The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

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Lara Swift Is Colonized

Chapter 2: Regulatory Capture

It only took the threat of more tattoos to get Lara to offer her body willingly to the nurses when they came back to finish their work on her first set.

In the following sessions, they didn’t even bother restraining her. Instead, they just ordered her to remain still. For Lara, it was a subtle blow to her independence, like she was starting to acquiesce to their demands. She knew that acquiescence was a bad path to go down, and would only lead to more bold requests, but she didn’t have a lot of options here.

They finished her unwanted tattoos, complete with their names in Hindi and Mandarin text, and left her alone. She used her healing to track the amount of time she had been there, along with things such as hair growth and feedings. Those were her best markers since the lighting in her cell was always the same. The only thing that broke up the monotony of her day-to-day life was her feeding and toileting.

It made Lara groan to think about the toileting.

To her dismay, Nurse Cerys expected her to use the bedpan each time she needed to relieve herself. Solid and liquid waste both, and she wasn’t even allowed to wipe herself afterwards! Even after they had released her from the straitjacket, Nurse Cerys insisted on wiping Lara clean. As much as she wanted to fight back, she remembered the incident with the tattoos, and it squelched any urge to assert herself. She had no doubts that they did the tattoos to show her the “short sharp shock.”

Lara’s tattoos were fully healed when she learned what Nurse Cerys meant by “amative ink.”

She discovered it accidentally one day when she was stroking the marking on her left ring finger. As she brushed it, she felt a pleasant shiver run down her spine, and it made her give a little inhalation of pleasure. At first she couldn’t believe it, but further experimentation confirmed her worst suspicions: each one of those artful tattoos on her body were some kind of erogenous zone now!

Lara thought it was best if she didn’t play with them, but this resolve didn’t last long. The first problem was that no matter how she lied on her bed, one or more of her tattoos would brush against the feathery pink fabric or against another part of her body. They never allowed her to sleep for very long; four hours at most she guessed, and each time the fabric touched some of her ink it would give her some much-needed stimulation.

She was strong-willed to begin with, but the boredom eventually got the best of her, and she found herself stroking the ink-blot feather that rested on her breast with curiosity. Mostly she did this to pass the time, but it also provoked a girlish thrill within her, and reminded her of having a crush on someone. The stocking-shaped one on her upper thigh created a different sensation; more urgent and sexual. She tried not to play with that one very much; the more she touched it, the more she wanted to masturbate to pass the time. The one on her back was unique in that it gave her a sense of security and well-being. Altogether it was confusing, and there was literally no one for her to ask about any of these things. Nurse Cerys would smile at her, but kept the conversation to a minimum—she was lucky if she got to say how she was doing that day.

Lara was reminded of a rat in a cage, that would choose to press a button whose sole purpose was to administer an electric shock just to have something to do. She was spending more and more of her days stroking her tattoos, and it definitely shaped her daydreams more than she cared to admit.

Nurse Cerys would give Lara a sort of sponge bath once every few days, rubbing her entire body with hot, moist towels and using a sort of dry shampoo on her hair. It didn’t escape Lara’s notice that having another person touch her tattoos provoked a much stronger reaction—she nearly gasped each time the blonde would rub a confident hand across her delicate flesh. Like everything else, Lara was not permitted to do this herself; she merely offered different parts of her body to the young nurse, who had a very firm and comforting touch. The nurse would finish by rubbing some kind of cream on Lara’s tattoos that seemed to speed the healing process immensely, frustrating her efforts to track time that way.

After what she guessed to be the second week, it was time for her intake interview.

Nurse Cerys came into the room, and eased Lara into another straitjacket, complete with her usual white micro panties and sleek crotch strap. Lara became truly excited as she realized she was about to leave her cell for the first time! She could feel her heart beat in her temples as she stepped one bare foot over the threshold of her prison into a narrow hallway.

The only thing new here was the floor; it was tile rather than whatever padded material that made up her home for these past several weeks. Lara was desperate for new sensations, but the tile was warmed to be room temperature, so the only difference was the hardness of it. Even such a minor thing was cause for joy, though. For the first time in her life, Lara was mindful of every sensation of her feet touching a hard floor.

The walls were uniformly padded, and the long hallway was so undifferentiated that it gave her no idea of how many other cells there were like hers. That same pink light filled this place too, and Lara made sure to count her steps to at least have some idea of the size of this place.

She was hoping to see more of the facility to being making a map in her mind, but she was disappointed. As soon as she and Nurse Cerys got to the end of the hallway, a door opened and lead to some kind of psychologist’s office. All of the details of this place were a breath of fresh air for the girl; an actual wooden desk! Books on shelves! A color scheme of emerald and oak! Unfortunately, the large windows located behind the desk were frosted glass so she could not see outside, but she was ecstatic to have all these new sights after so long in that horrid, bland room.

Her excitement eclipsed her anger at these people for all that they had done to her—she was a far cry from making demands to talk to her solicitor now. In the back of her mind, she knew this was probably Stockholm Syndrome kicking in, but she would do almost anything to get out of that spirit-breaking cell. In so many ways, she had learned her best bet was to be compliant, at least in the short-term.

She took a seat on the little wooden stool and remained still as Nurse Cerys attached the leather cuffs to her ankles again, latching them on to a rather sturdy-looking metal eye that was fastened into the ground. There was no way she was repeating her last trick, that was for sure.

After a little bit, a short Asian woman came into the room. She was carrying a paper coffee cup, and the rich aroma of the stuff filled the room and made Lara’s mouth water—coffee was one of her favorite things. The woman took a seat behind her desk, and addressed Lara.

“This is only an intake interview,” the woman began in a cordial, almost dismissive tone, “so we will keep it very short, then you can return to holding.”

Already, Lara felt her spirits fall. She was so desperate to talk to someone! Anyone, about anything! The woman seemed to pick up on this.

“Well, or we could make it a full session! It just depends on your level of disclosure. I understand that you have been violent and short-tempered in the past. Are you willing to cooperate today?”

Lara nodded her head, causing the doctor to smile. She sipped her drink, and Lara was green with envy as she watched the woman enjoy the delicious beverage.

“Very good! Let’s do this get-to-know-you exercise. Why don’t you pretend that you are a character in a television program that I’ve never seen before. And you describe yourself to me; what your goals are, your likes and dislikes, a brief history.

“Oh, and nurse, loosen her ankle bindings and get her a real chair! She seems like she is better-behaved today.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Lara was smart enough to see this supposed act of kindness for what it really was. These people had been tormenting her for weeks, she wasn’t about to be taken in by a softer chair! But as her bare thighs touched the seat that Nurse Cerys had offered her, she noticed that it had the same texture as her solitary cell; frilly and slightly too yielding. Her fear of being sent back to that room grew immensely, and Lara was a little more forthcoming.

“I am Lara Abington,” she began,

“I am the sole heir to the Abington fortune. My father...”

She couldn’t bring herself to mention him. Hoping the doctor wouldn’t prod her, she changed the subject.

“I am an accomplished athlete; I like rock climbing, horseback riding, and tennis. I was lonely growing up. Most of my classmates had... a different way of seeing the world. I am constantly disappointed by their contempt for people who have less money. It’s uncomfortable for me to have someone do something for me, whereas my friends expect someone else to do their laundry, wash their cars, prepare their food, everything.”

The doctor made a note of this. Lara knew this was a police tactic: let someone stew for a while, and they would be more willing to talk about themselves even if it resulted in self-incrimination.

“Do you have any living family?” the doctor asked.

Lara didn’t like that leading question, and she didn’t have much time to think of a response. Did she dare bring her “Uncle” Errol into this?

“Why do you ask?” Lara countered.

The doctor sighed, and put her pen down.

“Listen, if you are going to be evasive, we can try again a few days from now. You are facing very serious charges; the artifact you attempted to steal from Mrs. Liao is valued at several million dollars. Nurse, please help Lara back to—”

“No!” Lara shouted, shaking her head pathetically.

“I’m sorry... I have an Uncle Errol. Well, he says he is my uncle, but I don’t think so. I think he’s just trying to take some of my inheritance.”

“Tell me more about him,” the doctor prompted.

“He’s awful. He is piggish and rude, and he has abhorrent ideas about the way women should behave. I consider myself a tolerant person, but I could not stand him. He thinks I should just keep my mouth shut, and do whatever he says. He even said that once he was my guardian, he would put me in my my place, whatever that means. Well, my place is nowhere near him!”

“What do you mean when you say, ‘once he is your guardian’?” The doctor asked.

Lara explained the legal battle for her inheritance.

“You might not like what I am about to say,” the Asian woman began,

“But Mrs. Liao’s legal team has frozen your assets. You crossed country lines to attempt grand theft, then assaulted the mental staff trying to help you. The judge reasonably believes that you are a flight risk. That’s why your location is not being disclosed—you could hire goons to just spring you from any prison. Also, the prosecutor is arguing that you have used your family fortune to fund similar crimes around the globe. As such, you will probably remain in this institution until the trial begins, and Mrs. Liao is deliberately seeking continuations in order to get you to accept a plea bargain.”

Lara’s heart dropped at this next part.

“The trial is not even set to begin for another sixteen months. It could easily be much longer, though.”

The thought drove all others from her mind. She gazed at the doctor with her saucer eyes, unable to comprehend how unfair and absurd this all was. Even assuming it was true, it sounded like the most corrupt legal proceedings she had ever heard of! It had to be lies, all of it! Her assets were frozen? She was an international criminal? Sixteen months in this place!?!

“I—I don’t understand,” Lara said. “There must be something... what about my solicitor, Mr. Edwin Montgomery?”

The doctor shook her head, and explained that he was under investigation for his participation in her scheme. And even if he were somehow cleared of that, he had several rumors about sexual misconduct circling him that would demand his full attention for quite some time. Lara felt the earth falling away behind her, leaving behind only a very narrow and unpleasant path forward.

“What does the plea bargain look like?” Lara asked.

“You would not like it,” the woman responded, “Mrs. Liao is a serious Anglophile, and she has always dreamed of holding a title. But, as you know, they are hereditary: more valuable than any amount of money, and they can only be transferred in the rarest of circumstances. Especially yours, which goes back quite a ways.”

The doctor paused, to allow the horrible implication to sink in. It worked—Lara felt like she might faint.

“Mrs. Liao is willing to forgive your crime. But in return, she wants your noble title. You would no longer be the Lady of Abington—that honor would belong to her family henceforth. It’s a little more complicated than that, because to give up your title you would technically have to become a stateless person, but that’s the basic gist of it.”

Lara stared at the woman, shaking her head weakly. The doctor wasn’t finish twisting the knife, though, and added:

“Mrs. Liao has also offered to sponsor you for a work visa, in the event you accept her plea bargain. You would work as her family’s domestic attendant, and in return they would help you navigate immigration. It might entail a change of names, among other things.”

“I refuse. The offer is an insult,” Lara said, resolutely.

It truly was, and there was no way the doctor didn’t realize this no matter how sweetly she had presented it to Lara. For Lara to surrender her title would be to betray her heritage—to give away some part of her deepest self that she could literally never get back. There had been other men and women who gave up their titles, and the media always had a field day with it. People loved to dog-pile on those unfortunates and their lives were, without exception, worse for the exchange. The fact that this awful Mrs. Liao actually expected Lara to work as some kind of menial for her afterwards as part of the the ‘bargain’ made it all the more egregious.

“Well then, you need to reach out to this Uncle Errol. You’ve had your problems with him, sure, but he seems to be the only one who can help you right now.”

Even though she knew it was better than Mrs. Liao’s sadistic offer, Lara couldn’t bear the idea. Putting aside how much it would wound her pride and her sense of independence, it would be legally ruinous!

She imagined Uncle Errol’s delight as he listened to her beg for his help. She pictured his smug face as he processed the news, smoking a cigar as his awful team of lawyers told him exactly how much this would help his legal case against her. How much more leverage would he have over her if Lara had depended on him to get her out of a mental institution?! It was practically a thrice-notarized confession that she needed him as her guardian! Couldn’t she reach out to her friend Fiona Ashford, or someone less connected to all this?

Apparently not. Only a family member or legal advisor had visitation rights here, wherever this place was. This was dreadful—they were roadblocking every one of her plans, lording it over her that their corrupt authority was unquestionable.

“I can’t,” Lara whispered, her beautiful face contorted into a mask of despair.

“I understand,” the doctor responded, “Well, my only other option is to return you to your cell. My schedule is very busy, so I won’t have time for another meeting until next month. It is a shame—with your uncle’s help, we could at least get you out of there and into other parts of the facility.”

That softened her up. Lara saw the trick being played on her, but was helpless to resist it, and that just made it worse. It was madness or surrender, and Nurse Cerys was already approaching to cart her away.

“Wait,” Lara said.

“I will contact Errol.”

The doctor assured her she was making the right decision, and brought over an old-fashioned corded telephone and held it up to Lara’s ear. Lara dictated the man’s cell phone number; which she had memorized because of how often he would call and text her about arranging a visit to her estate.

Her mouth went dry as she heard the ring tone. Was it worse if he answered, or didn’t answer?

“Hello?” came a gruff voice—maybe it was early where was. He sounded hungover. She struggled to find the words.

“Hello, Uncle Errol?” Lara said. Her voice sounded meek and fragile.

“Lara? What do you want? It’s pretty damn early for this.”

Lara tried to say something, but she kept stumbling over the words.

“Come on, spit it out,” Errol said, taking an abusive tone. Normally, this is where Lara would snap back at him, and shut him down. But now...

“I need your help.”

There was a pause, and the sound of a match being struck.

“Help with what? And why would I WANT to help? You’ve been a right bitch to me for the past few months.”

Lara exhaled sharply—she hated being called a bitch and she would never permit someone to take that tone with her before. But everything rested on this one call, and she knew it would be necessary to flatter his ego.

“I’m sorry,” Lara said, and dove right into an explanation of what had happened.

“Well, that’s a lot to take in,” Errol said at the end of her speech. She could tell from his voice that he was smiling.

“I’m honestly a little shocked. Did you think you were playing a video game or something? You can’t go sneaking around like some cat burglar—you’re lucky it wasn’t worse. Think about it, Lara, you could have been shot.”

“I know,” Lara muttered.

She could tell that he was emboldened by this new, submissive side of her—taking the exact tone he had always wanted to use on her except for the fact that she wouldn’t stand for it.

“I’ve never been more convinced that you need supervision. Your mother and father gave you far too much leeway, and we see where that landed you. In a mental asylum!”

He laughed at his own joke while she just fumed at his total lack of reverence for her late parents. This was always the drive of his chauvinistic argument—that her wild spirit needed to be brought to heel.

“Anyway, how am I supposed to help you? You sued me for using the family’s resources, and now the resources are off-limits anyway!”

“There’s a safe,” Lara began.

She could practically hear his ears prick up at this revelation. Even though she realized the danger of giving him this information, it was her only option.

“It’s hidden in my room. Behind the painting of the girl en pointe. The combination is... 34-18-42. There should be enough cash there to tide you over, and pay for any expenses you have.”

Lara shuddered to think what else was in that safe: her birth certificate, several years of tax filings, deeds to much of her property, and many bank account numbers. There were also things of more sentimental value: jewelry and antique photos. Only now did she see the foolishness of keeping it all in one place. She was taking a calculated risk, though, and even with all these documents Uncle Errol didn’t have the thing he needed the most.

She kept the original copy of her father’s last will and testament somewhere else.

As long as he didn’t have access to the will, she stood a fine chance of winning out in the end. This was a necessary sacrifice, then, or strategic surrender. She would allow him squander a few thousand pounds on booze and gambling, and kick him out when she was in control of her own affairs again.

“I’m not sure,” Errol said, “you still seem like you have that pride about you. Even calling from an insane asylum, you sound like you’re the lady of the manner. You haven’t even said ‘please’—you know I have a busy life, too?”

Lara could have laughed out loud.

A ‘busy life’?! All he did was play cards with his loutish friends, smoke, and watch idiotic sports programs. Oh, and his nasty pornography habit—she had glimpsed the sort of websites he enjoyed. They featured girls with obvious plastic surgery who were often tied up, distressed, and engaged in all manner of degrading sex acts. She had even overheard him bragging about how he much he enjoyed finishing on womens’ faces! She never wanted to know that much about his sexual preferences, and she couldn’t understand why a woman would consent to something so degrading.

But here she was.

“Please, Uncle Errol? I made a mistake, and I need your help... Pretty please?”

For the first time in her life she was begging. And of course, it had to be in front of her hated uncle which made it all the more shameful. He chuckled a little.

“Hahaha, okay, I’ll do it! I’m not a heartless beast, and it was worth it just to hear you say ‘pretty please.’”

That made it all worth it for her, too! The doctor took the phone, and began having a more logistical conversation with Uncle Errol. She said that she would tell him their location soon, and what documents to get in order, other things like that. Then she hung up.

“Well, Lara, I think you’ve made the right decision. Your uncle should be here within a few days, and until then, I see no reason you can’t have television privileges! Something to pass the time. Nurse, add the smart screen to her room.”

Although Nurse Cerys still brought Lara to that pink hellscape, the girl was in brighter spirits than she had been in a long time.

It didn’t last long.

The smart screen she had been so excited about turned out to be a large flat screen that was set just outside of her reach. She was not given any remote control for it, so had no way of changing the channel or even turning the volume on. Its content was questionable, at best. Mostly foreign soap operas that Lara had never seen or heard of before, and loosely connected by a similar theme. The theme was servant girls and their wealthy employers.

One of them was a Hindi serial that followed an unbelievably rich princess through the drama of her life. For some reason, there was a huge emphasis on her feet—the director usually showed what footwear she had on, and many of the scenes took place with her soles facing the camera. There was a recurring character—a pretty girl dressed in a comparatively drab outfit who was usually pictured kneeling at her feet, fussing about them one way or another.

Their relationship was distinctly unequal—during one heated exchange the princess even slapped the girl using her foot! Lara watched bored and a little weirded out—she always thought feet were dirty and unpleasant things, even ones as clean and well-cared for as the princess’s. They were almost a phobia for her.

Lara wanted to look away, but there was something hypnotic about the vibrant colors and the human figures on the screen. What else did she have to look at, anyway? She would enjoy anything compared to the muted pink of her room—the screen eased her confinement even if it was just to a certain degree. With nothing else nearby to hold her attention, she got lost in these idiotic serials, often stroking her tattoos absentmindedly as gorgeous women pranced about in smart outfits to the envy of all.

The programming seemed to change all the time, but it slanted towards a puzzling end.

When Lara first started watching, it seemed to be curated for more narrative-based stories where feet played a relatively minor role. But as she got more invested (and more absorbed in the pleasure that her tattoos provided), the programing would increasing amounts of emphasis on feet and servitude. One time, she realized she had been watching with rapt attention for an entire half hour as a pretty Japanese businesswoman got a foot massage from her eager female assistant while taking a phone call. As soon as Lara jerked to attention, the programming smoothly transitioned to the other women on the conference call—each one receiving highly personal services from similarly-dressed interns.

Then the call wrapped up, and the next scene showed a girl eating a lavish feast served to her by a scullery maid. Was this what the Japanese businesswomen were talking about—they were media executives or something?

Lara’s mouth watered as she beheld the roast beef, the duck soup, and the macarons in a breathtaking array of color. It stayed on this for quite some time but then, the scullery maid crawled beneath the table to take care of her mistress’s feet. The show cut between the rich girl enjoying her delicious meal as her servant knelt before her stocking-clad soles, rubbing them dutifully. At one point, the rich girl took a bite of the macaron and declared that her maid must try it, and held it beneath the table for the girl to eat from her hand, like a dog! Why couldn’t it just stay on the food?

Like it or not, the TV did help the time pass more quickly.

She was still visited at least twice daily by Nurse Cerys, and fed the disgusting pink mush, and used the plastic bedpan as she had been doing all along. The taste of the food never improved, and it never got worse; it was always perfectly bland and tiresome to her refined palette. Her tongue could distinguish over a dozen undertones within a single sip of wine, but that part of her mind seemed to go fallow as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of oppressive gunk. The sleep deprivation the and sensory deprivation seemed to disrupt her ability to access more long-term memories, and it absolutely wore down her resistance to the institution’s oppressive rule.

Whenever she resolved to remember her own life, she was so harried an uncertain that she had the unfortunate tendency to conflate it with the television she had been watching. It was similar to the way a person might picture themselves as the superhero during an action movie, or some kind of celebrity. This lead to odd daydreams, or maybe they were hallucinations, of herself as one of the servant girls on T.V.. As repulsive as these fantasies were—often centered around rubbing feet (something Lara abhorred) or doing menial chores—they were badly-needed mental stimulation and this was enough reason to let them play out. Rationally, she knew this wasn’t a healthy change. It felt like she was developing a fixation, or an obsessive habit that reinforced itself with every intrusive fantasy.

When she was fed, she always remembered to say, “thank you, nurse” after each bite of food, and opened her mouth wide to show she had swallowed it all, too. It alarmed her how quickly this new life became routine—more and more her thoughts revolved around the smartscreen’s most recent program than about escape plans or her own indignation at her mistreatment. Her life contracted to fit neatly between those four padded pink walls, and it was easier to bide her time, waiting for outside help.

One day, she saw something on the TV that pulled her out of the pleasant, sexually-charged haze that she had been in for an untold amount of time. It was a girl writing in her journal! This reminded her of her own journals, and the thought of someone finding them made her blood run cold.

She had, at a young age, attended an inspirational talk about storytelling and how it relates to achieving personal goals. The speaker was a passionate multi-millionaire who argued very persuasively that everyone should keep a detailed journal of their lives, and they should keep it well-organized by adding ‘tags’ to each entry.

He said that even the most embarrassing and personal things should be recorded, examined, and archived. Lara took his advice to heart, going home that day to begin her journaling habit that she continued diligently for several years. Per his suggestion, she even had an index in each of her journals—a reader could look up “foods, that I enjoy” or “foods, that I hate” and “feminism—importance of,” or “feet—unpleasant encounters.”

If Errol searched her room, he would find her most recent journal in the same drawer where she kept her panties and a emergency reserve of cash. There was some marijuana in there too; Lara didn’t like the stuff but it helped her sleep sometimes. She couldn’t shake the mental picture of him sitting on her bed, smoking her weed, and grinning as he read her most private observations with her panties strewn all about. It was so... offensive.

She couldn’t help but feel completely frustrated as the bad thoughts kept running through her head. She had made many mentions of Errol in her journal, and although they were all the stark truth, he would be deeply offended if he saw any them. And that wasn’t even taking into consideration how deeply and intimately he would know her mind if he perused all her secret books. She even wrote about some sex dreams she had!

What if he showed them to her friends?!

This recurring thoughts dampened Lara’s spirits for quite some time, nagging away at her by creating a cruel reminder of the world outside these infinitely secure walls. Regardless of how much mental energy she devoted to it, she couldn’t find a bright side anywhere. Soon, Lara gave herself to escapism, deliberately focusing more on the smartscreen’s display and following her daydreams even deeper to forget about her problems. It was uncharacteristic of her, and she knew it.

It only helped to a point. After a while, the programming got even more strange.

She found herself engrossed in a rather offensive pop music video. In it, women with big bubble butts shook them to an unheard rhythm, while women with smaller backsides watched on with envy. A few of the thicker women stormed into a yoga studio where mostly thin white women were in a variety of poses, and took over. Lara watched as a pretty brunette buried her face in a thick Latina’s butt, and judging by the expression on her face she clearly wasn’t enjoying it. Meanwhile, other fat-bottomed women squatted down on women who were lying on their backs, jiggling their ample bottoms against incredulous womens’ faces.

The tone of the video made it seem like the women were too polite to object, and just accepted the smothering that left them red-faced and rattled. When that video finished, Lara was relieved when the next video was a Korean drama that she had become invested in, and she tried to forget both the fat-bottomed women and her secret diaries. It was easier to think about society’s weird fixation with womens’ backsides because it was so inconsequential. For the record, she didn’t see the appeal whatsoever.

An unknown amount of time passed.

Lara continued using certain metrics to keep track of the time, in an effort to retain some control over her life. Things like the growth of her hair and nails were useful, but mostly they related to her use of the bedpan and her bathing schedule. It was an imperfect system, though—the lack of sleep was seriously taking its toll on her cognitive abilities. She found it hard to keep numbers in mind for long. Soon she was struggling to remember: have I been fed 28 times, or 24? Maybe it was 30? Her menstrual cycle would have been a perfect marker, but apparently they gave her some kind of shot that prevented her from getting her period.

“Probably a birth control shot,” Lara thought to herself.

She wanted to believe that it was for cleanliness’s sake, to avoid dealing with tampons, but it was still alarming that they had found it necessary to make decisions about her birth control.

“And they even used some low-quality drug too, or else I’m having a bad reaction to it. My breasts feel tender and sensitive all the time, and I’m so moody. I cried at that stupid commercial with the soldier coming home to his pregnant wife!”

She was consciously ignoring the fact that she was constantly feeling horny.

If it weren’t for those stupid cameras, she would have certainly masturbated by this point. But no matter where she went in her little cell there was at least one lens pointed at her, and she refused to give her captors that sort of footage. Her compromise wasn’t effective, either: stroking her tattoos just felt like she was venting the tiniest amount of her pent-up frustration, or more accurately she was just adding to it. It felt as though she were obsessively setting the table for a dinner guest who enjoyed keeping her waiting. A frustrated young virgin, making sure the forks and knives were perfectly straight, all the glasses spotless for her badly-needed guest.

“Your Uncle Errol is here,” Nurse Cerys said one day, catching Lara completely off-guard. In fact, she walked in on the girl crying over some glurge that she would have found insipid just last month!

Lara started. She wasn’t mentally prepared for this whatsoever. It also dawned on her that she was in the nude—something that had become routine for her a while ago. Her thoughts became frantic and jumbled now that there was no comforting TV to focus on. It had been such an annoyingly long time since she had a real conversation with anyone. Any opportunity to do so was a good thing. Still, something about this set-up was dangerous. She didn’t trust anyone here one iota.

“Wha- is he coming here?” Lara asked, terrified at the thought of him barging into her cell.

“No, silly!” Nurse Cerys said, “You are going to see him in the visiting room. First we need to get you ready, though. Hands forward, please.”

“Yes, nurse,” was Lara’s automatic reply.

The nurse put a sturdy pair of handcuffs around Lara’s wrists, and guided her out of the room. Again Lara enjoyed the feel of actual floor against her bare feet, but she was disheartened by the fact that they were going the opposite direction from the doctor’s office—deeper into the asylum. At the end of the hallway, a door opened, and they went into a hallway that had actual wooden doors punctuating its length!

It reminded her somewhat of the halls of a school, except for the fact that these doors only had the smallest of windows on them, and even those were covered in thick iron bars. She attempted to look into the rooms, only to find out that the glass was coated in some kind of opaque film. They went into one of the rooms, which had a little table on which was laid Lara’s Tomb Liberator outfit!

At least, that’s what she thought at first.

A closer examination revealed that it might have been inspired by her outfit, but that it had undergone considerable alterations. Nurse Cerys undid Lara’s handcuffs, but still insisted on dressing the girl. She held out the olive drab shorts for Lara to step into, and pulled them up her legs. When they were snugly resting on her hips, Lara saw that these things were more like retro booty shorts than her old, functional hiking shorts—they even lacked pockets! Worse, they had an unfortunate way of bunching up. The backside reached far between her cheeks, giving her the sensation of a permanent wedgie, and the front stopped just short of creating a cameltoe appearance!

The top was no better. It was a ballet wrap top or more accurately, a quarter of one. It had long, flowing sleeves that flared out to cover her hands when she let them fall to her sides. No bra, either, and her breasts were pushed up and together by a loose sash tied in a ribbon across her chest.

Altogether, she looked like she was at some naughty slumber party—the long sleeves and bare midriff especially gave her a disarming appearance. It was quite different from how she normally dressed when Errol visited, which skewed towards modest trousers and sensible blouses. He had never seen her in so much as a bikini, despite all his subtle hints that they use the swimming pool.

“There must be something else I can wear,” Lara protested when it became obvious that this was the whole of her outfit.

“Sorry, no,” Nurse Cerys responded, “it’s this or nothing.”

It wasn’t clear to Lara what she meant—nothing, as in she would go back to her solitary cell, or nothing as in seeing Errol in the nude? The twisted logic of this place could allow for either one, and again Lara was forced into making an uncomfortable decision. She felt like she would melt her brain if she stared at that screen for any longer, but even that didn’t make her choice much easier.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Down the hallway, and to another door they arrived into a visitation room, or something like it. There was a metallic stool set into the ground, at a much lower height than the leather chair facing it. Not much else, except for video cameras. Nurse Cerys prompted Lara to sit on the stool of course, and stood nearby while they waited for Errol to arrive. Lara’s back was turned towards the door, and she was kept waiting for an obnoxious amount of time. All the time she wondered: am I making the right decision here? What’s the best way to approach this, to get me out of here?

The door opened and Lara’s heart jumped to her throat.

Her “Uncle” Errol came into the room, bedecked in an expensive suit and carrying a briefcase. Lara suspected he paid for this stuff using her money—it was much better than his usual style—and it aggravated her that he was so covered by his own clothing while she was so exposed by hers. This was the exact sort of things she was critical of in the media: how women were depicted as beautiful objects while men had more agency.

“Lara! I had to go through hell to see you, you won’t believe how hard they made it!”

He became way too familiar with her way too fast. As a greeting, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, a little too close to her mouth, and she clenched her jaw at his boldness. She would have never allowed him to do that back in her manor, and he knew it. Judging by the strong aroma, he had smoked a cigar just minutes before getting here. Disgusting—she nearly turned green at the foul scent, and he didn’t even seem to care about her discomfort!

He sat down, and instead of bringing out some legal documents as she had hoped, he pulled out a small plastic cup and a tin of chewing tobacco.

“I—I am more focused on how to get out of here. Did you contact my solicitor?” Lara asked as sweetly as she could under the circumstances.

“Gah, my hands are all full. Lara, be a dear and hold this cup for me,” Errol responded, completely ignoring her question.

She winced a little—was this some head game? She didn’t want to hold his spittoon cup, that was revolting!

“Patients cannot hold objects,” Nurse Cerys said in an urgent tone, walking closer to make sure that nothing passed between them.

“Well, I can’t very well hold it myself,” Errol replied, “It’s bad luck! And there’s no table... Can’t she hold it between her legs or something? I have good aim.”

Lara was incensed! He was really pushing the envelope now, but she needed to know what was in that briefcase. It could very well be the key to her freedom.

“That would be permissible,” Nurse Cerys said.

“Well, Lara, what do you say? Help me out? I really need my nicotine—otherwise I’ll have to go out and smoke. Or just be in a bad mood.”

“I suppose so,” Lara answered.

“Great! We’ll just put it between those thighs—shouldn’t be an issue holding it there, with how thick they are!”

Thus Lara was subjected to the humiliation of taking her Uncle Errol’s spittoon cup and holding it between her legs for him to use while they spoke. He started in right away, scooting his chair much closer to her and leaning forward to spit into the cup that was mere inches from her sex.

“Anyway, I did some research on who that Dr. Yeung is that you assaulted. Bad move, by the way. Turns out she is extremely well-connected in some very dark circles. That’s about all I can say under the circumstances,” he said, pointing to the cameras that surrounded them.

“But here’s the main thing: she was actually going to be honored at a ceremony later that night. A lifetime achievement award, in front of all her colleagues and family. Then you broke her nose. She had to cancel the appearance, and have someone accept the award for her. She is really, really mad about that.”

He spit a fresh wad of saliva into the plastic cup, as though to punctuate his thought. Lara flared her nostrils—it was every bit as demeaning as she thought it would be.

“Well, what can we do about it?” Lara demanded.

“Lara, they were just trying to scare you at that point! If you hadn’t attacked Dr. Yeung, you would have been out of there within the week. Maybe you’d get a spanking or two, but you certainly deserve worse for what you’ve done!”

Lara blinked, not deigning to respond to that little barb.

“But now,” Errol continued, “the doctor is out for blood. She wants you to stay in this asylum until your court date with Mrs. Liao, and they are pulling all the strings they can to make sure it’s in the far, far future.”

“We’re talking years, Lara.”

“I cannot stay here,” Lara said, keenly aware of the way his smile perked up to hear her beg like this.

“I know. I talked with the staff here, and negotiated with them pretty hard to get you a deal. They can let you out of your cell, and you can even interact with other patients, but you have to participate in their educational program. I’m not saying it will be nice, but it beats being locked up for 24 hours a day for the next sixteen months. I’m talking to my lawyers to see what we can do to get you on work-release or something like that.”

“Or, there’s always Mrs. Liao’s offer to take over your title. If you give her that, you could be out of here on the very same day.”

At this, Lara could hardly keep track of all her warring emotions. First, the crushing realization that there was no quick way out of here, at least not until her solicitor found her. Then, the uplifting thought that she might actually talk to other women in her same situation—after all, captivity shared is only semi-captivity. But beneath everything was a suspicion of her Uncle Errol, and a strong aversion to trusting him on anything. It certainly didn’t help that he was openly ogling her body—she could have slapped him for being so brazen.

“Very well,” Lara decided, “I will do the... education program.”

“Well, it’s not as simple as that, love. It costs quite a bit of money to take part in it—two hundred thousand pounds up front.”

Then he spit towards the cup, but missed utterly, brown juice splashing against Lara’s bare thigh.

“Whoops.”

“Two. Hundred. Thousand. Pounds?!” Lara hissed, feeling the muscles in her neck tense up. She reached towards the spittle to wipe it up, but Nurse Cerys firmly commanded her to keep her arms at her side. It trickled down her muscular thigh, causing her to cringe as it slowly moved towards the earth.

So, this was their plan! To bleed her dry by making her purchase the slightest easement of suffering at an insane cost! It was a lot of money, to be sure, but only a drop in the bucket compared to the value of her inheritance. She could spare it. What did it foretell about the rest of her time here, though? How long until they demanded more of her money, and gave her even less in return?

“Yes, two hundred thousand.” Uncle Errol said.

“And you’ll need to decide very soon. Visiting hours are short—I almost have to leave just now. If you agree, I will need you to give me permission to find the money on your behalf since your assets are still frozen. I would only need enough to pay your tuition, and to support myself here.”

Lara could have killed the the bastard right there. She knew he would take more than was necessary, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. As though to pile on the insults, he spat into the cup again. This time he missed badly, and stained the crotch of her shorts. It made her bite her cheek so hard she could nearly taste blood.

“Well Lara, what’s it going to be?”

She fantasized about the revenge she would take on him when she was free again. Revenge against all these horrible people. But her stay the solitary cell had softened her up more than she would care to admit, and she was prepared to take any almost any deal to avoid going back. Anything except for Mrs. Liao’s offer, that is.

“Alright. I will pay the tuition,” Lara relented, barely able to tolerate the look of satisfaction on Errol’s face.

It turned out to be less simple than that, he explained. Mrs. Liao had frozen her assets—she had no way of accessing the 200,000 she needed. The panic set in right away; she didn’t have that much money lying around! And she couldn’t sell anything while all her property was tied up in this ridiculous legal drama! She tossed out half-baked ideas, feeling like a trapped animal, until Uncle Errol spoke up.

“Well, I know neither of us has that kind of money. But how about your friends? Robin Woodward—I’m sure she would float you the cash.”

Lara gave her Uncle a pitiable expression, begging with her eyes for anything but that! Robin would never allow Lara to live it down if she provided that sort of help. It would be a little card she could pull out at any time to humiliate Lara—and she knew Robin would start the most vicious rumors about why she was in the asylum. If she went to Robin for help, she could practically kiss the rest of her friends goodbye as the rich bitch poisoned the well against her. But wasn’t anything better than staying here? Why was she thinking like a neurotic middle school girl when her life was on the line? Errol kept his measured smile, but she could tell he was loving every moment of this.

“Ask Jane Branwen,” Lara said, “Or Natasha Kristoff. Either of them would help—but not Robin.”

“I’ll do the best I can, Laura,” was Uncle Errol’s response, but it did nothing to inspire her confidence. It sounded like his heart was set on asking Robin, like he was only politely listening to her objections in the way a person would listen to a girl asking for a unicorn for her birthday.

“Love the tattoos, by the way.”

She didn’t even see the contents of his briefcase! Probably a prop, just something to create hope and then dash it in order to get her to be more compliant. He gave her another kiss goodbye, leaving the dirty cup in her lap, and soon Nurse Cerys was prompting her back into her cell. The entire time she was praying to herself: not Robin. Don’t borrow the money from Robin.

Please, anyone but Robin.