She woke sometime in the night, the soft slap of flesh on flesh whispering through the air. It was dark; she could not see who, or what, made the noise, heard only the pleasure, smelled the musk in the breeze, and a slight hint of antiseptic. Sighs and moans and kisses lulled her back to sleep. In the morning, when the white-coated doctor woke her, her first thought was to look around the room. The infirmary, she decided. No mussed bed sheets met her eyes; she was left to wonder. And smile wryly when she realized how disappointed she was not to know.
She'd never cared before, what people did together. But now, she was curious. And envious. They had enjoyed themselves, whoever they had been; she wanted to feel the same, and more, and now. Sharp burning between her thighs told her not to be impatient; still, she yearned. This, she thought, is what life is all about.
The doctor released her to what he called a light schedule, and sent her to breakfast and classes after telling her to take care. Just before she left, he smeared a cream on her vaginal mound; she jumped at the cold touch, but made no sound of protest. Somehow, it didn't seem worth the effort. The chill faded quickly, and he waved her on her way. Dressing, she realized it had taken all her pain.
She whistled as she made her way to the dining hall, hunger spurring her steps till she got to the door. Sudden memory made her freeze. I can't go in there! Blood rushed to her cheeks as she remembered what everyone had seen. “Oh, no,” she moaned.
"Carolyn!” Jack shouted from a table, waving. Mortified, Carolyn shuffled to her chair. She choked down a few bites to the jests and jeers of the students, her tears flavoring her meal though she tried her best not to hear.
"Oh, hush,” a redheaded woman spoke from a nearby table. “We've all been through it. Don't worry, sugar; you adjust. Are you in much pain?” Carolyn shook her head, not daring to look up. “Well, then, just you get on with your studies. There's a great deal to learn!” The talk turned to classes, and homework, and teachers and tutors. Carolyn listened, desperate to know everything she could about this place. Who is he? Where can I find him? What will he expect?
The bell rang for class.
* * * *
She'd never liked history in high school, but they hadn't taught it anything like this. Variously crafted phalluses were positioned around the room. The instructor held a box before the class. “Cleopatra's vibrator. Instead of electricity, she had buzzing bees.” The lesson included information about society, dress and custom and belief, money and politics. It was all fascinating, and all tied into sex. Carolyn was eager for the study period, and the chance to read her textbook. She'd never seen ancient Egyptian pornography!
The next class was in the language hall; she was told she'd be learning French. Her heart sank; she'd done poorly in that, too. But perhaps it would be like history had been, so different from her experience as to be almost alien. She stood in the doorway as class started, hoping against hope.
A beautiful sculpted woman lounged in a chaise at the front of the room. Love words rolled off her tongue like honey, heavy and golden. Carolyn's nipples tightened purely in reflex, the voice so intimate it seemed to caress her ears. A man in his twenties raised his hand, and the woman gestured. He stood, uniform shorts tented out over an impressive erection, and spoke a few words, in French, presumably. Carolyn had never learned to understand more than a handful of words. Whatever he said, it seemed to amuse the woman, who laughed and purred something that made him come where he stood. The class didn't seem surprised, but rather sympathetic. Carolyn got the idea this teacher didn't enforce the second rule.
She stepped inside. The numbness was beginning to fade from her core, and soreness intruded, but she made her way to an empty desk and gingerly sat down. The woman said something, and the man at the desk beside her replied and bent his head to Carolyn's ear. “We'll meet after supper, and I'll help you get caught up. For now, just listen.” He turned his face forward, expression rapt, as the woman declaimed.
Though she could not understand a word, Carolyn, too, listened. That voice! With the return of soreness came a throbbing she was beginning to get used to. It all melted together, until she felt like she was living in a dream.
If I'm dreaming, don't wake me up. Even with the pain and the humiliation, she had never felt as alive as she did then. Her skin tingled with expectation as she waited for what came next, hoping it would be a chance to see the man of her dreams.
Lunch. She ate hungrily.
* * * *
Discipline was a daily class; she had to face Bertha again. The old woman merely smiled inscrutably. Carolyn dutifully took notes, attending her pen that she need not look at the teacher; the topic was restraint, physical as opposed to mental. “You'll learn of that another day.” Bertha spoke of what they might expect when first they were restrained, the panic, the feeling of claustrophobia. “When your eyes are covered, you feel enclosed, even out in the open. This is natural, but you will need to keep yourself calm."
"Why?” A young woman spoke from the front of the room. Her uniform was like Carolyn's, bare of patches. Another new girl? “Why shouldn't we panic, if someone covers our eyes?"
"If you wish to displease your masters, then panic away. But you are here to learn how to please them, no?"
Carolyn frowned. To please masters? Is that why I'm here? I don't think so, but … it could be. Part of it. I guess. Bertha continued, looking around the room. “Anyone can be frightened; there is no skill in that. It takes a certain person to delight in his own fear. To make of it a gift to his master, a spur to heighten pleasure. To obey, when instinct screams at you to fight, to protest. Not to ignore your fear, but to choose to listen to your master anyway. That is why you are told something of what to expect, to help you when your fear is loudest in your ears. You must listen not to it, but to your master. Do you understand?"
Her eyes locked on Carolyn's. “Do you understand?"
Carolyn gulped, and the hated flush rose again to her cheeks. “I-I'll try,” she whispered, and the harridan at last moved on. Squirming, wincing as rough lace scraped across tender flesh, she stifled a groan. Damn, that woman scares me! I wonder why. It wasn't the threat of the Enforcer, but something more. She seemed to give off a sense of immovable certainty, like a Sunday-school teacher or the warden at a prison might. “I know what's right, and you have no say in the matter.” There was no telling what she might do, if she thought it would be for the best.
God, I'm wet! How long ‘til I get some relief? The bell rang at last.
* * * *
Carolyn did not attend her last class for the day; with the young woman who had spoken, she was pulled aside. “You're wanted in the library. Come along.” They followed biddably, Carolyn trying not to wince as each step increased her pain. The analgesic had well and truly worn off.
She was still eager to come, even knowing how much it would hurt her already overused flesh. Swaying her hips, she made her way down a hall either too long by far or not nearly long enough, each step a new burst of pleasure-pain.
Six people sat in the room; Carolyn saw only one. The man from her dreams, dark mustache, white slash of smile. Her hand rose to her chest, to keep her heart from leaping forward. She took two steps toward him, but an attendant barred her way.
"Kneel."
She went to her knees, taking the position Jack had taught her. Beside her, the other woman was prodded into place. “Jennifer, tell us why you are here."
The woman sobbed, a loud, sloppy, liquid sound. “I don't kn-ow…” she whined. “I thought … but then…” She stammered for a while, but didn't manage a single coherent phrase.
"Carolyn."
She licked her lips.
"Tell us why you are here."
"I am here to learn.” She had been told to keep her eyes down, but could not resist a glance. He was there, real, within reach, had she but dared touch him. “To feel.” It wasn't enough. The set of his shoulders told her he waited for something. Her mind raced. What could she say, what did he want to hear? Discipline. “My place is to obey.” The words welled up from somewhere near her heart.
And they worked. He didn't smile, but she thought he came close to it. His shoulders relaxed, his chin dropped in kin to a nod. He was pleased, and knowing that made her insides melt. I pleased him. She felt she was glowing, head to toe.
"There is one here who wants you. Go to that person.” She rocked back on her heels and went to him. Kneeling as she had been taught, she dared to meet his eyes for one brief moment, then looked down, keeping her face tilted up at him.
"Carolyn.” That was all, he merely spoke her name. But her body tightened all at once, and then relaxed. Not quite a climax, but a strong burst of pleasure. Her breath rushed out, and she shuddered.
"Jennifer."
Someone else had spoken, Carolyn did not know who, nor care. She knelt, torn between yearning and satisfaction, wanting to look at him, but happy just to be there. The others dealt with Jennifer; Carolyn paid no attention, the sounds just background as she basked in his presence so close to her.
The attendant spoke again. “Carolyn, rise and follow.” She whimpered, though she tried not to, as she obeyed. Down a corridor to a hall lined with doors, but no windows. “This is your tutor's office. Be here tomorrow. That is all."
She found her way back to the dining hall, hands shaking with her need.
* * * *
The man from her French class, Tom, sat with her at dinner, telling her how things worked. “Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, you knock on his door. Do what he tells you, whatever he tells you, and you'll be fine. Disobey, and you could find yourself out of here. Tutorials take precedent over everything else; your tutor can take you out of classes, forbid you to sleep … anything he says goes, for as long as he wants you. But you still have to keep up with your class work. Have you memorized the rules?"
Carolyn had, so Tom started quizzing her on her French. Finding she had none, he shrugged. “You'll need a tutor."
"But, I thought I had one. Tomorrow morning, I knock on his door?"
"No, I mean you'll need to find someone to teach you to speak French. Your tutor has nothing to do with classes; that's something else. You'll need to make a bargain with somebody."
"A bargain?” Carolyn shook her head, completely lost. “Help?"
Tom put his hand on Carolyn's thigh. His smile reminded her of a jackal, though she'd never seen one. Without thinking, she pulled away from him, frowning. His sneer was menacing. “You don't have anything to offer, little girl."
Jack's voice came from behind. “Nor anything worth taking, right, Tom?"
Tom craned his neck around, took a good look, and spread his hands, displaying emptiness.
"You were just leaving, right? I'll take that seat.” When he was out of earshot, Jack directed her frown down at Carolyn. “Stay away from him; he'll just get you into trouble. Found a tutor yet?"
Smile bright as sunlight, Carolyn began to talk about her day.
The evening passed too quickly, in conversation and in study; Carolyn lost herself in reading about history. But when she lay her head on her pillow, her thoughts were not of Egypt-she looked forward, not to the past. Her dreams were all about her tutor, and what he might teach. Whatever it was, she was eager to learn. Proctors patrolled the dormitories, ensuring compliance to the rules. That night, several had to move Carolyn's hands above the covers.
Morning came, and she moved through the routine like a sleepwalker. Fear became arousal, which changed to terror, then desire, an unending loop. What would he want of her? Her heart pounded. What if she wasn't good enough? She couldn't even meet a small town's expectations; how could she expect to satisfy this man? She didn't even know what he would want!
She knew what she wanted: him. And the sensations she had been promised. Sensations beyond belief, a promise already being kept. She wanted more. Even the blushes, the shame?
Yes. It was all better than drifting and emptiness, even the worst of it. You don't know that. You just got here. It could get worse.
"So what?” She spoke aloud, felt her cheeks heat, forced a laugh, and knocked on his door.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TUTOR
An attendant opened the door, waving her inside with a gloved hand. She heard the door close behind her, did not turn to look. She could not. Her eyes were glued on him.
Even half-hidden behind a desk, he seemed strong and commanding. Her legs were shaky. God, I need … His eyes were intense; she felt the heat as he looked at her, from her no-doubt scarlet face to her feet in their bright-polished shoes and back again.
She knew what he saw. Aside from the outfit, the same thing she had long since ceased to see when she looked in the mirror. A woman; longish hair, slimmish form-except for the jutting ass, two half-globes nothing ever hid-nothing missing, nothing malformed.
Fidgeting.
He bade her sit, in a chair placed to face his desk. She crossed her legs automatically; he raised an eyebrow. Some took longer than others to forgo the habits of the outside world. Following his gaze, she flushed slightly as she realized her error.
Rule six: The legs are to remain open at all times, seated or standing. This signifies accessibility and obedience.
Taking a deep breath-his gaze mimicked the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her thin cotton blouse-she spread her legs, sitting deep into her chair as though to protect herself.
"Tell me, how do you masturbate?” His voice was calm, casual.
It took a moment for the sense of the words to penetrate. “What?” Unconscious of the movement, she slid a hand along her thigh, pulling her skirt taut.
"I said ‘tell,’ not ‘show.'” His voice was still calm, almost amused. She followed his glance again. Flushed. Inhaled.
"I-I don't…” She could find no words. He seemed disinclined to prompt her further, and she had learned that hesitation was inadvisable here in this place. Gulping down her discomfort, she tried again. “I don't often masturbate. In the bath, sometimes. You have to be clean, you know.” She almost thought he smiled, then. “I use a sponge, or my fingers.” She stopped, out of words, hoping that she had satisfied him.
The slightest of smiles curved his lips. “Did you ever put anything else in your vagina?” Calm, remote, even clinical, he could have been a doctor. “Or elsewhere?"
"No, I…” she trailed off again. “There was my husband, of course, but nothing else.” The rest of his question caught up with her. “Elsewhere?"
"In your anus, perhaps?"
"No!” She nearly rose out of her chair, visceral outrage and disgust overriding caution. Catching herself, she resumed her position, grasping the arms of the chair firmly. “No,” she continued, striving for calm. “I've never put anything … there."
"I'd like you to do so now. Place a finger in your mouth, suck it, wet it, then slide forward in your chair and insert the finger as far as possible.” His voice was still level, unemotional; he might have been discussing the weather.
She felt threatened. Trapped, endangered. The hair on her arms stood up; her body was tense. What he asked, the way he talked about it, or maybe that it was him, the man so uncannily like her dream hero, something about it scared her witless.
She couldn't breathe. Wanted to run; knew there was nowhere to run to. Wanted to fight; knew that she would lose. Wanted to die, if that was the only way to escape this. Only, some part of her knew that she didn't really want that at all. She had come here when all seemed hopeless, but it had been her choice. And she had chosen largely because of a moment much like this. Not so intense, but what was the difference, really? She wasn't a lesbian, had never thought of women as attractive, but that hadn't seemed to matter much. Had never thought of pain as sexy, but that hadn't stopped her, either. Why was this, what he wanted, any different?
She was repulsed, disgusted, ashamed, afraid. And curious; somewhere deep in her heart, she wanted to learn. Your place is to obey. Didn't you promise to do that? And besides, it's not like it's all that big a deal. Babies get their temperatures taken that way, and sometimes even adults take medicine … there.
Shaking, tears flowing down her face like rain, she lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked on a finger. He watched, and she felt his attention like a weight. Her movements were slow; reluctance, partly, but more than that. It was almost as though the air had thickened, or gravity grown stronger; hard to move, hard to breathe. Her mouth caressed her finger, cheeks concave with effort, then she looked at her shiny-wet digit, blinked, and let her hand fall.
Eyes half closed, she pushed aside the lacy confection that ornamented more than it concealed. She set her finger against the wrinkled indentation she could feel, though not see, and pressed gently, then firmly, gasping as her asshole surrendered suddenly, allowing her finger in to the first knuckle. Her nail scraped muscle as it passed. It felt unnatural, the sphincter's grip greedy around the unwanted intrusion.
"Farther,” he rasped.
Screwing her face up, she obeyed. Grunts accompanied her finger's slow advance until the second knuckle was caressed in its turn. She panted, mouth dry, skin slick with sweat.
"More."
Squealing with pain as cramped muscles protested, she forced her hand forward, until, finally, her sphincter clenched against her palm. Her hand held her cheeks apart, for there was no other place it could rest.
"Hold still."
She struggled to obey, as her wrist cramped from the bending, her legs began to shake with strain, her throat to burn from holding curses and screams and pleas within. Her crotch was wet, her clit throbbed. That might have been the worst pain of all.
"Bring your other hand forward,” he said. No least hint of disobedience crossed her mind, she wanted simply to get through the ordeal. “Finger yourself."
"What?"
"You heard me."
She wasn't sure she had, but decided to take a chance. Sliding two fingers beneath her panties, she stroked her clit. When he didn't bark at her, she continued, fingers slick with the moisture of her secret shame. She was always wet, here, no matter what they did to her. Always ready. Always. But never more than now.
"Stop."
Damn! She had been close.
"Show me your fingers."
Relieved, she began to withdraw both hands.
"No. Just the one hand."
She didn't need to ask which one. Choking back a sob, more of frustration than pain, she displayed the hand still sticky with her juices.
"So you enjoy this.” It wasn't a question, more a purr. “Remove the finger."
She hurried to obey, only to discover that a quick withdrawal would be too painful to endure. Carefully, she inched her way out, trying without success to find a position which would not scrape and burn. Finally, as her finger popped free of her sphincter's perverse embrace, she sighed.
"Stand before me."
She struggled from her chair and waddled to him, feeling herself unnaturally opened, stretched, then took the position she had been taught. Legs apart, always. You must always be accessible. Hands behind your head, elbows out, unless your hands are bound behind you. Face forward, they like to see what you are feeling. Her breasts strained against her blouse, nipples drawn hard and tight; her underwear was still bunched up, out of place. She was sopping wet, moisture dripping down her thighs, and could smell her own arousal. She felt a slattern, sloppy, unkempt, ashamed.
He took something from his desk; she didn't see what. Expressionless, he swiped it along her slit-she jumped, though she knew it was forbidden-and placed it in a drawer. “I'll call for you tomorrow. You are dismissed."
She turned to leave, feeling her thighs slide against each other, feeling the swelling between them.
"You are not to masturbate today, nor to allow anyone else to touch you. No matter the lesson."
She was shaking as she left the room. He's a pervert. My God! How could you do this to me? Her asshole felt distended, open, gaping wide. She thought about putting her finger back, and stumbled in shock. She wanted to!
He's not the only pervert. It would be a very long day, and a longer night.
* * * *
It was the most unbelievable sensation. Moist caresses at the very center of her being, a firm yet gentle probing, an angel or a butterfly sipping nectar. Dreaming, she stretched, luxuriating in sensation. Encountering an obstruction between her legs brought her fully awake. Discovering a person in bed with her, she screamed.
Lights came on in the dormitory. Carolyn's uninvited guest cowered beneath the covers; she tore them away, furious.
A proctor stood above the bed, glowering. “Explain."
"I woke up. She was here.” Later, she would think about how it had felt to be loved by the mouth of another woman. Right now, all she wanted was to be sure this would never happen again. It had been such a lovely dream…
"You, report to the front desk.” The proctor frowned in the intruder's direction. “You, Carolyn, isn't it?” She didn't wait for a response. “You've an appointment. Confess your transgression to your tutor.” She turned away. Though the dormitory was full, not a single head was canted in the direction of the disturbance. If others were wakeful, they concealed it well. Carolyn was forced to dress mostly by touch, as the senior reached the light switch before she was halfway clothed. She did not dare protest.
Reaching the office door, she paused, breathing deeply. She had stopped by a bathroom, brushed her teeth, washed her face, straightened her clothing, then hurried, hoping she had broken no rule. A recent arrival, she was unsure what was permitted, but surely cleanliness was desirable? She knocked.
"Enter."
The voice sent shivers through her. She had seen him the day of her arrival, and been struck by his strength, his presence. Yesterday, he had commanded her, and though she had hated every moment of it, still, she had been aroused as never before. It was a feeling she was getting used to, but none sparked it in her as strongly as he. Even his voice drew her body tight. She entered.
"You are early.” While it didn't sound like a question, she thought it best to answer.
"There was … a disturbance. A student entered my bed, and woke me.” Please, don't ask for details.
"Describe what happened."
Damn! “I was asleep, dreaming. I must have moved, because I bumped into her. It woke me. I screamed, and the proctor came. She sent the other to the front, and me to you.” Carolyn breathed deeply. She knew she had to tell everything, though it shamed her. What else is new? “She had her head between my legs, was using her mouth on me. The proctor told me to ‘confess my transgression’ to you, though it wasn't me transgressing. I was asleep."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"I … yes, I guess. It was a pleasant dream, at least.” She heard what he was saying. She had been told when she arrived here. Your place is to obey. You are to be accessible, subservient, accepting. Pleasure and pain will come to you; the choice is no longer yours. She had sworn the oath. Enjoying without permission was now a transgression. She bowed her head.
"Follow.” Rising from his desk, he opened a door she had not noticed, and led the way down a dimly-lit hall. Another door led to a room decorated in early medieval. A torture chamber, she supposed. There was a large block of stone at the center, toward which he directed her after commanding her to strip.
He clapped his hands, and an attendant appeared. Like all of them, this one was robed, masked, gloved, she could not even tell gender or race. Anonymous. No words were spoken; the attendant tapped her firmly behind the knee, and she knelt. He pulled her wrists forward until she was bent over the stone, breasts crushed beneath her, then fastened cuffs to pull her taut. Moving behind her, he bound her ankles in some way, forcing her to splay herself most uncomfortably, her pelvis pushed against the stone, thighs turned slightly inward. She was trapped.
"I know you are new-come here, so I shall explain this, once. For any correction in which you are not gagged, you count the strokes aloud. Should you lose count, begin again at one. Following the correction, you give thanks, confess, and apologize. Do you comprehend?"
"I-I think so. Count, thanks, confess, apologize. Is that correct?” He did not reply, unless the sound of his footsteps leading away meant something. Tense, afraid, in pain and discomfort which would soon become pain, she waited.
Slap! Sharp, but not unbearable, the first stroke hit her left butt cheek. “One!” she cried, startled. Count each stroke aloud. Two through ten alternated, left, then right, smarting, stinging, but not really hurting. Carolyn began to believe she could get through this.
"Eleven!” The count was forced from her as the blow pushed her into the stone she was pressed against. The same instrument, but now wielded with a punishing strength. By twenty-five, she was hoarse from screaming, sure she was bleeding, her ass raw. “Twenty-six,” she rasped.
He paused. Drawing the edge of the paddle between her legs, he observed a quantity of fluid. “You enjoy even this,” he murmured, almost too softly for her to hear over her own sobbing. Chuckling as a flush spread down her back, he continued, putting more force into each successive stroke.
"Forty-nine,” she whimpered. Limp within her bonds, totally defeated, she waited. Pleasure and pain will come to you. She could not remember pleasure, only this. It seemed it had gone on forever, would continue until the end of time. She knew only pain.
"Fifty!” The stroke hit the bottom center of her ass, where none of the others had. Up and in it pushed, her flesh quivering, pelvis thrust against the stone, grinding, breasts tearing across the sandpaper surface. Her ribs, thighs, knees, shoulders all voiced protest, but she could not distinguish. It was all, simply, pain.
He clapped again. The attendant came, released her bonds, stood back. Dazed, she lay there a moment. Thanks. Failure to obey would mean punishment. She could not take any more. She pushed herself up from the stone, and, lacking the strength to stand, crawled to him. On her knees, hands behind her head, clasped tightly so she would not let them fall, she croaked her thanks: “Thank you, sir, for the attention you have shown me. For taking the time and effort to correct me with your own hand.” What next? Confess, apologize. “I deeply regret my transgression. Pleasure comes from your hand, as does pain, and I was not given leave to enjoy. I apologize for my error, in enjoying without your command.” Whew! Where did those words come from? Was it enough? Does he want more?
"Rise."
She struggled to her feet, hands still behind her head.
"Present."
She did not understand, just stood there, feet apart, waiting.
He sighed. “After a correction, you display the part of your body attended to.” He chuckled softly, smiled. “Show me your ass."
She turned her back to him and bent over. Prayed she wouldn't fall. His hand clutched a cheek, fingers digging in, making her whine high in her throat. A finger dipped below, scooped some of the plentiful moisture gathered in her core, stroked backward.
"Please, no,” she whispered.
He paid no heed, not even to admonish her for speaking out of turn. Firmly, he pressed in, his finger so much larger than her own. First knuckle, second, third, all in a single push.
She couldn't breathe. Impaled on his digit, she gasped, hating the clench of her sphincter around him, body weak from strain and punishment, and seconds away from orgasm. Her thighs were wet, heart racing. Each heartbeat tightened her around him. She began to cry.
He pulled his finger from her, turned away. Snapping, he brought the attendant closer, and gave instructions. “Bathe her, shave her cunt, then call me.” The attendant nodded, reached out, and grabbed her nipple in a gloved hand. Gasping, she straightened with the tug, and was led from the room. Her only thought was panicked. He didn't give me permission to leave! But the pain was too great to resist.
It was a large chamber, unlike anything she had ever seen. There were shower heads mounted at odd levels, a hot tub large enough for a football team with seating at several heights, bidets, toilets, oddly-canted tables and things she could not begin to classify. She was led painfully to something much like a kiddy-pool, with manacles hanging above. Exhausted from her recent ordeal, she found it difficult to raise her arms long enough to be fastened, but a sharp twist and tug on her abused nipple lent her strength. Her attendant was joined by another, also robed and masked and gloved, and the two cleaned her as thoroughly and impersonally as possible. She gasped as water was forced into her vagina, but it did not linger long enough to bring her much pleasure. She sighed as her breasts were laved, soothing the burn left by the stone to which she'd so recently been bound, but her nipples were in no way stroked. She'd been thoroughly depilated on her arrival, all except a triangle of glossy hair, which the attendants now removed with a straight razor. It was waved before her eyes to encourage her to be still; she was. When they had finished, they left her there, naked as a child, alone, wrists fastened above her. Afraid. Aching. Ashamed. And aroused.
It wasn't really cold in the room, merely a bit cool to be standing around unclothed. Carolyn shivered, making the chains above her rattle. The sound echoed in the tiled room. She shifted her weight slightly, trying to relieve the strain, and that sound, too, bounced off the walls. Each sigh seemed louder than the last.
There's nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. No one here to punish you, to inflict pain. Enjoy the break! It failed to convince. She was chained, helpless. Anyone could come in, do whatever they pleased to her. Just like the rest of this place. Physical chains are nothing. Accept what is, and endure.
Shifting her weight again, she closed her legs, opening them the instant she realized what she had done. “The legs are to remain open at all times, seated or standing or lying down. This signifies accessibility and obedience.” She whispered the words aloud, one of many commands she had been required to memorize. Thinking through them all, murmuring softly, so as not to cause more echoes, she was not immediately aware that she was no longer alone.
He stood before her, studying the scene; she followed his glance as best she could. Clean, newly shaven, faint marks of stone burn on her stomach and thighs, deeper on her breasts. Her knees were faintly bruised. Behind, her ass bright red and bruise-dark, two blotches nearly black with blood. She winced at what she could see-the pain seemed suddenly worse, as though the sight made it somehow more real-and wondered if she'd ever be able to sit down again.
Moving to the wall, he turned a dial. The chains descended from the ceiling; her arms dropped before her. Detaching the bracelets from the chain, he pulled her by the cuffs to a metal table. Patted it, as he would a chair, inviting a pet to jump up.
Wearily, she clambered to the top. He fastened the cuffs to the head of the table. When she tried to lie flat, he smacked her ass. She squeaked her pain, but remained still, awkwardly kneeling forward. He bent her elbows, allowing her to take some of her weight on her forearms. Her knees he fastened to the sides of the table, just enough wider than her hips to be uncomfortable, but not enough to be truly painful. She hung her head, almost too tired to be afraid.
"I owe you a correction,” he said, as if continuing a conversation, “but it will have to wait. You are to be cleansed now; after, I will have instructions for you. I know this will be difficult for you, but it will go easier if you relax.” There were sounds, as of wheels on a floor, soft squirts, a susurration. A cold pressure at her anus.
"No!” She gasped, a rejection, a plea. Her head turned back to him. “Please, no more. I can't.” Crying again.
He smiled. “That's two.” A pinch to her beaten ass made her breath catch, and she subsided. “You can do anything I tell you to. Your place is to obey."
Distantly, she wondered how much time had passed, how much longer she had to stay in this place, how many months she had been in chains. Though she could not remember sleep or food since waking in the dormitory, it seemed weeks had passed since then. How long was I on the rock? she wondered. How long in this room?
A probing at her sphincter, cold, slick. Thinner than her finger, it slipped in, she objecting to the intrusion but making no outcry. Then warmth inside her. Oddly pleasant at first; she had been chilled. Pressure came, high in her gut, making her moan. She did not understand what was happening. A greater pressure, and a gurgling noise from inside her. “Ow,” she whispered, knowing it was not permitted, wishing instead to scream. “Mm.” She felt like a balloon, stretching around something. Craning her head around, she could see a pole, and a tube. Looking down, she tried to see between her legs, but her stomach, large as a pregnant woman's, blocked her sight. An enema!
She was aghast, horrified, but not surprised. She had heard they were not supposed to hurt, but had never believed that, anyway. This hurt. She felt she would explode, but knew he would not allow that. The point was pain, or humiliation, or maybe simply cleanliness. Death was no part of the bargain she had made.
The pressure seemed to level off, then returned with greater force. She whined, pushing back against the hose, but could not force it out. Panting, she felt waves moving inside her, heard sloshing, and then the pain lessened.
"The nozzle's a special design,” he said calmly. “Hurts a bit coming out, but you can take it. This way, you can do the cleansing and the retention all at once. I'll be back in twenty.” He patted her on a bruised cheek, and left the room. The tears flowed in waves like the pain.
He returned, eventually, and did something which tilted the table. Frantic, she grasped the edge with her cuffed hands. She felt like she was going to fall off, her knees spread wide, no way to grasp with her feet, her center of gravity pulling her back toward nothing but air. Holding herself up as best she could, she barely heard his words. “I'm going to pull the plug now, and you're going to release the fluid. I want you to push it all out, you hear?” He didn't wait for a response, just yanked the nozzle from her body.
She shrieked at the new pain, and a rush of foul-smelling liquid rushed from her body. Straining, she pushed, spewing more and more. How much had she held? She could still feel some. And the stench! He reached around her and massaged her left side. More fluid escaped. Finally, when nothing more would come, he hosed her off with soapy water, and leveled the table again.
"Round two,” he said quietly as he reinserted the nozzle. She lost her temper all at once-all her pain and fear and disgust and frustration boiling up from somewhere before she had any idea what she really felt-and began to scream curses at him. “And that's three.” He started the flow of solution, asked one question, and left the room. It was a long time before the fluid stopped flowing into her, and even longer before she stopped crying. His words echoed in her mind, unforgettable, undeniable. “Your cunt is dripping, did you know?"PAGEBREAK