Let's explore this weird and wonderful world

Or instead of not speaking, they're just babbling. Eyes rolling and body trembling, lips forming incoherent sentences that barely make any sense.

pov: your wife welcomes you home to 💕this💕

and you keep playing pretend, and it gets to be a habit to nod and agree. it's not real, no big deal. and the habit feels nice, and it's fun, and you get rewarded for it, and the habit gets more engrained. a little harder to break. but you still know it's not real, and you could stop, you're just playing along.

and eventually it's such a nice, comfy, easy habit — to smile and nod and agree and obey — that it almost stops being a choice! you know how that is, right? it's not like you wake up and consciously choose to check your phone and scroll for a bit, it's just a habit, it just happens. you could still choose to stop — but why would you even want to? it's so fun to play along, to nod and believe everything they say. you've been doing it on purpose for days and weeks and months. you had so much practice. you probably can't even remember when it stopped being on purpose, huh? oooooh, poor thing, you really are so susceptible you'll just believe anything, huh?

I think you forgot that this was a punishment, sweetheart. No, no, no- this is going to be anything but hot for you. It’s going to be humiliating.

Chapter One

I was crazy—I had to be. There was no other explanation for sitting in my car at the edge of the property, staring at the imposing Victorian estate as if it might swallow me whole. The manor was breathtaking, its grandeur demanding attention even from my sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled haze. It looked more like a home for royalty than an institution. The massive three-story structure was built from cold gray stone that seemed both unyielding and timeless, the kind of place that bore witness to countless untold stories. It should have felt ominous, yet there was something oddly inviting about it, as though it held secrets it was ready to share with those brave enough to enter.

Wrought-iron windowpanes, blackened with age, framed each window, reflecting the faint morning light in fractured patterns. A spire jutted into the sky, its sharp silhouette slicing through the wispy clouds above. The vaulted roofline and sweeping arches were softened by cascades of wisteria that wrapped around the stone walkway, their purple blooms swaying gently in the breeze. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of a greenhouse with rose-tinted glass and a garden teeming with every imaginable shade of color. The sight was dreamlike, almost surreal—the kind of beauty that felt too perfect to be real.

I clutched the steering wheel, my fingers trembling. The address was smudged but still legible on the inside of my wrist, written hastily in black ink. I’d had no other way to remember it, and now, here I was, drawn by a mix of desperation and an inexplicable feeling that this place was meant for me. There was no sign at the gate, no confirmation that I was in the right place beyond the faint whisper of intuition. Yet something about this estate—its quiet elegance, its carefully manicured grounds—called to me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

For a moment, I let myself drift, replaying the series of events that had led me to this crossroad. Work had consumed my life for years, and I had prided myself on being someone who thrived under pressure. Long hours at the law firm, juggling impossible deadlines, and navigating office politics had become my normal. But lately, that normal was breaking me. I hadn’t slept through the night in months, my dreams—when they came—haunted by an endless litany of tasks left undone. Even my reflection in the mirror had become unrecognizable, dark circles etched beneath my eyes no concealer could hide.

“Seriously, girl, you look like shit,” Melanie’s voice echoed in my mind, her bluntness softened by concern. It had been one of those moments at work where time felt like quicksand. I’d been hovering over the copy machine, willing it to work faster. Callen needed the addendums printed five minutes ago, and the machine seemed to know it, spitting out pages at a glacial pace.

“I know,” I had muttered, not even glancing up. “I’m trying.”

Melanie leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. “What’s going on, Emery? We haven’t seen you in weeks.” She wasn’t talking about work. No, she meant outside of it—the pub nights, the late-night phone calls, the part of me that had once lived a life beyond the firm.

I had smiled, a tight, strained thing that barely reached my lips. “I’m good,” I lied. “Just busy, you know how it is.”

She’d grabbed my wrist then, stopping me mid-motion. “Ever think that maybe what you need is to slow down?”

Her words lingered long after I’d rushed away, papers in hand, my promise to catch up another time ringing hollow even to my ears. I had no time. Every hour of my day was consumed by work, and every ounce of energy was spent trying to keep my head above water. But that’s the thing about drowning: the more you struggle, the faster you sink.

Walking into Callen’s office, he snapped. “Did you use the copier on the fifteenth floor? For heaven’s sake.” He snatched the papers from my hands and returned to his desk, lost in the contents.

Rolling my eyes, I turned around and started to walk out when he said, “I’m going to need you to find me something I can use on the corporate case by morning.”

“Jensen Holdings? That’s scheduled to be in court at ten tomorrow morning.”

He looked at me as if I were spouting useless information.

“I know,” he said, sitting down at his desk. “That’s why I need you here tonight.”

“Callen, that’s nearly impossible. That’s thousands of documents.”

He looked at me briefly, waved his hand, and dismissed me.

“Shut the door on your way out.”

That was the start of it all—the fracture before the break. After pulling an all-nighter, drowning myself in an insane amount of coffee and vending machine food, I had delivered my findings to him by nine—just enough time for him to make it to the courthouse.

“Where the fuck were you?” Callen slammed the door shut. “I could have used this two hours ago.”

“I don’t understand.” My voice was level; I refused to let him frighten me.

“Judge Milweed moved the case to eight this morning. You should have had this to me by seven.” Before I could speak, he interrupted me. “I’m not sure you’re cut out for this, Miss Watson. You’re always behind in the work, never at your desk when I need you, and—are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?” He huffed. “We do have a dress code policy here. I will have to report this all to HR, but until then, you’re on administrative leave.”

The memory made my chest tighten, shame and anger twisting into a knot I couldn’t untangle. That night, I’d found myself at the pub, nursing a drink and trying to convince myself that everything would be fine. It was Melanie who had found me there, who had slid into the seat beside me and handed me a slip of paper with an address scribbled on it. “You need a break,” she’d said simply. “This place… it helped me when I thought I couldn’t go on. Just trust me.”

I hadn’t asked questions. I’d written the address on my wrist, more out of politeness than intention. Yet here I was, staring up at the estate, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

With a deep breath, I started the car and drove through the iron gates, their intricate design curling like ivy. Parking at the base of the stone steps, I killed the engine and reached for my coffee cup, only to find it empty. Of course. Sighing, I grabbed my purse, the thud of my heels against the pavement echoing in the still morning air.

The doors were open, a soft breeze carrying the scent of lavender and vanilla. As I climbed the steps, I noticed a small metal plaque beside the entrance: Hensley’s Sanitarium & Rehabilitation Center. Below it, in elegant script, was a name: Dr. Mathias Hensley. The only indication I was in the right place.

Stepping through the threshold, I was greeted by an older woman at the front desk. She smiled warmly at me, beckoning me forward. It was a strange thing for me to see another welcoming face. The firm was filled with grouchy, straight-lipped assholes who only cared about themselves, so I was pleasantly surprised by the change.

“What can I do for you, dear?”

“Well…” I wasn’t sure how to ask. “I’d like to check in, but first, I was hoping you could tell me a little more about what you do here.” I couldn’t find much on the internet, and virtually no information about this place other than Melanie’s glowing recommendation. I was not entirely sure if this was more like a spa retreat or a medical institution; I already had mental reservations.

“You know what,” I started, “this was silly—never mind.”

“Nonsense, dear,” she stood up. “Checking in is simple. Look over these forms, hun, and when you’re ready, bring them back up, and we’ll get you that rest and recovery you so desperately need.”

She handed me a clipboard and a pen anchored to the board. “You poor thing. Just sit right there,” she pointed to a soft chair in the sitting room to her right, “and I’ll just let the doctor know you’re here.”

I ventured into the sitting room and sat in one of the large leather chairs. In front of me was an enormous bay window with a muted light. The early sun was filtered by thin white lace curtains and bordered by large navy-blue floor to ceiling drapes. Behind me was a massive bookcase spanning the entire length of the wall with an array of old and new books ranging from all topics. I wasn’t sure what I expected, old medical journals maybe, but there didn’t seem to be any. Instead, there were all sorts of topics: politics, gardening, nutritional cookbooks, leadership, and even a few architecture books mixed in.

In the center of the bookshelf was a doorway leading off to another part of the house but without craning my neck, it was impossible to snoop.

Glancing at the first form, it was a standard aches and aliments checklist asking about known conditions, sleep habits, eating habits, and sexual health. I felt a dread as I began answering the questions truthfully, afraid that I might be judged on how poor I’d taken care of myself. The next two focused simply on stress, anxiety, and depression that rated severity by questions. My pen hovered over the possible responses—part of me didn’t want to admit I was stressed or needed help, but I circled them anyway.

My heartbeat sped up and I felt the growing tightness in my chest.

“Here you go, dear. A little something to freshen you up.” She handed me a glass of water. I took a sip, thankful to get a break from the forms. I detected something fruity and flavorful.

“This is delicious,” I mused, “what is it infused with?”

“Cucumbers, strawberries, and mint.” She beamed a happy smile toward me. “Grown in our own garden. I’m glad you like it.”

“I do, thank you.”

“Do you have any questions on the paperwork so far?”

“Umm…” I was a little embarrassed. “I’m still working on them actually.”

“Take your time, dear. The doctor will see you when you’re finished.”

I finished the assessment and moved to the last page. Years of paralegal work had taught me to read through everything before signing but the consent form was very lengthy. I filled in my name consenting to voluntary admission to Hensley’s Sanitarium & Rehabilitation Center and entered today’s date. Under the consent and authorization section, I read the paragraph which mentioned that I would be under the inpatient care of the licensed physician, Dr. Mathias Hensley for a one-week period where care is to be reevaluated by the provider at the end of seven calendar days. The patient has the right to leave after the initial period is complete unless the doctor extends the care an additional seven days for failure to complete treatments.

By signing, I was authorizing Dr. Hensley to provide treatment that included medication to be administered orally, intravenously, or rectally—to be determined by the medical care professional.

Cringing on the last part, I willed myself to keep reading when a scream broke my concentration. I looked up, hearing a commotion coming from upstairs. There was a pounding of footsteps and then a loud bang as a door slammed shut.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I wasn’t crazy—just exhausted and in need of some rest.

Shaking my head, I looked back at the form; I came here for a reason. Picking up where I left off, the next paragraph explained that some unusual or unorthodox methods may be used if deemed necessary and that the safety and wellbeing of the patient would never be jeopardized. I underlined that section making a mental note to ask the secretary to elaborate on unorthodox. I kept reading… authorization to use restraints, cryotherapy, hydrotherapy, intense psychotherapies, and other means necessary. There was that vague writing again.

I took a sip of the water with a shaky hand.

My pulse started to race uncontrollably. My palms were sticky with sweat. I was finding it difficult to focus on the form when another scream echoed through the house.

Nope, that was it.

I decided right then and there that I would make do without this. I’d figure it out on my own.

Just then two orderlies clad in white uniforms and black tennis shoes rushed past me and up the stairs.

I didn’t belong in a nuthouse. As quickly as I could, I gathered up the papers and shoved them back on the clipboard, dropping my purse in the process. Eager to get out of there, I swooped down, grabbed the scattered contents on the floor, and went to stand but the room spun. Fumbling back, I knocked the glass of water off the table. It struck the ground with a clank and shattered into a few dozen pieces.

Oh no. I didn’t mean to, but my heart kept pounding, faster and faster. All I could hear was the sound of drums beating in my ears. My body grew unusually warm.

The secretary rushed toward me, beckoning me to take a seat behind me but I didn’t want to. I wanted to leave. I tried grabbing my purse again, but I began to hyperventilate; my vision blurred, and I stumbled on weak legs.

“Just breathe. It’s okay. Deep breath in,” she coaxed.

I could barely make out her words and she ushered me into the chair with more force than I thought the small frail woman was capable of.

I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I couldn’t catch my breath, as if those wrought iron gates outside were locking me in. Everything felt tingly and my hands grew numb. The pounding in my ears grew louder and louder until they too were faint. The room around me was growing dark, my vision blurring even more until all I saw was nothing.

Chapter TWO

I woke with a killer headache, my skull throbbing as though a drumbeat had taken up residence in my brain. I tried to sit up, only to feel a steady, warm hand on my shoulder gently pressing me back down.

“Easy. Try not to move yet,” a calm, firm voice instructed, the kind of voice that made you instinctively listen.

Blinking, I willed my vision to clear. Slowly, the world came into focus, and I found myself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes—the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. They were bright and clear, contrasting with the man’s strong, angular features. His auburn hair was perfectly tousled, managing to look both artfully messy and deliberately neat. He had a sharp jawline and was clean-shaven, giving him an air of professional precision. His crisp, white doctor’s coat hung neatly over a light blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks. He looked young, too young to be the lead physician of this place—thirty-two at most, making him only a handful of years older than me.

“Where am I? Who are you?” My voice was hoarse as I looked around, trying to get my bearings. The room I was in was unlike any medical office I’d seen. It had the feel of a study or a personal library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls on either side of the solid oak double doors. The farthest wall was dominated by three massive windows, their thin curtains drawn just enough to let in muted light. Beneath them was a large wooden desk, its surface tidy except for a leather journal, a small stack of papers, and a few books. Curiously, there was no computer in sight, adding to the room’s old-world charm.

As I surveyed the room, the man walked to the windows and drew the curtains fully back. Sunlight spilled into the space, illuminating the rich tones of the wood and the muted patterns of the upholstered chairs. The sudden brightness sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull, and I winced, closing my eyes against the intrusion.

“I’m Dr. Hensley, and you’re in my office,” he explained, his voice calm and even. “Mrs. Knolty alerted me when you fainted. I brought you in here for privacy and observation.”

I glanced down at myself, doing a quick assessment. Other than the pounding headache, I felt fine… until I noticed the intravenous line taped to my left arm.

“It’s just saline,” Dr. Hensley said, anticipating my question. “You were severely dehydrated.”

My instinct was to reach over and pull it out, but he crossed the room in a few long strides and caught my wrist before I could. His touch was firm yet surprisingly gentle, his hand warm against my skin.

“Leave it. You need the fluids,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze flicked to my wrist, and he noticed the faint ink marks there. “Do you always write on yourself?” The question, tinged with mild reproach, made me feel small, as though he were scolding a child.

Pulling my hand free, I muttered defensively, “It’s an old habit.” But I didn’t want to lose sight of my original intent. “I’m actually feeling better now. Sorry to take up your time; I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Miss Watson,” he replied smoothly. Before I could protest further, I swung my feet around to the side of the table, only for the room to tilt violently. I grabbed the edges of the table to steady myself, my breath hitching.

Without a word, Dr. Hensley moved to my side. He gently placed his hands on my ankles and maneuvered my legs back onto the table. His touch was clinical yet soothing, and the simple act felt oddly grounding.

“The light sensitivity, nausea, headache, and dizziness are all symptoms of the panic attack you experienced earlier,” he explained. “It will take some time to dissipate. Until then, you’re in no condition to drive. Releasing you now would be a disservice to you, my profession, and this community.”

“Discharge me? But I didn’t sign the forms,” I protested weakly.

“I’m well aware,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of his desk. He picked up the clipboard containing the paperwork I’d partially filled out earlier. “Have you ever experienced a panic attack before?” he asked, pen in hand, poised to make notes in the margins.

I shook my head, still too disoriented to find my voice. His gaze softened as he studied me, and I felt a flicker of vulnerability under the weight of his piercing eyes. There was something undeniably authoritative about him, but not in a way that felt overbearing. It was as though he commanded respect effortlessly.

“Panic attacks can happen unexpectedly, often when we feel overwhelmed or out of control,” he said, his voice gentler now. “It’s a primal fight-or-flight response.”

Recalling my college psychology class, I added quietly, “I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Then you understand why your attempt to rush out of the lobby triggered hyperventilation. The shallow breaths caused a lack of oxygen to your brain, leading to your loss of consciousness,” he explained. “Considering the stress and anxiety reflected in your assessments, it’s not surprising.”

“I’m stressed, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” I said, a defensive edge creeping into my tone.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I disagree. When stress and anxiety go untreated for long periods, the body begins to react in unpredictable ways. My job is to help you identify those triggers and reconnect your mind and body. I use a range of intense, but safe methodologies designed to reduce stress and restore balance.”

“Intense?” I repeated, arching a brow. “What do you mean?”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said, a faint smile curving his lips. “Every treatment plan is tailored to the individual. For some, it involves cellular detox, nutrient-rich diets, thermal therapies, or even psychological exercises. For others, it might include techniques that stimulate the body’s natural healing processes, such as orgasms to release endorphins and promote relaxation.”

“Orgasms?” I repeated, startled by his candor.

“Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Orgasms have proven benefits, including stress relief and improved sleep. Some methods might feel uncomfortable or unconventional, but they are never harmful.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “And I can leave when I want?”

“Your stay here is voluntary for now. As soon as you’re fit to drive, you’re free to go. But I encourage you to give this a chance. Admitting you need help is the hardest part. You’ve already taken that step, and it’s a courageous one.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply nodded again.

“If you choose to stay, the initial period is seven days,” he continued. “Leaving prematurely can disrupt treatments and have adverse effects. The full week allows us to make meaningful progress toward your recovery.”

“That sounds fine, but… I’m not sure this place is for me,” I admitted hesitantly.

“You’ve made it this far, Miss Watson. What’s holding you back now?”

I avoided his gaze, my uncertainty growing. The truth was, I didn’t have an answer.

“Ah,” he mused, his tone thoughtful, “I think I understand now. You heard one of the residents earlier. I’m sure your mind is coming up with a thousand and one scenarios about why she was screaming, all of them casting this place in a poor light, I assume, given your reaction. I will say, the screams you heard earlier were not of pain or resistance, but of pleasure. No one was being hurt, I can assure you.”

Pleasure? The word hit me like a jolt. My cheeks flushed as the implications unfolded in my mind, and I was suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. I wanted to question him, to demand clarification, but his calm and confident demeanor left little room for doubt. My thoughts strayed to his earlier mention of orgasms. Replaying the sounds in my mind, I supposed… they could have been the result of an orgasm. The realization made my pulse quicken, though whether from embarrassment or curiosity, I couldn’t say.

Dr. Hensley seemed unfazed by my internal turmoil, his expression remaining steady. “I hope this has soothed some of your concerns,” he continued. “As I mentioned, your admittance is voluntary. If you choose to stay, if you want to be healthier, to be stress-free, and to find balance, then sign on the bottom line.” He placed the clipboard beside me on the table, the pen balanced neatly on top as if to emphasize the simplicity of the decision.

“If you still wish to leave,” he added, his voice softening, “I only ask that you wait until the bag of fluids is completed and you no longer exhibit symptoms that might impair your driving.”

The steady throb in my head persisted, but his explanations had dispelled many of the fears that had gripped me earlier. I realized how much my imagination, fed by years of horror movies and skewed perceptions, had distorted the idea of a sanitarium. Instead of a cold, foreboding institution, this place felt… different. It was elegant, warm, and oddly reassuring. Dr. Hensley himself embodied that contrast, his presence both authoritative and approachable.

One week felt like a long time, though. A small voice in my head whispered doubts, reminding me of the administrative leave forced upon me after Callen’s cutting remarks. I’d planned to spend those two weeks hiding at home, nursing my wounded pride and pretending I wasn’t unraveling. Melanie had disrupted that plan when she suggested this place. Still, this couldn’t be much different from isolating myself at home, right? If anything, it might be better.

He made it sound so simple. Just sign and let him help me. As though fixing everything could be as straightforward as putting my name on a piece of paper. But the weight of that pen, resting so innocuously on the clipboard, felt immense. I hesitated, my mind racing with second thoughts.

Dr. Hensley’s gaze didn’t waver. His blue eyes seemed to pierce through my defenses, as if he could see the doubts tumbling through my mind. “It won’t be an easy journey,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring, “but it will be worth the reward.”

I swallowed hard. Those words carried a weight that settled deep in my chest. This wasn’t just about recovery or relaxation—it was about facing everything I’d been avoiding, confronting the cracks I’d tried so desperately to ignore. The path ahead wasn’t clear, but something in his tone made me believe it might be worth it.

With trembling hands, I reached for the pen. The smooth barrel felt cool against my fingers as I stared at the blank line awaiting my signature. My chest tightened with the gravity of the choice before me, but I knew I couldn’t let myself overthink it. Before I could second-guess myself, I scrawled my name across the page and added my initials where required.

The moment the pen left the paper, a strange sense of finality washed over me. I had done it. Whatever came next, there was no turning back now.

Chapter THREE

Dr. Hensley took the forms from me, his sharp blue eyes scanning them with meticulous focus before setting them neatly on his desk. “The next step is to get you changed while I evaluate your assessments and then proceed with a physical exam. Normally, this is done in our intake room, but I don’t want you moving just yet—not in your condition. I’m going to grab a nurse and get you a gown.”

He didn’t waste any time. There was an efficiency to his movements, but no urgency that felt rushed or chaotic. Everything he did exuded calm control. He disappeared through the double doors and returned a few minutes later with a light pink gown, a pair of soft, non-slip socks, and a warm blanket folded over his arm. His footsteps were steady as he approached, the quiet confidence in his demeanor making the sterile environment feel a little less intimidating. Before coming closer, he pressed a button on the wall near the doors. A small red light blinked to life above the doorway.

“That should ensure some privacy,” he said, his tone reassuring. Pulling a screen divider across the space between his desk and the table where I lay, he set the items on a chair beside me. “Let’s try sitting up first. If you feel dizzy or faint, let me know.”

He extended his hand, and I took it, welcoming the warmth of his touch. My hands were icy from the cool saline drip, and his steady grip grounded me. As if anticipating my discomfort, he reached over to the now-empty IV bag, clamped the line, and gently detached it from the port in my arm before capping the end.

“As much as I’d prefer starting another bag, that can wait a little while longer,” he said, his voice softening as he studied my reaction.

I managed to sit up without the room spinning, though the relentless pounding in my head made me wince. “I really am okay,” I tried to assure him, but the raised eyebrow he shot me said otherwise. His expression carried an air of quiet authority that reminded me I wasn’t as convincing as I hoped.

Dr. Hensley helped me down from the table, his firm grip steadying me as my feet touched the cold floor. Only when he was sure I could stand on my own did he let go, the sudden absence of his warmth making me acutely aware of how depleted I felt.

“Do you always see patients in your office?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the lingering ache in my limbs.

“Only the ones who need careful observation,” he replied with a faint smile. “Your treatments won’t always be in here, but given the events of this morning, I think this is best. It gives me a chance to keep an eye on you.”

That smile—subtle and fleeting—somehow made me feel safer. It wasn’t the clinical precision of his actions or the wealth of knowledge he clearly possessed that put me at ease. It was that small, human gesture, as though he understood just how fragile I felt without me needing to say a word.

Pulling me from my thoughts, he instructed, “Take your time getting changed. You can place your clothes in here,” he gestured to a wire basket beside the table, “Jewelry too,” he added. “Don’t rush, and if you need help, I’m just on the other side of this curtain.”

I waited until I heard the creak of his chair as he sat down at his desk before I began. My fingers fumbled with the button of my jeans, my body feeling weaker than I expected. As I shimmied out of them, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. My reflection startled me. The curves I used to have were gone, replaced by sharp angles and protruding bones. My collarbone seemed more prominent than ever, and the hollowness around my hips made me feel strangely exposed. Maybe that was why I had chosen the oversized hoodie this morning—to hide the frailty I hadn’t wanted to face.

Pulling the sweatshirt over my head proved more difficult than I anticipated. I moved cautiously, mindful of the IV port, but even the simple act left me breathless. I sat back down in just my t-shirt and panties, trying to gather my strength.

“Are you doing alright?” Dr. Hensley’s voice cut through the silence. A drawer shut, and I heard his footsteps approaching.

“Yes, just taking a break for a moment,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended.

He stepped around the curtain, his eyes meeting mine instantly. He didn’t glance away, didn’t scan my body, but somehow he seemed to take in everything he needed to know. Bending down, he picked up my jeans from the floor and folded them neatly before reaching for my hoodie.

“You don’t have to—” I started, but he silenced me with a firm hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back into the chair.

“Sit,” he said firmly. “It’s no bother at all.”

He folded the hoodie with the same precision and placed it in the basket beside my jeans. His gaze returned to me, this time softer, but still expectant. “What did you have for breakfast?”

I hesitated, not wanting to admit the truth. His raised brow told me he already knew. “The venti coffee in your car is not an appropriate substitute,” he said, his tone carrying just enough reprimand to make me squirm. “While you’re here, you will be eating a minimum of four to five nutritional meals a day. No exceptions.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “How did you…”

“When you fainted, I asked one of the orderlies to check your car for medications. All he found was the coffee cup.”

I hadn’t realized until then that my purse was missing. My gaze darted around the room, searching for it, but Dr. Hensley gently grasped my chin, tilting my head so I had no choice but to look at him.

“Mrs. Knolty brought me your purse and cell phone. Everything is accounted for. Now, take a deep breath.”

I obeyed, inhaling slowly and exhaling just as he had instructed. His hand moved to my elbow, guiding me to my feet with a steadiness I couldn’t muster on my own. He unfolded the gown with one hand, his movements fluid and practiced.

“I’m steady,” I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction. “I can do it.”

He didn’t respond, his calm authority leaving no room for argument. He turned me gently so I faced away from him, maintaining contact as he unhooked my bra with practiced ease. The cool air against my skin made me shiver, but his professionalism kept the moment from feeling invasive.

Guiding my arms into the sleeves, he fastened the ties at the back, his fingertips brushing against my shoulders as he moved my hair to the side.

When I turned around, he had already folded the rest of my clothes and placed them neatly in the basket. “Panties too,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

I hesitated, but the look in his eyes left no room for protest. Leaning down, I shimmied out of them, using his arm for balance. Handing them to him, I felt a strange mix of vulnerability and relief when he simply nodded and placed them in the basket without comment.

“Now, back on the table, Miss Watson,” he instructed, stepping behind the curtain briefly before returning with his stethoscope and a thick cream-colored folder.

“I’ll be writing down notes and stats during the exam,” he explained as he set the folder down. “Not everything I write signifies something is wrong; these are just observations for my review later. There’s no need to worry.”

I nodded, my attention briefly drawn to the file. My assessment and consent form had already been hole-punched and neatly added to it. Before I could read too much, I felt the squeeze of a blood pressure cuff around my arm. Dr. Hensley adjusted it with precision, gently placing my arm down to ensure an accurate reading before clipping an oxygen sensor onto my finger.

“You left the section of current prescriptions blank,” Dr. Hensley stated, his tone as calm and measured as ever. “Are you taking anything… vitamins or dietary supplements?”

I shook my head, feeling a pang of guilt. “I used to take vitamins regularly, but it’s been a few months. With this new work schedule, I’m hardly ever home, let alone remember to take them.”

“Ah, I see. And, no birth control?”

The blood pressure monitor beeped, breaking the momentary silence. He jotted down the numbers, removing the cuff from my arm and slipping the oxygen sensor off my finger.

“No, nothing,” I replied, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

He studied me with a hint of curiosity before asking, “Is that a personal choice, or due to medical or religious affiliation?”

I wasn’t about to admit that it had been nearly three years since I’d had sex and hadn’t seen a reason for birth control. Instead, I answered simply, “Personal.”

He didn’t press further, his expression neutral as he observed me. Reaching for my wrist, he placed two fingers against my vein, his eyes on his wristwatch as he silently calculated my heart rate. The simplicity of the action struck me—no machines, just an old-fashioned method that somehow felt more intimate.

“Are you feeling anxious?” he asked, releasing my wrist and sitting back slightly.

I shook my head. “Like I said, I feel fine.”

Dr. Hensley leaned forward, unbuttoning the top few snaps of the gown. He retrieved his stethoscope and placed the cold metal against my chest, making me flinch slightly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. When he finished listening to my heart, he looked up and explained, “Your heart rate is fast. Your body has acclimated to high stress, high anxiety, and now believes this is the new normal. It’s not a lifestyle we encourage, but our intention is to get you back to a healthier baseline by the end of your stay.”

He moved the stethoscope to my back, instructing me to take deep breaths. Afterward, he checked my ears, nose, throat, and pupil response. When he flashed the small penlight into my eyes, I instinctively turned my head away, the brightness making me wince.

He jotted a note in the margins of my file, his pen moving swiftly across the paper. I craned my neck, trying to see what he was writing, but was interrupted when he tapped my knees with a small rubber hammer, testing my reflexes.

“Reflexes are normal,” he said with a small nod. “I’d like to grab a quick height and weight if you feel steady enough.”

I nodded, and he held out a hand to help me off the table. My feet touched the cold floor, and I steadied myself, his hand never leaving mine as we walked across the room. His attentiveness felt protective rather than patronizing, a detail I couldn’t ignore.

He motioned for me to stand tall against the wall, my heels pressed against the baseboard. After noting my height, he gestured for me to step onto the scale. The number staring back at me was disheartening. I’d lost sixteen pounds, likely from skipping meals and overworking myself. My throat tightened with embarrassment, and I avoided looking at him as I stepped away.

Walking back to the table, I felt his presence close behind. My shame swirled in the air between us, but when I finally glanced at him, his expression was gentle, devoid of judgment.

“Go ahead and lie down,” he instructed. He guided my legs onto the table, swiveling me into position with the same care as before. His hands were firm but gentle as he palpated my stomach, pressing carefully across my abdomen.

“Let me know if any of this is tender or painful,” he said. His hands hovered over certain areas, and I winced when he pressed lower. He paused, writing another note in the margins before continuing.

“Tell me about your diet habits,” he prompted.

I sighed, feeling exposed in more ways than one. “I’ve not been the greatest,” I admitted. “I don’t always remember to eat, and when I do, healthier options take more time than I can afford.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that,” he said, his tone compassionate. “There’s no judgment here. I only wish you’d come sooner. You have a few blockages in your intestines that will be uncomfortable to remove, to say the least.”

My frown deepened as he continued. “As I mentioned earlier, you will eat a minimum of four nutritional meals a day. Processed sugars, simple carbs, and caffeine will be eliminated from your diet. We take a fast and hard approach—ripping off the Band-Aid, so to speak.”

“No caffeine? That’s barbaric,” I muttered, a shiver of dread running through me. “I can’t just cut cold turkey. I can’t function without my morning coffee.”

“You can,” he countered, his voice firm yet reassuring. “I promise you, but you won’t be alone. I’ll be here to help every step of the way. It will be difficult, but your body will thank you later. Caffeine is a drug—legal and normalized, but a drug nonetheless. It exacerbates anxiety and panic attacks, which I hope you understand.”

I slumped against the table, pouting slightly as his words sank in. Seven days. I could survive that long, right? But doubt crept in, the realization hitting me like a freight train. I’d signed away my ability to make decisions. My cell phone was gone, the one lifeline I’d relied on for months stripped from me. For the first time, I felt trapped.

A knock at the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts. A nurse entered carrying a small metal tray, the top covered with a cloth. She set it down on a stand near the table as Dr. Hensley pulled stirrups out from beneath the table and positioned them at my feet.

“Thank you, Mary,” he said warmly, his smile genuine. A pang of longing flickered through me. I wanted him to smile at me like that, but all I’d received so far were fleeting grins and professional detachment.

“Anything else, doctor?” Mary asked, her tone brisk.

Dr. Hensley lifted the cloth, inspecting the tray’s contents. “No, this will do. If you could see to Miss Watson’s room, I’d appreciate it. We won’t be much longer here.”

The nurse nodded and exited, and my eyes followed her until the door clicked shut. The sound of latex snapping against Dr. Hensley’s wrist drew my attention back to him. He had donned gloves, his expression focused as he prepared for the next part of the exam.

“Slide down for me a little,” he instructed. I complied, feeling the edge of the table against my thighs. “That’s perfect.”

He placed my legs in the stirrups and fastened straps around my ankles and thighs. “This is just a precaution,” he said, his tone soothing as he draped the blanket over me, creating a tent-like barrier.

The scent of disinfectant filled the air as he wiped a cool solution over my sensitive skin. I flinched at the temperature, instinctively trying to pull away, but the straps held me in place. “I’m just going to let that dry for a moment,” he explained, removing his gloves.

“When is the last time you had a breast exam?” he asked, his eyes steady on mine.

I shook my head, unable to recall. Watching me closely, he moved closer. “May I?” he asked, his hand hovering near the gown.

I nodded, appreciating the gesture despite knowing he didn’t technically need my consent. His hand slipped under the gown, his touch methodical as he examined my left breast. His movements were professional, but as his thumb grazed my nipple, my breath hitched. Our eyes met, and a flicker of awareness passed between us.

“Are you always this sensitive?” he asked softly.

His touch lingered around my areola, grazing the edge of my nipple on purpose. I closed my eyes while he continued to search for lumps when all of a sudden, he pinched my nipple hard, and my eyes shot open.

“I asked you a question,” he toyed, “are you normally so sensitive?”

I stumbled to find the right words. “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I haven’t been touched in a long time.”

“I see.” He noted that on my chart and continued to repeat the pattern with my right breast—massaging, lifting, and then tugging on my nipple. My hips raised a little off the table. Something deep within me had awaken and out of nowhere, I was craving to be satisfied on a deeper level.

Opening my eyes when his touch disappeared, I watched him return to my spread legs, his eyes on me when he grabbed a stool. “I know these things can be uncomfortable, but I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.” He pulled on a new pair of gloves and sat between my legs, rolling the cart closer to him. I heard the clank of something metal but couldn’t see anything.

“Take a deep breath in and let it go.”

Out of nowhere I felt something cold and foreign entering my tight bum on the exhale but by the time I clenched, it was too late. It was already inside me.

“Just relax, I’m just getting your temperature.”

I tried to sit up on my elbows. “You couldn’t have used that thermometer?” I pointed to the one next to the blood pressure machine.

He smiled. “I find this method to be more accurate, and it does wonders to keep my patients guessing—reminds them of who is in charge.” A cheeky grin formed on his lips, and I realized, that behind the stoic professionalism was a sadist.

“I don’t need a reminder.” I confessed. “You’re not the one with their legs spread wide.”

He smiled, “Miss Emery, I’ve known you all of two hours now and I can tell you with all honesty, your biggest issue is going to be letting go of your control. You’re going to have to learn to let someone else take care of you, because quite frankly, you don’t seem capable.” He removed the thermometer and jotted down the temperature. “One-hundred and two. I suspected as much.”

Now I was annoyed. “I didn’t come here to be chastised.”

“No, you came here to let me help you feel better.” His voice was stern. “Alright, the next step is a urine sample.”

Again, I tried to pull on the restraints, but forgot that I couldn’t move my legs.

“Not so fast, he rested a hand on my thigh. “You won’t need to move. I’m going to use a catheter to avoid contaminating the sample. Just lay back and try to focus on your breathing.”

My cheeks turned bright red. “Is that really necessary?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Yes, Miss Watson, it is. I’ll be quick, I promise, and with the amount of fluids you’ve had already, I know you have to go.”

I did. Badly, but I hadn’t found the right moment to ask to go to the restroom. I was pulled out of my thoughts when his fingers spread my labia and something cold swiped across the distance from my clit to my rose bud. And then again with another swipe. It wasn’t stingy like the alcohol swabs, but it has the same antiseptic smell. I winkled my nose.

“Just try to relax and don’t hold it in. When the urge hits, just let go. I promise you’re not going to make a mess.”

I tried to but there was a burning sensation and then a pinch. My hips rose off the table, stopped by the straps.

“You’re almost there, nearly done now.” He encouraged.

There was another sharp pinch. “Ow.” And then I lost control as if I was wetting myself but I couldn’t stop it.

“It’s a perfectly normal sensation,” Dr. Hensley said, “I’m inflating the balloon now to keep it in place, but you did good.” A few seconds went by. “Even with the fluids, your urine is still darker than I’d like. We’ll start another bag to help rehydrate you after I’m finished with your exam.”

I felt his gloved finger enter my sex and then another as he checked the wall of my vagina in a circular motion, spreading the cold lube.

Just then I felt something cold and hard at the entrance of my sex. “Deep breath and breathe out.” He was slow and gentle like he said he would be and other than the cold metal, there was no discomfort.

The speculum clicked once and then again, spreading me open. “You’re doing great, nearly finished here.” I wanted nothing more than to sink into the emptiness of my mind at the moment. I felt the familiar pinch of the swab on my cervix but it was nothing to the burning sensation of the catheter. A second later, the speculum retracked and he gently removed it.

Breathing normally, I relaxed until I felt a gloved finger enter my bum uninvited.

“Relax. I’m only checking to make sure there are no tears in the tissue. And besides, I think you’ve deserved a treat.” With one finger in my ass, he slipped two more into my vagina, instantly finding my g-spot.

Everything came alive, a whirlwind of sensations burst through to the forefront of my mind as his touch created a circular pattern and sparking a rhythm of intoxicating motions from within. I forgot every embarrassing moment leading up to this, poof—gone.

Closing my eyes, I focused on only the sensation. It was building. And then, his thumb rolled over my clitoris, and I practically melted. My hips raised off the table, and the muscles in my stomach clenched.

His slow, steady repetitious motions were throttling every nerve ending in my body—the fuel to the fire—igniting a flame from within. A moan escaped my lips as he pressed against my g-spot and clit at the same time, and I came loudly.

My body rocked with the flood of endorphins and chemicals. My breathing was labored and instead of the chill I had earlier, my entire body was washed over in a wave of warmth.

When my hips returned to the table, and my body relaxed, he gently pulled his hands free, removed the catheter, and cleaned me with a warm washcloth. In any other moment I probably would have been embarrassed he was cleaning me up after such a powerful orgasm, but I didn’t have an ounce of care in the world.

With a soft touch, he unfastened the buckles on the leather straps and lowered my legs back to the table. I was so high from the orgasm that I hadn’t even noticed he was beside me until I felt him touching my arm. With my curiosity piqued, I watched as he withdrew four vials of blood A second later, he was reattaching another bag of fluids to the port in my arm.

I felt a flood of warmth, not unlike the aftermath of the orgasm, but this time my body felt heavy. I looked over as he pulled a small syringe out of the IV.

“It’s a mild sedative; a little something to help quiet your mind. Get some rest, little one.”

Chapter FOUR

Blinking away the sleep, I found myself in an unfamiliar room. Two small windows sat to my right, a door to my left. Someone had moved me to a twin-sized hospital bed, its railings raised, the curtains drawn shut. At first glance, I had no idea how long I’d been out.

Determined to figure it out, I fumbled with the bedside railing until it finally gave way, falling down with a clank. As I swung my legs over the side, the room spun, forcing me to pause. Just then, the urge hit me like a freight train—I needed to pee.

Panicking, I reached for the IV port tethering me to the equipment.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Dr. Hensley appeared from around the corner, grabbing my wrist firmly before I could yank on the line—again. How did he always manage to show up at just the right moment?

“I have to pee,” I explained, but he didn’t look impressed.

“Then you ask for help.” He crimped the IV line and disconnected the port, freeing me from my "ball and chain."

“It’s just a trip to the bathroom,” I argued. “I think I can manage on my own.”

I stood on shaky legs, only to nearly topple over when my vision blurred and the room spun even harder.

He chuckled softly. “You were saying?” With one hand on my elbow and the other around my waist, he steadied me and guided me toward the attached bathroom. I half expected it to be sterile and clinical, maybe outfitted with pull strings and oversized railings, but it was anything but. The bathroom was elegant, warm, and inviting. Heated tiles in a black-and-white floral pattern lined the floor. A standalone clawfoot tub took center stage, with no shower curtain in sight. Even the stamped aluminum ceiling tiles evoked an air of 1920s charm.

He led me to the toilet, stepping back to give me privacy. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he waited on the other side until he heard the flush.

I was already at the sink, about to wash my hands, when I caught sight of his scolding look in the mirror.

“Being a strong, independent woman is a hard habit to break, Doc. Go easy on me,” I said, trying to deflect.

“I thought I was,” he rebuked, the corner of his lips curling into the faintest smile. Tossing me a towel, he added, “Alright. Back to bed with you. I need another round of vitals, and then we’ll see about getting you something to eat.”

The mention of food didn’t excite me. My appetite had dulled after months of eating sparingly, a habit I hadn’t shaken. And that wasn’t like me—I loved food.

Dr. Hensley seemed to notice my change in demeanor. His eyes lingered curiously, but he didn’t push. Once I was back in bed, he pulled the covers up and reconnected the saline line.

“Shouldn’t a nurse be doing this? Seems like you could be doing better things than hovering over me.”

“Hovering?” he repeated with a unique tone, almost amused. “I thought I was taking care of a patient who apparently needs closer monitoring.” His pointed words reminded me of my earlier attempt to remove the IV.

He wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm and clipped the oxygen sensor to my finger. Meeting my eyes, he said, “I can imagine what you’re feeling right now. You’re not the first patient to place proving themselves capable over the desire to get better.”

He paused as the machine beeped. After jotting down the numbers and removing the cuff, he continued, “Here, you’re a patient—my patient. That comes with certain expectations. For example, next time you need to use the restroom, press the call button, and someone will assist you. You might think you’re capable, Miss Watson, but your body is going to endure a tremendous change over the next few days. I won’t jeopardize your health for the sake of your pride.”

“The bathroom is just right there,” I protested. “I thought—”

“You thought you’d do it on your own,” he interrupted, his words sharp enough to send a chill down my spine. Sensing the effect he’d had, he softened his tone. “Your hardest challenge won’t be overcoming the withdrawal; it will be learning to let go—to give up control. Don’t you agree?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. Maybe I was a control freak. It had always been my way of soothing anxiety—controlling situations to manage outcomes, to feel prepared, less panicked. After a moment, I nodded.

“Acknowledgment is a step in the right direction.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, the simple gesture easing some of my tension. “Now, roll onto your side and face the door.”

Without questioning why, I did as he asked.

“That’s very good,” he said softly, lifting the blanket. His hand brushed my thigh as he adjusted the gown, and only then did I realize what he was doing.

“Just a quick temperature check. From the feel of it, you’re still running a high fever.” There wasn’t much warning before I felt his lubed finger pressing into me, spreading the cool gel, followed quickly by the thermometer. Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but his hand held me firmly in place.

“That’s it. You’re doing great,” he reassured me, his fingertips making small, soothing circles on my thigh. And just like that, it was over.

He sighed as he glanced at the thermometer and jotted something down in his notes. “Still one hundred and two. I’ll give you something to bring it down. We don’t want your fever climbing higher.”

After removing his gloves and sanitizing his hands, he stepped out, leaving me alone. The quiet felt heavier than it should have. I hated feeling vulnerable, and yet, part of me wanted him to come back—to tell me everything would be alright.

Moments later, he returned with Nurse Mary, who carried a lunch tray. She placed it at the foot of the bed, then pulled back the heavy curtains to reveal sheer white drapes. Sunlight flooded the room, and I shielded my eyes with my arm.

“Sorry, dear,” Mary said with a cheerful tone. “But the light will do you good. No point in dwelling in the dark.”

I fought the urge to retort, rolling my eyes instead.

“There will be none of that,” Dr. Hensley said firmly, his low voice startling me. I hadn’t even realized he was standing beside me. “Understand?”

I nodded, feeling more like a reprimanded child than a grown adult who had voluntarily come here.

Maybe that had been my mistake. I had done this to myself.

“Very good.” Dr. Hensley gave me one last warning look before withdrawing several leads with sticky pads from a nearby cart. He opened the front of my gown with practiced precision and began placing the pads in their appropriate spots. “This will help us monitor your heart through the night. Try not to pull them off in your sleep, or you’ll be woken up by an angry nurse.”

Mary, standing behind him, smiled warmly. “Don’t let him scare you, sweetie. We’re mostly bark, hardly any bite. It’s the good doctor you’ll need to watch out for—he’s the disciplinarian here.”

“Lovely,” I muttered under my breath, earning a devilish grin from Dr. Hensley. A moment later, he connected the leads, and the heart rate monitor came alive with a loud beep. He turned the volume down, though its faint hum remained a constant reminder that I wasn’t in my own bed—that I was being closely monitored.

Mary stepped forward and moved the tray in front of me, revealing a bowl of thin broth, a glass of bright blue liquid that I presumed was Gatorade, and a cup of ice.

“When you said food, I thought you actually meant something edible—not this,” I said, eyeing the tray with distaste.

Mary was quick to respond before Dr. Hensley could. “Your body is severely dehydrated, and these will be gentle on your stomach. Plus, they’re packed with nutrients.”

Dr. Hensley added, “Once we have your blood results, I can tailor your meals more appropriately. Until then, we’ll tread cautiously.” As he spoke, he reached into the pocket of his white coat, withdrawing a pre-filled syringe. After purging the air with a soft spray, he injected the contents into the IV line with a steady hand before tidying up the area.

With a curt nod to Mary and a lingering look in my direction, he turned and disappeared out the door.

“Well now, dear,” Mary said, her voice bright and encouraging, “drink up.”

Chapter FIVE

I must have dozed off because when I woke, a massive headache gripped me like a vice. The pain pulsed deep within my skull, unrelenting and cruel, and I knew no pain medication could touch it. Nearly on the verge of tears, I tossed and turned, my eyes clamped shut as if denying the pain could will it away. At some point after lunch, someone had drawn the curtains shut, mercifully blocking out the light. It was my only saving grace in that agonizing moment.

Another tray of liquid broth had been delivered and placed on the bedside table, but I had no desire for it. What I truly craved was coffee—or tea, at the very least. Anything with a kick that could make the headache relent. The longing gnawed at me, a cruel reminder of how deeply caffeine had burrowed into my daily existence.

Mary came back, her presence a quiet shuffle of motion around the room. She urged me to eat, her voice soft but insistent. Still, I refused. The first bowl of broth had been fine, even flavorful, but it hadn’t satisfied the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. My body ached for something more substantial, though my mind and heart seemed dead-set against food. After a few ignored pleas, she helped me to the restroom and then back into bed. There were no detours, no conversations—just silence and a shared sense of resignation.

“Please, can I just have some coffee?” I begged her, my voice almost breaking. “My headache is killing me.”

Mary offered me a sympathetic look as she adjusted the blankets around me. “I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, dear. I’ll let the doctor know, but I’m afraid he isn’t easily swayed—no matter how bad things get.” Her words carried a note of finality, and she left me curled up in the bed, shivering despite the layers of covers.

The fever hadn’t broken. I rubbed my arms, futilely trying to erase the goosebumps that seemed permanently etched into my skin. Time blurred into an untrackable haze, and I wasn’t sure how long it had been since Mary left. When I finally opened my eyes again, Dr. Hensley was standing beside the machine, studying the readout with an air of quiet authority. He glanced down at me, offering a soft smile that managed to pierce the fog of my discomfort.

Beside him hung another bag of saline, its clear contents catching the dim light. I hadn’t been keeping track, but I was certain my dehydration should have been long gone by now. They’d been pumping fluids into me since I arrived.

“Your headache has returned? How bad is the pain?” he asked, his voice low and calm as he hung the new bag with practiced efficiency. I groaned inwardly when he reached for the glass thermometer. That little device was becoming my least favorite thing in the world.

“Please,” I pleaded, desperate. “I need some coffee. Just a little bit to take the edge off.”

“Your pain, Emery.” He arched an eyebrow, his tone signaling he wasn’t about to let me evade the question.

“It’s fine. I can manage,” I lied, though the pounding in my head betrayed the truth.

His lips pressed into a thin line, skepticism evident, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he motioned for me to roll over, the thermometer gleaming in his hand.

“No,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “Not until you listen to me.”

Dr. Hensley’s gaze softened, his voice quieter than before. “I am listening to you, Emery. I can see you’re distressed—the hot and cold flashes, the perspiration on your skin, the light sensitivity, and your irritability. I’ve heard your pleas, but giving you what you want in this moment won’t help. It will only set you back. You need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

I sighed, the fight draining out of me as his hand gently guided me to roll onto my side. Each time he took my temperature this way, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the mortifying red hue of my blush.

Was I really irritable? Maybe. The headache alone was enough to fray anyone’s nerves, but it wasn’t just that. I hadn’t even begun to process what had happened back at the office. Images of that day flickered in my mind, sharp and intrusive. I shook my head, pushing them away.

“Something else bothering you?” he asked as he pulled the thermometer free and tucked the blanket back around me.

I shook my head again, dismissing the question.

Sensing my hesitance, he shifted gears. “I see you haven’t touched your food. Is something wrong with it?”

Finally finding my voice, I replied, “No, it’s fine. I’m just not interested right now. I’m sure it tastes wonderful—I’m just not hungry.”

Dr. Hensley rolled the table over and lowered the guard rail of the bed. “Hungry or not, you need to keep your strength up—even if that means eating when you don’t feel like it.”

He opened the thermos, pouring the steaming broth into a mug. Handing it to me, he said, “I’ll make you a deal. If you drink two cups, I’ll see what I can do about finding some chocolate. It’s not coffee, but it might help with the cravings.”

“I thought you weren’t easily swayed,” I countered, narrowing my eyes.

“I know when to pick my battles and when to surrender. Let’s call this one a truce.” He winked at me, his charm impossible to resist as he placed the warm mug in my hands. The heat seeped into my chilled fingers, and for a moment, I allowed myself to savor the comfort.

As if reading my mind, he ducked into the hallway. Moments later, he returned with a heated blanket. He wrapped it around me, his movements efficient yet careful. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Nurse Heidi will be on shift tonight. She’ll check on you within the hour. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to press the call button—that’s what she’s here for. And if things get worse, they know to wake me. I’m just down the hall.”

“Wait,” I said, setting the soup down. “You live here?”

He arched a playful brow. “I do. Being close to my patients can be useful. It allows me to keep a closer eye on the troublesome ones.”

“Don’t look at me,” I quipped, raising my hands in mock defense.

He chuckled. “No, you’ve been surprisingly well-behaved. It’s been a delightful surprise.”

“You thought I’d be a troublemaker, didn’t you?”

“There’s still time, and plenty of reasons for you to rebel in the near future.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dr. Hensley picked up the mug and placed it back in my hands. “Drink up. I won’t tell you again. I expect the second cup gone by the time Nurse Heidi checks on you.”

I took a sip absentmindedly, barely registering the taste.

“Your lab results will be back in the morning,” he said. “We’ll try to get you something more appetizing tomorrow—if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Anything is better than this liquid diet.”

“Because this is just the calm before the storm. Get some rest, Emery. I’ll check on you in the morning.” His tone carried a subtle warning, but his concern was evident. I watched him as he left, a strange mix of apprehension and comfort settling over me.

No more than twenty minutes later, Nurse Heidi entered the room, bringing a burst of energy with her. She appeared younger than me—mid-twenties, if I had to guess—with long, bouncy curls and striking greenish-blue eyes that seemed to shimmer with enthusiasm. Her steps were light, almost playful, and every movement exuded a liveliness I couldn’t help but envy.

“Good evening,” she greeted with a bright smile. “You must be Emery. I’m Nurse Heidi, but you can just call me Heidi. No need to get formal with me—I think it’s silly.” She moved to the edge of the bed, her cheerful demeanor as disarming as it was uplifting.

“Nice to meet you, Heidi,” I replied, slightly awed by how chipper she sounded. Even her voice carried an infectious warmth I hadn’t encountered in a long time.

“Well, everything looks good here,” she said, glancing at the monitors. “I see Dr. Hensley has already recorded your vitals.” She flipped through my chart, her brows furrowing slightly. “I’ll check with him to see if I can give you something for the headache. Looks like the last dose is out of your system already.”

“That would be amazing,” I said, relief seeping into my tone. “My head feels like someone split it open.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” She reached for the bedside table, sliding it away to tidy up. Picking up the thermos, she gave it a little shake to gauge its weight. “Dr. Hensley will be pleased to hear you’ve been drinking more broth.” Then, with a knowing grin, she reached into the pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a small bar of dark chocolate. “I believe this was the deal.”

“Uhh, thanks.” I didn’t wait another second. Tearing open the wrapper, I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth. The bittersweet flavor melted across my tongue, a small indulgence that felt almost decadent in my current state.

“I know that feeling,” Heidi said, her grin widening. “Even though I’m not a patient here, Dr. Hensley runs a tight ship. He has a point, though—it’s not fair to indulge in things our patients can’t. Chocolate is probably one of the only sweet treats in the entire building, and even then, it’s dark chocolate with barely any added sugar.”

As she spoke, she busied herself tidying up the space, her movements quick and efficient. There was something soothing about her presence, a stark contrast to the lingering headache that still throbbed at the base of my skull. After a moment, she pulled out her work phone, skimmed a message, and left the room.

Several minutes later, Heidi returned, this time with a syringe in hand. I watched her closely, a flicker of hope sparking within me. The prospect of pain relief felt like salvation. My relief only deepened as she pushed the plunger into the IV line, the familiar cool sensation spreading through my veins.

Almost immediately, the pain began to ebb. I wasn’t sure if it was the chocolate or the medication—or both—but a pleasant, floaty sensation took hold, washing away the tension and replacing it with a gentle calm.

As I started to relax, Heidi reached for another glass bottle with a label so tiny I couldn’t make out the text. She began filling a second syringe, her focus entirely on the task at hand. The faint hiss of the plunger clearing air from the needle pulled me out of my haze.

“What is that?” I asked, a thread of unease creeping into my voice.

Heidi didn’t answer right away, intent on ensuring the syringe was ready. Then, as she pressed the plunger into the IV line, she said casually, “This will help you sleep.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but before the words could form, I felt the liquid take effect. My eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the haze of drowsiness descending faster than I anticipated.

“I don’t need drugs to sleep—” I tried to say, but my voice trailed off, barely audible. Frustration flared briefly as I realized I hadn’t even finished my chocolate.

And then the darkness claimed me, drawing me into a deep, dreamless void.

Chapter SIX

The night was a haze of restless sleep, filled with tossing and turning that left me groggy and disoriented. The sedatives they’d given me dulled my senses, leaving me adrift in a fog where time felt meaningless. When I finally woke, the hallway was dimly lit, the glow from the sconces casting soft shadows on the walls. The silence felt almost oppressive, amplifying the sound of my breathing as I pushed the damp covers off my body, desperate to free myself from their stifling grip.

Everything was wet. At first, I thought it was just sweat—proof of the fever that had wracked my body the day before—but as I sat up, the clammy fabric of my gown clung to my skin, and I realized it was far worse. My gown was soaked from the waist down, as was the bed beneath me.

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

Panic clawed at my chest as the reality sank in: I had wet the bed. My face burned with humiliation, the kind of shame that seeped into your bones and refused to let go. I scrambled out of the bed, my movements clumsy and frantic as I tried to figure out what to do. If I could just strip the sheets and replace them before anyone noticed, I could avoid the mortifying task of explaining myself.

But as I reached for the farthest corner of the sheet, one of the heart monitor leads came loose. The machine’s alarm blared to life, its sharp, piercing sound cutting through the silence like a knife. My heart sank. The nurse would come running, and what would she see? She’d see the mess I’d made, the undeniable evidence of my loss of control.

Shaking my head, I muttered to myself, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Shaking my head, I muttered to myself, “No, no, no, this can’t be happening.” Frantically, I grabbed the dangling wire, fumbling to reconnect it before anyone could come. But before I could fix it, I saw a shadowy silhouette in the doorway.

Heidi stepped into the room, her gaze immediately taking in the scene. Her expression softened as she quickly made her way around the bed. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said gently, reaching behind me to silence the alarm. The sudden quiet felt deafening, leaving me alone with the weight of my shame.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “Please, let me clean it up. It was an accident.”

She shushed me softly. “First things first.” Her hands found mine, her touch steadying. “You’ve done nothing wrong. These things happen.”

“No, they don’t,” I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief. “Not to adults.”

Her response was calm, almost dismissive. “Emery, your body is under a lot of stress right now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She waved her hand as if the incident were inconsequential, but to me, it wasn’t. The last time this had happened, I was a toddler. This wasn’t just embarrassing—it was devastating.

The room spun again, and I swayed on unsteady legs. Heidi caught me quickly, her grip firm but kind. She undid the remaining leads and the IV line before guiding me slowly toward the bathroom. Pushing the door open, she ushered me to a small chair in the corner. “Why don’t you sit here for a few minutes while I tidy up the room? When I’m finished, I’ll come back and help clean you up. Sound good?”

I nodded weakly, words failing me. She shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sank into the chair, my head falling into my hands as a wave of defeat washed over me. My muscles ached, my mind felt sluggish, and worst of all, I had lost control of the most basic bodily function. The humiliation was suffocating. I hadn’t felt this powerless in my entire life.

 Determined to reclaim a shred of dignity, I stood on shaky legs, gripping the countertop for support. Slowly, I reached behind me to untie the strings of my gown. The knot at the nape of my neck came loose easily, and I moved to the tie at my waist. Just as I started to pull, the door creaked open.

“Thanks, Heidi, but I think I can manage,” I said without turning around.

A deep voice, smooth and steady, replied instead. “I thought we agreed you’d let me help you.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. Dr. Hensley was inches from me, his breath grazing the exposed skin of my collarbone. Before I could spin around, his hands found my hips, grounding me in place. The warmth of his touch steadied me, and in that moment, I was grateful for the support. The sudden movement had made me nauseous.

“Are you going to let me help you?” he asked, his tone firm but patient.

I nodded because my voice refused to cooperate.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his words low and deliberate. Reaching past me, he turned on the water, letting it run over his wrist to check the temperature. Once satisfied, he moved to stand in front of me. It was only then that I noticed his casual attire—a simple white cotton t-shirt and scrub bottoms. A small grin tugged at my lips when I saw his bare feet.

He followed my gaze, a sheepish smile breaking through his usual professionalism. “I heard the heart monitor alarm and rushed over.”

Oh. That meant he knew what had happened.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

I avoided his gaze, my cheeks burning with shame. Shaking my head, I bit back the tears threatening to spill.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Emery. Your body is under immense stress right now.”

I expected him to press further, but instead, he busied himself untying the last knot of my gown. His movements were efficient yet gentle as he helped me step out of the damp fabric.

“I really can take it from here,” I murmured, feeling vulnerable under his watchful gaze.

“Not a chance,” he replied firmly. “The sedative we gave you is still in your system. I’m not leaving you alone in here.”

“But Nurse Heidi—”

“—has other patients to attend to. You’re stuck with me.” His tone left no room for argument.

The tub filled quickly, the gentle sound of the water breaking the tense silence. I tried to focus on the warmth rising around me instead of the mortifying realization that Dr. Hensley was about to oversee my bath.

He took my hand, guiding me carefully into the tub. The instant the warm water surrounded me, my muscles began to relax. A deep sigh of relief escaped my lips, the tension in my body melting away.

While I soaked, Dr. Hensley moved about the room, retrieving soaps and shampoos from the cabinet. He set two fluffy towels on the sink before bringing everything over to the tub.

“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, placing his hand gently at the base of my head. He guided me down into the water, and when I surfaced, I instinctively reached for the shampoo. He swatted my hand away, his expression amused but firm.

“Let me,” he said, pouring the honey-scented shampoo into his hands.

His fingertips worked methodically through my hair, massaging my scalp with a tenderness that caught me off guard. I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch. It was oddly comforting, a simple act of care that I hadn’t realized I needed.

“This isn’t so hard, is it?” he murmured. “It’s amazing what happens when you let go.”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, too relaxed to form proper words.

He rinsed my hair with the sprayer, scrubbing my scalp gently, then worked conditioner through my strands with the same careful attention. When he finally finished, I found myself wishing the moment had lasted longer.

But he wasn’t done. After lathering up a loofah, he began washing me, his touch steady and impersonal. The scent of the soap tickled a memory at the back of my mind, something familiar but elusive. It wasn’t until I caught a glimpse of the Johnson & Johnson bottle beside him that I realized what it was—baby soap.

What an odd choice for a scent. My mind churned, searching for a logical explanation. Maybe the soap was designed for sensitive skin, gentler than most. That made sense—sort of. Still, the faint aroma of baby soap tugged at something in me, a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort that I couldn’t quite place.

Before I could dwell further, my thoughts were abruptly interrupted. His hand reached between my legs, and I instinctively jerked back in surprise.

“I can do that,” I blurted, my voice shaky as I moved to intercept him.

“You could,” he replied calmly, unfazed by my reaction, “but I’m not going to let you.” His tone was firm yet gentle, leaving no room for argument.

Heat flushed through me as he continued his task, scrubbing every inch of my skin with meticulous care. I squirmed under his touch, the vulnerability nearly overwhelming. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape his thoroughness. Every intimate, sensitive, and vulnerable area was cleaned, leaving me feeling utterly exposed.

By the time he was finished, I was sure my face was a deep, burning red. The embarrassment radiated from me, but he seemed entirely unaffected, his clinical demeanor unwavering.

When he helped me stand to rinse off, the warm water offered a brief respite, washing away the remnants of soap and, for a fleeting moment, the weight of my mortification. Afterward, he wrapped me snugly in a towel, his hands steady and professional. “Sit here,” he instructed, gesturing toward a small chair near the counter. “I’ll grab a fresh gown.”

Without waiting for a response, he left the room, taking my soiled garments with him. I sat there, the towel clinging to my damp skin, feeling raw and exposed in a way I hadn’t anticipated. This was supposed to be about recovery, wasn’t it? So why did I feel like I was losing pieces of myself in the process?

A few minutes later, he returned, holding a pink gown. My stomach sank when I noticed the tiny hearts scattered across the fabric. Of course, it had to be hearts. I opened my mouth to protest but quickly shut it again. What was the point? He wouldn’t let me dress myself anyway. Resigned, I allowed him to help me into the gown, his movements efficient and deliberate.

Once I was dressed, he knelt in front of me, his gaze steady and calm. “Before we get you back into bed, I need you to keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?”

It was a simple request, yet the weight of his words felt heavier than they should have. I nodded softly, unsure of what he meant.

He guided me toward the bed, holding the door open for me. But as soon as I saw what was waiting on the edge of the mattress, my feet stopped cold. Sitting there, plain as day, was an adult-sized diaper.

My heart sank, and I shook my head in disbelief. This had to be a joke. Surely, he didn’t—

I took a step back, but my retreat was quickly halted by the solid wall of his chest. His hand rested lightly on my lower back, grounding me even as my mind spiraled.

“Remember, keep an open mind,” he reminded me, his voice steady and soothing. “This isn’t a punishment—I want that to be very clear, Emery. This is simply a solution to ensure you don’t have to wake up to another accident.”

The warmth of his hand steadied me, but my thoughts raced. I moved forward mechanically as he gently guided me toward the bed, my body betraying the protests screaming in my head.

“I promise it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” he continued, his tone encouraging. “Who knows, you might even be surprised at how comfortable it is.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” I muttered, my deadpan tone rewarded with a soft chuckle.

Reluctantly, I laid down on the bed, dread pooling in my stomach. “Wait, you’re not going to—”

“I am,” he confirmed without hesitation. His hands were steady as he unfolded the diaper, lifted my legs, and slid it beneath me with practiced ease.

“No, no,” I protested weakly, shaking my head as heat flooded my cheeks. The humiliation was almost unbearable, and I tried to squirm away, but his firm grip held me in place.

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice calm yet unyielding. “It’s okay, Emery. Just relax.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they only heightened my embarrassment. In a matter of moments, the diaper was snugly fastened around my waist. The soft padding was warm against my skin, but the bulk between my legs was impossible to ignore. My cheeks burned, the humiliation wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket.

He gave my bottom a gentle pat, pulling the covers over me with a practiced efficiency. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I shook my head faintly, unable to form a coherent response. “I don’t have to use it, right?” I managed, my voice trembling. “This is only for accidents?”

“If that would make you more comfortable, then yes—for accidents only,” he assured me, his tone kind and understanding.

As he reconnected the saline line and replaced the sticky heart rate nodes on my chest, I noticed the syringe in his hand. My stomach twisted at the sight.

“I can fall asleep without it,” I said quickly, my voice tinged with desperation. “Really, I don’t need it. It makes me so fuzzy, and I don’t—”

“…You don’t want to have another accident,” he finished for me, his understanding clear. He paused, considering my plea. “I’ll hold off for now, but only if you’re able to sleep through the night. I’ll leave instructions with Nurse Heidi to administer more if necessary. You need restful sleep, Emery, and I won’t deprive you of that for the sake of avoiding an accident.”

I nodded, grateful for the compromise. It was a small victory, but in that moment, it felt monumental.

Chapter SEVEN

After the doctor left, falling asleep was far more difficult than I’d imagined. Restlessness consumed me, and every attempt to find comfort felt futile. The headache returned with relentless force, a searing, pulsing pain that radiated through my skull. My body ached in unfamiliar places, muscles I never noticed before now screaming for reprieve. Waves of nausea rolled through me, leaving me queasy and weak.

It felt like I’d just stepped off the world’s most disorienting rollercoaster, my stomach caught in the relentless cycle of ups and downs. I had no idea what time it was, but a faint glow filtered into the hallway through the skylights above, hinting at the passage of time I couldn’t grasp.

I clutched my head with both hands, curling inward, willing the pain to dissipate. It never did. Distant voices echoed faintly, disjointed and surreal. For a moment, I wondered if I was losing my mind. Was that even possible? Maybe.

This was my doing. I had willingly checked myself into this place. A consent form tethered me to this nightmare, but the reality of my decision gnawed at me. Embarrassment, humiliation, and pain collided into one unbearable weight. All I wanted was to leave, to escape the mortifying moments I’d endured and the ones surely still to come.

A cold touch jolted me from my spiraling thoughts. My body jerked instinctively, my eyes barely opening to see Heidi standing over me. Even the soft light in the room felt harsh against my pounding head.

Go away. The silent plea echoed in my mind, but Heidi remained unfazed.

I clenched my eyes shut, wishing the world would vanish, wishing I could somehow transport myself to the nearest coffee shop and drown my misery in a steaming cup of relief. I never imagined withdrawal could feel like this, that something as simple as caffeine could leave such a brutal mark. It only cemented my resolve—this was the last time I would ever give it up.

What was stopping me from leaving? A piece of paper? An IV line? Surely, I could defy those flimsy barriers.

Heidi’s voice broke through the haze as she gently shook me, her concern evident. She tried to wrap a blood pressure cuff around my arm, but I swatted her away, wanting only solitude. Her tone shifted, the bubbly warmth from before replaced with a firmer, more authoritative edge. Despite her persistence, I refused to cooperate, my patience and energy depleted.

Eventually, Heidi left, her absence both a relief and a gnawing void. The room swayed as nausea surged again, threatening to consume me. A bowl of something rested on the table beside the bed. I had no memory of its arrival, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry.

The pounding in my head and the gnawing sickness were too much. I couldn’t do this anymore. This place, this pain—it had all become unbearable. Rolling onto my side, I began yanking at the monitor leads and the IV line. The machine let out a sharp alarm as the IV clattered to the floor, blood splattering against the tile.

Before I could stand, strong arms pulled me back down, pinning me to the bed. Dr. Hensley loomed above me, his frame commanding and unyielding. His arms formed a cage around me, pressing me into the mattress with controlled strength.

“Get off me!” I shouted, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. “I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me!”

Dr. Hensley remained calm, his expression unreadable as he turned to Heidi. “Prepare the five-point system. She’s far too agitated for my liking.”

My chest tightened with panic as I twisted and thrashed against his grip. “No! Let me go!”

“How long has she been like this?” he asked Heidi, his tone clipped. “Why wasn’t I woken earlier?”

Heidi moved swiftly, retrieving something from beneath the bed. My stomach dropped as realization set in—it was a restraint system.

“She seemed fine earlier,” Heidi explained, securing one of my wrists in a thick leather restraint lined with soft fur. “Tired, grumpy, maybe a little dismissive, but I thought it was just the caffeine detox.”

“No! Stop!” I pulled and twisted, but the restraints held firm. My panic intensified as Dr. Hensley secured my other wrist, his strength rendering my resistance futile.

Working in sync, they restrained my ankles next, spreading my legs wider than I cared for. Finally, a thick strap was pulled across my abdomen, pinning me completely. My body was immobilized, the reality of my situation crashing down on me.

Dr. Hensley’s blue eyes softened as he looked down at me, his tone calm but firm. “It’s going to be okay, Emery. This is the worst of it. The toxins are leaving your body, but you need to relax and let us help you.”

I shook my head, my voice trembling. “I don’t want your help. Just let me go.”

Ignoring my protests, he turned to Heidi. “Get me a new port, alcohol wipes, and some gloves.”

I barely registered his words, my focus consumed by the restraints and the overwhelming desire to escape. I pulled hard against the bindings, the bed bouncing beneath me.

“Emery,” he called, his voice sharp. “I need you to look at me.”

I refused, turning my head defiantly.

“Look at me, Emery,” he repeated, his voice firmer now. “I won’t tell you again.”

Reluctantly, I met his gaze. His blue eyes were steady, filled with a mix of authority and concern. “Take a deep breath with me,” he instructed. “Think you can do that?”

“No!” I snapped, my frustration boiling over. “I don’t want your stupid breathing exercises! I want to leave this fucking place!”

Dr. Hensley’s eyebrows shot up at my outburst, his shock evident. He leaned closer, his tone low and deliberate. “This is your only warning. If you continue to use foul language, you’ll receive a swift and unpleasant spanking. Do you understand me?”

His words stunned me into silence. Surely, he wasn’t serious. Was he? My defiance faltered, shame creeping in as I avoided his gaze. I didn’t recognize myself—the anger, the fear, the desperation swirling inside me.

Dr. Hensley gently gripped my chin, guiding my attention back to him. His eyes held a look of disappointment, but also patience. I couldn’t summon the energy to fight anymore. With a small, defeated nod, I surrendered.

Heidi returned with the supplies, and the two of them worked seamlessly. As she cleaned the old IV site, Dr. Hensley carefully searched for a new vein on my forearm, avoiding my wrist and inner elbow. The restraints restricted their access, but they didn’t falter.

I stared at the ceiling, the fight drained from me, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I hated this place, but more than that, I hated the person I’d become.

Dr. Hensley worked efficiently, reseating the IV line with precision and securing the tubing with clear tape. His movements were practiced and confident, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside me. Turning his attention back to Heidi, he issued instructions in his usual calm but authoritative tone.

“Ensure Nurse Mary is fully briefed on the situation. The restraints stay on until I give further orders. Keep the fluids running, monitor vitals every thirty minutes, and watch for any temperature fluctuations or changes in fluid output. Cease all medications—she needs to get through this last hurdle unaided.”

“Yes, Doctor. I’ll notify you immediately if anything changes,” Heidi replied, her professionalism unwavering.

With a curt nod, Dr. Hensley turned and disappeared down the dimly lit hallway, his bare feet padding softly against the floor. The sound of his departure felt oddly final, leaving me alone with Nurse Heidi and my fraying nerves.

An awkward silence settled between us, but something had shifted. Gone was the warm, bubbly demeanor Heidi had greeted me with earlier. She moved with focused efficiency, her actions brisk but not unkind. As she double-checked her work, I couldn’t help but pull and strain against the restraints, the cold leather biting into my skin as I tested every clasp and buckle.

Heidi sighed softly, her patience unwavering. She moved around the bed, ensuring each restraint was secure enough to prevent escape but loose enough to avoid cutting off circulation. Her fingers worked deftly, but there was no denying the tension in the room. My struggles only seemed to deepen her resolve.

“You’re not making this any easier, you know,” she said gently, her voice laced with sympathy. “I understand how frustrating this must be, but fighting only makes it harder—on your body and your mind.”

Her words stung, mostly because they were true. My muscles were already aching from the earlier thrashing, and my wrists burned where the restraints had rubbed against my skin. Despite my growing exhaustion, I couldn’t stop pulling against the bonds, as if sheer force of will could set me free.

After a final inspection of the restraints, Heidi straightened and met my gaze. “I’ll be back to check on you regularly,” she said, her tone softer now, tinged with an apology she couldn’t quite put into words. “It’s best not to fight anymore. You’ll only hurt yourself. If you need anything, the call button is right by your hand.”

Her eyes lingered on mine for a moment, an unspoken understanding passing between us. Then, with a small, almost apologetic smile, she turned and slipped out of the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and suffocating, as I stared up at the ceiling, the weight of my situation settling over me like a lead blanket. I had lost the fight—at least for now.

Chapter EIGHT

The remainder of the night was an endless stretch of agony. Waves of nausea pulled me under, leaving me heaving over the ugly pink bucket Heidi held at my side. Her soft words of comfort and reassuring touches did little to soothe the misery. I wanted it to end—desperately.

Time blurred, and the moments I was conscious were spent fighting to shut everything out. When Dr. Hensley arrived in the morning to begin his rounds, I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, hoping he’d vanish if I ignored him.

He started with his usual thoroughness, taking vitals the old-school way. He counted my pulse, took my temperature—rectally, of course—and then moved on to listening to my heart and checking my pupils. His fingers pressed against my abdomen with clinical precision, but when he reached a particularly tender spot, I flinched. Heidi tried to intervene, her voice laced with concern.

“Doctor, that area—”

Dr. Hensley held up a hand, silencing her with calm authority. “I’m aware, Heidi. It’s necessary.”

He jotted down notes with an air of detachment, though his gaze occasionally flicked to my face, watching my reactions. When his hand pressed lower, the pressure on my bladder became unbearable, and I tensed instinctively.

“You’re dry,” he remarked matter-of-factly, turning to Heidi. “When was her last urination, and how much?”

Heidi hesitated, her voice tinged with nervousness. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s refusing to go. I would have helped her to the bathroom, but given the restraints and everything that happened last night… I was just about to seek your guidance.”

Dr. Hensley’s tone softened. “No, it’s quite alright. I anticipated some control issues when I accepted her case. Inform Mary I’ll be handling Miss Watson this morning. Get some rest, Heidi. You did excellent work last night.”

Heidi’s face lit up at the rare compliment, and she left with a small smile, leaving me alone with him.

I hadn’t even reached the twenty-four-hour mark, and I was already beyond humiliated. What made it worse was the way they spoke about me as if I weren’t even there.

Dr. Hensley turned back to me, his expression kind but firm. He placed a hand on my thigh, his touch grounding me in the moment. “Emery, I know this has been an incredibly difficult night for you. Normally, I wouldn’t offer my patients choices this early in their treatment, but I want to help make this a little easier. Can you try to trust me?”

I couldn’t meet his gaze, shame burning hot in my chest. “Do you really understand?” I asked quietly, not sure if I believed him.

“I do,” he said with absolute confidence. “You’re a grown woman, and society has conditioned you to feel ashamed in situations like this. But here, there is no judgment. Losing control in a controlled environment is nothing to be afraid of.”

His words were surprisingly disarming. I found myself looking into his eyes, drawn in by the sincerity behind them.

“The sooner you stop fighting this process, the easier it will get for you,” he continued. His hand pressed gently on my bladder, and the growing pressure became unbearable. I clenched my legs together, resisting with every ounce of willpower I had left.

But when the inevitable happened, my defenses crumbled. I closed my eyes, swallowing my pride as the floodgates gave way.

“There,” he said softly, his tone soothing. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I couldn’t answer. My cheeks burned with humiliation as he quickly and efficiently cleaned me up. He slid a fresh diaper beneath me, pausing only to meet my gaze again.

“I’m proud of you, Emery,” he said, his voice gentle. “And I want to reward you for being such a good girl. First, I want you to close your eyes and relax. Can you do that for me?”

Numbly, I nodded, desperate to shut out the world and escape into the darkness behind my eyelids. But my thoughts didn’t wander far before I felt his hand against me, his thumb brushing over my clit with purposeful intent. My body jolted with the unexpected sensation, and I tried to process what was happening.

His movements were gentle but calculated, his touch igniting a fire I hadn’t felt in years. As his gloved fingers slipped inside me, finding my most sensitive spot with precision, my body betrayed me. My hips rose instinctively, restrained by the band across my waist, and I felt myself surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure.

Dr. Hensley’s rhythm was deliberate, coaxing me higher and higher until I couldn’t hold back any longer. The orgasm washed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me breathless and trembling. I collapsed against the bed, utterly spent.

“You see?” he said softly, fastening the diaper snugly around my hips. “Things can be quite pleasurable here if you let them.”

He tucked the blanket around me, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face before stepping away. Before he even reached the door, exhaustion pulled me under, and for the first time since arriving, I slept soundly.

When I awoke, the bright morning light filled the room. My headache was gone, the nausea had vanished, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt truly rested. I’d survived the worst of it.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Dr. Hensley appeared in the doorway. He’d changed into a fresh set of clothes—brown corduroy pants and a pale pink shirt beneath his white lab coat. The stethoscope around his neck gleamed in the sunlight.

“I’m glad to see you in a better light,” he said as he approached. “Shall we remove these?” He gestured to the restraints on my wrists.

I nodded eagerly, relief flooding through me as he unfastened the heavy leather straps. I rubbed my wrists instinctively, savoring the newfound freedom.

“I received your lab results this morning,” he said, jotting notes onto my chart. “As I suspected, you’re deficient in several critical vitamins, and your iron levels are dangerously low. This has caused a significant anemic episode.”

My stomach churned with anxiety, but he placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let that scare you. It’s all manageable with supplements and proper nutrition.”

“Can’t you just send me home with a list of foods to eat?” I asked, though the desperation to leave had diminished.

He arched a brow. “I could. But I won’t. You’re here to heal, Emery. Let me help you.”

Moments later, Mary arrived with a purple smoothie that looked far from appetizing. I barely listened as she listed the ingredients—something about flaxseed and spinach.

“Are you listening, Emery?” Dr. Hensley’s voice snapped me out of my daze, his disapproving tone making me sit up a little straighter.

“Uh, yeah,” I murmured, sipping cautiously at the smoothie. To my surprise, it wasn’t terrible.

Maybe—just maybe—I was finally beginning to trust the process.

“Lying isn’t a good look on you,” Dr. Hensley scolded gently, his sharp gaze cutting through the room. “Let’s try that again, shall we? Nurse Mary was explaining that this smoothie is packed with nutritionally rich ingredients designed to realign your digestive system.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” I mumbled, taking the smoothie and cradling it in my hands like it might disappear.

“What’s wrong?” His tone softened, and I glanced up to see genuine concern etched into his expression. Mary mirrored his worry, her brow furrowed as she watched me hesitate.

“I’m truly grateful you took the time to make this, Mary,” I began, forcing a small smile. “But I really don’t have an appetite right now. I’m sure it’s nothing, but maybe we could save this for later?”

Mary instinctively reached to take the smoothie from my outstretched hands, but Dr. Hensley stopped her with a slight motion of his hand. His authoritative tone filled the room.

“You need to eat.”

I shook my head, about to argue, but he cut me off firmly.

“Your body has been through the wringer, Emery, and right now it’s at a crucial stage in the detox process. You need nutrient-packed foods to jumpstart your metabolism and help restore balance. Trust me,” he said, nodding toward the smoothie still clutched in my hands, “take a sip. See how it tastes.”

Hesitant, I finally pressed my lips to the straw and took a small sip. My eyes widened in surprise as the flavors hit my tongue.

“Oh wow,” I exclaimed, my initial reluctance melting away. “This is really good!” Without realizing it, I took another gulp, then another, savoring the unexpected harmony of flavors.

Dr. Hensley smiled from his position at the foot of my bed, a mix of satisfaction and approval lighting his face. “I’m glad you like it. We strive to find that balance between healthy and savory. You get to enjoy a delicious shake, and I get the reassurance that you’re consuming the protein, healthy fats, fiber, and vitamins your body needs.”

I paused mid-sip, narrowing my eyes at him. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he started toward the door. “Because there is,” he said, casting a playful wink over his shoulder. “Now, bottoms up. I’ll check back after lunch.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, I stared at the smoothie, feeling the warmth of its effect spread through my body. Maybe, just maybe, he knew what he was doing after all.

Chapter NINE

The afternoon dragged on, a monotonous blend of discomfort and boredom. To my dismay, Nurse Mary was an unwavering enforcer of the rules, refusing to let me leave the bed. My one failed attempt to freshen up in the bathroom had resulted in a gentle—but somehow deeply embarrassing—scolding. It left me feeling strangely small, as though I’d been reprimanded like a child.

Resigned to my confinement, I spent the next two and a half hours flipping through the pages of a mediocre dystopian romance from the eighties. Its outdated tropes and lifeless characters only fueled my irritation. I briefly considered begging Nurse Mary to fetch something more palatable from the downstairs library, but she seemed too preoccupied, darting between rooms with an air of urgency.

The smoothie I’d polished off that morning had done little to satisfy me. Now, my stomach growled in protest, clearly unimpressed with my lack of processed junk food. The slight return of my headache didn’t help. It hovered just under the surface—mild but persistent—reminding me that the detox wasn’t entirely behind me. Maybe I’d been too quick to believe I was through the worst of it.

Nurse Mary mostly left me alone, checking in only when some alarm system—a newly activated safeguard, thanks to my earlier bathroom escapade—blared its shrill warning. That blasted alarm further restricted my already limited freedom, making me feel like a prisoner in my own body.

When lunch arrived, a pristine chicken and mandarin orange salad was placed on the tray beside me. It looked like a culinary masterpiece, but the idea of eating felt like a chore. I poked at the leafy greens half-heartedly before giving up entirely, the unease in my stomach stubbornly refusing to abate.

I had just closed my eyes, hoping to escape into some semblance of rest, when the door creaked open. Dr. Hensley entered, his presence both soothing and mildly intimidating. A fleeting thought of pretending to be asleep crossed my mind, but the gentle shake of my shoulder rendered the idea pointless.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his tone soft and calm.

“Physically or emotionally?” I countered, opening my eyes to meet his concerned gaze. “Because depending on the category, the answer varies drastically.”

His expression softened as he pulled up a chair beside the bed. “Let’s start with emotionally. Our mental state often influences our physical well-being.”

I sighed, debating how much to share. “I feel like an emotional wreck. I can’t stop thinking about my job—if I even still have one. I’m second-guessing my decision to come here. Honestly, I keep convincing myself I could’ve done this on my own.”

He listened intently, his steady presence grounding me as I spoke. Though his silence felt unnerving, his focused attention reassured me that he was taking my words seriously.

“I can understand why you feel that way,” he said at last, his tone thoughtful. “But let me ask you this: do you think you had a caffeine addiction before walking through these doors?”

“Addiction is such a harsh word,” I replied defensively. “You make it sound like I was doing drugs or something.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving in a faint smile. “In a way, caffeine is a drug, but I’m not equating you to a heroin or cocaine addict. I’m simply pointing out that you were consuming caffeine at a level far beyond what’s considered healthy. Let me put it this way: the average recommended intake for someone your size is about 350 milligrams a day—less than four cups of regular coffee. No extra shots of espresso.”

The knowing glance he gave me was almost playful, but it carried an edge of seriousness that made me squirm. He knew about my habit of adding extra shots.

“When you put it like that,” I admitted reluctantly, “fine. Maybe I was over the limit. But lots of people drink way more caffeine than I did.”

“Yes, but those people aren’t you,” he said pointedly. “When you came in, your anxiety and stress levels were through the roof. Caffeine wasn’t the root cause, but it wasn’t helping either. Now that it’s out of your system, we can start addressing the underlying issues. That is, if you’re willing to let me help.”

I rolled my eyes, frustrated by the truth in his words. “The root cause is that my boss is a jackass who makes my life a living hell.”

His eyebrow arched in silent warning. “Watch the language. Whether that is true or not, is it worth your emotional investment?”

I sighed, retreating into silence. He was right—again. My boss might be terrible, but my reactions were my own. I just didn’t want to admit it.

“Let’s switch gears,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “How are you feeling physically?”

“Lightheaded but restless. I just want to get out of this bed,” I admitted, my voice slipping into a desperate plea. “Please…”

He glanced at the untouched lunch tray behind me, frowning slightly. “How’s your appetite?”

“Nonexistent,” I muttered. “I’m still full from that smoothie. I can’t imagine eating anything else.”

“Hmm.” He stood abruptly, disappearing through the door and returning a few minutes later with a heavy blanket folded in his arms. He adjusted the bed, propping me up slightly, and then laid the blanket across my lap.

“It’s so heavy,” I murmured, startled by the weight.

“That’s the point,” he replied with a small smile. “It’s a weighted blanket. In some cases, they can help reduce anxiety. Think of it like a constant hug. It’ll also help ground you, which should ease the lightheadedness.”

Carefully, he tucked the blanket around me, cocooning me with meticulous care. As the weight settled over me, I felt an unexpected sense of calm.

“There,” he said softly, stepping back to observe his work. “Now, you’re like a caterpillar waiting to become a butterfly.”

Despite myself, I let out a small laugh. For the first time all day, I felt the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Wait, before you go,” I wiggled my arm free, lifting it to show him. “Can you take this out now?” They’d disconnected the saline line earlier, but the port remained, an unwelcome reminder of my tethered state.

Dr. Hensley paused, his gaze flickering to the port. “I can, but I haven’t administered your supplemental vitamins yet. If I remove it now, I’ll have to stick you a few more times later. Or you could wait until after I’ve given them. The choice is yours—a little discomfort now with the port or a little later with the pricks.”

I gave him an exaggerated grin. “I’ll take option three for two hundred.”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that filled the room momentarily. “Nice try, but avoidance is never the answer.”

“Sometimes it is,” I quipped, giggling despite myself. “Fine, take it out now. I’d rather get it over with.”

He nodded and moved to the counter, gathering what he needed. When he returned, he slipped on a pair of gloves with practiced ease and made quick work of removing the small port. His touch was precise, careful, as though he understood how much I craved even the smallest bit of control. Within seconds, he pressed a pink Band-Aid over the puncture site.

“All done.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Now, try to get a bit more rest. I’ll check in on you in a few hours. If anything feels off before then, let Mary know, and I’ll stop by sooner.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, watching him leave. Despite the literal weight of the blanket cocooning me, the world suddenly felt heavier.

As the silence settled, my thoughts returned to the argument with Callen, the harsh accusations, and the heated words I couldn’t take back. His dismissive attitude and complete lack of appreciation for all I did for him made my blood boil. I hated every second of working for him—his ignorance, his arrogance, all of it.

But my job was hanging by a thread now, under investigation by HR, and the weight of it pressed down on me relentlessly. Dr. Hensley had been right about one thing—I did feel like I was being hugged.

Was he right about my emotions too? That I alone was responsible for how I felt? Had I really let Callen get under my skin to the point where I’d sabotaged myself? Had I created my own stress and anxiety?

I shook my head, rejecting the thought. There was no way I’d been the sole contributor to my current predicament. Sure, maybe I’d added to my stress unnecessarily. I could admit that I was competitive, a perfectionist, even overly eager to please my bosses. Maybe those traits weren’t always healthy, but they were part of a strong work ethic, weren’t they?

The idea frustrated me, pulling me further into the mattress. I let out an exasperated huff, sinking deeper into the blanket’s embrace.

One thing was certain: I’d only been here two days, and I was already desperate to leave.

Chapter TEN

At dinner time, another tray arrived, carried by none other than Dr. Hensley himself.

“I’m beginning to think you’re trying to put your nurses out of work,” I teased, smirking up at him.

“Nonsense,” he replied smoothly, setting the tray down with precision. “I simply know when my presence will do more good than others.”

“Oh?” I raised a brow, puzzled. “Are you saying that somehow you delivering dinner is more persuasive than if Mary or Heidi had brought it?”

“No,” he said, his tone sharp but not unkind. “But I do believe my methods of persuasion will achieve the desired result. However, before we get to that, we have another matter to attend to.”

As he finished arranging the tray, Nurse Mary entered the room carrying a small metal tray lined with glass vials and an unsettling number of syringes. My stomach tightened at the sight.

“Wait,” I said, struggling to free myself from the weighted blanket, but Dr. Hensley sat down beside me, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. “Just relax. There’s no need to get worked up.”

I watched as Mary placed the tray on the counter and retrieved gloves for the doctor.

“We discussed this earlier, Emery. Your choices were clear,” Dr. Hensley reminded me.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think there’d be so many needles,” I admitted, finally managing to free an arm. As I made a half-hearted attempt to push the blanket aside, he was quick to catch my wrist. His warm grip drew my attention to him, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot about my attempted escape.

“Are you afraid of needles, Emery? Be honest with me.”

I hesitated, shaking my head slowly. “No, not really.”

His brow arched in question. “Not really isn’t an answer. Let’s try again: are you afraid of needles?”

His tone had softened, almost as if he were speaking to a child. I noticed, too, that he’d called me by my first name rather than the usual “Miss Watson.”

“It’s not the needle itself,” I confessed. “It’s the poke. I don’t like pain, and I’ll do just about anything to avoid it.”

He nodded thoughtfully, showing that he was listening. “Thank you for being honest. That’s helpful for what’s next.”

“But I thought—”

“You thought we might forego the injections?” he finished for me, shaking his head. “On the contrary, we’ll proceed as planned. However, I can adjust my approach to minimize the discomfort. You’ll feel a small prick, but I promise it will be quick and nearly painless.”

Turning to Mary, he said, “Would you mind bringing in the big girl chair? I think Emery could use a change of scenery.” Mary gave him a warm smile and left the room, leaving me to stew in my thoughts.

As Dr. Hensley prepared the syringes, I watched him intently. His movements were precise and methodical, each action deliberate. Every so often, he glanced up to catch me staring, his eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to his work.

“We’ll start with three injections: B-12, vitamin D, and a B-complex with C. If we don’t see improvement in your magnesium and iron levels soon, we’ll explore other options. But I suspect this will do the trick—assuming you stop refusing to eat.” His tone was both informative and lightly scolding, making it clear he wasn’t entirely joking.

Before I could respond, Mary returned, struggling slightly with the legs of the chair clanking against the hardwood floor. “Whoops,” she muttered. “Sometimes I forget how heavy this thing is.”

The “big girl chair” was far from a standard seat. Its high back, sturdy design, and tray that wrapped around the front instantly gave away its purpose. My mind reeled at the realization, but I pushed the thought aside.

“Emery,” Dr. Hensley called, pulling my attention back to him. “I need to get a quick set of vitals before we continue.” Mary began wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm while he retrieved the dreaded thermometer.

As Mary finished, Dr. Hensley urged me to roll onto my side, removing the weighted blanket and setting it aside. I felt his hand brush the hem of my gown, his touch warm against my skin. A chill ran down my spine, but not from the temperature.

Shamefully, my thoughts wandered to how his touch made me feel—how he left me in a haze of sensations during moments of complete surrender. Embarrassed, I tried to push those thoughts aside, especially as he adjusted the diaper I was wearing. This one was pink, decorated with flowers, and even thicker than the last. My cheeks burned with humiliation.

He set the diaper aside before applying lube and inserting the thermometer.

“Somehow, this isn’t any less embarrassing than the first time you did this,” I muttered.

He chuckled softly. “I’m not surprised you think that, but once you let go of the idea that there’s something shameful about it, you’ll realize there’s nothing embarrassing about a rectal temperature check.”

“There’s everything embarrassing about it,” I countered, my cheeks flushing deeper.

He pulled the thermometer out slightly before pressing it in a bit deeper, making me squeak in surprise.

“Why?” he asked, his voice calm and measured. “Because someone, somewhere, decided this is taboo?”

I struggled to find the words to refute his argument. “It’s just…”

“Relax, Emery. Trust that I have your best interests at heart. Let go of your inhibitions and the desire to control everything around you. The moment you do, you’ll find the strength to heal.”

I laughed bitterly. “So, basically, I just need to lose control?”

He chuckled again. “Now you’re starting to understand.”

His words sank in, and I couldn’t deny the truth in them. Control had already been taken from me in so many ways—my phone, my freedom, my dignity. The bathroom was off-limits, and diapers had become my reality. Yet I suspected he meant more than just physical control. He wanted me to relinquish the mental battle too.

The thermometer slipped out, and I felt my body relax momentarily, but he kept me in place with a firm hand on my hip.

“These supplements need to be administered into the gluteus medius muscle—your buttocks,” he explained.

I sighed, bracing myself for what was to come.

I watched over my shoulder as Dr. Hensley opened an alcohol wipe and began swabbing the top of my butt cheek.

“Can we pause for a moment?” I asked, panic creeping into my voice. I hadn’t realized he intended to start so quickly.

Dr. Hensley didn’t respond, focused on clearing the syringe of air. With one hand, he fanned my skin, then grabbed a firm chunk of my flesh, his grip oddly comforting as he bunched the muscle. The pleasant distraction softened the sting as he pierced my skin with the needle, and I barely felt it. I watched as the clear liquid disappeared into me, marveling at how painless it truly was.

When he pulled the needle out, I finally exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath. He disposed of the syringe and reached for another alcohol wipe.

The second injection was bright red, an unusual sight that piqued my curiosity but didn’t stir my trust. I could feel his watchful eyes on me as he prepared the shot, gauging my unease. Despite my nerves, he worked with the same practiced precision, his grip on my other cheek steadying me as he repeated the process. Again, the needle pricked briefly, and the liquid emptied smoothly into the muscle.

“Done,” he murmured, disposing of the second needle.

But as his hands began massaging the injection sites, I flinched, the soreness making me jump. “Ouch!” I yelped, trying to wriggle away.

“Calm down, jitterbug,” he teased, keeping me firmly in place. “I’m just soothing the muscle. If I don’t, you’ll wake up feeling like you’ve got two massive knots back there.”

Despite my protests, his rough kneading helped ease the tension. When he was satisfied, he instructed me to roll onto my back. With practiced ease, he slid a fresh diaper under me and secured it snugly around my waist.

This one was even thicker than the last, the padding between my legs so bulky I could barely bring my knees together. The awkwardness was immediately apparent, and my face flushed red-hot with humiliation as I felt his eyes studying me.

“Alright,” he said, extending his hand to help me up. I hesitated but took it, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The moment I stood, the weight between my legs became all too real, forcing me into an awkward waddle as he steadied me.

Relief washed over me when we only had to walk a few steps to the large wooden chair Nurse Mary had brought in earlier.

“Is this really necessary?” I asked cautiously, eyeing the contraption with suspicion. “It seems a little overkill.”

“Does it?” he replied playfully, his tone light but firm. “Overkill or not, this is meant to help you shift into a different headspace—one where you learn to rely on others.”

Before I could argue, his hands were under my arms, effortlessly lifting me into the chair. My horror deepened as he pulled a wide strap up from between my legs, forcing them apart even further, and buckled it tightly around my waist. There was no wiggle room, and the discomfort of the injections combined with the firm chair made the situation even more unbearable.

The thick padding of the diaper provided some relief, but my sore cheeks still throbbed with each movement.

“Nurse Mary, the last syringe, if you would?” he asked, and moments later, she handed him the tray. He retrieved another alcohol wipe and prepared the final injection.

“Emery,” he began gently, “this one goes into your thigh. It’ll sting more than the others, but if it becomes uncomfortable, I want you to take a deep breath and exhale like we practiced. Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

His soothing words kept me grounded as I braced for the jab. True to his word, the sting was sharper, but it was over quickly.

“There we go,” he said, discarding the needle and gloves. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Do you think maybe you worked yourself up more than necessary?”

I nodded, managing a small smile. “I guess. Or maybe you’re just better at this than the trainees back in my town.”

He chuckled softly. “Well, we were all students once upon a time,” he replied, his tone amused as he busied himself tidying up.

To my surprise, he pulled the dinner tray closer, setting down a glass of milk and a steaming plate of grilled chicken, fresh broccoli and squash, and a mix of brown rice and quinoa.

“That is a lot of food,” I said, staring at the plate in disbelief.

“You need to rebuild your strength,” he said simply, adding a cup of strawberry yogurt to the spread.

I shook my head, overwhelmed. “I can’t eat all that. Besides, I’m still not hungry.”

Without a word, he picked up the fork and knife, cutting the chicken and broccoli into small, bite-sized pieces. He speared a piece of chicken and held it up to my lips. When I reached for the fork, he pulled it back.

“There will be none of that,” he warned gently. “Let this be another lesson in learning to relinquish control. Tonight, I’ll feed you—and you’ll let me.”

At first, it was horrifying to be fed bite after bite of food by Dr. Hensley, but as the savory flavors hit my stomach, I realized how ravenous I actually was. My body had been hungrier than I thought, and soon, my stomach growled loudly for more. We laughed about it, and the moment of shared levity eased my nerves, making the experience less humiliating.

To my surprise, I devoured the entire plate and even the cup of yogurt for dessert. I’d never been much of a yogurt fan—unless it was frozen, packed with sugar, and served in a waffle cone—but here, it was the only thing resembling sweetness, so I imagined it as ice cream instead.

After dinner, he helped me back into bed, tucking the weighted blanket snugly around me. As much as I hated to admit it, he might have been onto something because the lightheadedness I’d felt earlier was completely gone.

He stayed long enough for Nurse Heidi to arrive for her shift, briefing her with a calm but cryptic update. His words were vague, but I caught the way Heidi’s brows raised in alarm at something he said. Whatever it was, I knew it concerned me, and it would happen tomorrow.

____________________________________

That night, my sleep was less restless than before, but unease lingered. What could Dr. Hensley possibly have planned for me next?

I've been a busy bee working on several novels and I'm proud to share the following with anyone who is interested. These are all free with KU or there are some writings on my page from the books. I hope you enjoy them :)

Medical Fetish/ABDL Themed (3 Book Series) Losing Control: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DQR29GBF Finding Myself: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DQQNP5KW Healing Hearts: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DQRGXJDY

ABDL Regression Standalone Novels. These have some overlapping characters but can be read individually.

Little Everly: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DS1361QL Little Sophia: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSP24GWX Little Mila: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DTB54SNX Little Abigail: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DV15GBXW Little Ellie: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DV4QRZCG

It starts with you accidentally starting to wet the bed. It’s not every night, it seems like a freak accident at first. But after the 3rd time in a month, your partner takes you to the doctor because she’s worried about you. The doctor examines you, runs some tests, and prescribed you some medication that should be able to help with this issue. On the way home, as you stop into the pharmacy to pick up your prescription, your partner also grabs a pack of overnight protection briefs. Just in case. Just until your new medication starts working. It’s not a shameful thing she’s not mad at you, it’s just the sanitary thing to do considering your condition. So you agree to wear them, you start taking your new pills, but it never stops. It starts getting worse, too slow to notice at first, but after a few months you’re wetting yourself more nights than you aren’t.

The breaking point comes when you have a daytime accident. You’re driving home from work, and your pants suddenly feel warm and wet, the stench of piss filling your nostrils, it’s almost too much to handle. You’re overwhelmed. You finally get home and walk inside, crying from the shame as your partner rushes to your side, trying to see what’s wrong. As soon as she sees you she realizes what happened. She guides you to the shower, re-assuring you as she helps strip you from the soiled clothes, running to grab fresh ones for you as you clean yourself and contemplate what’s going on. You hear her on the phone scheduling another appointment for you as she places the set of clean clothes by the sink for you to change into after your shower. When you’re finally done, you step out and notice a pair of your padded briefs on top of your clothes, no underwear. It makes sense, but it’s still not easy to accept you’re going to need wear these during the day as well. You’re worried. The medicine isn’t helping, you’re not sure why this is happening to you. But your partner is there to re-assure you, to get you the help you need. You two will figure this out together.

You arrive at the doctors 2 weeks later (it was the first appointment they had open) with soaked padding hidden underneath your pants. The daytime accidents had become more and more common in those agonizingly long weeks waiting for this appointment, but you’re here now, your partner is here with you holding your hand, rubbing your thumb with hers to reassure you as you sit together in the waiting room. Finally your name is called, and you have another visit with this specialist your partner found. He’s very sympathetic, he explains that this, while uncommon, is something he’s seen before. He prescribes you another course of treatment to go along with the first. It has a pretty lengthy list of side effects, but he’s confident it will work. He writes you a prescription for the new medication, re-ups your prescription for the first treatment too. It’s a lot to take in, but the finish line is in sight.

Your first week on the new medication is ROUGH. You knew there were side effects, but you weren’t expecting this. You’re incredibly tired. It’s not uncommon for you to take multiple naps throughout the day. This paired with brain fog (another side effect) makes working incredibly difficult. Your performance is slipping because you just can’t really focus on anything anymore. Those, combined with how the medication makes you grind your teeth until your jaw is sore, you just don’t know how you’d get through this without your loving partner by your side. She holds you as you cry at night, comforting you, reminding you that this isn’t your fault. It’s not a moral failing it’s a medical condition. It’s not going to be forever. You just need to wait for the medicine to take its effect, and you’ll be good to go. “It’s like Chemotherapy,” she says. “The side effects suck, but it’s better than the alternative, right?” And of course, you know she’s right. It’s just hard to keep everything in perspective.

She was by your side with solutions to every problem. Concerned by how much you were grinding your teeth, she looked for some solutions online before you wore yours down to nubs. The pacifier had been a hard sell, but she reminded you it was just like your protective briefs. It’s just what we need to do because if your condition. So every night you strapped the pacifier around your head so you couldn’t spit it out in your sleep, and you kept it on hand during the day for if the grinding got to bad. When the fatigue and confusion and lack of focus got so bad you couldn’t work anymore, she helped you get some extended sick leave from work, so you knew you’d have a job to get back when you got better. When new side effects started appearing, like your loss of fine motor control and muscle atrophy, she was more than happy to help. She would help you cut up your meals into more manageable pieces, since you had trouble working your fork and knife. She got you bottles with lids to help with how much you were accidentally dropping heavy glasses. When you started having trouble with the stairs, unable to make it up to your shared bedroom on the second floor, she helped get you set up in the guest bedroom downstairs. It was a childish room, but at least you weren’t risking those stairs multiple times a day anymore. She looked after your every need. She picked up your prescriptions on time every months, made sure you never ran out of your protection, drove you to your now weekly doctors appointments monitoring your progress, the side effects, and your continued deterioration. She took care of you, and you could never thank her enough.

When you got too weak to change out of your wet protection yourself, she helped with that too. She started buying a new brand of protective undergarments, ones that your doctor had highly recommended, with tapes. She set up a nice little table for changes in your room, and your little changes quickly became your favorite part of the day. It’s not that you enjoyed having someone change you out of your wet diapers, (and let’s face it, that’s what they are) but it was just so….. intimate. Her opening up the tapes, wiping you clean, making sure to massage the lotion into every little crevice, applying the scented powder, it was a lot more fun than you cared to admit. She made sure to give you all the attention and care you needed, making sure you didn’t feel embarrassed about this change in circumstances. After all, as she kept reminding you, it’s only temporary. Only until you get better.

As the months turned into years, the changes in your life kept piling up. When doctor switched you to an all liquid diet, your partner made sure to lovingly prepare your meal replacement shakes, even holding the bottle for you on nights when you were too weak to hold it in your own. After finding you face down on the floor one morning, having fallen out of bed and unable to get yourself back up, she replaced that guest room bed, your bed, with one that had raised walls so you weren’t at risk of falling again. When your various medications started impacting your emotions, making you cry at the drop of a hat, or get frustrated at the smallest things, she was always there to comfort you. On Valentine’s Day, after you had expressed how much you missed cuddling her at night, she got you a big stuffed bear sprayed with her favorite perfume so it was like you were holding her in your arms again. She bought you new clothes that snapped at the crotch to make changes easier, she exercised your limbs, made sure to get you out if your bed so you weren’t at risk of getting bed sores, she took care of your every need and want.

You didn’t notice her calling you “Baby” with increasingly more frequency, it had always been one of her favorite pet names. You didn’t notice her beginning to talk to you in more and more childish ways as time went on, fussing over this and that. You didn’t notice the knowing looks her and the doctor exchanged from time to time. Why would you? It’s not like she had anything to hide from you. She clearly loved you. Look at everything she was doing for you. You eventually stopped noticing the years ticking by, your condition never getting better. You forgot that was even an option, after all, you had been settled into this routine for so long now, you barely remembered what life used to be like. You hardly even questioned it when she started occasionally breastfeeding you. At that point you were so starved for that sort of intimacy you were just glad she found a way you two could still have fun like that in your weakened state. (Sex had been a physical impossibility for some time now. You could barely stand, let alone do anything like that)

By the time you did realize, it didn’t even matter. You tried to confront her, but she just laughed. After all, what could you even do about it? Who could you tell? How would you be able to survive without her? It’s not like you could go back to being a normal person after this, she had made sure of that. Even if you got away, would anyone be able to love you like this? Be able to dedicate their life to taking care of you? You were comfortable here. You had your every need taken care of. It was easier to just give in, like you had so many times before.

You’ll still speak and act like you did before. I just know that you’ll remember the sign. You’ll remember what it means.

and, being a very literal person, operated on the assumption that that was the only safeword, that the others were taken off the table for deliberate horny reasons (it was a CNC scene after all)

the sub, on the other hand, thought that traffic light was still in use. and at one point tried to red.

...and was met with her top saying "oh, shut up" and fucking her harder.

girl i know described seeing the fear in this sub's eyes over the next several seconds before she remembered there was a negotiated safeword and used it as... a bit of a guilty pleasure

sometimes aftercare is talking out your feelings and forgiving your domme for raping you on accident and also enjoying it

Your each everyone movement and complaint is outlined audibly by your bulky nighttime padding. Your caregiver doesn’t even need the baby monitor, they can hear your discomfort from a few doors down.

They sleepily undo the nursery door lock, and walk over to the crib, unlatching the side wall and plucking you into their arms and over their shoulder like you weigh less than nothing.

Tears form at the corners of your eyes in both pain and embarrassment as your stomach begs for relief. Your caregiver rubbing your backside softly, cooing in a sing-song voice:

“There, there. Such a grumpy baby tonight, hm? Just let go for me, hun. Your trusty Huggies will keep it all under control.”

They kiss the side of your forehead and it’s like the spell has been lifted. Your body goes limp on demand, and you burrow your face into your caregiver’s neck as you slowly and softly push, your padded backside bulging slightly above the arm supporting it.

The diaper shifts and sags under its new weight, and the nursery begins to smell a tad more authentic. In your dozy, baby-brained state, you hardly even realize what just transpired.

Your eyes snap closed and you drift off almost immediately, too sleepy to complete anything more than your most basic bodily functions.

Your caregiver grins, happy with how thoroughly they’ve broken you into the perfect little infant. They lay you down gently on the changing table, carefully so as to not disturb your sleep.

Princess Playroom💕

I love when you’re in the prep area and they come in to ask you questions. Ask me about my life, my habits, my family and medical histories. Tell me about the prep, the procedure, and the recovery. Type notes on your computer, gloved fingers flying across the keyboard. Then have the surgeon come in and let’s do it all again.

I love when the next nurse comes in to start your IV. First she pulls on tight gloves, then she holds your hand and pokes your wrist until she finds the perfect vein and wipes it clean. She turns to pick up the IV and tells you “big pinch.” You look away. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” repeats on a loop in your head. And then it slides into your vein. It’s no big deal. You feel a little foolish for letting her reverse psychology work on you.

But you also know at this point, you’ve lost the fight. They have full access to you, your body, your soul. You’re going under. It’s a matter of when, not if.

I love the versed. The anesthesiologist comes into the prep area with a big, clear syringe in her breast pocket. Hot. She reaches in with one of her gloved hands and tells you she has a cocktail for you. She holds it up to the light, ensuring a perfect dose, then removes the cap, inserts it into one of the ports on your IV line, and pushes it quickly. The chemical calmness, anxiety reducer, the liquid weighted blanket enters your system. Everything looks a little brighter, sounds a little softer, and you feel weightless like you’re floating on a cloud.

I love the move to the OR. You have someone pushing your bed from behind, and a nurse by your side. They chat with you to distract you further, but the versed is kicking in so you already don’t care. The square ceiling tiles roll by and the OR doors open with a hiss. As you roll in, nurses are snapping on gloves, filling syringes, and setting up for the procedure.

They stop you right next to the table, lower the railing, and have you scoot over. Your gown gets caught underneath you, and you try to fix it, but you can’t because you’re sitting on it. You lay down without caring because you’ll be out cold in a couple of minutes and it’s not your problem, they’ll fix it if they need to. And you’ll never know either way.

I love the prep. You’re lying on the table. It’s cold, just like the room, and the gown offers little protection. Gloved hands are moving quickly, but with measured precision, all around you. One nurse is adjusting your IV fluids. Another is placing Velcro straps around hour wrists, securing them to the arm of the table. Someone lifts your hand to put a pulse oximeter on your pointer finger.

The anesthesiologist is lifting your gown at the neckline to place heart monitor stickers on your chest. She uses her left hand to hold the gown up while the right hand goes in. The first sticker goes way on the left. As she puts it down you feel her gloved fingertips on your skin, and as she takes her hand away, she drags her fingers across the sticker to make sure it stays in place, but then you feel her fingers again once they reach the other side. She gets another sticker and repeats the same process in the middle of your chest, and then again for the final sticker on the right.

I love when the anesthesiologist puts the oxygen mask on. Before that, she turns around and starts fiddling with the anesthesia machine, making sure all the heart monitors and the pulse oximeter are working properly.

Then she starts turning valves for the gas. She picks up the mask in one hand and turns towards you, corrugated tubes following. She uses her other hand to lightly tap under your chin as she says “Chin up, please.” In your versed-induced high, there’s no option but to listen to the request that’s really an order. As you tilt your head back, she holds the mask up high and says something like “This is just oxygen.” as she lowers it over you. As it gets closer, the mask and her gloved hand start to look bigger. When it’s almost on you, you start to hear the air hissing through the tubes.

As it settles softly on your face, a few things happen. 1) Her gloved hand is resting delicately on your face. Her thumb and pointer finger are on top of the mask, supplying a mild pressure to create a tight seal, causing pressure on the bridge of your nose. Her other three fingers are wrapped gently around your chin, with her palm resting on your check. 2) You smell the plastic, which isn’t very pleasant. 3) She tells you to take some deep breaths, and you inhale the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe. You take several more breaths and it’s really refreshing.

I love the feeling of propofol. There are a few different ways you can be induced too.

The first is that the anesthesiologist pushes it. Sometimes she’ll leave the mask resting gently on your face, other times she’ll have another nurse hold it. Either way, she starts with the small syringe of lidocaine to minimize the burn of propofol. Then she gets the massive, milky-white syringe, clicks it into the port, and pushes it. She’ll say “Pick a nice dream.” or “We’re going to take great care of you.” or “See you in a little while.” or, if she’s fun, “Start counting.”

The second is that she keeps holding the mask, her hand resting delicately on your face, maybe even both hands covering almost your whole face if you’re lucky. One of the nurses, usually out of view, will sneak in the lidocaine and propofol. You won’t see it coming, and sometimes you don’t feel it either.

The third, and by far the most rare, is that she lets you push it! She puts the syringe in your hand and tells you to push it. This usually requires her help because as you get towards the bottom, you lose strength as it starts to take effect. She’ll put her hand around yours and push with you. So hot.

Whichever way it happens, the punchline is the same. Warmth floods your veins. Metallic taste in your mouth. Your vision starts to blur. Your eyes unfocus and roll back into your head. Lights pulsate, sounds fade into the distant, and then you’re out cold.

I love knowing that the anesthesiologist has her hands all over my face, it’s so intimate. After the anesthesia wins as it always does, she’s going to run her fingers along my eyelids to check for reflexes. She might even open the eyes completely. Some open the jaw too. I love the idea of a nurse playing with my limp face.

No reflexes means I’m out like a light. Then she’s going to tighten her grip on the mask with one hand, really digging into my face and chin. The other hand will grab the breathing bag and start squeezing, rhythmically breathing for me.

As this happening, the gown is being ripped open so the surgical team can begin prepping for the procedure.

I love the idea of being out cold and intubated, a short break from all the worry and exhaustion of the world with all your basic needs being carefully monitored. A nurse is going to start by putting things on your chest. A breathing tube and a blade will be needed for this. Once it’s time, the anesthesiologist will put the bag down and remove the mask.

Then, she’ll put one hand on your head and tilt as far back as possible, opening the airway as much as possible. With her other hand, she’ll slide the blade with a camera on it down your throat, illuminating it with the light and getting a clear view of your vocal cords on the screen. She’ll hold up her free hand and the nurse will hand her the breathing tube, which promptly goes down your throat and through the opening in your vocal cords. The nurse will fill a syringe with air, attach it to the hose coming off the tube, and inflate the cuff so it stays in place.

Then they squeeze the breathing bag a few times as the anesthesiologist gets her stethoscope and listens to your chest. If the breathing sounds good, the tube is secured with tape.

I love knowing that my eyes are lubed and taped shut. I wonder what that feels like when you’re awake.

The left eyelid is pulled back and lube squirted onto the eye before the lid is shut and pressed to spread the lube around. Then the same thing happens with the right eye. The nurse is ripping pieces of tape to cover both and they are applied to cover the entirety of each eye. This not only protects the, it keeps them moist.

I love when the stirrups are ready, they lift your legs and spread them wide. It doesn't matter that your most intimate parts are exposed. If you are not aware, you so not feel ashamed.

I love when they restrain your legs to the stirrups, as if you might wake up and decide that you didn't sign up for this. The team looks on, focusing on any part of your body that might interest them. Because when you are out like this, you don’t feel. And if you don't feel, it doesn't matter.

I love when the speculum is inserted and cranked open, as if you are not naked enough. They want to see beyond just your external self, but deep inside you. They go past your vaginal canal amd arrive at your cervix, but it doesn't stop there. They want access beyond, to your womb.

I love when the catheter finally breaches your cervix and the embryo is deposited deep inside.

Wanting something different from your sex life isn’t a bad thing.

But as she now stands, locked in latex, her mouth filled with the pump gag……she’s got in far too deep.

Drool spilling out from her muzzle, blind and helpless. The only sound other than her exhausted groans and the squeak of the tight rubber, is the pulsing vibe working her over and over.

-Your little wants to explore the world with their hands, but this isn’t the time and place and their curiously needs to be curbed momentarily

-Little ones m are squirmy, and a squirmy Little is harder to wipe clean

-Some littles get “excited” by mommy/daddy changing their diapies, and keeping them restrained makes sure their hands don’t wander where they shouldn’t

-Restraints can be a calming sense of security when a little is at their most vulnerable to their caregiver

-A little can roll off the changing table if they aren’t tied down for their diaper change

-A little in a messy diaper can make a big mess if they move around while it’s coming off, you need to make sure they don’t cause any trouble by strapping them down from the waist up

-Kicky feets might be cute, but it makes it too hard to get a diaper to fit right, so tie their legs down so they can only move them enough to get the diaper under them.

-A naughty little might need a spanking on the changing table, restraining them first gives you easy access to their bottom for tanning

-If you need to take their temperature, give them an enema/suppository or insert a plug, tieing a little down keeps them from fighting against the treatment they need

-It keeps them from grabbing lotion or powder and accidentally squirting it out and making a mess on the table and wasting diapering products

-Some littles are shy during diaper changes, but keeping their hands tied down makes sure they get used to seeing their mommy/daddy care to their most intimate needs

-If a little has been really good, it’s a great change for some special big-kid touches from their caregiver to reward them

Get dronified, nerd ♥

With ::