EEEEE-YIP!" Stephanie shrieked, her free foot kicking uselessly against the metal door. "IT’S TICKLISH! STOP!"
The nail didn't stop. It continued up, sliding right into the soft, unprotected webbing between the third and fourth toe.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THE WEBS! HHH-UUHH!"
The Matron held it there, vibrating her finger just enough to send shockwaves of panic through Stephanie’s system.
"Delicious," the Matron cooed.
She released the ankle. Stephanie scrambled backward, yanking her feet back through the slot—twist, pull, twist—until she was curled in the far corner of the cell, clutching her throbbing soles.
"Retract!" the Matron bellowed to the hall. "Transport team is inbound. Prepare to move."
Stephanie huddled in the dark, her chest heaving, listening as the Matron’s boots faded—only to be replaced by the sound of new footsteps. Heavier ones
CHUNK-CLANK. The locks disengaged simultaneously down the row. The heavy iron doors swung outward into the corridor with a collective groan.
"Out," the Matron barked. "Formation."
Stephanie stepped out of Cell 01, shivering as the damp air of the hallway hit her chemise. She turned to look back at the room that was her cell, then she looked at one of the unmarked and still closed doors..
Now that she was on the outside, she saw a detail she had missed in the shadows of the arrival. Welded to the exterior steel face of the door, directly flanking the low inspection hatch she had just been forced to use, were four curved metal cleats.
They looked like the heavy iron hooks on a boat dock, painted the same dreary grey as the door. They were welded in a line, spaced out.
Stephanie stared at them, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.
"Eyes front," the Matron with the cane snapped, shoving her shoulder.
The Matrons herded the three barefoot girls into the belly of the facility.
---
The Mess Hall was terrifying not for what was there, but for what wasn't. It was a cavernous, vaulted chamber carved directly out of the bedrock. The ceiling was lost in shadows, hung with heavy industrial fans that turned with a slow, hypnotic thwump-thwump.
Bolted to the concrete floor were twenty long, zinc-topped tables, each flanked by backless steel benches. It was a setup designed to feed hundreds.
"Sit," the Matron’s voice echoed in the vast emptiness. "Table One."
Stephanie, Rachel, and Lakshmi slid onto the cold steel bench at the very first table. They were the only souls in a room built for a battalion. The expanse of empty grey tables stretching into the darkness behind them felt like a threat—a promise that they were just the first prototypes in a mass-production line.
A hatch in the wall slid open on a conveyor belt. Four metal bowls clattered out.
"Nutrient paste," the Matron announced. "Consume. You require caloric density for the regeneration of nerve tissue."
Stephanie stared at the bowl. It was a lukewarm, beige sludge that smelled of yeast and damp grain. She picked up the plastic spoon, her hand trembling.
Clack... Clack...
The sound came from the doorway.
Stephanie looked up.
Samantha stood in the entrance. She looked shaken—her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying, and her hands were trembling slightly at her sides—but she was standing. She walked toward the table with a stiff, self-conscious gait, essentially normal but careful, as if she were trying very hard not to think about the sensation of her feet hitting the concrete.
She slid onto the bench opposite Stephanie. She didn't tuck her legs up; she let them rest on the floor, though she kept shifting her weight, unable to get comfortable.
"Is it... is it bleeding?" Rachel whispered, glancing down.
Samantha shook her head, staring at her oatmeal. "No," she murmured, her voice hollow. "It’s not cut. It just... burns. It feels like a really bad sunburn."
She glanced down at her own feet. They weren't raw, but the soles were a vivid, uniform pink—a high-contrast flush that extended from her heels to her toes. The Mouser’s tongue hadn't stripped the flesh, but the ten minutes of relentless, abrasive licking had scrubbed away every trace of protective dead skin, leaving the nerves screamingly awake.
"It was the texture," Samantha shuddered, gripping her spoon until her knuckles turned white. "It wasn't like a brush. It was wet and sandpaper at the same time. He just... he found a spot and stayed there. I couldn't get away."
"Eat," Stephanie said gently. "Before they come back."
They finished the grey paste in silence. As the last spoon clinked, the First Matron stepped forward.
"Caloric intake complete," she announced. "Transition to Maintenance Sector."
She looked at the four girls, noting Samantha’s flushed soles with clinical approval.
"The integrity of the product must be maintained. Calluses dull the sensation. Rough skin offers protection. We do not allow protection here."
She gestured with her cane toward a side door labeled HYGIENE.
"It is time for the Pedicure Circle," the Matron said, a cruel smile touching her lips. "You will groom each other. You will make the skin soft. You will make it defenseless."
She leaned in, her voice dropping.
"And whichever of you fails to produce a 'perfectly sensitive' result... well, we have a set of infrared heat lamps warming up in the corner to make the feet extra receptive. And then, myself and Matron Agatha will demonstrate a ten-minute 'Double Tickle' technique we have been perfecting."
---
The "Hygiene Sector" was a small, tiled room that smelled aggressively of eucalyptus and industrial sanitizer. In the center, four low wooden stools were arranged in a tight circle. Beside each stool sat a basin of steaming water and a tray of instruments: dark, porous pumice stones, stiff bristle brushes, and jagged metal foot files.
In the corner, bathing the white tiles in a menacing crimson glow, stood a bank of industrial infrared heat lamps. They hummed with a low, electric buzz, radiating a dry, intense heat that made the hair on Stephanie’s arms stand up.
"Sit," the Matron commanded.
As the woman stepped into the light, Stephanie got a good look at her. She had a face like a poorly repaired stone carving—a thin, jagged scar cut through one eyebrow, her mouth pulled down by deep lines that seemed to anchor her face in a permanent state of disapproval. Agatha, Stephanie thought, the name clicking into place like a deadbolt. That’s Agatha. The one with the cane this morning
"The arrangement is circular," Agatha announced, her voice bouncing off the hard surfaces. "Subject One grooms Subject Two. Two grooms Three. Three grooms Four. And Four grooms One."
Stephanie sat on her stool. Directly in front of her were Samantha’s feet. To her left, Lakshmi was positioning herself to work on Stephanie.
"The objective is absolute vulnerability," Agatha lectured, pacing the perimeter of the circle. "Protective skin—calluses, rough patches, dead layers—provides a shield against sensation. You will remove that shield."
She stopped and pointed a thick finger at the glowing heat lamps.
"I will inspect the finished work. The girl who leaves the most 'protection' on her partner's feet... the girl who is too gentle... will be strapped under those lamps for ten minutes. The infrared heat dilates the capillaries and sensitizes the nerve endings to near-rupture."
She slapped her bamboo cane against her palm. Thwack.
"And once the feet are 'cooked,' Matron Helga and I will apply a ten-minute Double-Tickle administration. Two sets of fingers. No mercy. Do I make myself clear?"
A shudder ran through the circle. The threat of the Double Tickle—two pairs of hands on super-heated, hyper-sensitive skin—was a nightmare scenario.
Stephanie glanced at the other Matron. Helga was a silent wall of muscle, her jaw thick and square, her heavy black brows meeting in the middle. A faint, downy moustache shadowed her upper lip. She didn’t speak; she just watched, her presence a physical weight in the room, her hands hanging at her sides like slabs of stone.
"Begin," Agatha barked. "Soak."
Stephanie plunged her hands into the basin. She took Samantha’s left foot—the one that still looked pink and angry from the Mouser’s tongue—and lowered it into the water.
"S-sorry," Stephanie whispered, seeing Samantha wince as the hot water hit her sensitized skin.
"Just do it," Samantha hissed back, tears welling in her eyes. "No-one wants to be put me under the lamp."
"Scrub," Agatha ordered. "Pumice stones. Heavy pressure."
Stephanie grabbed the black volcanic rock. It felt rough and heavy in her hand. She looked at Samantha’s sole. It was already so tender, so pink. But if she didn't scrub, Stephanie would be the one screaming under the lamps.
She gripped Samantha’s heel and began to scour the arch.
Skrrr-scuff. Skrrr-scuff.
"GHK! AAAH-HA-HA!" Samantha’s leg jerked in Stephanie’s wet grip. "IT’S TOO ROUGH! HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"Hold her still!" Agatha snapped at Stephanie. "If she kicks, you fail."
Stephanie squeezed Samantha’s ankle tighter, pinning it trapped between her knees. She could feel the violent, jerky tremors of Samantha's laughter vibrating through the bone, traveling up her own arms like a current. She bore down with the pumice stone, grinding away layers of skin that didn't need to be removed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Stephanie whispered frantically, scrubbing harder as she felt Agatha’s eyes on her back.
Meanwhile, Lakshmi had taken hold of Stephanie’s foot. Lakshmi was weeping silently, terrified of the punishment. She attacked Stephanie’s sole with a desperation that was purely survival-driven.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Lakshmi didn't use the flat of the stone; she used the edge. She drove it into the soft, wrinkled skin of Stephanie’s instep, sawing back and forth.
"YIIIII-IP!" Stephanie shrieked, her head snapping back as the sensation shot up her spine. "LAKSHMI! THAT’S SHARP! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"I have to!" Lakshmi sobbed, scrubbing furiously. "I can't take the lamps! I can't!"
The room dissolved into a cacophony of wet splashing, the grinding sound of stone on skin, and the jagged, panicked laughter of four girls forced to torture each other to save themselves.
"Harder!" Agatha shouted over the noise, leaning over Rachel, who was trying to be gentle with Lakshmi’s toes. "I see dead skin on the heel! Do you want the lamps, Subject Four? Do you?"
"No! No!" Rachel cried. She grabbed the metal foot file—the one that looked like a cheese grater—and applied it to Lakshmi’s heel.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO! NOT THE GRATER! IT VIBRATES! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Lakshmi wailed, kicking out, splashing water all over Stephanie.
For twenty minutes, it was chaos. The air grew thick with the smell of eucalyptus and fear.
"Stop," Agatha finally commanded.
The scrubbing ceased instantly. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the girls and the dripping of water.
Agatha walked into the center of the circle. She looked like a judge at a livestock fair.
"Inspection," she announced.
She checked Samantha’s feet first (Stephanie's work). She ran a fingernail heavily down the arch. The skin was raw, glowing red, and utterly devoid of protection. Samantha gasped but didn't pull away.
"Acceptable," Agatha grunted. Stephanie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
She checked Rachel’s feet (Samantha’s work). She checked Lakshmi’s feet (Rachel’s work).
Then, she stopped at Stephanie’s feet (Lakshmi’s work).
Agatha crouched down. She gripped Stephanie’s heel. She rubbed her thumb over the thick skin of the pad.
"Rough," Agatha whispered. "I feel texture."
She stood up and loomed over Lakshmi.
"You hesitated, Subject Three. You let your empathy get in the way of your duty. You left the heel protected."
Lakshmi went pale. "No... please... I scrubbed! She’s just... she has tough feet! It’s not my fault!"
"Inefficiency is always a fault," Agatha said coldly. She pointed her cane at Lakshmi. "To the lamps."
"NO! NO PLEASE! I DID MY BEST!" Lakshmi screamed as Matron Helga moved with the brutal efficiency Stephanie expected. She didn’t speak, simply grabbed Lakshmi by the arms, her grip silencing any further protest through sheer force as she began dragging her toward the corner.
"Strap her in," Agatha ordered, rolling up her sleeves and flexing her thick fingers. "Ten minutes of High-Intensity Vascular Therapy to soften that mistake. And then... Matron Helga and I will see just how ticklish a 'failure' can be."
The Matrons didn't just strap Lakshmi to a chair; they inverted the geometry of vulnerability.
In the corner, bathing the white tiles in an ominous amber-red glow, was a modified gynecological exam table. But instead of stirrups, there were two adjustable metal armatures positioned high in the air, directly beneath a bank of therapeutic warming arrays.
"Up," Helga grunted, hoisting Lakshmi onto the table.
Lakshmi fought with the desperate, flailing energy of a trapped animal. "No! Please! It was clean! I swear it was clean!"
Helga ignored her, shoving Lakshmi onto her back. She grabbed Lakshmi’s ankles and locked them into the elevated armatures. The clamps snapped shut around her shins, holding her legs wide apart and perfectly vertical. Her bare feet were thrust upward, suspended just eighteen inches beneath the humming bulbs.
"Ten minutes," Agatha announced, setting a manual egg timer on the counter. Tick-tick-tick-tick.
The heat was instantaneous. It wasn't the dry sear of an oven, but a thick, humid, penetrating warmth designed for deep-tissue therapy. It bypassed the surface and seemed to boil the marrow.
"It’s... it’s prickling!" Lakshmi cried, wriggling her toes as the amber light washed over her soles. "It feels tight!"
"That is the vascular response," Agatha said, crossing her arms and leaning against the sink to watch. "The heat penetrates the dermal layers. It forces the capillaries to dilate to their maximum limit."
She gestured to the glowing soles.
"Think of it as tuning a radio to the highest volume before playing the music. We are filling the nerve endings with blood. Every pore is opening. Every receptor is waking up." A strange scent filled the air—not of burning, but of clean, superheated skin, like scorched linen.
For the other three girls sitting on their stools, the wait was agonizing. They watched in silence as Lakshmi’s feet transformed. They turned from a pale tan to a deep, flushed rose color. They looked swollen, hot, and impossibly soft. The heat was melting away any remaining resistance in the skin, leaving it damp with sweat and pulsating with blood flow.
Ding!
The timer rang out, sharp and cheerful.
"Primed," Agatha declared.
She signaled Helga. The lamps were switched off, but the heat didn't leave. Lakshmi’s feet were radiating their own warmth now, glowing against the cool air of the room.
Agatha walked to the left side of the table. Helga walked to the right. They didn't bring tools. They held up their hands, flexing thick, formidable fingers.
"The Double Tickle," Agatha explained to the audience. "Two attackers. Independent rhythms. On skin that is currently hyper-reactive to air currents."
They moved in.
Agatha took the left foot. Helga took the right.
They didn't start slow. They dove in.
Agatha plunged her thumbs into the center of Lakshmi’s left arch, digging deep into the heat-softened muscle, while her fingers clawed rapidly over the top of the foot.
Helga, meanwhile, attacked the right foot with a frantic, spider-like scribbling motion. She ran her fingernails in rapid, jagged circles all over the sensitive, wrinkled skin of the heel and the instep.
"GAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NOOOO! IT’S TOO MUCH—GHK—IT’S EVERYWHERE! AHA-HA-HA-SNORT-HA!"
Lakshmi’s body convulsed on the table, her hips bucking uselessly against the restraints. Watching it, Stephanie felt a phantom itch crawl up her own legs. It was impossible to tell where one attack ended and the other began; the Matrons' hands were a blur of motion, and Lakshmi's screams were a constant, unbroken wall of sound.
"Dig deeper," Agatha instructed calmly, burying her knuckles into the tender hollow of the arch. "Find the panic switch."
"AAAAA-HEEE-HEEE! NOT THE KNUCKLES! STOP THE KNUCKLES! HAAAA-HAAAA!"
Helga switched tactics. She interlaced her fingers with Lakshmi’s toes, prying them apart and sawing the webbing back and forth against her own thick knuckles.
"YIIII-IP! THE TOES! SHE’S IN THE TOES! LOOK! SHE’S IN THE TOES!" Lakshmi shrieked, her head thrashing from side to side, her eyes squeezing shut so tight tears squirted out.
It was a symphony of sensory confusion. Agatha was providing deep, crushing pressure on the left, while Helga was inflicting sharp, surface-level skittering on the right. Lakshmi’s brain couldn't process the two distinct inputs; it just registered a wall of overwhelming, inescapable ticklish agony.
"Five minutes remaining," Agatha noted, checking her watch without stopping the grind of her thumbs.
"PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'LL SCRUB HARDER NEXT TIME! I'LL SCRUB TO THE BONE! JUST STOP! AHA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
Stephanie, watching from her stool, felt a phantom itch crawl up her own legs. She gripped her knees, her own freshly-scrubbed soles tingling in sympathy. She looked at Samantha, whose face was pale as she stared at the ceiling, refusing to watch the torture she had narrowly escaped.
"Listen to her," Agatha called out to the observers, her voice rising over Lakshmi’s jagged wails. "That is the sound of a lesson being learned. Remember it next time you think about showing mercy."
She looked back at Lakshmi, whose laughter had devolved into breathless, whistling gasps.
"Now... Helga. The Spider Walk. On the count of three."
"One... Two... Three!"
Both Matrons simultaneously switched to using just their fingertips. They began a rapid, fluttering drumming motion—like falling rain—that started at the heels and raced up to the toes, then back down.
Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat.
"NOOOOO! THAT’S WORSE! THAT’S WORSE! AIEEEE-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
---
The screaming didn't stop until Lakshmi was physically limp, her voice reduced to a dry, rattling wheeze. Agatha and Helga finally stepped back, wiping their hands on towels as if they had just finished washing dishes.
"Lesson concluded," Agatha announced, checking the redness of Lakshmi’s thoroughly ravaged soles. "Release them."
The Matrons moved with brisk efficiency. Lakshmi was unlocked from the stirrups, half-carried, half-dragged back to the line. She couldn't stand; her legs were jelly, her nervous system short-circuited. Stephanie and Rachel had to grab her arms, supporting her weight as they were marched back into the dark corridor of the Lower Dorms.
They stopped at the cell doors.
"Inside," Agatha commanded. "Maintenance is complete for the day. Do not expect further contact."
Stephanie helped lower the sobbing Lakshmi onto the slate floor of Cell 03 before hurrying into her own cell. The heavy iron door slammed shut.
CLANG-CLICK.
Stephanie leaned her forehead against the cool metal, listening. She heard the other doors slamming. Then silence, save for the muffled, hiccuping sobs from next door.
The rest of the day was a study in isolation.
Time became a blur, marked only by the clack-slide of the inspection hatch.
Around noon, the hatch slid open. A plastic tray was shoved through—a bowl of the same beige sludge, a cup of tepid water, and a single apple that was bruised and mealy. Stephanie ate it mechanically, staring at her feet. They felt strange—lighter, rawer. The pedicure circle had stripped away every callous, every rough patch. Her soles felt unnaturally smooth against the coarse weave of the cot blanket, hyper-aware of every texture.
Hours dragged by. The silence of the Undercroft was oppressive. Occasionally, she heard heavy machinery vibrating somewhere deeper in the earth—evidence of Sterling’s promised expansion.
Dinner arrived with the same impersonal efficiency. This time, the sludge was slightly darker, perhaps flavored with something savory, but equally indistinct.
Stephanie lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. She thought about the checkbook. She thought about Van Der Hoven’s cold thumb dragging up her nylon-clad arch. He bought me, she realized, the horror settling in her stomach like a stone. Reserved. Exclusive.
CLACK.
The lights in the corridor died. Darkness flooded the cell, absolute and heavy.
"Lights out," the distant voice of a guard echoed.
Stephanie curled onto her side, pulling her knees up. In the dark, her hearing sharpened. She could hear the rhythmic breathing of Samantha through the bricks. She could hear the drip of condensation.
And then, she heard something else.
A soft, scratching sound at the base of her door.
Scritch. Scritch.
Stephanie froze. Was it the Mouser?
Then, a whisper. Low, barely audible, drifting through the gap between the floor and the door.
"Steph?"
It was Samantha. She must be lying on the floor, her face pressed right against the crack.
Stephanie slid off the cot and lay on the cold slate, putting her mouth to the gap.
"Sam?" she whispered back. "Are you okay?"
"No," Samantha’s voice trembled. "My feet... they won't stop throbbing. It feels like he’s still licking them."
There was a pause.
"Steph... I heard them talking," Samantha whispered, her voice tighter now. "When they were dragging me back this morning. The Matrons."
"What did they say?"
"They said the renovations are ahead of schedule," Samantha breathed. "They said the 'Visiting Rooms' will be ready by Tuesday. That’s tomorrow, Steph."
Stephanie’s blood ran cold. Tuesday. Van Der Hoven’s day.
"They said he called ahead," Samantha whispered through the crack, her voice barely audible over the hum of the ventilation. "He requested special preparations. He wants... he wants the 'high-compression' stocks ready."
Stephanie frowned in the dark. "Stocks? You mean socks?"
"No," Samantha breathed. "Like... a vise. Stocks that squeeze while they hold you. To keep the blood trapped in the feet."
Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the nausea that rolled in her stomach.
"Get some sleep, Sam," she whispered, her voice tight. "Just... try to survive tomorrow."
"You too," Samantha whispered back.
Stephanie crawled back to her cot. She lay in the dark, clutching the rough blanket, staring up at the invisible ceiling. Her mind raced with images of vises and nylon.
THWACK-THWACK.
The sound of a heavy stick hitting her iron door made her jump so hard she nearly fell off the cot.
"Silence!" a voice barked from the corridor. It wasn't Agatha or Helga. It was deeper, raspy—like wet gravel. A new Matron. "Conspiring through the cracks? That is a violation of Level 4 Protocol."
Stephanie froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Subject One," the voice growled. "Present soles for disciplinary correction. Immediately."
Stephanie hesitated. Her feet were already raw from the pedicure circle. "But... we were just—"
"Do not make me open this door, One," the voice hissed. "Or I will drag you to the Mouser myself and let him finish what he started on your friend."
The threat was visceral. Stephanie scrambled off the cot. She dropped to the floor, her movements frantic. She twisted her legs, shoving her feet through the cold metal slot—right foot, then left—leaving them exposed and vulnerable in the brightly lit corridor while she remained in the dark.
She waited for the cane. She braced herself for the sting of bamboo.
Instead, she felt something soft.
Heavy fabric loops were slipped over her big toes. Before she could react, they were pulled taut—Yank—anchoring her toes back against the metal door frame. Then more loops snagged her baby toes, cinching tight. Her feet were splayed and immobilized, pinned against the external metal like specimens on a board.
"There," the Matron purred. "Nice and presentable."
Stephanie held her breath, screwing her eyes shut. Just hit me. Just get it over with.
Then, she felt it.
It wasn't a strike. It was a ghost.
A single, impossibly soft feather landed on the ball of her right foot.
Stephanie flinched violently, a sharp gasp escaping her throat. "Hhh-uh!"
"Oh my," the Matron cooed, her voice dripping with cruel delight. "Subject Three did a wonderful job today. All that dead skin gone... nothing left but nerves."
She began to trace.
She dragged the feather slowly down the center of Stephanie’s right arch. It was feather-light, barely there, but on the freshly scrubbed, hyper-sensitized skin, it felt like electricity. It woke up every nerve ending, sending a jolt of maddening, inescapable tickle straight up Stephanie’s leg.
"Nnnn-gh! Please!" Stephanie whimpered, her feet fighting against the fabric loops.
"Please what?" the Matron whispered, moving the feather in swirling, teasing circles right in the soft hollow of the instep. "Please tickle the other foot?"
She moved to the left foot, flicking the feather rapidly between the toes.
"Eeeep! No! Ah-ha-ha! Stop!" Stephanie squirmed, her laughter broken and panicked.
"Don't worry, pet," the Matron murmured. Skrrrrr the sound of wood scraping stone was heard, followed by a light groan. Stephanie heard the creak of wood like the Matron had sat down on a stool. "I’m on the night shift. We have hours."
She resumed the slow, methodical stroking, savoring the shudder that ran through Stephanie’s trapped limbs.
"Now do try to keep it down, the others are trying to sleep."
Next Chapter
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