Chapter 4: The Aftermath Treatment
The toast was simple, butter melting into golden pockets, and she ate it slowly, methodically, as if relearning the act. Geralt watched from across the kitchen island, sipping black coffee. The only sound was the soft crunch, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and the muffled, even breathing from the treatment room where Cora slept.
“It’s strange,” Elera said finally, brushing a crumb from her lip. “To feel your own hunger. To actually listen to it.”
“Most people spend their lives ignoring that signal,” he replied. “Or punishing themselves for hearing it. You’re ahead of the curve now.”
She gave a faint, non-committal shrug, but her eyes were clearer. The haunted look was receding, replaced by a weary, pervasive calm. She finished the last bite and placed the plate neatly in the sink.
Geralt stood. “The reset initiated a purge. Emotional, psychological. But the body often clings to the physical residue of stress. Tension in the gut, inflammation. For the reset to be complete, we need to address that.”
Elera stilled, her hands on the cool quartz countertop. She understood. The follow-up. It had been mentioned, in the blur of before. A part of the protocol.
“The treatment room,” she said, not a question.
“Yes. It’s a simple physical procedure. A bulb enema. Warm saline. It will help your digestive tract relax fully, mimicking the deep somatic release you just experienced. It’s the final step.”
She inhaled, a slow, deep breath that lifted her shoulders. The memory of the spanking was a dull, grounding ache. This was different. Clinical. A continuation of the care, not the correction. She nodded. “Okay.”
He led her back down the hall. The door to the treatment room was slightly ajar. Inside, Cora was a still mound under the weighted blanket in the armchair. Geralt guided Elera past her, to the reinforced table. The amber light was softer now, casting pools of warmth on the honey-toned tile. The discreet array of items on the side table seemed less imposing this time—tools, not instruments.
“Up you go,” he said, his hand guiding her elbow.
She climbed onto the table. The leather padding was cool through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts. She lay back. The ceiling was a smooth, blank expanse.
Geralt moved with a quiet efficiency. He opened a cabinet, withdrew a fresh, sealed bulb syringe and a bottle of sterile saline. He warmed the saline in a small basin of water from a tap at a clinical sink Elera hadn’t noticed before. The ritual of it was calm, measured.
“On your side, facing the wall. Draw your knees up.”
She shifted, the leather whispering beneath her. The position was vulnerable, profoundly so. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of his movements: the soft pop of the seal breaking, the gentle squelch as he filled the bulb, the click of the bottle being set down.
She felt his weight settle on the edge of the table behind her. A hand, warm and firm, rested on the curve of her hip. “This will feel cool at first, then warm. There will be pressure. A feeling of fullness. Your job is to breathe through it. To accept it. This is the last thing your body has to let go of.”
She felt the blunt, lubricated tip nudge against her. She flinched, a tiny, involuntary contraction.
“Breathe out,” he murmured, his voice low and steady behind her. “Let the tension go.”
She exhaled, long and slow, and as she did, she felt the pressure ease, then give way. A cool flood, then warming rapidly to match her internal heat. It was a deeply peculiar, invasive sensation. Not painful, but undeniably present. A slow, deliberate filling. His thumb stroked a small, steady rhythm on her hipbone.
“Good. That’s it. Almost full.”
The fullness expanded, a heavy, liquid warmth settling low in her abdomen. It felt oddly… substantial. Real. A physical anchor to match the emotional emptiness she’d described.
He withdrew the tip. “Now, you hold it. For five minutes. Your body will want to expel it immediately. That’s the stress response, the urge to reject the care. You will override it. Breathe. Let the warmth spread. Let it soothe the internal friction.”
Holding it was the true challenge. Her muscles clenched instinctively, protesting the unfamiliar occupant. A low, anxious sound escaped her throat.
“Shhh. It’s just warmth. It’s just saline. It can’t hurt you. Let it in.” His hand never stopped its rhythmic stroke. “Think of it as… a internal weighted blanket.”
The analogy, so absurd and yet perfectly apt, almost made her laugh. The tension broke. Her body relaxed, incrementally, accepting the presence. The warmth did spread, a comforting, radiating heat that seemed to unknot something deep in her core she hadn’t even known was tied.
The five minutes passed in a silent, breath-focused haze. The only sounds were their breathing and Cora’s soft, sleeping sighs from the chair.
“Time,” he said softly. “Ready to release?”
She nodded, wordless.
He helped her shift, guiding her off the table and to a private, adjacent toilet. “Let it go. Don’t force. Just let your body do what it needs.”
The release was another kind of purge. A rushing, emptying relief that left her feeling light, hollowed out, and utterly, completely clean. She washed up at the small sink, her face pale in the mirror but her eyes steady.
When she emerged, he had the table wiped down and was laying a fresh, soft fleece blanket over the leather. “Back on. You’ll rest here until the cramping passes. It’s usually mild, if it comes at all.”
She climbed back up, lying on her back this time. He draped the warm blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders. The physical tenderness of the gesture, after the intense intimacy of the procedure, brought a sudden, surprising prick of tears to her eyes. She blinked them away.
“You did very well, Elera.” He pulled a stool close and sat, his forearms resting on his knees. “The protocol is complete. From this point, the recovery is yours to manage. With guidance.”
“It feels… final,” she whispered. “The quiet is even deeper now.”
“That’s the goal. A blank slate. Not an empty one. A calm one.” He studied her. “You’re a therapist. You know what comes next.”
“The thoughts will return,” she parroted his earlier words. “But now I have a reference point.”
“Exactly. And you have rules. When you feel the first skitter of anxiety, the first urge to skip a meal or work through the night, what do you do?”
“I… call you.”
“Before you hit the wall.”
“Before I hit the wall,” she affirmed. It felt like a vow.
A soft groan came from the armchair. Cora was stirring, the weighted blanket shifting as she stretched. Her eyes blinked open, confused, landing on the ceiling before sweeping the room. They widened as she saw Geralt, then Elera on the table.
“Hey,” Geralt said, his tone shifting to something lighter, warmly professional. “Welcome back. You’re at my place. Safe. Steve will be here in the morning.”
Cora’s gaze darted to Elera, a question in her tired eyes.
“This is Elera,” Geralt said. “She’s just finishing up her own reset. You’re both on the other side of it now.”
Elera managed a small, reassuring smile. Cora, hesitantly, returned it. It was a fragile connection, two survivors on separate shores acknowledging the same storm.
Geralt checked his watch. “Elera, the mild cramping should be passed. You can return to your bedroom for proper sleep. Cora, you should try to rest more.”
He helped Elera sit up. The world didn’t spin. The hollow, clean feeling remained, but it was underpinned now by a new, fragile strength. She slid off the table, her legs steady.
As she passed Cora’s chair, she paused. “The quiet is worth it,” she said softly, the words just for her.
Cora stared at her, then gave a slow, understanding nod.
Geralt watched Elera walk out, her steps sure, heading not to a guest room but to her bedroom. He turned back to Cora, adjusting her blanket. “You heard her. The quiet is worth it. Now close your eyes. The next part is just sleep.”
In her room, Elera curled under the duvet. The house was silent, but the silence was no longer empty. It was layered with the echo of her own breath, the memory of a firm, guiding hand, and the profound, unmistakable sensation of a body finally, completely, at rest. She drifted off not fighting the quiet, but settling into it, like a stone sinking into still, deep water.
She drifted off not fighting the quiet, but settling into it, like a stone sinking into still, deep water.
Morning arrived not with a sunrise but with the sound of a heavy engine cutting off in the driveway. Gravel crunched. Doors thumped. Elera, waking in the strange bed, heard the low murmur of a man’s voice strained with worry, and then Geralt’s deeper, calibrating tone answering from the kitchen. She stayed still, listening. The house felt different. Charged.
Down the hall, in the treatment room, Cora was awake. She was sitting upright in the armchair, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the closed door. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and fixed. The profound non-verbal state had hardened overnight into a fortress.
Geralt led Steve into the room. Steve McGarrrett looked like he’d been driven through a woodchipper—his clothes rumpled, eyes bloodshot, a five o’clock shadow gone gritty. He took in the scene: the clinical light, the gleaming table, his Little curled defensively in the chair. “Ah, hell, kid,” he breathed, his voice rough.
Cora’s eyes flicked to him. No recognition, just a faint animal panic.
“She’s still deep,” Geralt said quietly, his hand on Steve’s shoulder, steering him slightly back. “The episode at the mall was the breaking point. She’s past words, past pleas. She’s pure instinct now, and that instinct is to hide.”
“What do we do?” Steve asked, the question ripped from him.
“We go in after her. Physically. Her mind has divorced from her body’s signals. We have to reconnect them, forcefully. The protocol is a series of bulb enemas. The repeated, rhythmic intrusion, the cycle of filling and releasing, it bypasses the cognitive lock. It grounds her purely in sensation. In the reality of this room, of us caring for her.”
Steve swallowed, nodding. He’d authorized this. He’d brought her here. Seeing it was different. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”
“You’ll assist. Your presence, your hands on her, your voice, is the anchor. She needs to feel you participating in the care, not just observing it.” Geralt moved to the cabinet, gathering supplies. The bulb syringes, the saline, the lubricant. He laid them out on the side table with a soft, deliberate clatter.
Cora watched the objects, her breathing shallowing into quick, silent pants.
“Come here, Steve. Stand by the table.” Geralt’s voice was all calm instruction. “Cora, come here now.”
She didn’t move. A tremor ran through her.
Geralt walked to the chair. He didn’t coax. He slid one arm behind her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her. She was limp, unresisting, a doll filled with fear. He carried her the few steps to the table and laid her on her side, facing Steve. Her gaze was locked on her caregiver’s worn jacket.
“Steve, your hand here, on her shoulder. Firm pressure. Talk to her. Not questions. Just facts. Just your voice.”
Steve’s large, calloused hand settled on Cora’s shoulder. He leaned down. “Hey, bug. It’s me. You’re safe. We’re right here.”
Geralt warmed the saline, filled the first bulb. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Cora flinched.
“First one is warm saline. Simple,” Geralt narrated, his actions unhurried. He lubricated the tip. “Steve, guide her top knee forward. Good. Just breathe, Cora. In and out.”
Steve kept talking, a low, continuous stream about the drive over, the rain, the stupid billboard he’d seen. His thumb rubbed circles on her shoulder.
Geralt positioned the bulb. Cora’s body went rigid, a strangled squeak escaping her throat.
“Now, Steve, your other hand on her hip. Gentle but absolute pressure. Hold her steady.”
Steve complied, his broad hand spanning her hipbone, pinning her gently to the table. The containment was complete.
Geralt pressed forward. There was a moment of tight resistance, then a yielding. He depressed the bulb slowly, evenly. Cora jerked, a full-body spasm, but Steve’s hold was immutable. A low, desperate whine built in her chest as the fluid entered her.
“Full. You’ll hold it, Cora. For three minutes.” Geralt withdrew, setting the bulb aside. “Your job is to feel it. That’s all. Just feel the warmth Steve and I are giving you.”
The whine turned into a thin, reedy cry. Tears leaked silently onto the table’s leather. She was fighting it, her muscles clenching violently against the internal presence.
“She’s fighting it so hard,” Steve murmured, his own eyes shiny.
“That’s the point. She’s feeling something. Anger, resistance, violation. That’s a emotion. That’s a connection. We’re pulling her back across the bridge, one feeling at a time.” Geralt watched the timer on his phone. “Even if it’s fury. Fury is closer to us than that dead silence.”
The three minutes were an eternity. Cora’s cries subsided into shaky, hitched breaths. The fight was draining her.
“Release,” Geralt said.
The process was messy, awkward, profoundly human. Steve helped her, his touch tender, his words soft. She returned to the table, limp and shivering.
“Again,” Geralt said, refilling the bulb. “The repetition is the key. It teaches the body and mind a new rhythm. One of care, even when it’s perceived as an attack.”
The second enema was met with less fight, more resigned, shuddering acceptance. The tears continued, but they were quieter. Sadder. Steve wiped her cheeks with his thumb, his own jaw tight.
By the third cycle, Cora was pliant. Exhausted. The fluid went in, and she simply groaned, a deep, guttural sound of utter capitulation. She held it, staring blankly at Steve’s chest, her fingers weakly clutching the sleeve of his jacket.
As she released the third and final enema, the sound that came out of her wasn’t a cry. It was a word, broken and wet and rusted from disuse.
“S…Steve?”
Steve froze, then slumped, a sob of relief cracking out of him. He gathered her up, blanket and all, holding her shuddering form against him. “Yeah, bug. It’s Steve. I’m right here. You’re back. You’re here.”
Geralt stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel. He watched them, the professional mask softening for a second into something like weary satisfaction. The intervention was complete. The series had broken the seal.
In the hall, Elera stood unseen, having heard the desperate cries evolve into that single, shattered word. She leaned against the cool wall, a hand over her mouth. She understood the brutal grammar of this place now, the terrible, loving calculus. Sometimes you had to be filled with an unbearable warmth to remember how to speak.