13. Leandra
The room he moved me to is little more than a cell. White walls. Sterile light. A machine in the centre that looks like something pulled from a nightmare, all chrome and leather restraints and mechanical precision.
I’ve been strapped to it for hours now. Every second stretches out, measured by the relentless rhythm of the thing between my legs.
Isaac stands by the window, backlit by afternoon sun that turns him into a silhouette.
He’s been there the whole time, watching.
Always fucking watching. His aura, usually a murky brown, swirls sluggishly around him like stagnant water.
It’s a colour I’ve come to associate with his cold, clinical detachment.
But when the machine whirs to life and I gasp, his aura shifts, just slightly into a darker, muddier hue, tinged with streaks of sickly yellow.
I know what that means. He’s aroused.
Disgust coils in my stomach, sharp and acidic.
I don’t know where Ezekiel is. He left the same night he ruined me, and he hasn’t been back since. I know Isaac keeps him abreast of my training, I know he sends him reports. I don’t want to think what they contain, what awful things he writes about me, about my progress.
The machine whirs to life again as I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, and the now familiar taste of my blood peppers my tongue. The dildo, because that’s what it is, slides into me with mechanical efficiency.
There is no warmth.
No humanity.
Just cold, calculated penetration that my body has no choice but to accept.
He always fucks me first, ‘breaks me in for the day’ as he puts it, then ties me up and continues my daily training with this machine. It doesn’t matter if I want it. It doesn’t matter if I’m on my period either.
“You’re still fighting it,” Isaac observes, his voice carrying across the room with that same infuriating calm.
His aura pulses faintly, muddy brown with flecks of grey, like he’s bored but mildly entertained.
“I can see it in the way you hold yourself. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re grinding your teeth. ”
I don’t respond. What the fuck would I even say?
He moves closer, his footsteps deliberate against the polished floor. His aura shifts again, the brown deepening, the yellow streaks becoming more pronounced. It’s subtle, but I see it. He’s enjoying this.
“You need to learn to crave this. To need it. Sex isn’t just something that happens to you, it’s a weapon, and you’re going to master it.”
The machine adjusts its angle, and I can’t stop the gasp that escapes.
My body betrays me, responding even as my mind recoils further into itself.
I hate it.
I hate him.
I hate that some traitorous part of me is starting to anticipate the rhythm, to find a sick sort of comfort in the predictability of it all.
“There,” he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
His aura flares, the yellow intensifying, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
“That’s better. Your body understands even if you don’t yet.
” He reaches down, cradling my breast, holding it as it rocks back and forth with each brutal thrust.
“Fuck you,” I manage, though my voice sounds weaker than I want it to. Hoarse from hours of this.
He laughs, twirling his fingers around my nipple.
The touch, the delicateness makes my skin crawl.
His aura swirls lazily, the yellow now dominant, and I want to scream.
“You keep saying that like it means something. Like your defiance matters.” His hand trails down, tracing the curve of my jaw, my throat, lower.
“But your body tells a different story, doesn’t it?”
I want to spit at him again. I want to headbutt him, to hurt him but I’m strapped down so completely that I can barely move, can barely do anything except endure this mechanical violation while he stands there and narrates my degradation.
“Our holy prophet,” Isaac continues, moving back to his observation post, “is a man of particular tastes. He likes his woman responsive. Eager. He wants someone who can match his appetites, who craves the pain as much as the pleasure. That’s what you’re going to become.”
“This is insane.” I grit out between thrusts. “You can’t actually think…”
“Can’t think what?” He tilts his head, as if genuinely curious.
His aura flickers, the brown momentarily clearing and I know he’s telling the truth, or at least believes he is.
“That we can’t teach you this? You have five sister wives, five other women who have gone through this exact training and are now perfect spouses for Ezekiel… ”
The machine speeds up and I arch involuntarily, my body seeking some angle that might make this more bearable. Only, there isn’t one.
“Stop overthinking it. Stop believing you have any free will in this, because you don’t.”
He moves closer again, and this time he reaches out to adjust something on the machine. The angle shifts and suddenly it’s hitting somewhere deeper, somewhere that makes my vision blur. His aura pulses, the yellow intensifying, and I know he’s enjoying this moment of control.
I shake my head, or try to. The restraints limit even that small rebellion. “You’re fucking delusional.” I spit, saying the nastiest words I can think of, words I would be punished severely for uttering back home.
“That’s what your sister said too.” He sounds almost patient now, like he’s explaining something simple to a child.
His aura shifts, the brown momentarily clearing and I know he’s telling the truth, or at least believes he is.
“But you will break just as she did. You will cave in and you will submit. You will be made perfect for our prophet and this time, I won’t fuck up and let you die, I won’t fuck up and let you escape the way your whore of a sister did. ”
Those words linger in my head, repeat in my head.
You will submit
You will be perfect for our prophet.
You cannot escape the way your sister did.
I can’t think, I can’t process it. The machine’s rhythm is too relentless to focus on anything else, and I can feel something building despite myself.
My body doesn’t care about the horror of what he’s describing.
It only knows the mechanical stimulation, the forced arousal that’s been demanded over and over for hours now.
“No,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m refusing his plan or refusing the orgasm I can feel approaching. My face flushes, and my body feels so impossibly hot. “No, I won’t…”
“You will,” Isaac says simply. His aura flares, the yellow now dominant, and I know he’s enjoying this.
“You’ll come because your body has no choice and eventually, you’ll come because you want to.
Because you need to. That’s how this works.
That’s how we break you down and rebuild you into something useful. ”
I try to hold back, try to resist the wave building inside me.
But the machine keeps going, keeps hitting that spot, keeps forcing my body toward a release I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of witnessing.
When it hits, I bite through my lip trying to stay silent. Blood fills my mouth again; I’m starting to recognize the taste as almost comforting in its consistency but I can’t stop the way my body convulses, can’t stop the way my muscles clench around the mechanical intrusion.
Isaac watches it all with those dark, analytical eyes. His aura pulses, the yellow now swirling violently, and I know he’s aroused. “Good,” he says, like I’ve passed some sort of test. “That’s progress. Your body is learning even if your mind is being difficult.”
The machine doesn’t stop. It never stops. Even as I’m still shaking from the orgasm I didn’t want, it continues its work, building toward the next one. And the next. And the next after that.
“You’re learning to associate pleasure with submission.
” Isaac explains, settling into a cushioned chair where he has a perfect view of my degradation.
His aura swirls lazily, the yellow still present, and I know he’s enjoying every second of this.
“Learning that your body exists for this purpose. Once you’ve mastered this, once you’re begging for it instead of fighting it, we’ll move on to stage two. ”
“What, what’s stage two?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
His smile is sharp enough to cut. “Pain. Real pain, not just the discomfort of forced arousal. You’ll learn to crave that too.
To need it. Our prophet enjoys hurting his partners, you see.
His wives love it, they beg for it now. They’re all masochists because that’s what we made them, so you will be one too. ”
I gasp in horror at the mental image of that. Pain? Who in their right mind craves pain? Hours on this machine have worn down my certainty, made me question what I’m capable of resisting.
“You will,” he repeats, standing and moving to adjust the machine again.
This time the penetration goes deeper, harder, and I can’t stop the cry that escapes.
His aura flares, the yellow intensifying, and I know he’s enjoying this.
“Because this is what God intended for you. You’re a whore, our whore, and you will fulfil your purpose. ”
“This isn’t my purpose,” I spit. This can’t be it. How can God want such a thing?
He tuts, shaking his head like I’m just some stupid little girl and have no idea what I’m talking about.
The machine shifts again and I lose the thread of the conversation, lose everything except the sensation of being filled, used, forced toward another orgasm I don’t want. My body doesn’t care about the philosophical implications. It only knows the stimulus and the response.
Isaac watches me come apart again, watches me try to bite back screams and fail, watches me surrender to the mechanical precision of my own violation. His aura pulses, the yellow now swirling violently, and I know he’s aroused.
“That’s seven,” he notes, like he’s keeping score. “We’ll aim for twelve today. Tomorrow, fifteen. By the end of the week, you’ll lose count. And soon enough, you’ll be begging me to turn it on, begging me to fuck you too.”
“Never,” I gasp, though the word sounds hollow even to my own ears.
“We’ll see.” He moves toward the door, apparently satisfied with this session’s progress.
His aura swirls lazily, the yellow still present, and I know he’s already planning the next session.
“I’ll be back in a few hours. The machine will continue until then.
Try to relax into it. Fighting only makes it worse. ”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone with the machine and my thoughts. The mechanical rhythm continues, relentless and precise. My body is already building toward the next orgasm, already learning the pattern.
I test the restraints again, knowing it’s pointless but needing to try anyway. They don’t budge. Nothing budges. I’m completely at the mercy of this thing, this device designed to break down my resistance through sheer repetitive pleasure.
And the worst part, the part I can barely admit even to myself, is that it’s working.
My body is starting to anticipate the rhythm, starting to move with it instead of against it. Some traitorous part of me is learning to crave the release, to need it, exactly like Isaac said it would.
But my mind... my mind is still mine. Still calculating. Still looking for weaknesses in their plan, in their security, in their absolute certainty that they can transform me into someone else.
They can condition my body. They can even teach me to move and speak the way they want, but they can’t change who I am underneath, can they?
I blink back tears, wondering what Cass endured, wondering how much of herself she lost before they broke her too much.
The machine drives deeper and I lose that thought too, lose everything except the building pressure and the knowledge that right now, I have no choice but to surrender to it.
Again. And again. And again.
This is my life now. This is what I’ve become.