All the way to twelve.
Tomorrow would be worse. He'd promised that much. The real work, he'd said, like taking someone apart with forced pleasure was just the warm-up act.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about what that meant. Tried not to wonder what other consequences waited behind his clinical calm and storm-grey eyes.
But my body remembered. Every nerve, every muscle, every shameful response catalogued and filed away for future use.
The Mire Institute didn't just modify behavior.
It modified everything.
And I'd signed up for all of it.
Rewards & Bruises
The second morning came like a hangover—slow, inevitable, and infinitely worse than the night before.
"Good morning, little one. It's 7:00 AM. Time to start your second day."
I hadn't slept. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that darkness, counting through sobs while my body betrayed me over and over. The sheets still smelled like sex and shame, despite my attempts to air them out. The collar hadn't loosened even a fraction, a constant reminder that yesterday hadn't been a nightmare.
My thighs ached. Everything ached, inside and out, like I'd run a marathon through hell and lost.
"Compliance with morning routine affects privileges for the day. You have five minutes to get up."
I sat up slowly, every movement reminding me of muscles I'd tensed for too long, of sensations forced past the point of pleasure. My reflection in the vanity mirror looked like aghost—pale, hollow-eyed, hair a tangled mess. The collar sat stark against my throat, and beneath it, faint marks where I'd pulled against it in my sleep.
No point fighting the routine. I'd learned that much yesterday. Save the rebellion for things that mattered, not bathroom schedules.
The bathroom door unlocked at my approach. Same pink tile, same limited supplies, same feeling of being watched even behind the frosted shower glass. I moved mechanically—shower, brush teeth, avoid looking at myself more than necessary.
When I emerged, wrapped in the provided towel, new clothes waited. Another sundress, this one pale yellow. Still no underwear beyond basic cotton panties. The message was clear: modesty was a privilege I hadn't earned.
I dressed without comment, though my hands shook slightly. Every movement felt like surrender, but what was the alternative? Stand here naked until they sent him to dress me by force?
The thought of Dr. Mire's hands on me again made something twist in my stomach. Not quite fear. Not quite anything I wanted to name.
"Excellent compliance with morning routine. Breakfast will be provided upon appropriate request."
Right. This part.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, trying to summon the word they wanted. Such a simple thing—just saying please. I'd said it thousands of times in my life without thinking. But here, now, it felt like handing over pieces of myself.
"May I have breakfast?" My voice came out hoarse, throat still raw from yesterday.
"What's the magic word, little one?"
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. Thought about going hungry versus giving them this tiny victory.
My stomach made the decision for me.
"Please."
The word tasted like ash.
"Good girl. Breakfast incoming."
The panel slid open, revealing another perfectly balanced meal. Oatmeal with fresh berries, whole grain toast, orange juice, and those same white pills. This time, I didn't bother with sleight of hand. He was watching. He was always watching. And apparently, they really were just vitamins.
