I grimace, and my pussy contracts at the small word of approval. I huff through my nostrils; I wish it came from Dr. Ambrose.
The assistant removes the funnel then stares at me. His vacant gaze causes my skin to itch.
I shrink inside of myself. Whatever the shake is, part of it is drying on my cheek, creating a plaster-like layer. There’s also spit, tears, and sweat matted to my face from last night. I must look awful.
“The first week or so will be revolting and painful,” he says. “After your body becomes accustomed to it, it won’t be as bad.”
“Accustomed to what?” I ask. “Are you talking about my training here?”
The assistant exits the room.
“Hey!” I shout. I attempt to sit upright; my forehead knocks into the bars of the cage. My head rings, causing an ear-splitting headache. “Come back!”
No one answers my call.
A few minutes pass. I twist my head to see my surroundings; I’m fenced in by patchy white walls. When I finally get a good angled view out the window, all I can see is the gray, cloud-covered sky.
Fists against skin echo down the hallway. A guard yells. In the distance, there’s the faint bell of someone crying. My flesh pimples; I’m not the only one being tortured here.
The Ambrose Asylum is a living nightmare.
A sharp pain curls in my lower stomach. My gut convulses.
I’m going to shit myself.
The pressure intensifies in my intestines, my muscles throbbing. I bite my cheek. What in the world did the assistant feed me? They’ll have to let me out of this cage for the bathroom.
Won’t they?
“Hey,” I shout. “I need to go to the bathroom. Could someone tell a guard?”
A twist of pain cuts through me. I clamp my teeth, sweat forming on my brow. I clench my butt cheeks together; the pressure mounts, growing in my intestines. My asshole puckers, and my stomach gurgles.
“Please!” I scream.
I’m drenched in sweat. Did the assistant want me to shit myself?
“Guards!” I shout. “I need to use the bathroom!”
The throbbing pain pulps my insides. My asshole pulsates; I need relief. I thrust my hips forward, trying to keep it inside.
“I have to pee,” I yell. Everyone has bowel movements, but I can’t shout that. It’s too embarrassing. “Please!”
An older patient in a thin hospital gown appears in my periphery.
“They’re not coming,” she says.
“Please, help me,” I beg. I want to see her, but I don’t want to put any more pressure on my body, so I stay frozen in place. “Could you get someone for me?”
“They won’t help you. Not for anything.”
I bite my lip. My intestines churn, pushing the feces toward my rectum. I can’t let it go. Not here. Not now. Not when my ankles and wrists are bound inside of a cage, not when I can’t sit up straight. Not when I can’t even wipe myself.
If I shit right here, it’ll drip through the bars and leave a mess on the floor.
Why would Dr. Ambrose do this to me?
I want to scream, to kill the assistant for not even giving me the decency to shit in a toilet, and to punch Dr. Ambrose for telling his assistant to feed me that stupid shake. My nerves twist, and sweat drips off of my face. My guts cramp; pain wrenches inside of me.
