Each round of 'treatment' made her weaker, her resistance ebbing away, lying slack in the hot, tight embrace that she had come to crave. She tried to cast her mind back to before she had come... here, wherever here was, but everything was dull, fuzzy. The nurses never explained just what she was being treated for, but gradually, bit by bit, it revealed itself to her: her sickness was her independence, her willfulness.

There was no need for her to do anything except submit to her treatment, safe in the knowledge that, day by day, session by session, she was becoming better, more perfect, a will-less, pliable toy for all the women who wanted to make use of her.

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