Chapter 4

Elara awoke on Tuesday morning with a heavy sense of dread, but also a sliver of perverse relief. At least today, she wouldn’t have to face school. The memory of Monday’s assault, the cruel laughter, the brutal violation, still haunted her every waking moment. Her body ached relentlessly, her backside a roadmap of angry welts, and a deep, raw soreness lingered between her legs, a constant, sickening reminder of her torn hymen.

Vivienne, ever the master of punitive routine, had laid out Elara’s “house arrest” rules with chilling clarity. No phone, no computer, no books. She was confined to her room, allowed out only for pre-approved meals and bathroom breaks. Her only view of the outside world was the window, and even that felt like a mockery.

Elara spent Tuesday in a haze of misery. She sat on her bed, or sometimes on the floor, staring at the bland cream-colored wall of her room. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Vivienne moving about the house, a constant, oppressive presence. Her mind replayed the events of Monday: the school hallway, the jeering faces, Marcus’s cruel hands, the searing pain, the blood. And then, her mother’s furious reaction, the brutal spanking, and the terrifying pronouncement of another doctor’s appointment. She hugged her knees to her chest, rocking slightly, trying to soothe the raw edges of her despair. The emptiness inside her felt vast and cold.

On Wednesday morning, the usual morning rituals were imbued with a new, terrifying tension. Vivienne had woken her earlier than usual. “Get dressed, Elara,” she commanded, her voice crisp, devoid of any warmth. “We have an appointment. And I expect you to be on your best behavior. There will be no hysterics.”

Elara’s stomach churned. The doctor’s appointment. Today. The fear was a cold knot in her gut. She pulled on the same clothes Vivienne had designated – a plain, conservative dress, chosen, Elara knew, to project an image of demure femininity, utterly at odds with the ravaged, violated girl beneath. Her backside was still tender, but the bruises were fading to an ugly yellow-green. The raw feeling between her legs had subsided slightly, but it was still sensitive, and the memory of blood brought a fresh wave of shame.

The drive to Dr. Schmidt’s clinic was silent. Elara stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of her town pass by. The world outside seemed utterly indifferent to her suffering. She braced herself for the clinic’s sterile scent, the cold examination table. She wondered if Dr. Schmidt would be as cold, as clinical, today.

They were ushered into the examination room quickly. Dr. Schmidt greeted them, her voice calm and professional, her posture impeccable. She was tall, with strong features, neatly tied-back dark hair, and a crisp white lab coat that gave her an air of authority. Her voice was unmistakably feminine, deep and resonant. Elara saw nothing to indicate anything unusual.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Doctor,” Vivienne said, her voice strained with carefully constructed concern. “Elara has, unfortunately, had another ... incident. After our last visit, I had hoped she would understand the importance of preserving her ... virtue. But it seems she has been careless. Reckless, even. And I am gravely concerned about the state of her ... precious asset.” Vivienne emphasized the words “precious asset” with a pointed look at Elara.

Dr. Schmidt nodded, her expression unreadable. “I understand, Vivienne. We will conduct a thorough examination.” She turned to Elara, her gaze cool. “Elara, please undress from the waist down and lie on the examination table. Vivienne, you may stay at the foot of the table, if you wish.”