Page 49 of Fractured Remains


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Tex slips his hand into mine once more, and slowly, one step at a time, guides me back to the place of all my worst traumas.

The sessions are increasing in frequency now. It feels like it’s happening all day, every day, though I’m sure that’s not really the case.

And they watch now.

I mean, I always knew they were watching but now I know they are. I feel it. The expectation. Their excitement.

There’s more of them too.

It’s always the same room I’m taken to. Bright. White. Clinical. Sterile. It only contains the bed with the stirrups, the machine, the mirror and the screen.

There’s no hiding.

And of course the mirror is a two-way window which they watch behind. It took a while – and a fair few beatings – before I could relax enough to perform knowing they were behind that thin sheet of glass, assessing me.

I’m so well trained they no longer have to send anyone in to ‘help’ me.

I enter the room and when the door locks behind me, I strip, climb on the bed, place my feet in the stirrups and spread my legs. I lie back and think of England.

That’s a lie. I lie back and obsess over the monster I’ve become. To begin with, I fought it. Then, when I accepted the inevitable, I tried to focus on my guys. It was them here with me, their heated gazes I could feel through the glass. But when things took a more…violent turn, I was too ashamed to associate them with the sick pleasure I was feeling.

Now I simply live for the release. And the praise that comes with it.

Good girl, indeed.

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