Stripped to the Core
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 7A: The Weight of Ownership
The empty stage was cold, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and shame. I sat up, my back pressed against Claire’s chest, her breasts soft against my spine. My body still trembled from the aftermath of the assembly, the overwhelming sensations Claire had forced upon me still echoing through my nerves. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, guilt, and exhaustion, each thought a jagged shard cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I felt raw, exposed, as if every layer of my being had been stripped away, leaving only the fragile core of who I was.
Claire’s arms were wrapped around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder. Her breath was steady, her presence both comforting and unsettling. She kissed my neck softly, her lips warm against my skin, but the gesture felt hollow, a reminder of the role she had been forced into. I wanted to pull away, to distance myself from the reality of what she was—what we both were—but I couldn’t. Her touch was a tether, grounding me in a world that felt increasingly surreal.
And then Ms. Amberley walked in.
Her presence was like a ghost, silent and haunting, as she moved across the stage with her usual commanding grace. She began speaking to the others, her voice sharp and authoritative, but I couldn’t focus on her words. My attention was drawn to Claire, to the way she held me, to the quiet resignation in her eyes. She was a paradox—both fragile and defiant, her shaved head and marked body a testament to the system that had claimed her. The remnants of ink on her skin, like mine, told a story of ownership and control, of a life stripped down to its barest essentials.
Claire’s breath was steady, her expression calm, but there was something in her gaze—a flicker of something unspoken, something raw and vulnerable. It was as if she were waiting for me to say something, to acknowledge the weight of what had been placed upon us.
“Master,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “While most of my memory has been cleansed of the horror and abuse that was put upon me, the system is in the process of transferring my ownership to your parents until you come of age to assume the title. And then, if you choose, you can transfer my ownership to another ... or discard me if I become defective.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, the weight of them pressing down on me until I could barely breathe. I stared at her, my mind racing, my heart pounding in my chest. This wasn’t just about the assembly, about the humiliation and the spectacle. This was something deeper, something darker. This was about ownership, about control, about stripping away every last shred of autonomy until there was nothing left but obedience.
“What?” I managed to choke out, my voice trembling. “What are you talking about?”
Claire’s gaze didn’t waver. “I never knew my birth parents. I was passed through the system until I was given the choice to become a hybrid servant,” she repeated, her tone steady but laced with something I couldn’t quite place—resignation, perhaps, or despair. “Your parents signed the papers this morning. I belong to you now. Until you decide otherwise.”
The room seemed to spin around me, the walls closing in as her words sank in. This wasn’t just about the assembly, about the humiliation and the spectacle. This was something deeper, something darker. This was about ownership, about control, about stripping away every last shred of autonomy until there was nothing left but obedience.
“No,” I said, my voice cracking under the strain. “No, Claire, I don’t want this. I don’t want you to be ... to be my property. This isn’t right.”
Her lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “It doesn’t matter what you want,” she said softly. “This is the way it is. This is the way it’s always been.”
Her words were a dagger to my heart, a cruel reminder of the system that had ensnared us both. I wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the walls down and escape this nightmare. But I couldn’t. I was trapped, bound by the expectations of those around me and the weight of my guilt.
Claire reached out, her hand brushing against mine as she faced me. Her touch was warm, steady, but it sent a shiver down my spine. “You’ve only been kind to me,” she said softly. “And now I will be nothing more than your most precious accessory, something to be proud of owning. You don’t have to know all that is necessary in owning your living, breathing doll. But you do have to own me. That’s the rule that was told to me.”
I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t want to own you, Claire. I don’t want any of this.”
Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she regained her composure. “I know,” she said softly. “But this is what we are now. This is what we’ve become.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication. I wanted to argue, to protest, and to tell her that there had to be another way. But the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to fight this, how to break free from the chains that bound us both.
Claire’s hand tightened around mine, her grip firm but not painful. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” she said softly. “But you do have to decide what kind of master you’re going to be.”
The words sent a chill down my spine, a mix of revulsion and something else I couldn’t quite name. I didn’t want to be a master. I didn’t want to be a part of this twisted system. But the weight of her gaze bore down on me, demanding an answer.
“Claire,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile, bittersweet and fleeting. “You’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “You’re stronger than you think.”
Her words were a small comfort, but they did little to ease the storm raging inside me. I closed my eyes, shutting out the oppressive room, the weight of her gaze, the suffocating expectations. Instead, I focused on my breathing, slow and steady, and the faint hum of my heartbeat.
When I opened my eyes, Claire was still there, her gaze steady, her expression calm. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—a question, perhaps, or a silent plea. I didn’t know what she needed from me, but at that moment, I made a promise to myself: I would find a way out of this. For her, for me, for everyone caught in this sick game.
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