Chapter 3: The First Inspection
The blindfold was thick leather. It smelled new. It clamped over her eyes, cutting off the tiled room, the men. The world became pressure and dark.
Hands guided her. Not gently. Out of the tiled room. Across more concrete. A different door. Colder air. Then a smooth surface. Polished. Her wet feet slipped.
A low step up. Then another.
The air changed. Warmer. Clean. Filtered. A scent underneath. Leather. Lemon polish. A faint, familiar cologne. His cologne. The one from the garage.
The hum was low. Constant. A vibration through the floor that entered her bones.
A jet. They were on a jet.
The hands sat her down. Not on a seat. Something lower. A footstool maybe. The surface was cool against her abraded skin. She kept her back straight. Knees together. Hands flat on her thighs. School posture. The only armor she had.
Footsteps moved around her. Muffled by carpet. More than two sets. Four? Five?
Silence stretched. The hum of the engines was a living thing. She felt it in her teeth.
Then his voice. It came from her left. Slightly above her. He was sitting. Close.
“Let’s see what the academy calls a finished product.”
The voice was smooth. Dark. Like the leather she smelled. It held no warmth. It was an assessment.
A finger hooked under her chin. Cold. A ring on it. It tilted her face up. She felt his gaze on her. Like the scrubbing brush. Scraping.
He turned her head left, then right. The blindfold stayed.
“They said she was obedient. That she craves structure. A blank slate.” He released her chin. “I prefer slates that have known some wear. This one looks barely used.”
A different voice laughed. Older, rougher. “Fresh out the wrapper, James. You’ve got to break her in yourself. There’s a pleasure in that.”
“Perhaps.” His hand returned. Not to her face. It touched her shoulder. Traced down her arm. A clinical, possessive touch. “The hair is acceptable. The body is adequate. Skin’s still pink from the scrubbing. They cleaned the stink off, at least.”
Another man spoke. Younger. “She’s trembling.”
“She should be,” the first voice—James, her master—said. “She’s nothing. A collection of functions. She will learn her functions.”
His hand left her. She heard the clink of ice in a glass. “You may inspect her. See if my investment was sound. She is to serve. In all capacities.”
The meaning crashed into her a second before the hands did.
Not just his hands. Others.
They came from all sides. Fingers dug into her arms, her hips, her hair. They pulled her off the low stool. The carpet was rough against her knees. The blindfold stayed, a black universe.
“Pretty thing. Lovely hair.”
“Let’s see that obedience, sweetheart.”
Hands pushed her shoulders down. Her face pressed into the carpet. The lemon polish smell filled her nose.
A hand parted her legs. Rough. No preamble.
She heard a zipper. The rustle of clothing.
This was not the ceremony of the school. This was not theory. This was the hard, hot shock of a body entering hers without warning, without care. A grunt from above her. The carpet burned her cheek. Her body was stiff, unready. It was a violation of physics. A tearing.
She made a sound. A choked gasp.
“Quiet,” her master’s voice cut through, bored. “You are being used. You do not comment on the weather.”
The man above her finished quickly. He pulled out. She felt the wet, warm trickle down her thigh.
He was replaced immediately. No pause. A different shape, a different smell—cigar smoke and sweat. This one took her from behind, his grip bruising on her hips. He went slower. Crueler. Making her feel every inch. The pain was a bright, sharp line. She saw sparks behind the blindfold.
Her mind floated. Detached. It went to the cage. To the drain. This was just another room. Another function. Her body was a vessel. It was being filled. Emptied. Filled again.
The men talked over her. Around her.
“Tight little thing, James.”
“Needs work on her relaxation.”
Laughter.
The third man used her mouth. His fingers twisted in her hair, pulling her head back. He guided himself in. She gagged. The taste was bitter, salty. He pushed until her throat convulsed. Tears soaked the blindfold from beneath. She focused on breathing. Tiny sips of air through her nose. Out. Like they’d taught her. The world narrowed to that rhythm.
He finished with a shudder, his grip tightening on her skull.
They moved her like a doll. Onto her back. Her legs pushed open. Another stranger. Another invasion. The pain was a constant now, a dull, throbbing ache layered with fresh, sharp moments. The luxurious jet air was thick with the smell of them. Of sex and sweat and her own fear.
She lost count.
A hand—her master’s?—traced the line of her jaw as a man moved inside her. “See how she takes it,” he mused, his voice calm, conversational. “The theory meeting the practice. She’s not fighting. Good. She understands her material purpose.”
The man above her groaned and collapsed.
Silence. For a moment.
Just the hum of the jet. The ragged sound of her own breathing.
She lay on the carpet. Broken open. Spent. Fluid, warm and cold, pooled under her. She was a used thing. A collection of aches.
Footsteps approached. Leather shoes on carpet. They stopped near her head.
The blindfold was undone. The buckle snapped open.
Light. Soft, ambient cabin light. It made her weep. She blinked up, vision swimming.
He stood over her. Tall. Dark hair, greying at the temples. His eyes were the color of slate. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Not anger. Not pleasure. A kind of cool appraisal. He held a crystal glass of amber liquid.
Behind him, she saw the others. Men in tailored suits, adjusting their clothes. Five of them. Smiling. Wiping their mouths. Watching.
“Look at me,” he said.
She dragged her eyes up to his. It was an effort.
“You belong to me,” he said. The words were simple. Absolute. “This,” he gestured vaguely at her, at the men, “was your induction. Your body is not your own. Its holes are not for your pleasure. They are utilities. For my use. For the use of my guests. Do you understand?”
Her throat was raw. She tried to speak. A croak came out. She nodded.
“Verbal response.”
“Yes,” she whispered. The word tasted of blood and salt.
“Yes, what?”
She paused. The training surfaced. “Yes, Master.”
He took a sip of his drink. “You will address me as Sir. ‘Master’ is earned. You are far from earning that.” He turned to a uniformed attendant who had appeared silently by a curtain. “Clean her up. Put her in the rear compartment. She can kneel. I don’t want to see her until we land.”
The attendant nodded. He didn’t touch her. He simply pointed.
Anne moved. Every muscle screamed. She pushed herself up. Her legs shook. The carpet was stained. She avoided looking at the men. She focused on the attendant’s polished shoes. She followed them, walking unsteadily, naked and slick, through the opulent cabin. Plush seats. Wood panels. Smiling, indifferent faces.
A small, closet-like space at the rear. A blank metal floor. No window.
The attendant pointed to the center of the floor. “Kneel here. Do not move. Do not speak.”
She knelt. The metal was cold and hard. It bit into her knees. The pain was a grounding wire.
The door shut. Locked.
Alone again. But different. The hum was louder here. The smell of them was on her skin, in her hair, inside her. She was a ruin. A used, inducted thing.
She straightened her back. She placed her hands on her thighs. She found her posture in the wreckage.
A slow, ragged breath escaped her.
She was his.