Chapter 2: Approach
I didn’t sleep. The dark of my apartment felt different, heavier, like the shadows were practicing their weight. I kept replaying it. The chill of the stone. Mark’s foot on the scale, the numbers clicking up. Two hundred and eight pounds. My mind kept trying to translate that into a feeling, and all it conjured was a crushing, breathless panic. A car alarm would go off outside and my whole body would flinch, as if I’d been caught flinching from a step that hadn’t happened yet.
I hate feet. I always have. It’s not a phobia, it’s a deep, visceral revulsion. The knuckles of the toes, the arch, the heel—they seem so utilitarian, so grounded in dirt and effort. The idea of one pressing into the soft space below my ribs, of bearing all that concentrated mass… it makes my stomach turn. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Can said it. This isn’t about my pleasure. It’s about my service. It’s about taking the thing I recoil from and offering it up as proof. Proof of my devotion. Proof of their skill. My dislike is the canvas they want to paint on.
I’m afraid of the pain, sure. Who wouldn’t be? But I’m more afraid of failing them. Of gasping out a safe word too early, of proving Mark right that I’m not strong enough, or proving Can wrong for believing I was. I’m a token in their game. If I break, the game ends. And I don’t want it to end. That’s the sick, beautiful truth that kept me staring at the ceiling until dawn. I want to be their battleground.
The dungeon lights were brighter the next afternoon, harsh fluorescent bars recessed into the ceiling alongside the dying braziers. It made the space feel more like a laboratory, clinical and severe. I wore just a simple grey sports bra and matching shorts, my skin already prickling with goosebumps.
Can was stretching his calves against the wall, his black hair still damp from a shower. Mark was checking the fittings on a set of thick, rubber-coated weight plates stacked neat as giant coins beside the platform. The scale was gone. In its place was a low, padded bench.
“You look pale,” Can noted, not unkindly.
“I didn’t eat, Sir,” I said, my voice small.
“Good girl.” Mark straightened up. “On the platform. On your back.”
The platform was about knee-high, covered in the same unforgiving padded vinyl as a gym mat. I lay down. The material was cool. They’d positioned me so my head was slightly off the edge, forcing me to look either straight up or at the mirrored ceiling panels angled above. I chose straight up, focusing on a tiny flaw in the plaster.
“Wrists and ankles,” Mark said.
Can cuffed me again, the leather familiar now. Not tight, just present. A reminder of my position.
“We’re not stepping on you yet,” Can said, his face appearing in my field of vision. He was smiling, but it was a strategist’s smile. “That comes later. Today is about acclimation. Your mind needs to understand what your body is going to experience. We’re going to add weight. Slowly. You’re going to breathe through it. You’re going to tell us what you feel.”
Mark walked over with the first plate. It was a sleek, black 20-kilo disc. He held it casually by the rim, muscles in his forearm cording. “This is forty-four pounds,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Less than a quarter of my full weight. It’s about distribution. This will spread the pressure. A foot won’t.”
He didn’t ask if I was ready. He lowered it, carefully, until the cold, slightly textured rubber rested on my lower abdomen, just below my navel. The air left me in a soft oof. It was heavy, a dense, insistent presence. Not painful. Just… there. A great, inert thing claiming space on my body.
“Breathe into it,” Can instructed, kneeling by my head. “Don’t fight it by tightening up. Let your diaphragm push against it. Feel it.”
I tried. Inhale. The plate rose a millimeter. Exhale. It settled. The weight was a blunt fact. It was manageable, but the implication wasn’t. This was just the start.
“What do you feel?” Mark asked. He wasn’t looking at my face; he was studying the line of my torso, the slight compression.
“It’s heavy,” I managed. “Cold. It’s… stable.”
“Good. Accurate.” He walked back to the stack.
Can kept his voice low, conversational. “This is how we build tolerance, pet. Your body is capable of incredible things. Your mind is the governor. We’re just… adjusting the settings.”
Mark returned with a second identical plate. The clink of the metal inner ring against the first was shockingly loud. This one he placed higher, its lower edge overlapping the first, the bulk of it now covering my solar plexus and the lower swell of my ribs. The pressure changed instantly. It was no longer just weight on my belly; it was weight on my breathing apparatus. My inhales became shallower, more deliberate.
“Eighty-eight pounds,” Mark announced. “Focus.”
A fine tremble started in my thighs. The combined mass was significant, a pressing blanket that pinned me to the mat. I could handle it, but the thought of this being a fraction, a mere baseline, sent a lick of pure fear through my veins.
“Her color is good,” Can observed, his fingers checking the pulse at my throat. His touch was clinical. “Respiratory rate is elevated but steady.”
“She’s an athlete. I told you.” Mark’s tone held a note of satisfaction, like a theory being proven. “The structure is sound. It’s the psychology that’s fragile.”
“We’re not to the fragile part yet,” Can said. He looked down at me. “You’re doing very well, Elise. This is just metal. It has no will, no intent. It’s simple physics. Later, it will be us. Our will. Our intent. That’s what you need to prepare for.”
He nodded to Mark. “The third.”
The third plate was the same, but the ritual of it felt monumental. Mark positioned it with deliberate care, its top edge settling just below the line of my sports bra, the bulk of it now a crushing stack from my pubic bone to the base of my sternum. One hundred and thirty-two pounds. The air felt thick, hard to pull in. A bead of sweat traced a path from my temple into my hairline. The pressure was immense, a constant, squeezing presence that made my back ache against the hard mat.
“Now,” Mark said, placing a hand flat on the top plate, not adding pressure, just connecting. “This is the easy part. This is predictable. A foot isn’t. A foot shifts. It balances. It seeks out the points of greatest vulnerability. It can grind.” He leaned down, his face close to mine. His eyes were calm, analytical. “This weight is a kindness. We’re giving you a preview. Remember this feeling when it’s my sole on your sternum, and all that force is focused into an area the size of a credit card.”
My breath hitched. The image was too clear.
Can’s hand replaced Mark’s on the plates. His touch was different, possessive. “And when it’s my foot on your abdomen, Elise, and you’re fighting not to gag, you’ll remember this steady pressure. And you’ll know you can take more. Because we’re teaching you that you can.”
They let me lie there, drowning in the silent, heavy reality of the weights. Let me feel the slow, simmering ache build in my core. Let me practice the controlled, desperate little sips of air that were all the stacked plates would allow.
After what felt like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, Mark spoke.
“Okay. That’s enough for today.”
Together, they lifted the plates off, one by one. The relief was instantaneous and profound, a dizzying flood of lightness that made my head swim. I gasped, my chest expanding in deep, grateful heaves.
Can uncuffed my wrists, chafing them gently. “Stand up slowly.”
My body felt strange, hollowed out and tender. I got to my feet, swaying slightly.
Mark was stacking the plates back into their tower. He didn’t look at me. “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice echoing in the quiet chamber. “Tomorrow, we move from theory to practice. No more plates.”
He finally glanced over, his gaze sweeping my exhausted, trembling form.
“Tomorrow, we get to the real thing.”