Chapter 32
Two Months Later
The air in this room is thick, tasting of something metallic, something coppery on my tongue.
I try to swallow but my throat feels tight, like I’ve swallowed a stone and it’s stuck there.
My chest feels heavy too, pressed down by this, this weight of expectation. The man stands before me, his face a mask of stern lines, his eyes boring into me like drills.
He holds the prod in his hand, the thin metal rod gleaming, ready. Ready for me to fail, ready for me to disobey, as if I’d dare.
I want to crouch lower, make myself smaller, but I know I can’t. Not now, not when he’s watching. He wants me to be big, bold, but only when I obey. Only when I do exactly what he says.
“Alright, dog,” his voice is low, rough like sandpaper. It doesn’t sound like a question. It’s a command. “Show me you understand the importance of following instructions precisely.”
My heart becomes more frantic at those words. Don’t fail, a voice screams inside my head, loud and panicked. Don’t make him angry. I take a shaky breath, trying to fill my lungs, but the air feels stolen. My legs tremble slightly, but I clamp them together, forcing stillness.
Stillness is obedience.
Stillness is safety, or at least, the path to it.
He doesn’t wait for me to speak or to figure out what he wants.
He just watches, his expression unreadable.
Patience is a luxury I can’t afford here.
My mind races, trying to anticipate, trying to guess the next command.
Jump. Is it that? Crawl. Or maybe… maybe something else?
The uncertainty is almost as frightening as the shock itself.
Better to be wrong and quick than to be wrong and… wrong.
“Jump,” he says, the words cutting through the silence like a blade.
My legs buckle slightly under the sudden demand. Jumping feels unnatural. My body jolts as I throw myself up into the air. My breasts bounce unpleasantly, but the thought of disobeying is a cold shock, far worse than whatever he might deliver.
I press my feet together again, focusing on the pressure.
Do it.
The command echoes in my mind, overriding the fear.
I crouch low then I push off, leaving the ground.
I land softly on my feet, my body tensing, waiting.
Waiting for the thump, but it doesn’t come.
He doesn’t clap or make any sound. He just stares.
His eyes are like icy stones, searching my face, my posture, waiting for me to fuck this up.
I hold still, keeping my eyes on the ground, my muscles trembling with the effort of staying balanced.
Time stretches thin. Then, slowly, surely, a flicker of movement crosses his face.
It’s not anger, it’s something else. Approval?
Or at least, acknowledgement? I can’t tell.
My vision is blurry, my ears ringing faintly.
I stay frozen to the spot, suspended between obedience and punishment.
“Good,” his voice is rougher now, the sound grating on my nerves. “Very good. Now, crawl.”
My stomach clenches. Crawl. On the floor. Like an insect. The thought makes my hackles rise. Even through the conditioning, it feels degrading but the memory of the shock, even the potential shock, is a stronger force.
I lower myself onto my belly, my knees scraping the unforgiving floor.
The rough texture grates against my skin.
My nose scrapes too, finding purchase on the cool surface.
It’s humiliating, but my eyes stay fixed forward on his boots, on his legs, anywhere but…
anywhere but him. I try to ignore the way my body feels exposed, the way my muscles scream in protest. I just keep moving forward, forward, dragging myself in a way I hope won’t result in a punishment.
He watches me crawl.
His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. He just watches.
The silence hangs heavy again, punctuated only by the scrape of my body and my own ragged breathing.
I feel so small, so insignificant, moving along the floor like, like I’m less than nothing.
But I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just obey.
When my nose reaches his boot I pause, my body trembling.
Am I supposed to stop? Am I supposed to keep going?
He doesn’t say. He just stands there, and I can feel his gaze fixed on me.
Should I stop? Should I keep going?
The uncertainty is a fresh wave of panic. I freeze, my fingernails digging into the floor, snapping one by one in my terror and desperate need to do only what is expected of me and nothing more.
He sighs, a long, drawn-out sound that vibrates in the small space. It’s not a happy sound. It’s… weary? Or annoyed? I don’t know. I don’t dare guess. “Stop,” he says finally, his voice flat.
Relief floods me, cold and sharp, but instantly followed by the fear of another mistake. I scramble to my feet, standing rigid, my legs still shaky. I don’t dare move.
He takes a step closer. I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for the pain, for the reprimand, for the shock that never seems to truly leave this room.
But he doesn’t shock me. He just stops in front of me, looking down his nose. His eyes bore into me again. “You were good,” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “Very good.” He nods, almost imperceptibly. “You are learning.”
The words hang in the air. Good. Learning.
They sound almost normal, but the context twists them into something else.
Something hollow, something calculated. He’s acknowledging my performance, yes, but it’s purely transactional.
I obeyed. Therefore, I am adequate? Useful?
The thought is a bitter pill. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the floor just in front of my toes.
I don’t dare believe him. I don’t dare hope.
“Dog,” his voice is softer now, almost coaxing, but the underlying tone is still firm. It’s the tone of a trainer giving a final instruction before a test. “You are ready to move on with your training.”
The words echo in my head. Ready. Move on.
What does that mean? What comes next? Is it harder? Is it worse?
My heart starts to pound again, a frantic rhythm against the drum of fear. Ready? For what?
To do more fucking tricks? To prove myself further? Or is this the calm before the storm?
The thought of the unknown fills me with a deeper kind of terror than the shock. The shock is immediate, physical. This, this is the void. The darkness before the light.
I don’t understand. I press my lips together, my teeth grinding softly, and it’s the only sign of frustration I dare to show.
The door to the training room opens. I freeze, my body locking in place. My eyes snap up, instinct taking over, searching the doorway. Hope flickers, dim and desperate for a moment. For him, for Antonio.
For the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the reassurance that this… this place…was what?
He put me here. He did this. Allowed this.
I hold my breath, my chest tight, waiting.
But the figure in the doorway is not Antonio. It’s a woman. Tall. Imposing. Her face is sharp-featured, her eyes cold and hard, like chips of ice. She’s holding something in one hand. Something small and sharp.
My breath catches in my throat.
I can’t breathe. My eyes widen, and fear seems to explode in my chest.
The man reaches out, his hand clamping down hard on my shoulder. The touch is rough and bruising. It’s meant to pin me, to stop me from… I don’t know… running? Disappearing? My eyes fly wide, my breath catching in a sharp intake.
He forces me to stay still, to face the doorway.
But my fear wars with obedience as she gets closer.
I am a dog. I am nothing.
But I don’t want this. I don’t want… I whimper as she stands over me, as she sticks the needle into my neck with a brutality I know is unnecessary.
And as the contents seem to slither into my veins like a cold poison, I feel everything turn fuzzy, feel the edges of my perception turn to grey and then to black.