Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 182
- Points
- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The claxon’s shriek was a physical blow. Stephanie jerked awake on the thin mattress, the rough wool of the blanket scraping against her raw soles. She barely slept. Hours of darkness had been filled with the ghost-touch of a feather, a relentless, whispering torment an inch from her skin. The Matron on the night shift had taken her time.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The sound of the hatches opening down the corridor was the second signal. There was no hesitation. Not today. Stephanie scrambled from the cot, the cold slate floor a shock against her feet. She sat on the floor before the iron door, her back to the wall. With a practiced, miserable twist of her ankles, she shoved her feet through the slot, offering them blindly to the lit corridor, soles vertical and toes pointed toward the ceiling. She heard the soft thumps and scrapes from the other cells as Rachel, Samantha, and Lakshmi did the same. They had learned the cost of non-compliance.
The heavy, rhythmic tread of rubber boots approached. Clack. Clack. Clack. The footsteps paused at the far end of the hall, at Cell 04.
"Subject Four," Matron Agatha's voice boomed. A hand clamped on Rachel's ankle. A thumb pressed hard into her arch.
"Nn-gh!" came Rachel's sharp gasp.
"Tense," Agatha grunted. "Standard reactivity. Pass."
The boots moved to Cell 03. "Subject Three." The Matron's voice held a note of clinical interest. Stephanie could imagine her examining Lakshmi's feet, which had been super-heated and then ravaged. "The tissue shows excellent vascular retention. Still flushed."
"Hee-hnn!" The sound was a choked, helpless giggle from Lakshmi's cell.
"Sensitivity remains high. Good."
The boots stopped in front of Samantha's cell. "Subject Two." There was a pause. "Abrasive exfoliation successful. The dermis is primed and uniform."
"Sss-yee!" a sharp, hissing intake of breath came from next door.
"Excellent. No protective layering."
Finally, the boots stopped in front of Stephanie’s hatch. A shadow fell over her exposed ankles. A hand, hard as iron, gripped her right foot. A sharp fingernail drew a quick, testing line from the ball of her foot to the base of her toes.
"Yip!" Stephanie jolted, her hips lifting off the slate floor.
"Baseline reactivity confirmed," Agatha grunted. "Retract!"
Stephanie yanked her feet back as the keys ground in the locks down the row. The heavy doors groaned open in unison. "Out," Agatha commanded. "Formation."
As Stephanie stumbled into the corridor, blinking in the harsh light, Agatha’s eyes scanned her face. The Matron’s expression went from clinical assessment to cold disgust in a heartbeat.
"Look at you," Agatha stated flatly. "Dark circles. Puffy eyes. You look like a street urchin. Mr. Van Der Hoven has paid for a premium asset, not a sleep-deprived waif. You were instructed to rest."
Exhaustion and the lingering phantom tickle made Stephanie reckless. "I tried," she whispered, her voice cracking. "But the night Matron... she wouldn't let me."
Agatha’s expression went rigid. "The night Matron what? Did her duty? Do you have a complaint about Matron Kestrel, Subject One?"
The use of a name was a shock. It solidified the Matron from a shadowy tormentor into a person, a colleague Agatha was now defending.
"She kept me at the hatch all night," Stephanie blurted out, a desperate plea for justice in a place where none existed. "With a feather. I couldn't sleep."
Agatha stood up straight. Her voice dropped, losing all its volume but gaining a terrifying weight. "You will never speak ill of a staff member again. You will never imply one of us is at fault. We are the instrument. You are the material. If the material fails to hold its shape, it is not the fault of the hammer."
She pointed with her cane toward the pale oak stockade at the end of the hall.
"To the stocks. An attitude adjustment is required before your appointment."
Stephanie was hauled down the cold corridor, past the horrified eyes of her friends. She was forced into the frame—ankles clamped, arms stretched and buckled to the posts.
Agatha didn't lecture further. She simply held the bamboo cane like a conductor’s baton. "For slandering Matron Kestrel," she said calmly, "you will receive five strokes on each sole. You will count them. Loudly."
She didn't wait for an answer. The cane whistled through the air.
CRACK!
It landed flat across the ball of Stephanie’s left foot. The pain was sharp and vitreous, less a slap than a high-voltage line of fire that felt as if it were splitting the skin on a microscopic level.
"AAAAHH! ONE!" Stephanie screamed, her body jolting.
CRACK!
"TWO!"
By the time the tenth stroke landed, Stephanie was sobbing, her feet burning with a clean, sharp agony that was almost a relief after the maddening feather.
"Lesson learned?" Agatha asked, her voice devoid of emotion as she unlocked the stocks.
"Yes! Yes, Matron! I'm sorry!"
"Good," Agatha grunted, shoving her forward. "Now move it. You have calories to consume and muscles to maintain."
---
The Mess Hall was a cavern of echoes and shadows. Bolted to the concrete floor were twenty long, zinc-topped tables, each flanked by backless steel benches, all of them empty. It was a setup designed for hundreds, and the four girls, huddled alone at the first table, felt their isolation magnified by the vast, yawning emptiness behind them. A hatch in the far wall slid open and four metal bowls of beige nutrient paste clattered out.
"Consume," Matron Helga grunted. She and Agatha stood guard by the exit, their arms crossed, their presence a silent, forbidding wall. They were just far enough away that a hushed whisper might not carry.
"What happened last night?" Samantha murmured, spooning the tasteless sludge into her mouth without looking at it.
Stephanie rubbed her stinging feet together under the table, the friction a dull, aching reminder. "A new one," she whispered back, watching the Matrons. "Agatha called her Kestrel. Said she was on the night shift. Punished me for talking after lights out."
"And?" Rachel prompted, her eyes wide.
"A feather," Stephanie shuddered. "Just a feather. For hours. She just... sat out there in the hall, tracing my soles until she got bored. I don't know what time she stopped."
Lakshmi, who had been silent and withdrawn, looked up from her bowl. Her feet, still visibly pink from the heat lamp, were tucked tightly under the bench. "They're testing for psychological endurance now," she said, her voice a low, analytical hum. "It's not just about the physical reaction anymore. It's about sleep deprivation. Sensory attrition."
"It's about breaking us so we're too tired to fight back when the investors come," Samantha countered grimly. She glanced at Stephanie. "Are you going to be okay for... for him?"
"I have to be," Stephanie said, her voice tight. "You heard Agatha. I have to be 'presentable'."
As the last spoon clinked, Agatha strode forward. "Caloric intake complete. Transition to Maintenance Sector."
The gymnasium was a concrete box of horrors. A row of black iron stationary cycles stood bolted to the floor, their resistance wheels looking heavy and unforgiving. Along the opposite wall was a line of weight machines, their leather pads cracked and stained. Matron Helga stood by a chalkboard where the day's 'targets' were written in stark white letters.
Cardio: 20 minutes, Level 8 resistance.
Strength: Lat Pulldown, 3 sets of 10 at 40kg.
"Failure to meet targets results in corrective therapy," Agatha announced, tapping her cane against the cycle next to Stephanie. "Mount."
The twenty minutes on the cycle were a blur of burning thighs and screaming lungs. The level 8 resistance was brutal, forcing them to stand on the pedals, their bodies rocking with the effort. Helga paced behind them, her shadow a constant, silent threat.
Then came the weights. Samantha, strong from years of sports, managed the three sets with grim determination. Lakshmi, surprisingly, used her analytical mind to find a mechanical rhythm, her thin arms pulling the bar down with jerky but effective movements.
Then it was Rachel’s turn. She managed the first set, her face crimson with strain. On the second set, her arms began to tremble. By the eighth repetition, her arms were trembling uncontrollably. Her fingers slipped from the bar, and it crashed back to the top of the stack with a deafening CLANG.
"Target missed," Agatha said calmly. Helga moved in.
"No, please, I can do it! Just give me a minute!" Rachel pleaded, trying to stand.
Helga shoved her back onto the padded seat. She grabbed two thick leather straps from the wall. With terrifying speed, she buckled Rachel’s wrists to the pulldown bar, locking her hands in a wide grip. Then she took a third strap and cinched it tight around Rachel’s waist, pinning her to the seat.
"The muscles require... encouragement," Agatha purred. "Complete your set, Subject Four. Ten repetitions."
Helga stood behind the machine. She reached under Rachel’s arms, her thick, sausage-like fingers digging deep into the soft, unprotected flesh of her armpits.
"No! Wait! I can't pull if you do that! Please! Ghk-hee!" Rachel squirmed, her shoulders hunching up, but she was locked in place.
"Pull," Helga grunted. She began to wiggle her fingers.
"AHA-HA-HA! I C-CAN'T! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Rachel’s body convulsed on the seat, her arms trying to pull down the bar but spasming uselessly with every dig of Helga's fingers.
"Pull," Agatha repeated, her voice colder. "Or she will use her nails."
The threat was enough. Sobbing, laughing, Rachel used a surge of pure, panicked adrenaline. She yanked the bar down. Clank.
"ONE!" she shrieked, as Helga’s fingers danced. "AAAA-HA-HA-HA! TWO! HEE-HEE-HEE! THREE!"
By the tenth rep, Rachel was a wreck, her voice a hoarse rasp, her underarms red and raw. Helga released her without a word.
The workout was over. Agatha strode to the center of the room. She ignored the three trembling girls on the floor and pointed her cane directly at Stephanie.
"You," she commanded. "With me. Mr. Van Der Hoven's appointment is in ninety minutes. It is time for your invigoration."
"The rest of you," she looked at Samantha, Lakshmi, and the panting Rachel, "with Matron Helga. Hygiene sector, for the Pedicure Circle."
---
Matron Agatha led Stephanie away from the gymnasium, her cane tapping a merciless rhythm on the concrete. They didn't go to the hygiene sector. They took a side corridor, one Stephanie hadn't seen before, ending at a single, heavy steel door marked with a stark, black biohazard symbol. Agatha unlocked it, revealing a small, windowless room, tiled from floor to ceiling in sterile, antiseptic white.
The air was frigid, smelling sharply of mint and rubbing alcohol. In the center of the room sat a deep, galvanized steel tub, a column of steam rising from its surface. Stephanie’s eyes were drawn to it, a flicker of hope rising in her chest. A hot bath. After the cane, the workout, and the sleepless night, it sounded like heaven.
"You are flushed from the exertion," Agatha stated, her voice echoing off the tiles. "Sweaty. Impure. Mr. Van Der Hoven has paid for a pristine canvas. He requires a... cooler palette to begin his work."
She pointed to the tub. "In."
Stephanie hesitated. Something was wrong. The steam was a lie. The air in the room was arctic. She reached out a tentative hand, dipping her fingers just past the surface.
"AAAAHH!"
She snatched her hand back as if she’d touched a live wire. The water wasn't hot. It was breathtakingly, painfully cold. Bobbing just below the surface were massive blocks of ice, their crystalline forms obscured by the layer of steam created by the warmer air of the Undercroft. It was a plunge pool, kept just above freezing.
"The shock will tighten the pores and jolt the nervous system into a state of high alert," Agatha explained calmly. "It makes the skin wonderfully reactive. Now get in before I throw you in."
Tears stung Stephanie’s eyes. She knew what happened if she refused. Shivering, she stepped onto the small stool beside the tub and lowered herself into the icy water.
The shock was absolute. It wasn't a sensation; it was an erasure. The cold drove the air from her lungs in a silent, violent gasp, the world narrowing to the dull roar of blood retreating from her ears. Every muscle in her body seized, her skin erupting in a painful, instantaneous carpet of goosebumps. It felt like being stabbed with a thousand frozen needles at once, a deep, aching cold that seemed to bypass the flesh and sink directly into the marrow.
"Submerge completely," Agatha ordered.
Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut and plunged her head under, the cold a crushing weight against her skull. She came up sputtering, her teeth chattering so violently she thought they might crack. The water burned. Every nerve ending was screaming, trapped in a state of suspended agony.
"Thirty seconds," Agatha announced, checking a stopwatch.
It was the longest thirty seconds of Stephanie’s life. When Agatha finally gave the command to get out, Stephanie could barely move. Her limbs were numb, her skin a mottled, bluish-white. She stumbled out, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Agatha was waiting with a towel. It wasn't soft. It was a thick, coarse-spun linen, and it had been warming on a heated rack. The contrast was a new form of torture.
"Dry," Agatha commanded, throwing the towel over Stephanie’s shoulders.
The friction of the rough, heated fabric against her ice-cold, hyper-sensitized skin was excruciating. It was like being scrubbed with hot sandpaper. Every pass of the towel sent a fresh wave of pins and needles, a painful, fiery thawing that was almost worse than the cold itself.
Agatha didn't help. She watched, her eyes cold and clinical, as Stephanie roughly dried herself, whimpering with every stroke.
"On the table," Agatha commanded, pointing to a padded massage table in the corner. "Stomach down."
Stephanie obeyed, her limbs still clumsy and numb. She lay on the vinyl, shivering, the coarse texture of the table cover a fresh torment against her skin.
Agatha approached, holding a bottle of dark green liquid. She uncapped it, and the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus filled the room. She poured a generous amount into her rough palms and began to rub Stephanie’s back.
Her touch was not gentle. It was a vigorous, almost violent massage. She kneaded the muscles with punishing force, her thumbs digging into the knots of tension in Stephanie’s shoulders and back. The eucalyptus oil was cool at first, then it began to generate its own heat, a penetrating warmth that sank deep into the muscle.
Then, she moved to the feet.
She grabbed Stephanie’s left foot, her grip like a vise. She poured the oil directly onto the sole, which was still stinging and blue from the cold.
"The friction will restore circulation," Agatha stated. She began to rub. Hard.
She used the heel of her palm, grinding it into Stephanie’s arch in a rapid, circular motion. The combination of the rough skin of Agatha's hand, the warming oil, and the raw, cold-sensitized state of Stephanie’s sole was a sensory paradox. The skin was still screaming with cold, yet Agatha's grinding hand was generating a fierce, abrasive heat, trapping the nerves between fire and ice.
"GHK-AAAA-HA-HA-HA!" Stephanie’s head snapped up, her laughter a strangled, panicked bark. Her leg kicked out, but Agatha’s grip was unbreakable.
"Still!" Agatha roared, slapping the back of Stephanie’s calf.
She worked the oil into every crevice, rubbing the webbing between the toes until it burned, polishing the heel until it glowed. By the time she was finished, Stephanie’s feet were no longer blue. They were a deep, angry red, radiating a visible heat and glowing with a slick sheen of eucalyptus oil. They looked raw, swollen, and impossibly sensitive.
"Primed," Agatha grunted with satisfaction. She threw a thin cotton chemise at Stephanie. "Dress. Your appointment is next."
---
Visiting Room 01 was a sterile, soundproofed cube. The walls were padded with thick, grey acoustic foam. The only furniture was a single, modified gurney bolted to the center of the floor and a leather armchair in the corner. The air was still and warm, heavy with the scent of old leather and the faint, sweet smell of a recently extinguished cigar.
Stephanie was marched into the room by Agatha. Her body was still a confused jumble of sensations—the deep, aching chill from the ice bath lingered in her bones, while her skin, especially her feet, radiated a fierce, artificial heat from the eucalyptus rub.
"On the table," Agatha commanded. "Now."
Stephanie climbed onto the gurney. The process was brutally familiar. The Matron worked with the speed of an undertaker, wrapping Stephanie’s body in layers of coarse linen, binding her limbs to her sides until she was an immobile, mummified pillar. Only her head, propped on a pillow, and her feet, protruding from the end, remained free.
Agatha retrieved a small, sealed plastic packet. She tore it open and pulled out a pair of sheer, black industrial nylons. They looked impossibly small.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven prefers a... snug fit," Agatha noted, her voice devoid of emotion. She began to roll the tight, suffocating fabric over Stephanie’s eucalyptus-slicked feet. The oil made the nylon slide on with a sickening, wet hiss, but it also made the fit incredibly tight, the mesh clinging to every contour like a second skin.
"Nnnhg..." Stephanie groaned as the high-compression fabric squeezed her toes together, the nylon already starting to trap the radiating heat from her flushed soles.
Agatha then took the leather cords from the gurney's frame. She looped them around each nylon-clad toe, pulling them back and outward with cruel precision, anchoring them to the metal cleats. The nylon stretched to its breaking point between the toes, creating a shimmering, dark web of tension. The skin of Stephanie's arches was pulled taut as a drumhead.
"The client will be here momentarily," Agatha stated, checking the restraints one last time. "You will be responsive. You will be cooperative. You will be... an asset."
She turned and left, the heavy, soundproofed door swinging shut with a soft, final thump of compressed air. Stephanie was alone, her heart hammering against her ribs. The heat was already building inside the nylons, turning the trapped eucalyptus oil into a warm, minty sweat.
A few minutes later, the door hissed open again.
Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing pale, hairy forearms. He carried a snifter of brandy in one hand. He didn't look at her face. His eyes, gleaming with a cold, proprietary light, went straight to her feet.
"Excellent," he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative hum. "The prep team has done a fine job. The skin is beautifully flushed beneath the membrane."
He set his brandy down on a small side table and walked to the foot of the gurney. He loomed over her, a predator assessing his prize.
"The objective today, Subject One," he said, his voice a dry whisper, "is perspiration. I have found the aroma profile is... suboptimal... without sufficient moisture to act as a catalyst."
He reached out. He didn't use a tool. He simply placed the pads of his ten fingers lightly on her nylon-clad soles—five on the left, five on the right. He let them rest there for a moment, feeling the heat.
Stephanie flinched, her entire body tensing in anticipation.
"Relax," he commanded softly. "We are merely warming the engine."
He began to move his fingers. It wasn't a tickle, not yet. It was a slow, exploratory drumming motion, his fingertips tapping a random, maddening rhythm all over the taut surface. He tapped the heel, then the ball, then the arch, never staying in one place long enough for her nerves to adjust.
"Nnn... ghk..." A small, choked sound escaped Stephanie’s throat. The light, unpredictable patter was almost worse than a direct assault.
"The heat is building nicely," Van Der Hoven observed. He drew his fingernails lightly down the center of each sole, the sharp points snagging on the nylon mesh. Zzzzt. Zzzzt.
"Eeeep!" Stephanie jolted, the static discharge a tiny, sharp shock.
He smiled. "There we go."
Now he began in earnest. He used only the tips of his nails, scribbling frantic, chaotic figure-eights over the balls of her feet. The nylon eliminated all slip, turning every tiny movement into a high-friction, static-charged scrape.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! IT’S SCRATCHY! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Stephanie’s head thrashed on the pillow, her laughter exploding out of her in ragged, panicked bursts.
He ignored her, moving down to her arches, digging the points of his nails in and vibrating his hands. The sensation was maddening—a deep, invasive buzzing that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. He was playing her nervous system like an instrument, and the sweat began to bloom. She could feel it, a slick, warm wetness pooling inside the suffocating nylon, turning the fabric dark and damp.
"Marvelous," Van Der Hoven breathed, ceasing his assault. He leaned in closer, his face just inches from her feet. The nylons were now visibly wet, clinging to her arches, the trapped sweat shimmering under the room’s single spotlight. "The bouquet is developing."
He reached out with a thumb and forefinger, pinching the stocking at the center of her arch. He pulled. The wet fabric made a sticky, peeling sound as it separated from her skin. He created a small tent of the material, then lowered his nose to the opening, inhaling deeply. "Exquisite," he moaned.
Then he did something else. He reached for the fly of his trousers. Stephanie’s eyes widened in horror. "No... wait... what are you doing?"
He didn’t answer. He unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding free deafening in the silent room. He worked his zip and freed his cock. It was thick, heavy, and already slick with pre-cum.
"This is not," he whispered, his voice thick with lust, "in the official manual."
He ripped the nylon. The sound was a wet, violent shriek of tearing fabric. He widened the hole, exposing her left sole—hot, red, and dripping with sweat. He positioned his cock at her heel, pressing the slick glans against her wet skin.
"Please... don't..." Stephanie wept, her body rigid with a new kind of terror.
He slid his cock up her sole, the friction wet and obscene. He ground himself against her arch, his hips beginning to pump in a rough, urgent rhythm. Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, a strangled sob caught in her throat. The sensation was alien and violating—the heat of his flesh, the slickness of their combined fluids, the rough scrape of his pubic hair against her heel.
"So... fucking... hot..." he groaned, his thrusts growing faster, sloppier. He came with a low, guttural grunt, his cum spewing over her arch and heel, hot and sticky.
He collapsed against her foot for a moment, panting, his post-orgasmic flush visible on his neck. Then he pulled himself away, zipping his trousers with a detached, business-like efficiency. He wiped his flaccid cock on the torn edge of the stocking before wiping her foot with a silk handkerchief from his pocket.
He looked at the clock on the wall. "Twenty-two minutes remaining," he announced, his voice steady again. "Let us not waste them."
He reached for her right foot, which was still fully encased in the pristine, sweat-soaked nylon. He placed his sharp nails on the sole and began to rake them, hard, from heel to toe.
The shock of the sudden, aggressive tickle, combined with the psychological horror of what had just happened, was the final trigger.
Stephanie’s mind, already frayed and overloaded, simply... snapped. Her scream died in her throat. Her vision tunneled into a pinpoint of blackness. Her consciousness imploded, plunging her into a silent, weightless void. She was gone.
---
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a chemical fire. A violent, searing burn shot through Stephanie’s sinuses, up into her brain, and down her throat, making her gag and choke. Her eyes snapped open, blurry with tears, as she convulsed on a hard surface. The acrid stench of ammonia—smelling salts—was a physical presence in the room.
She was in a different place. Not the visiting room, not her cell. This was a smaller, brighter chamber, the walls lined with white, sterile tiles. She was on a simple metal gurney, no longer mummified but still weak, dressed only in the thin cotton chemise. Her feet were bare, throbbing with a deep, pulsating ache.
And she was not alone.
Headmistress Sterling stood by a steel instrument tray, her back to Stephanie. She was wearing her white lab coat, her posture rigid, her silver hair a perfect, unmoving helmet. The only sign of agitation was the way she was polishing a small, nickel-plated object with a chamois cloth, her movements sharp and aggressive.
"You are awake," Sterling stated, not turning around. Her voice was flat, colder than the ice bath. "It took two vials to bring you back. An inefficient use of resources."
Stephanie tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt like lead. Her head swam with the aftershocks of the blackout. "What... what happened? Van Der Hoven..."
"The client," Sterling corrected, her voice slicing through the air, "has concluded his session. He has also lodged a formal complaint. A very... costly complaint."
She finally turned. The professional mask was gone. In its place was a cold, contained fury that burned in her eyes. She looked at Stephanie not with the satisfaction of a disciplinarian, but with the utter contempt of an engineer staring at a beautifully designed machine that had just spectacularly failed.
"He paid for a forty-minute, fully-interactive experience," Sterling hissed, stepping toward the gurney. "He paid for the screams, the pleas, the visible, conscious struggle. What you provided him with was twenty-two minutes of unconscious, unresponsive dead weight. He was, to put it mildly, deeply dissatisfied."
The horror of the accusation settled in Stephanie’s stomach like a stone. She hadn't failed at resisting. She had failed at being a good victim.
"I... I couldn't help it," she whispered, tears welling. "I blacked out. It just happens."
"A defect," Sterling spat, her voice dripping with venom. "A flaw in the core programming. An asset that shuts down under peak operational stress is not an asset. It is a liability."
She walked back to the tray and picked up the object she had been polishing. It was a mechanical device, about the size of a cigar tube, crafted from gleaming nickel. At one end was a small winding key, like one from a vintage clock. At the other was a small, hard rubber nub, no bigger than the eraser on a pencil.
"This," Sterling said, holding it up, "is a neurological oscillator. A simple, clockwork mechanism designed to deliver high-frequency, low-amplitude vibrations directly to a targeted nerve cluster. It does not slash. It does not scrape. It simply... hums."
With a flick of her thumb, she wound the key. A soft, high-pitched whirring filled the silent room—a relentless, mechanical buzz, like an angry, trapped insect. Zzzzzzzzzzz.
"Your blackout reflex is a form of escape," Sterling explained, her eyes fixed on Stephanie’s throbbing feet. "Your mind runs from the sensation. We are going to teach it that there is nowhere to run. We are going to recalibrate you."
She gestured to the wall, where Matron Agatha stood silently by a small shelf. On it was a row of small, brown glass vials—the smelling salts. "You will be conditioned. We will apply the stimulus until you lose consciousness. Then, Matron Agatha will administer the salts to bring you back. Immediately. We will repeat this process. Again, and again, and again. Until the blackout reflex is erased. Until your mind learns that passing out is not an escape, but merely a brief, painful intermission before the stimulus returns."
Agatha stepped forward and grabbed Stephanie’s ankles, pinning her feet to the edge of the gurney.
"No... please... Headmistress, I'll be good for him next time! I'll try to stay awake! Please!"
Sterling ignored her pleas. She walked to the head of the gurney, her expression softening into a mask of saccharine concern. She reached out with a long, slender hand and gently, almost tenderly, pushed the damp, sweat-soaked strands of hair from Stephanie’s forehead, tucking them behind her ear. Her fingernail grazed Stephanie's temple with the coldness of polished stone.
"Don't worry, Stephanie," Sterling whispered, her voice a low, soothing murmur that was more terrifying than any shout.
She then walked to the foot of the gurney, the humming oscillator held in her hand like a surgeon's scalpel. She loomed over Stephanie's feet, her predatory smile never wavering. She lowered the vibrating rubber nub toward the raw, sensitive center of Stephanie’s arch.
"It won't be a problem anymore," she purred. "We're going to fix you."
Next Chapter
The claxon’s shriek was a physical blow. Stephanie jerked awake on the thin mattress, the rough wool of the blanket scraping against her raw soles. She barely slept. Hours of darkness had been filled with the ghost-touch of a feather, a relentless, whispering torment an inch from her skin. The Matron on the night shift had taken her time.
CLANG-SLIDE.
The sound of the hatches opening down the corridor was the second signal. There was no hesitation. Not today. Stephanie scrambled from the cot, the cold slate floor a shock against her feet. She sat on the floor before the iron door, her back to the wall. With a practiced, miserable twist of her ankles, she shoved her feet through the slot, offering them blindly to the lit corridor, soles vertical and toes pointed toward the ceiling. She heard the soft thumps and scrapes from the other cells as Rachel, Samantha, and Lakshmi did the same. They had learned the cost of non-compliance.
The heavy, rhythmic tread of rubber boots approached. Clack. Clack. Clack. The footsteps paused at the far end of the hall, at Cell 04.
"Subject Four," Matron Agatha's voice boomed. A hand clamped on Rachel's ankle. A thumb pressed hard into her arch.
"Nn-gh!" came Rachel's sharp gasp.
"Tense," Agatha grunted. "Standard reactivity. Pass."
The boots moved to Cell 03. "Subject Three." The Matron's voice held a note of clinical interest. Stephanie could imagine her examining Lakshmi's feet, which had been super-heated and then ravaged. "The tissue shows excellent vascular retention. Still flushed."
"Hee-hnn!" The sound was a choked, helpless giggle from Lakshmi's cell.
"Sensitivity remains high. Good."
The boots stopped in front of Samantha's cell. "Subject Two." There was a pause. "Abrasive exfoliation successful. The dermis is primed and uniform."
"Sss-yee!" a sharp, hissing intake of breath came from next door.
"Excellent. No protective layering."
Finally, the boots stopped in front of Stephanie’s hatch. A shadow fell over her exposed ankles. A hand, hard as iron, gripped her right foot. A sharp fingernail drew a quick, testing line from the ball of her foot to the base of her toes.
"Yip!" Stephanie jolted, her hips lifting off the slate floor.
"Baseline reactivity confirmed," Agatha grunted. "Retract!"
Stephanie yanked her feet back as the keys ground in the locks down the row. The heavy doors groaned open in unison. "Out," Agatha commanded. "Formation."
As Stephanie stumbled into the corridor, blinking in the harsh light, Agatha’s eyes scanned her face. The Matron’s expression went from clinical assessment to cold disgust in a heartbeat.
"Look at you," Agatha stated flatly. "Dark circles. Puffy eyes. You look like a street urchin. Mr. Van Der Hoven has paid for a premium asset, not a sleep-deprived waif. You were instructed to rest."
Exhaustion and the lingering phantom tickle made Stephanie reckless. "I tried," she whispered, her voice cracking. "But the night Matron... she wouldn't let me."
Agatha’s expression went rigid. "The night Matron what? Did her duty? Do you have a complaint about Matron Kestrel, Subject One?"
The use of a name was a shock. It solidified the Matron from a shadowy tormentor into a person, a colleague Agatha was now defending.
"She kept me at the hatch all night," Stephanie blurted out, a desperate plea for justice in a place where none existed. "With a feather. I couldn't sleep."
Agatha stood up straight. Her voice dropped, losing all its volume but gaining a terrifying weight. "You will never speak ill of a staff member again. You will never imply one of us is at fault. We are the instrument. You are the material. If the material fails to hold its shape, it is not the fault of the hammer."
She pointed with her cane toward the pale oak stockade at the end of the hall.
"To the stocks. An attitude adjustment is required before your appointment."
Stephanie was hauled down the cold corridor, past the horrified eyes of her friends. She was forced into the frame—ankles clamped, arms stretched and buckled to the posts.
Agatha didn't lecture further. She simply held the bamboo cane like a conductor’s baton. "For slandering Matron Kestrel," she said calmly, "you will receive five strokes on each sole. You will count them. Loudly."
She didn't wait for an answer. The cane whistled through the air.
CRACK!
It landed flat across the ball of Stephanie’s left foot. The pain was sharp and vitreous, less a slap than a high-voltage line of fire that felt as if it were splitting the skin on a microscopic level.
"AAAAHH! ONE!" Stephanie screamed, her body jolting.
CRACK!
"TWO!"
By the time the tenth stroke landed, Stephanie was sobbing, her feet burning with a clean, sharp agony that was almost a relief after the maddening feather.
"Lesson learned?" Agatha asked, her voice devoid of emotion as she unlocked the stocks.
"Yes! Yes, Matron! I'm sorry!"
"Good," Agatha grunted, shoving her forward. "Now move it. You have calories to consume and muscles to maintain."
---
The Mess Hall was a cavern of echoes and shadows. Bolted to the concrete floor were twenty long, zinc-topped tables, each flanked by backless steel benches, all of them empty. It was a setup designed for hundreds, and the four girls, huddled alone at the first table, felt their isolation magnified by the vast, yawning emptiness behind them. A hatch in the far wall slid open and four metal bowls of beige nutrient paste clattered out.
"Consume," Matron Helga grunted. She and Agatha stood guard by the exit, their arms crossed, their presence a silent, forbidding wall. They were just far enough away that a hushed whisper might not carry.
"What happened last night?" Samantha murmured, spooning the tasteless sludge into her mouth without looking at it.
Stephanie rubbed her stinging feet together under the table, the friction a dull, aching reminder. "A new one," she whispered back, watching the Matrons. "Agatha called her Kestrel. Said she was on the night shift. Punished me for talking after lights out."
"And?" Rachel prompted, her eyes wide.
"A feather," Stephanie shuddered. "Just a feather. For hours. She just... sat out there in the hall, tracing my soles until she got bored. I don't know what time she stopped."
Lakshmi, who had been silent and withdrawn, looked up from her bowl. Her feet, still visibly pink from the heat lamp, were tucked tightly under the bench. "They're testing for psychological endurance now," she said, her voice a low, analytical hum. "It's not just about the physical reaction anymore. It's about sleep deprivation. Sensory attrition."
"It's about breaking us so we're too tired to fight back when the investors come," Samantha countered grimly. She glanced at Stephanie. "Are you going to be okay for... for him?"
"I have to be," Stephanie said, her voice tight. "You heard Agatha. I have to be 'presentable'."
As the last spoon clinked, Agatha strode forward. "Caloric intake complete. Transition to Maintenance Sector."
The gymnasium was a concrete box of horrors. A row of black iron stationary cycles stood bolted to the floor, their resistance wheels looking heavy and unforgiving. Along the opposite wall was a line of weight machines, their leather pads cracked and stained. Matron Helga stood by a chalkboard where the day's 'targets' were written in stark white letters.
Cardio: 20 minutes, Level 8 resistance.
Strength: Lat Pulldown, 3 sets of 10 at 40kg.
"Failure to meet targets results in corrective therapy," Agatha announced, tapping her cane against the cycle next to Stephanie. "Mount."
The twenty minutes on the cycle were a blur of burning thighs and screaming lungs. The level 8 resistance was brutal, forcing them to stand on the pedals, their bodies rocking with the effort. Helga paced behind them, her shadow a constant, silent threat.
Then came the weights. Samantha, strong from years of sports, managed the three sets with grim determination. Lakshmi, surprisingly, used her analytical mind to find a mechanical rhythm, her thin arms pulling the bar down with jerky but effective movements.
Then it was Rachel’s turn. She managed the first set, her face crimson with strain. On the second set, her arms began to tremble. By the eighth repetition, her arms were trembling uncontrollably. Her fingers slipped from the bar, and it crashed back to the top of the stack with a deafening CLANG.
"Target missed," Agatha said calmly. Helga moved in.
"No, please, I can do it! Just give me a minute!" Rachel pleaded, trying to stand.
Helga shoved her back onto the padded seat. She grabbed two thick leather straps from the wall. With terrifying speed, she buckled Rachel’s wrists to the pulldown bar, locking her hands in a wide grip. Then she took a third strap and cinched it tight around Rachel’s waist, pinning her to the seat.
"The muscles require... encouragement," Agatha purred. "Complete your set, Subject Four. Ten repetitions."
Helga stood behind the machine. She reached under Rachel’s arms, her thick, sausage-like fingers digging deep into the soft, unprotected flesh of her armpits.
"No! Wait! I can't pull if you do that! Please! Ghk-hee!" Rachel squirmed, her shoulders hunching up, but she was locked in place.
"Pull," Helga grunted. She began to wiggle her fingers.
"AHA-HA-HA! I C-CAN'T! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Rachel’s body convulsed on the seat, her arms trying to pull down the bar but spasming uselessly with every dig of Helga's fingers.
"Pull," Agatha repeated, her voice colder. "Or she will use her nails."
The threat was enough. Sobbing, laughing, Rachel used a surge of pure, panicked adrenaline. She yanked the bar down. Clank.
"ONE!" she shrieked, as Helga’s fingers danced. "AAAA-HA-HA-HA! TWO! HEE-HEE-HEE! THREE!"
By the tenth rep, Rachel was a wreck, her voice a hoarse rasp, her underarms red and raw. Helga released her without a word.
The workout was over. Agatha strode to the center of the room. She ignored the three trembling girls on the floor and pointed her cane directly at Stephanie.
"You," she commanded. "With me. Mr. Van Der Hoven's appointment is in ninety minutes. It is time for your invigoration."
"The rest of you," she looked at Samantha, Lakshmi, and the panting Rachel, "with Matron Helga. Hygiene sector, for the Pedicure Circle."
---
Matron Agatha led Stephanie away from the gymnasium, her cane tapping a merciless rhythm on the concrete. They didn't go to the hygiene sector. They took a side corridor, one Stephanie hadn't seen before, ending at a single, heavy steel door marked with a stark, black biohazard symbol. Agatha unlocked it, revealing a small, windowless room, tiled from floor to ceiling in sterile, antiseptic white.
The air was frigid, smelling sharply of mint and rubbing alcohol. In the center of the room sat a deep, galvanized steel tub, a column of steam rising from its surface. Stephanie’s eyes were drawn to it, a flicker of hope rising in her chest. A hot bath. After the cane, the workout, and the sleepless night, it sounded like heaven.
"You are flushed from the exertion," Agatha stated, her voice echoing off the tiles. "Sweaty. Impure. Mr. Van Der Hoven has paid for a pristine canvas. He requires a... cooler palette to begin his work."
She pointed to the tub. "In."
Stephanie hesitated. Something was wrong. The steam was a lie. The air in the room was arctic. She reached out a tentative hand, dipping her fingers just past the surface.
"AAAAHH!"
She snatched her hand back as if she’d touched a live wire. The water wasn't hot. It was breathtakingly, painfully cold. Bobbing just below the surface were massive blocks of ice, their crystalline forms obscured by the layer of steam created by the warmer air of the Undercroft. It was a plunge pool, kept just above freezing.
"The shock will tighten the pores and jolt the nervous system into a state of high alert," Agatha explained calmly. "It makes the skin wonderfully reactive. Now get in before I throw you in."
Tears stung Stephanie’s eyes. She knew what happened if she refused. Shivering, she stepped onto the small stool beside the tub and lowered herself into the icy water.
The shock was absolute. It wasn't a sensation; it was an erasure. The cold drove the air from her lungs in a silent, violent gasp, the world narrowing to the dull roar of blood retreating from her ears. Every muscle in her body seized, her skin erupting in a painful, instantaneous carpet of goosebumps. It felt like being stabbed with a thousand frozen needles at once, a deep, aching cold that seemed to bypass the flesh and sink directly into the marrow.
"Submerge completely," Agatha ordered.
Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut and plunged her head under, the cold a crushing weight against her skull. She came up sputtering, her teeth chattering so violently she thought they might crack. The water burned. Every nerve ending was screaming, trapped in a state of suspended agony.
"Thirty seconds," Agatha announced, checking a stopwatch.
It was the longest thirty seconds of Stephanie’s life. When Agatha finally gave the command to get out, Stephanie could barely move. Her limbs were numb, her skin a mottled, bluish-white. She stumbled out, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Agatha was waiting with a towel. It wasn't soft. It was a thick, coarse-spun linen, and it had been warming on a heated rack. The contrast was a new form of torture.
"Dry," Agatha commanded, throwing the towel over Stephanie’s shoulders.
The friction of the rough, heated fabric against her ice-cold, hyper-sensitized skin was excruciating. It was like being scrubbed with hot sandpaper. Every pass of the towel sent a fresh wave of pins and needles, a painful, fiery thawing that was almost worse than the cold itself.
Agatha didn't help. She watched, her eyes cold and clinical, as Stephanie roughly dried herself, whimpering with every stroke.
"On the table," Agatha commanded, pointing to a padded massage table in the corner. "Stomach down."
Stephanie obeyed, her limbs still clumsy and numb. She lay on the vinyl, shivering, the coarse texture of the table cover a fresh torment against her skin.
Agatha approached, holding a bottle of dark green liquid. She uncapped it, and the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus filled the room. She poured a generous amount into her rough palms and began to rub Stephanie’s back.
Her touch was not gentle. It was a vigorous, almost violent massage. She kneaded the muscles with punishing force, her thumbs digging into the knots of tension in Stephanie’s shoulders and back. The eucalyptus oil was cool at first, then it began to generate its own heat, a penetrating warmth that sank deep into the muscle.
Then, she moved to the feet.
She grabbed Stephanie’s left foot, her grip like a vise. She poured the oil directly onto the sole, which was still stinging and blue from the cold.
"The friction will restore circulation," Agatha stated. She began to rub. Hard.
She used the heel of her palm, grinding it into Stephanie’s arch in a rapid, circular motion. The combination of the rough skin of Agatha's hand, the warming oil, and the raw, cold-sensitized state of Stephanie’s sole was a sensory paradox. The skin was still screaming with cold, yet Agatha's grinding hand was generating a fierce, abrasive heat, trapping the nerves between fire and ice.
"GHK-AAAA-HA-HA-HA!" Stephanie’s head snapped up, her laughter a strangled, panicked bark. Her leg kicked out, but Agatha’s grip was unbreakable.
"Still!" Agatha roared, slapping the back of Stephanie’s calf.
She worked the oil into every crevice, rubbing the webbing between the toes until it burned, polishing the heel until it glowed. By the time she was finished, Stephanie’s feet were no longer blue. They were a deep, angry red, radiating a visible heat and glowing with a slick sheen of eucalyptus oil. They looked raw, swollen, and impossibly sensitive.
"Primed," Agatha grunted with satisfaction. She threw a thin cotton chemise at Stephanie. "Dress. Your appointment is next."
---
Visiting Room 01 was a sterile, soundproofed cube. The walls were padded with thick, grey acoustic foam. The only furniture was a single, modified gurney bolted to the center of the floor and a leather armchair in the corner. The air was still and warm, heavy with the scent of old leather and the faint, sweet smell of a recently extinguished cigar.
Stephanie was marched into the room by Agatha. Her body was still a confused jumble of sensations—the deep, aching chill from the ice bath lingered in her bones, while her skin, especially her feet, radiated a fierce, artificial heat from the eucalyptus rub.
"On the table," Agatha commanded. "Now."
Stephanie climbed onto the gurney. The process was brutally familiar. The Matron worked with the speed of an undertaker, wrapping Stephanie’s body in layers of coarse linen, binding her limbs to her sides until she was an immobile, mummified pillar. Only her head, propped on a pillow, and her feet, protruding from the end, remained free.
Agatha retrieved a small, sealed plastic packet. She tore it open and pulled out a pair of sheer, black industrial nylons. They looked impossibly small.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven prefers a... snug fit," Agatha noted, her voice devoid of emotion. She began to roll the tight, suffocating fabric over Stephanie’s eucalyptus-slicked feet. The oil made the nylon slide on with a sickening, wet hiss, but it also made the fit incredibly tight, the mesh clinging to every contour like a second skin.
"Nnnhg..." Stephanie groaned as the high-compression fabric squeezed her toes together, the nylon already starting to trap the radiating heat from her flushed soles.
Agatha then took the leather cords from the gurney's frame. She looped them around each nylon-clad toe, pulling them back and outward with cruel precision, anchoring them to the metal cleats. The nylon stretched to its breaking point between the toes, creating a shimmering, dark web of tension. The skin of Stephanie's arches was pulled taut as a drumhead.
"The client will be here momentarily," Agatha stated, checking the restraints one last time. "You will be responsive. You will be cooperative. You will be... an asset."
She turned and left, the heavy, soundproofed door swinging shut with a soft, final thump of compressed air. Stephanie was alone, her heart hammering against her ribs. The heat was already building inside the nylons, turning the trapped eucalyptus oil into a warm, minty sweat.
A few minutes later, the door hissed open again.
Mr. Van Der Hoven stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing pale, hairy forearms. He carried a snifter of brandy in one hand. He didn't look at her face. His eyes, gleaming with a cold, proprietary light, went straight to her feet.
"Excellent," he murmured, his voice a low, appreciative hum. "The prep team has done a fine job. The skin is beautifully flushed beneath the membrane."
He set his brandy down on a small side table and walked to the foot of the gurney. He loomed over her, a predator assessing his prize.
"The objective today, Subject One," he said, his voice a dry whisper, "is perspiration. I have found the aroma profile is... suboptimal... without sufficient moisture to act as a catalyst."
He reached out. He didn't use a tool. He simply placed the pads of his ten fingers lightly on her nylon-clad soles—five on the left, five on the right. He let them rest there for a moment, feeling the heat.
Stephanie flinched, her entire body tensing in anticipation.
"Relax," he commanded softly. "We are merely warming the engine."
He began to move his fingers. It wasn't a tickle, not yet. It was a slow, exploratory drumming motion, his fingertips tapping a random, maddening rhythm all over the taut surface. He tapped the heel, then the ball, then the arch, never staying in one place long enough for her nerves to adjust.
"Nnn... ghk..." A small, choked sound escaped Stephanie’s throat. The light, unpredictable patter was almost worse than a direct assault.
"The heat is building nicely," Van Der Hoven observed. He drew his fingernails lightly down the center of each sole, the sharp points snagging on the nylon mesh. Zzzzt. Zzzzt.
"Eeeep!" Stephanie jolted, the static discharge a tiny, sharp shock.
He smiled. "There we go."
Now he began in earnest. He used only the tips of his nails, scribbling frantic, chaotic figure-eights over the balls of her feet. The nylon eliminated all slip, turning every tiny movement into a high-friction, static-charged scrape.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! NO! IT’S SCRATCHY! HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!" Stephanie’s head thrashed on the pillow, her laughter exploding out of her in ragged, panicked bursts.
He ignored her, moving down to her arches, digging the points of his nails in and vibrating his hands. The sensation was maddening—a deep, invasive buzzing that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. He was playing her nervous system like an instrument, and the sweat began to bloom. She could feel it, a slick, warm wetness pooling inside the suffocating nylon, turning the fabric dark and damp.
"Marvelous," Van Der Hoven breathed, ceasing his assault. He leaned in closer, his face just inches from her feet. The nylons were now visibly wet, clinging to her arches, the trapped sweat shimmering under the room’s single spotlight. "The bouquet is developing."
He reached out with a thumb and forefinger, pinching the stocking at the center of her arch. He pulled. The wet fabric made a sticky, peeling sound as it separated from her skin. He created a small tent of the material, then lowered his nose to the opening, inhaling deeply. "Exquisite," he moaned.
Then he did something else. He reached for the fly of his trousers. Stephanie’s eyes widened in horror. "No... wait... what are you doing?"
He didn’t answer. He unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding free deafening in the silent room. He worked his zip and freed his cock. It was thick, heavy, and already slick with pre-cum.
"This is not," he whispered, his voice thick with lust, "in the official manual."
He ripped the nylon. The sound was a wet, violent shriek of tearing fabric. He widened the hole, exposing her left sole—hot, red, and dripping with sweat. He positioned his cock at her heel, pressing the slick glans against her wet skin.
"Please... don't..." Stephanie wept, her body rigid with a new kind of terror.
He slid his cock up her sole, the friction wet and obscene. He ground himself against her arch, his hips beginning to pump in a rough, urgent rhythm. Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, a strangled sob caught in her throat. The sensation was alien and violating—the heat of his flesh, the slickness of their combined fluids, the rough scrape of his pubic hair against her heel.
"So... fucking... hot..." he groaned, his thrusts growing faster, sloppier. He came with a low, guttural grunt, his cum spewing over her arch and heel, hot and sticky.
He collapsed against her foot for a moment, panting, his post-orgasmic flush visible on his neck. Then he pulled himself away, zipping his trousers with a detached, business-like efficiency. He wiped his flaccid cock on the torn edge of the stocking before wiping her foot with a silk handkerchief from his pocket.
He looked at the clock on the wall. "Twenty-two minutes remaining," he announced, his voice steady again. "Let us not waste them."
He reached for her right foot, which was still fully encased in the pristine, sweat-soaked nylon. He placed his sharp nails on the sole and began to rake them, hard, from heel to toe.
The shock of the sudden, aggressive tickle, combined with the psychological horror of what had just happened, was the final trigger.
Stephanie’s mind, already frayed and overloaded, simply... snapped. Her scream died in her throat. Her vision tunneled into a pinpoint of blackness. Her consciousness imploded, plunging her into a silent, weightless void. She was gone.
---
Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a chemical fire. A violent, searing burn shot through Stephanie’s sinuses, up into her brain, and down her throat, making her gag and choke. Her eyes snapped open, blurry with tears, as she convulsed on a hard surface. The acrid stench of ammonia—smelling salts—was a physical presence in the room.
She was in a different place. Not the visiting room, not her cell. This was a smaller, brighter chamber, the walls lined with white, sterile tiles. She was on a simple metal gurney, no longer mummified but still weak, dressed only in the thin cotton chemise. Her feet were bare, throbbing with a deep, pulsating ache.
And she was not alone.
Headmistress Sterling stood by a steel instrument tray, her back to Stephanie. She was wearing her white lab coat, her posture rigid, her silver hair a perfect, unmoving helmet. The only sign of agitation was the way she was polishing a small, nickel-plated object with a chamois cloth, her movements sharp and aggressive.
"You are awake," Sterling stated, not turning around. Her voice was flat, colder than the ice bath. "It took two vials to bring you back. An inefficient use of resources."
Stephanie tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt like lead. Her head swam with the aftershocks of the blackout. "What... what happened? Van Der Hoven..."
"The client," Sterling corrected, her voice slicing through the air, "has concluded his session. He has also lodged a formal complaint. A very... costly complaint."
She finally turned. The professional mask was gone. In its place was a cold, contained fury that burned in her eyes. She looked at Stephanie not with the satisfaction of a disciplinarian, but with the utter contempt of an engineer staring at a beautifully designed machine that had just spectacularly failed.
"He paid for a forty-minute, fully-interactive experience," Sterling hissed, stepping toward the gurney. "He paid for the screams, the pleas, the visible, conscious struggle. What you provided him with was twenty-two minutes of unconscious, unresponsive dead weight. He was, to put it mildly, deeply dissatisfied."
The horror of the accusation settled in Stephanie’s stomach like a stone. She hadn't failed at resisting. She had failed at being a good victim.
"I... I couldn't help it," she whispered, tears welling. "I blacked out. It just happens."
"A defect," Sterling spat, her voice dripping with venom. "A flaw in the core programming. An asset that shuts down under peak operational stress is not an asset. It is a liability."
She walked back to the tray and picked up the object she had been polishing. It was a mechanical device, about the size of a cigar tube, crafted from gleaming nickel. At one end was a small winding key, like one from a vintage clock. At the other was a small, hard rubber nub, no bigger than the eraser on a pencil.
"This," Sterling said, holding it up, "is a neurological oscillator. A simple, clockwork mechanism designed to deliver high-frequency, low-amplitude vibrations directly to a targeted nerve cluster. It does not slash. It does not scrape. It simply... hums."
With a flick of her thumb, she wound the key. A soft, high-pitched whirring filled the silent room—a relentless, mechanical buzz, like an angry, trapped insect. Zzzzzzzzzzz.
"Your blackout reflex is a form of escape," Sterling explained, her eyes fixed on Stephanie’s throbbing feet. "Your mind runs from the sensation. We are going to teach it that there is nowhere to run. We are going to recalibrate you."
She gestured to the wall, where Matron Agatha stood silently by a small shelf. On it was a row of small, brown glass vials—the smelling salts. "You will be conditioned. We will apply the stimulus until you lose consciousness. Then, Matron Agatha will administer the salts to bring you back. Immediately. We will repeat this process. Again, and again, and again. Until the blackout reflex is erased. Until your mind learns that passing out is not an escape, but merely a brief, painful intermission before the stimulus returns."
Agatha stepped forward and grabbed Stephanie’s ankles, pinning her feet to the edge of the gurney.
"No... please... Headmistress, I'll be good for him next time! I'll try to stay awake! Please!"
Sterling ignored her pleas. She walked to the head of the gurney, her expression softening into a mask of saccharine concern. She reached out with a long, slender hand and gently, almost tenderly, pushed the damp, sweat-soaked strands of hair from Stephanie’s forehead, tucking them behind her ear. Her fingernail grazed Stephanie's temple with the coldness of polished stone.
"Don't worry, Stephanie," Sterling whispered, her voice a low, soothing murmur that was more terrifying than any shout.
She then walked to the foot of the gurney, the humming oscillator held in her hand like a surgeon's scalpel. She loomed over Stephanie's feet, her predatory smile never wavering. She lowered the vibrating rubber nub toward the raw, sensitive center of Stephanie’s arch.
"It won't be a problem anymore," she purred. "We're going to fix you."
Next Chapter
Attachments
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