Stripped to the Core
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 7B: The Flicker and the Fury
The fluorescent hum of the hallway lights pressed like a physical weight on my bare skin. Opening my eyes, I found my parents still there, their gazes steady, expressions unnervingly calm. That flicker in their eyes wasn’t concern or remorse; it was anticipation. An unspoken question: Will she accept it? Will she play her part?
My mother’s smile widened, a chilling contrast to the tremors vibrating through my limbs. “See, Robert?” she said, her voice smooth with satisfaction as she glanced at my father. “I told you she’d adapt. She looks ... complete now.” Her gaze swept over Claire, standing silently behind me with her arms resting just below my breasts, her chin a soft weight on my shoulder. “Your doll suits you, Emma. A perfect accessory.”
The word doll scraped against my raw nerves. Claire wasn’t an accessory. She was a person whose past had been stolen, whose body had been violated (“spayed,” the clinical horror echoed), whose existence was now reduced to servitude. My servitude. Bile rose, sharp and acrid.
My father nodded, his assessing gaze shifting from Claire back to me. “A significant responsibility, Emma,” he stated, his tone devoid of warmth, only cool appraisal. “Handling ownership requires maturity. We trust you’ll learn quickly. The Amberley system produces remarkably compliant models.”
Ownership. Models. Compliant. The sterile, dehumanizing language crashed over me, finally shattering the stunned paralysis. The exhaustion, the lingering tremors, the raw feeling of my hairless skin, the phantom ache of the restraints – it all coalesced into a white-hot core of fury.
“No,” I said, the word cracking out, weak at first.
My mother’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by a puzzled frown. “No? No, what, darling? Don’t be ungrateful. This is an honor, a privilege.”
“NO!” The shout tore from me, raw and ragged, echoing in the sterile hallway. I lurched forward, breaking Claire’s gentle hold. The sudden movement made me stagger, my legs still unsteady, but I planted my feet, forcing myself upright between Claire and my parents. I felt Claire’s hand brush against my lower back, a fleeting, instinctive touch before she withdrew, resuming her impassive stance, but I sensed the subtle shift in her energy behind me – a stillness that felt like listening.
“I am not grateful!” My voice shook but gained strength, fueled by the horror of their calm acceptance. “This isn’t an honor! It’s monstrous! What you signed ... what you let them do to her...” I gestured wildly towards Claire, unable to articulate the violation – the erased memories, the sterilization, the reduction to property. “ ... and to me! Paraded like ... like livestock! Stripped, shaved, bound! You watched! You approved!”
My father’s expression hardened. “Emma, control yourself. This melodrama is unbecoming. Ms. Amberley’s methods are unconventional, perhaps, but highly effective. Look at the result.” He gestured dismissively towards Claire. “Order. Obedience. A valuable asset.”
“An asset?” My voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “She’s a person! And you bought her! For me! Like a ... a pet!” The word felt filthy. “I don’t want a slave! I never asked for this! How could you? How could you look at what happened today and feel pride?”
My mother stepped forward, her eyes flashing with impatience and something resembling hurt. “We did this for you, Emma! Because you needed structure! You needed to learn control, to overcome that debilitating shyness, to be strong! Look at you now! Standing your ground! This system works! Claire is part of that. She’s here to serve you, to help you focus, to remove distractions. She is what you needed.”
The sheer, warped logic of it stole my breath. My violation, Claire’s destruction – all framed as benevolent parenting. My knees threatened to buckle, not from weakness, but from the overwhelming tide of betrayal and revulsion.
Claire’s voice, calm and clear, cut through the tension. “Mistress Emma’s distress is noted. Would you like me to facilitate calming protocols, Master Robert, Mistress Diane? Or escort Mistress Emma to a designated quiet space?” Her offer was perfectly servile, a stark reminder of her programming.
“See?” My mother said, turning to my father, vindicated. “Utterly devoted. Exactly as promised.”
That was the final spark. Seeing Claire’s conditioned response used as proof of this atrocity ignited a fierce, protective rage – not just for myself, but for the silent girl behind me whose will had been erased.
“No one speaks for me,” I stated, my voice suddenly cold and steady. I turned slightly, not fully facing Claire but including her in my stance, a barrier between her and my parents. “And no one speaks for Claire anymore.” I looked directly at my mother, then my father, my gaze unwavering despite my nakedness, my marked skin, my exhaustion. “You signed papers? Fine. But you signed them for yourselves, not for me. I reject this. I reject ownership.”
I took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling Claire’s presence like an anchor at my back. “Claire isn’t my doll. She isn’t my asset. She’s...” I faltered, the reality of her conditioned state hitting me. I couldn’t claim friendship, not yet. “ ... She’s with me. And we,” I emphasized the word, “will figure out what that means. Together. Without your system. Without your approval.”
The hallway fell into stunned silence. My parents stared, their expressions frozen masks of disbelief and dawning disapproval. My mother’s lips thinned. My father’s eyes narrowed, calculating. The flicker in their eyes was gone, replaced by cold assessment. They saw the defiance, and it didn’t fit their script.
Ms. Amberley’s voice, smooth as oil, slid into the silence from the doorway she must have observed from. “Defiance is a natural part of the integration process, Robert, Diane. It signifies the forging of a new dynamic. Emma is beginning to assert her mastery, albeit ... unconventionally.” Her gaze settled on me, sharp and knowing. “The bond requires testing. The parameters require definition. Emma will learn the weight of her responsibility.” Her eyes flicked to Claire. “And Claire will learn the depth of her service. All in due time. Come, let’s discuss the transfer logistics in my office. Emma and her ... companion ... need a moment to acclimate.”
She gestured for my parents to follow. My mother cast one last, troubled look at me, a flicker of something almost like uncertainty before it vanished, replaced by resolve. My father gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. They turned and followed Ms. Amberley down the hall, their footsteps echoing with finality.
As they disappeared, the fight drained out of me, leaving a hollow, trembling exhaustion. The cold floor seeped into my bare feet. The silence pressed in, heavy and thick. I felt Claire’s hand again, a tentative, feather-light touch on my shoulder blade. Not restraining. Not demanding. Just ... present.
I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t bear to see the blank obedience in her eyes, not yet. I stared at the space where my parents had stood, the architects of this nightmare.
“I meant it, Claire,” I whispered, the words scraping my raw throat. “I reject it. All of it.”
There was a pause, longer than her programmed responses usually allowed. Then, her voice, softer than before, devoid of the robotic inflection, just a thread of sound: “Acknowledged, Mistress Emma.”
It wasn’t freedom. It wasn’t understandable. But it wasn’t ‘Yes Master’. It was a crack. A tiny, fragile fissure. We stood there in the harsh, empty hallway – the owned and the unwilling owner, both stripped bare, marked, and utterly lost. The weight of the ownership papers was a crushing reality. The system was vast and cruel. But in that silent space, after the fury, a different weight settled: the terrifying, uncertain weight of a vow made in defiance.
Together. The word echoed in the hollow space within me. We had to figure it out. Because acceptance was a death neither of us deserved. I belonged to myself. And somehow, I had to prove Claire belonged to herself, too. The path was invisible, fraught with peril, but the first, irrevocable step had been taken. Into silence, into uncertainty, into the terrifying unknown of resistance.
The hollow echo of their departing footsteps faded, leaving only the oppressive hum and the frantic drumming of my heart. The fury that had armored me bled away, leaving me raw, exposed, and vulnerable. Shame washed over me in a cold wave. What had I just done? Shouted defiance, naked, marked, trembling – a spectacle of rebellion as much as submission. And Claire ... Claire had witnessed it all.
My legs buckled. Not from weakness, but from the sheer weight of it – the betrayal, the horror of Claire’s reality, the crushing burden of ownership, the terrifying uncertainty of my vow. Together. What did that even mean?
Seeking an anchor against the dizzying fall, I instinctively reached back. My hands found Claire’s forearms, still resting passively near my waist. My fingers locked around them, not in command, but in a desperate, drowning grip. Her skin was cool, smooth, utterly yielding. Calming down while locking my arms in the hands of what I was beginning to accept, unwillingly, as my living property, felt like another kind of surrender. The reality pressed in, cold and undeniable. She was legally mine. My breath hitched, a sob trapped behind clenched teeth.
It hit me then: I hadn’t been in private. The hallway wasn’t empty. Near the stage door, a cluster of student council members lingered, their formal attire a stark contrast to our nakedness. They weren’t staring overtly, but their averted gazes and hushed whispers were worse. They had seen my outburst. Heard my rejection. Saw me clutching Claire. Every word, every tremor of rage and shame, had been public. The performance never truly ended.
Every part of my skin and my doll’s had been utterly exposed. The harsh light picked out every word scrawled on me – “BRAVE”, “PROPERTY”, “DISGUSTING”, equations, the fresh marks. It picked out Claire’s smooth vulnerability. There was nowhere to hide. And I felt fully clothed, covered in ink, leaving nothing concealed. The paradox was maddening. The sheer density of the markings created a perverse second skin. It didn’t hide; it screamed. A suffocating layer of judgment covering everything yet concealing nothing. A prison of ink on naked skin.
The weight of it – the exposure, the ownership, the defiance that felt futile, the crushing vulnerability – coalesced into unbearable pressure in my chest. Reason dissolved. Shame curdled into something darker, more desperate. A perverse urge surged, born of the system’s logic, my unraveling, and the unbearable need to exert control, even destructive control. To use the power thrust upon me, even as I despised it. To feel something other than helplessness.
It was then, without a second thought, that the words ripped from my throat, harsh and echoing: “Claire. Move down between my legs and please me until the explosion, and do not stop.”
The command hung in the air, shocking in its crude brutality. An order dripping with the ownership I had denounced. A demand for oblivion.
Claire didn’t hesitate. Her arms slipped from my grip. In one fluid, inhumanly graceful motion, she sank to her knees before me in the harsh fluorescent glare. Her head bowed for function. Her hands, cool and precise, settled on my hips. Her face moved with detached efficiency.
A strangled gasp escaped me. My hands flew to my mouth. What have I done? The student council members froze. One audibly sucked in a breath. Their presence magnified the violation. This wasn’t a controlled spectacle; it was raw and horrifyingly real.
Claire’s touch was practiced, clinical. Relentless. Sensation was immediate, intense, divorced from any desire. Pleasure, sharp and unwanted, began to coil tightly, warring with self-loathing and profound shame.
Tears streamed down my face, dripping onto Claire’s shaved head. I stared unseeing at the blank wall. The ink on my skin burned. Their gazes burned hotter. I had become a monster. I had reduced Claire to the “doll” I rejected.
The coil tightened. The “explosion” loomed not as release, but as an abyss – confirmation of my capitulation, witnessed under unforgiving lights. I clutched my arms, nails biting deep, trying to anchor myself. The command echoed, a testament to how easily defiance could become oppression.
The world narrowed. Claire’s relentless pressure betrayed my body utterly. Tremors escalated into violent shakes. Pleasure warred with nausea. Tears blurred my vision.
Then, cutting through my torment:
“ ... transfer of permanent custodial rights is explicit here, Diane,” Ms. Amberley’s smooth tone sliced through the air. “Page three, subsection B. The clinic’s certification ... neurological dampening ... spaying verification.”
My eyes snapped towards the sound. They hadn’t left. My parents stood mere feet away, flanked by Ms. Amberley and the school’s legal counsel. My father held documents, tracing text. My mother peered over his shoulder, nodding thoughtfully. Their faces were calm, detached from the scene – their daughter trembling on the edge of a forced climax, serviced by the girl they’d purchased.
“Understood, Jennifer,” my mother replied, disturbingly normal. “Liability waivers ... public interaction ... potential damage ... Robert, note the quarterly behavioral assessments for the doll.” She shifted her gaze – not to me, convulsing, but past me to Claire. “Her responsiveness seems optimal. Look at Emma. She’s clearly ... engaged with the functionality.”
The casual observation shattered me. They were evaluating. My violation was a data point.
“We’ll finish discussing finer points once Emma is satisfied with her doll,” my mother added, turning back to the documents. “No point rushing her while she’s learning to operate the primary interface.”
Learning to operate. Claire was a device. Her mouth was the “primary interface.” My trembling was “engagement with the functionality.” The dehumanizing banality was a new horror.
Ms. Amberley hummed. “Precisely. Crucial acclimatization. Observe physiological markers.” Her sharp eyes scanned me. “Increased respiration, dermal flushing, involuntary contractions – optimal stimulus response. Emma demonstrates rapid integration ... direct application of authority ... defiance productively channeled.”
The legal counsel murmured about “reinforcement protocols” and “usage logs.” My father asked about “transfer upon majority.”
Their words were daggers, dissecting us into components.
“ ... ensure obedience conditioning...”
“ ... provision for replacement...”
“ ... Emma’s ownership rights include full disciplinary discretion...”
“ ... the doll’s purpose is singular: service...”
Each phrase stripped another layer of hope. Together felt like ash.
The pressure within me was no longer just physical. It was a trapped scream. The coil, wound by Claire’s precision and tightened by their cold analysis, reached its breaking point.
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