Last chance

[si_mignon]

(closed for Indiscretion)

I stand on the sidewalk, teetering in my three-inch heels, and check the grubby scrap of paper pinched between my fingers again - as if I am not sure that this is the place. As if I can have left the small pond of middle America and come to New York to starve, model-thin, and wear out the heels on my one pair of expensive shoes, walking the sidewalks, walking for every agency except this one. As if I can have lived here nearly two months and not know where it is.

These agents are known for being the most scrutinous and the most demanding. I am just some pretty girl from Omaha, and I have not been pretty enough for any of the half dozen agents who have deigned to see me at all. I would never have dared to step through the doors of this agency with my lack of experience and the tatty folder of studio photographs that I have the nerve to call my portfolio - but I have tried every other place, and I am down to the last fifty dollars of my college savings. Tomorrow, I'll have to call my parents to get a bus ticket back - to face their insufferable pity and told-you-sos, having dropped out of school a semester before graduation to chase this silly dream.

My fist tightens and crumples the paper, and I set my jaw and clip clop across the pavement to push through the revolving door, leaving a damp palm print on the glass. I feel some perverse need to apply to this last - the best - at the eleventh hour, knowing well enough that they will laugh me out of the office, showing up dressed as I am in my wrinkled sundress, and without an appointment. I need this final humiliation before I can concede defeat, tuck my tail and make the miserable call home. Somehow, I need it.

I step into the elevator and hit 9, and then DOOR CLOSE, before I can change my mind. The inside of the elevator is all mirrors, and I make myself look. I am pale and sweaty and disheveled, and I look terrified - already, I look beaten. This won't take long.

Emily (18)
blonde hair just past her shoulders, hazel eyes
5'10 in her three-inch heels
120 lbs

 

[Indiscretion]

OOC
Mark McDowell, 39
Medium length rich brown, thick hair, blue eyes
Chiselled features, high cheekbones
Broad shoulders, muscular frame, swimmers physique
6'3
_________________________________________________

The elevator stops at level 9 and a small bell announces your arrival. The reception area is beautifully appointed, with lots of stainless steel and alumnium and an amazing view of Central Park even though it is only the ninth floor. There are covers of all sorts of fashion and glamour magazines strewn on the surfaces and you are certain that the models on the covers are all represented by this agency.

The girl at reception is tall, blonde and thin. She is wearing Armani and it hangs off her like Giorgio designed it with her in mind. She certainly does not look like she came from Omaha.

With a wrinkled nose and officious look, she directs you to have a seat for about 5 minutes.

5 minutes becomes 10, then 20 and then finally, 40 minutes after being seated you are directed into my office.

The large oak-panelled door looks heavy, even though it is skinny-reception-bitch and not you who has to heave it open. Tentatively walking in, you see me sitting at the large modern desk by the expansive window. The room is large, with a meeting table, some sideboards and bookshelves, all displaying images of various models, some of whom are very well known indeed. I am scribbling on some photos and do not look for a few moments. When I finally do, my eyes meet yours and you have the feeling I am scrutinising you scientifically under my intense gaze.

Skinny Bitch clears her throat and says "Dr McDowell, this is Emily. She is your 11.15. A cold casting call."

I nod and Skinny Bitch seems almost to curtsey as she retreats. "Hello," I say coolly. "Let me guess, country girl. Been told you were gorgeous since junior high. Broken some hearts, believed all the people who said you should be in NYC or Hollywood being a star. Things haven't gone well for you since you arrived though." I stand up and walk around the desk to get a better look at you. "For starters, you're fat. Cheekbones are very ordinary. Nose needs corrections. Breasts, waist and hips are all kids of wrong. But I do see potential.... yes, definitely potential... if you're willing to commit to this."

I stare at you hard. "Take off that dowdy dress so I can see what has to be done."

 

[si_mignon]

I experience a thrill of wild optimism when I am shown into this grand office - most other times, I have been met briefly in the reception area, spilled my photos out over a tiny end table, and been made to walk up and down the outside hall - a shorter trip to the exit, you see. To be allowed inside - it's much more than I have hoped for. And then you make me wait some more. I don't even dare to clear my throat or look around, but I take this time while your gaze is focused on the photos to look at you. When you look up, I am visibly unnerved by the directness of your stare.

I manage what I hope is a passable smile. I've extended my hand halfway across your desk before I realise that you haven't offered yours, and I pull it back uncertainly. I'm startled by your opening - I wasn't expecting a warm welcome, but your cynical and horribly accurate conjectures are jarring and just dripping with contempt. I slump a little in the chair. If I thought I was feeling low and insignificant, coming here, your easy guess at my pathetic story has made me feel like less than nothing. I am nothing special, you've met hundreds - thousands - of naive little girls just like me. What was I thinking?

You come out from behind your desk and I straighten up at once, nervous, and your next comment is like a blow. I blink at you in bewilderment as your brutal assessment continues on and on, I can't catch my breath and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, as if I am being assaulted by insulting little slaps. I am dizzy, I can barely register your multiple criticisms, though I hear every word you say. It's that last word that brings stinging tears to my eyes, and I cling to it desperately: potential.

I am gasping for breath in the pause, and I'm not sure I've heard you right. I blink back the tears and try to meet your stare, stammering, "Take - take it off, sir?"

I get gracelessly to my feet, feeling cold and numb and wondering what underwear I put on this morning. I have remembered where I am, it's not uncommon for a potential model to be asked to display her figure - in a bikini, say...but I haven't brought a bikini. I never thought I would be asked, I never thought I would get this far.

My fingers are shaking, but I press my lips tightly together and pull the dress up over my head. Plain white bra out of a box and faded candy-striped boy-shorts, a little saggy in the seat. The tremor in my fingers seems to travel up my arms to my shoulders as I let the dress fall and try to hold myself up in a pose like the ones I've seen in magazines. Trying not to cringe. Praying you'll see something that pleases you.

 

[Indiscretion]

As the dress falls off you I snicker quietly and walk around you, observing.

"Well, for starters the underwear looks like its made for your grandma. If you want to be a model at this level you need to start thinking of yourself as a sexual being all of the time."

I pause, and you feel the hard cold pressure of my stare from behind even though you can't see me.

"Take off your bra," I bark. Then, barely pausing I resume my critique. You feel one hand cup your ass, grabbing it hard, and you feel my voice close behind you. "Your ass is fat - soft and saggy and unattractive. It needs to be firm and high and much rounder. If you can't get there through training, there are surgical options."

You feel my hand slide down to your thighd, parting your legs roughly from behind and then probing between and around them. "Thighs - fat and untoned. Diet, cardio and lipo.". You hear the pop of a marker pen lid and suddenly feel its hard point press into your thighs as I draw the lines of how your body should look.

I walk around you into your field of vision, remaining close. "Front. Ugh. But again.... Decent proportions and structure... Potential.... A reasonable starting point."

I quickly dart in and draw curves on your tummy, waist and reach around to your love handles. "Fat here, here and here. Diet, cardio and lipo. Waist - broad like an Omaha farm girl." I draw your new waist, alarmingly small, like a Barbie doll. "For this, a new surgical procedure - rib removal."

I look at you in the eye and say "I told you to take your bra off, whatever your name is... Fatty." I reach around and with one hand deftly unhook it and give it a tug so your bra falls in a heap off your shoulders in a heap by your feet. "Breasts. Small. I draw a number of lines around them, roughly repositioning them with my free hand as I do do. Bigger. Much much bigger. You're lucky, they will take to plus size implants."

My hard gaze moves your face. "Face. Not bad but... Very imperfect." The pen moves to your face and you feel it roughly drag across it quickly as I speak.

"Eyes bigger, rounder. And bluer. Brow regularized. Botox here, here, and here. Cheekbone implants. Jaw implants here. Nose reconstruction. Lips much much plumper - juviderm there... and there. Chin narrowed and strengthened... Like so..."

I finish and looking at you say "And we definitely have to do something about that schoolgirl dark blonde coloring. You're a woman now. I have to teach you to be a sex object."

I turn you round gently so you are facing a large mirror that had been behind you. You see your body and face covered with neat and precisely drawn thick black lines. You don't understand it all but it seems to be the wok of an expert. And it seems like the version of you that has been drawn on you differs a lot from the real you.

I move closely behind you and inexplicably you feel both my hands cup your ass firmly as I speak right into your ear. You watch me in the mirror. "You've got a huge amount to do before I can use you. I require 100% commitment. This will have to become your only priority in life. Complete submission. It's not enough to want to be pretty. You have to want to be... better. You have to want to be perfect."

 

[si_mignon]

I straighten up at your nasty little snicker, and murmur something vaguely apologetic - for the underwear, for not being sexy: "Oh, I - oh.." I don't like you behind me, I don't like knowing you've stopped behind me, and that you're looking at me.

I freeze at your sudden, unexpected command. I can hardly breathe. It crosses a line, I'm sure it does - as if confirming my suspicions, your rough, strong hand abruptly grabs my ass and squeezes . My right ankle buckles in the heels and I wobble a bit - only your hand, your fistful of flab, keeps me upright. I am bewildered by your critcisms - I have never in my life been called fat - but you're right, I am soft. I have never set foot in a gym. I don't like how easily you suggest surgery as an option.

My whimper is very loud and I try to bite it back as your hand slides between my legs, and I wince at that word "fat", again, and at the word "lipo". My knees are trembling; I'm trying to decide if this is sexual when I feel the sharp, wet tip of the marker scratching, making slash marks where your hand has just been.

You're met with a blank stare when you come around - too close - to look at me from the front. I am too dumbfounded to compose my features in any sort of expression. I am frankly terrified - not of what you'll do to me, alone in your office in my underwear - but of what you'll say next about me.

Ugh, you say, and I drop my gaze to look at my shoes, my pretty hopeful shoes. I chew my lower lip. Potential, you say. I want to believe it.

I whine at the press and swipe of the marker again, just under my nose - I lift my chin and stare at the ceiling instead, and find my eyes filling, my vision blurring, when you describe my broad, common, country girl waist. I've never felt so ashamed of my body. The sudden sharp angling of your pen feels wrong, impossibly wrong . I look down in confusion at what you're doing and a tear falls, splashing on your sleeve. My mouth falls open at your suggestion of rib removal. Do you think I will - ? Do you think I...should?

I'm not at all prepared to meet your face again, and I'm badly startled to find myself blinking under your cold blue glare - too close to turn away. My mouth works, trying to find the words to protest, trying to insist: Emily...but I know it doesn't matter to you. I press my lips together to keep back a panicked cry as you rip my bra open like a rapist and pull it down off my shoulders. I know my breasts will be disappointing, and you attack them immediately with your marker, making exaggerated swooping circles as you lift and jostle them with your other hand. I can feel my nipples tightening into nubs at this rough handling. I am growing numb, I am drawing into myself, and I think: at least he is telling me. What the rest of them were afraid to say - afraid I would cry - he is telling me. Everything, everything that is wrong with me. It's a rusty, raw feeling, something like gratitude.

But something breaks in me when you start to bring the pen up to my face - I blurt the word softly, without thinking, "No -" and jerk my chin away, try to stumble backwards on my heels. You have to hold my face steady with one hand. Your fingers bite into my hot cheeks, and tears spill again, I can't stop them - but your marker is water resistant and inescapable. I am snivelling, my nose is running and my shoulders are twitching and I don't hear you but I feel the tip of your pen, wet on my face, making Xs through everything wrong.

Stiff as a mannequin, I let you turn me to face the mirror, and you watch my eyes widen in dismay as I take in the corrections you've made all over in thick black confident strokes. My face is so obliterated that I can't recognise myself, and I writhe uneasily at this, your vision for me.

I feel your hands - the very firm, almost possessive two-handed grip on my ass, bringing me full circle back to your initial criticisms - and your low voice in my ear makes me shudder. In spite of all this, you say you are willing to take me on. If I will work, if I will commit and trust you, you will make me into what I could be - impossibly perfect. I remember what you've said: rib removal, implants, nose reconstruction - all before you can ever use me. I shudder again, more violently. But the alternative...is to slink back to Omaha, to live out my life as that pathetically pretty girl - broad-waisted fatty farm girl like you said - that nobody, that nothing.

I am cold, but not trembling, and not crying anymore. I drag my eyes away from my ruined self to look at you in the mirror. "Where -" I swallow, my voice sounds weak. "Where do I begin?"

 

[Indiscretion]

I reamin close behind you, hands still holding your ass firmly as I continue. "You being by losing weight and improving your body as much as you can by diet and training. Your days of looking like an Omaha milkmaid are over. I'm going to give you 2 weeks on an intensive diet and training program."

My hands move down to your thighs, kneading the fatty areas. "See if you can work off all this lard, and here too", I say my hands quickly squeezing and pointing out your fatty areas. "No-one likes a fat girl like you. I'm sure guys tell you that you look great all the time, but they just want to fuck you. You realize that's how guys see fat girls right? Just things to use for sex til someone hot turns up."

I look at your snivelling, teary face in the mirror and say "Stop crying, piggie. Crying isn't going to make you look any better. The only way you're going to look good is with hard work and doing everything I say - following my orders to the letter. If you do that, give me 12 weeks and you will be a walking wet dream. You won't be able to walk into a room without every guy getting an instant erection. But right now you couldn't get me aroused if I had gone without sex for a month."

I release your body and gently push you away from me. "You can get dress now," I say, while I walk across the room and open a sideboard to reveal a few small refrigerators. I open a couple of them, grabbing a few items. You can't clearly see what is in them but there seems to be plenty of non-foodstuffs, including vacuum packed sealed bags full of liquids of different colors, including bags that look suspiciously like bags of blood and plasma that you've seen in hospitals and medical television shows. There are also test tubes and syringes and dozens of small medical vials as well as gel filled sacs of various sizes - some of them scarily large. More alarming is a series of clearly medical instruments on the shelf next to the refrigerators, including what appear from a distance to be scalpels, forceps, retractors and other instruments you don't recognise, all neatly laid out on sterile white cloth. While you stare at the array of instruments, I calmly close the sideboard. At that point, you notice just a hint of antiseptic in the air of the room; it reminds you of a hospital.

I walk towards you, with a few supplies that I have taken from the refrigerator. I have a syringe and several vials plus some vacuum-sealed bags. I say, "Okay, this is the deal with diet and supplements. First, this is your food now." I press a bundle of vacuum-sealed bugs containing what appears to be a translucent paste, each of them attached to a sealed straw. "These contain proteins and amino acids that have been cultivated and supplemented with minerals and vitamins to meet all your dietary requirements while your body burns the excess fat. They have zero calorific content. Consume one every 48 hours." I press four bottles of tablets into your hands. "These are supplements, including a fatburner, a metabolism lifter and some other special cocktails that should help with both the physical and the psychological side of your transformation. Give me your arm." Without waiting for a response, I take your arm and easily find a vein. Before you know what has happened, I have filed your vein with whatever was in the syringe that I had taken from the refrigerator. "That contains some very safe hormone supplements and some anti-hunger agents plus some other compounds that will prove very... useful. You'll need to inject yourself with these morning and night. Don't be alarmed if you start seeing changes to your body faster than you expect. This treatment has been specially designed to have fast results. You should see your body shape change on a daily basis, including things that you may not expect, such as your bust and waist measurements. Don't be alarmed." I put the nutrients and the supplements into a bag and press them into your hand.

"This is a membership card to BodyRight Gyms. They have gyms all over the city. Here is a training schedule. You will see that it is a 4 hours a day program split into three training sessions per day. It may seem like a lot now, but really it's nothing seeing as your priority has to be your body now. It's time to stop being a fat slut. So it's 2 hours of cardio per day and 2 hours of weights and calisthenics. You will see that there is a lot of lower body work for your fat ass and fat thighs. I want your ass to be MUCH higher rounder and firmer next time I see you." I give your ass a hard slap.

"Make an appointment 2 weeks from today with my receptionist. I will see you then. And, no, you cannot use a washroom to wipe off the marker from your body and face before you go home. I will check with my receptionist to make sure you didn't."

I pick up the marker pen again and write "FAT SLUT" in big letter across your forehead, then open the door.

 

[si_mignon]

I nod at you in the mirror, in a daze - but relieved, too, that you are giving me this chance to improve myself. Maybe, if I can do well enough, I can change your mind about all the surgeries you've mentioned. Your biggest complaint about me seems to be that I'm fat. If I lose some weight and tone up, maybe you'll change your mind about me.

I wish suddenly that you'd let go of my ass, stop touching me in all the places that seem to disgust you so much - I want to pull away, but I don't quite dare. As if sensing my thoughts, your hands slide down to cover my thighs and your fingers sink into my skin almost brutally, and I wince as I watch the flesh bulge between your fingers. At your comments, tears prick my eyes again, and I look away, snuffling, when you tell me to stop crying. I know I am ugly when I cry. I glance back at you, just once, at your promise to make me beautiful, sexy, irresistible in 12 weeks - but I can't look at you for long. I hadn't thought about getting you aroused until now that you tell me it won't happen - it wouldn't even if you were desperate. With my gaze averted, I nod again, glumly, resignedly.

You're finished with your assessment of me, apparently, and I can breathe again when you shove me away, and I snatch up my dress and bra eagerly and wriggle into them. I just want to hide myself from you, now, I don't want you to keep looking at me, picking out all my flaws. When I am completely covered up again, I look up to see you at the sideboard, and what I can see inside makes me nervous - especially the steel instruments winking dully from the shelf. I recall that your receptionist called you "Doctor" McDowell, and of course all your suggestions for surgical enhancements...I wonder suddenly, uneasily, what your job is, here.

You've pulled several items out of the refrigerators, but it's the syringe that's got my undivided attention, and I take a wary step back. I don't like where this is going. I try to be attentive to your instructions, and hold my hands out automatically to accept the bags of supplements, though they look horribly unappetising - like astronaut food, or vacuum-sealed bags of snot. I take the tablets too, dutifully, though I've never been fond of popping pills, and I don't like that you aren't more specific about the 'special' cocktails and what exactly they're going to do to me.

My arms are full, I am juggling the bags and the bottles and trying not to drop any when you advance on me with the syringe and I whine in protest, "Oh wait - wait!" You pull my elbow out and are probing for a vein. I'm so scared I can hardly speak, and I breathe, trembly: "Please, just - wait -" only to feel you plunge the needle in and slam the contents into my arm. I don't know what was in it, and again, your explanations are very vague. I feel myself tearing up again, feeling slightly dizzy as I close my fingers around the bag you hand me - I don't know if I can work up the nerve to inject myself with your mystery drugs, twice a day. I don't know if I'm ready for all of this.

What can I do except take the gym membership and the training schedule from you, too, and promise to try to train the way you want me to - though I know I'm in no shape for it. Four hours a day, every day, will probably kill me. I squeal when you slap my ass - I had thought you were finished touching me.

I nod, and start toward the door, glad to be leaving, but my face crumples when you tell me I can't wash off your marks and scrawls, before I go. I can't walk out like this, I can't walk down the street in New York looking like this - you can't really mean it? But to prove that you are in earnest, you step up to me again - my arms are full, I can't stop you from writing on my face again, and I hold still for it, this time, because I can't bear for you to touch me. As soon as you lift your pen, I turn to the mirror to see. I can read it, even backwards, and I turn back to you with defeated eyes, begging you silently to have some pity. You only open the door and usher me out of your office.

I walk slowly to the reception desk, and the girl's gaze goes immediately to my forehead, and she can't quite suppress a smirk. I mumble to her that I'd like to make another appointment in two weeks, and she lifts her eyebrows in surprise, but flips through her daytimer and writes my name. I blink as I look at the calendar, and at once reality drops in. I stride back to your office, ignoring the receptionist's indignant squawk, and heave the door open with my shoulder. I am trembling - I don't want to be back here, I want nothing more in the world than to go back to my little apartment and lick my wounds - but I face you with a burst of wild, reckless courage.

I'm surprised at how strong and clear my voice is. "Sir - I'm sorry - there's something else. I'm - broke. I have fifty dollars left in my bank account. I can't even afford another week's rent. My parents can't send anything, except maybe a bus ticket home. I was going to give up and go home, I haven't even left myself time to find a job. I can't meet you in two weeks - I won't be here...unless you can help me find a way to stay."

I drop my armload of bags and bottles in the nearest chair and look back at you rather boldly, forgetting my face, fully expecting you to toss me out. It will be something of a relief, when you do. I have my excuse not to strive to meet your expectations.

 

[Indiscretion]

"Sir - I'm sorry - there's something else. I'm - broke. I have fifty dollars left in my bank account. I can't even afford another week's rent. My parents can't send anything, except maybe a bus ticket home. I was going to give up and go home, I haven't even left myself time to find a job. I can't meet you in two weeks - I won't be here...unless you can help me find a way to stay."

I am seated behind my desk buried in notes and schematics and text books. I look up with bemusement as I you throw open the door and make your announcement.

After you finish, I continue to make some notes, evidently finishing the sentence that I had been writing down. I silently stand, calmly walk behind you and close the door.

"Hello again," I say. "I don't take kindly to interruptions. Especially from fat girls asking for hand outs. In this town - especially in this industry, nothing comes free." Although my words are hard, my tone is not confrontational and you feel as if I am just explaining my position to you professionally. However, as I speak I return the sideboard with the refrigerators and medical equipment in it, which I open to reveal the dull glint of the instruments inside. I remove a heavy white hospital sheet.

"There is something you can help me with, though, Emily," I say, throwing the sheet over the large rectangular oak conference table in the middle of the room and moving the chairs neatly to each side of the room. I continue to speak as I do so.

"I'm a qualified surgeon. I practised as a cosmetic surgeon for 8 years prior to taking up this position and have done a lot of research in the field of body enhancement for females aged 18 to 35 and am widely published in that respect."

I reach under the table and rotate upwards stainless steel arms at the four corners of the table, making it look like an examination table at a gynaecologist's rooms but with four stirrups instead of two. I then fasten a harness like structure around the middle of the table and a headrest at one end. It is obvious that the structure is designed to support a human body a couple of feet off the table at about eye level, presumably in order that the doctor, or whoever the hell it was that used on of these, could have access to all part of the subject's body.

"I am doing some research on some new procedures and need a subject to examine to further my research. At this stage all I need is a human specimen to examine in detail in a few areas in order to confirm a few theories I have. But in due course I will want to conduct some experimental procedures."

I walk back to the cabinet and return to the table with some gauze, trays and a collection of cold--looking metal surgical tools that you don'tt recognise but look like they are designed for delicate poking, stretching, prodding and cutting. I calmly open a bottle of ethanol and rub each of them precisely but efficiently while I continue to speak.

"The deal will be this. The agency will cover your rent and reasonable expenses at least until you sign a contract. If you sign a contract. And in the mean time, you will be my new experimental subject."

Without even looking up, I assume that you've reacted to this badly, so I say "Don't worry, it's all perfectly safe. I'm a qualified doctor and have done this many, many times before. I won't do anything to you that you need to be concerned about; this is just research."

I carefully work some small surgical scissors open and shut a few times near my face to ensure they are working smoothly.

"So, if you'd like to take your clothes off agan - and your underwear too this time - and get up into the harness, we can begin."

As I finish, I pull a sizeable syringe housing a large-bore needle from the cabinet and push its point into an unmarked vial of clear liquid, withdrawing a about 100 millilitres and filling the syringe completely.

 

[si_mignon]

I ball my hands into fists at my sides, steeling myself as you stand up and come out from behind your desk toward me. You'll throw me out physically, of course, for having the insolence to have wasted your time and talents, knowing all the while that I can't afford to live out the rest of the week in this city. You look remarkably composed, and I wonder if you're one of these men whose anger manifests as deceiving calm, who can serenely break a woman's face with his fist. I wonder if I'll break an ankle in these shoes, in my panic, when you put your hands on me, when you put me out.

But you surprise me again and step behind me with barely a glance, shutting the door to your office. I wrinkle my nose at your words - fat again, fat with every breath - but don't know what to think of it. Nothing for free, you say, and I wonder if now it's going to get sexual.

I catch my breath when you open the sideboard again, but you only take out a big white tablecloth and throw it over the conference table, and begin pushing chairs out of the way. Something I can help you with, you say, and then you say my name for the first time, and it makes me distinctly uncomfortable. Am I to get on my back, right here on your table, to pay for another week in my shitty apartment? Ludicrously, my first reaction isn't outrage and insult at being expected to whore myself for the chance to be in magazines...the first twisted emotion I can register is smug triumph. You said I can't make you erect. It must have been a lie, if you're so quick to want to fuck me.

I am listening and not listening as you rattle off your credentials, I'm wondering if I'm really going to do it, and I already know that I will. I am watching you move around the table and wondering what kind of sex it will be. Nasty - that's guaranteed - vicious, painful, with slurs and jeers ringing in my ears as you use me as something to jerk yourself off into. But I can do it.

You pull stirrups up out of nowhere at the four corners of the table, and I feel a lump the size of a hen's egg forming in my throat. What is this. With the harness positioned in the very middle, a person - a woman - would hover off the table, spreadeagled and exposed, unable to hide any part of her flawed self... Is this - is this how you like to have sex?

You need a subject, a specimen, you say, for your research. Just to examine - I try to buck up - but oh, I know how you look at me. And then later you'll have experimental procedures you'll want to try out... You're a surgeon, you said. I feel as if I've frozen to the spot. You return to the sideboard and begin taking out several creepy-looking instruments and wiping them down, and every orifice I have cringes.

But this is the deal, this is the deal - you'll let me stay in New York, and you'll help me, and it's all perfectly safe, you assure me. Why does it sting, somewhat, when you say you've done it many times before? Of course you have, you've had the harness made and the stirrups..

The sound of the scissors opening and closing startles me back to attention, and I look back at you, feeling my naked fear, tight on my face. What do you need scissors for, if you're just going to examine me this time? What do you need all those instruments for? You tell me to strip - underwear, too - and get up there. If I'd like to.

I'd rather not, I think, and almost say - I'd really rather not - and especially when, as I hesitate, you take out another gigantic syringe and begin filling it while I watch. This is the deal. I want to turn around and run, face and all, go back to Omaha and cry into my mother's lap. I can't do this, I don't know why I thought I could. I take a step backwards, and feel my back against the door.

But I can't help imagining what my life will be, if I go home - I can see it all roll out in front of me, like a prophetic scroll drawn in crayon on butcher paper. Back to my shabby little room in the shabby little farmhouse...and after indulging a week of my self-pity, Dad will insist that I get a job. That was the deal: if I'm not in school, I'll damn well pay rent. Working a depressing little McJob, wearing a hairnet and a scratchy cheap uniform, pretty and popular with my depressingly regular customers, getting fatter every day, just breathing in that greasy air. And everyone - everyone - would know, and laugh into their hands at the girl who dropped out to go to New York - who thought herself pretty enough to be a model - who thought she was special, and could get out of this shit hole town. See the girl who came crawling back - it'll be fine entertainment, for a while. Eventually - sooner, rather than later - I'll settle down with some redneck approximation of you: a man who will sneer and tell me I'm worthless, but who will fuck me, at least. I'll pop out a few kids and ruin my figure for good, and at last maybe I'll be able to forget this dream, and the day that it was so close, and I ran from it.

I shudder. I can't go back - I can't. You just want to look at me. It's not anything that I need to be concerned about.

You're waiting. I try not to look at the syringe, and it's easier this time, to pull my dress off and unhook my bra - but I don't, I don't want to take my panties off. It's the one place on my body you haven't marked up for correction or dissection. I'm scared to let you look at me there, up in your harness and stirrups where I can't get away, with all of those instruments within reach, and a clean white drop-sheet under me. But I've taken off this much - haven't I accepted your offer?

"You're just going to look..." I mutter. I haven't made it a question, I'm afraid of the answer - but it is reassuring, to say it aloud. I push my underwear down, let them fall around my ankles, and step carefully out of them. They're a little damp, but I don't have time to consider that. I lay my clothes out neatly on another chair and wonder if I should take my shoes off. I worry that I'll be too short to be a model, without them, so I leave them on and walk slowly over to the edge of the table.

You're waiting - I've made you wait - haven't I made my decision? I turn my back to the table and hoist myself up with my hands, then slide back and lift myself into the harness. It holds me securely enough, but it's a weird feeling, to be suspended several inches in the air. I try to place my feet in the stirrups, but I'll need a little help. I reach with both hands, trying to find the stirrups at the head of the table. You're approaching with the syringe still in your hand, and I shiver in the harness, and blurt, "Why do you need that, if you're just going to look?"

 

[Indiscretion]

I just watch you as you undress, barely reacting, although you think you see an almost imperceptible nod of approval when you elect to keep your heels on as your walk naked towards the table. You think I nod again as you hoist yourself first onto the table and then up into the harness.

I calmly walk to the head of the table to guide your wrists into the appropriate place, making some adjustments to the telescopic arms protruding from the table. I then walk to your feet and make some minute adjustments until you feel as if this contraption had been designed with just you in mind.

You then see me approach with the syringe and you say, "Why do you need that, if you're just going to look?". I smile down at you benevolently and say "Relax, Emily." I lay a cool hand on your forehead to calm you down. "This is just a paralytic agent, it's not an anaesthetic or a sedative. It will keep you still." I carefully and quickly swab your forearm with alcohol, and then you feel the firm and strong pressure of my hand forcing your wrist into the stirrup, forcing it to remain upright at an awkward position so that, although you are not in any pain, you feel that it would be painful to move. Before you really know what is happening, outside of your peripheral vision, you feel an unusually large-bore needle penetrate your skin at the inside elbow with a cold-feeling sting that does not cease as you feel the metal point protrude deeper and deeper into your body, presumably tracing the inside lining of a delicate vein. You feel a slight pressure as I depress the plunger smoothly and quickly, and then a brief sharp stab as the broad needle slides out of you to be replaced by some cotton gauze, which i expertly tape to your arm. The entire process takes about 3 or 4 seconds.

I place the spent syringe on a piece of towelling on one of the sideboard, and return with a small tray of instruments. The way that your head is positioned on the headrest means that you cannot get a clear view of what I am holding as I assume my position between your widely spread legs. You hear the clatter of surgical instruments being removed from the tray and placed on the table between your legs. As you attempt to move your head to see what I am doing, you find that your body is sluggish and that your muscles are not responding in the way to which you are accustomed.

I notice you squirming a little and I say, "That's just the paralytic agent at work. It's perfectly safe and it's easier and more civilized than restraining you. You own't be able to move for the next little while but the effects will be completely gone in a few hours."

I return my attention to the instruments and to your vagina, which is about a foot away from my face. I reach underneath the table and pull a hidden lever, which causes a mechanical whir and you feel yourself and the harness sliding the harness towards me down the table and the stirrups automatically adjusting accordingly.

Soon your vagina is inches from me, near the end of the table. The leg stirrups have extended upwards so that your legs are spread at a wide angle but pointed upwards at 90 degrees to your body so that your feet are facing the ceiling. The harness is supporting your lower back in such a way that both your vagina and your anus are plainly exposed inches from my hands.

Unable to see what I am doing, you hear me pull on what sound like a pair of latex gloves. You then feel the startling touch of cold stainless steel against your labia majora as I use a probe to part them gently but expertly. You then feel a larger but equally cold instrument being pushed past your labia minora and into your vaginal cavity. I operate the catch on the retractor, and allow it to expand out by about 3.5 inches, so that your labia and vaginal cavity are held open by the surgical device. You then feel me insert instruments with both hands simultaneously, pulling, pressing and prodding at your labia, vaginal lining and cervix. I locate your clitoris easily with a probe and forceps and pull it a few times smartly to assess its firmness and rigidity, and then you feel a sharp pressure and then a dull weight on it to it as I appear to have attached some kind of metal clamp to it, squeezing it tightly enough to be slightly uncomfortable but not painful. You feel the dull throb of your heartbeat as the blood collects in your clitoris, which has in effect been tourniqueted by the weighted clamp.

I then leave your vagina, which is held wide open by the retractor, and turn my attention to your anus. I pull your buttocks wide apart and apply some surgical tape to them, leading back to your hips, so that the tape pulls your buttocks apart and fully exposes your anus. "Hmmm," I say, the first time I have said anything since I began the examination. "I'm immediately going to start with some bleaching. There is discoloration here." You think about responding, but you feel your tongue lolling around in your mouth and realize that the paralytic agent is now fully effective.

I quickly remove two containers, one small, full, container and one large, empty, container from the sideboard and remove the lid of the full one. The atmosphere in the room immediately becomes pungent with the smell of strong, concentrated surgical-grade hydrogen peroxide. I run the faucet by the basin and mix up a highly concentrated solution of bleach in the larger container and then return to the table between your legs.

You feel me applying the bleach in precise manouevres with a soft towel from your perineum to well below your anus between your buttocks. The immediate sensation is simply the feeling of a pleasantly warm liquid being applied to you. However, within a few seconds a slight tingling begins and slowly raises in intensity until there is an uncomfortable burning sensation in the entire region. The pain is not so bad as to be even close to be unbearable, but you wish that you could scratch it or splash some cold water on it or even just squirm, but you cannot.

You hear my voice again: "The burning sensation is the hydrogen peroxide bleaching the melanin and discoloration in your skin. It will reach a plateau of intensity that should be bearable."

I return to my instruments, and again you feel the bite of cold stainless steel as the probe is applied this time into your anus. You feel that it is wet so you imagine that I have resterilised it after applying it to your vagina. The air is thick with the smell of disinfectant so your fears are not at this stage about infection.

Soon you feel another retractor slide into your anus and expand to distend your anal sphincter and reveal your anal cavity to me. Again, there is the unpleasant sensation of cold steel probes and, you think, a dental mirror, examining the space inside you. All the while your anal region burns hotly under the bleach.

After I have completed my review, I say "Overall your anus and vagina are mediocre at best. They both require substantial tightening of the relevant muscles, which can be done easily enough by removing a portion of the muscle fibers and retying the shortened muscles together. Both your labia and your anal sphincter require trimming as they are imperfect and messy. There are also some lubrication related procedures involving your own glands and prosthetic glands that I would like to carry out."

I don't wait for a response as I know that you are unable to speak, and so I just pick up a pair of forceps and the small pair of surgical scissors that you observed me snip in front of my face so carefully just a little while ago (although of course, you cannot see me doing any of this). I give the scissors an experimental snip-snip, which you do hear and recognise and I pause to look up at your face to see if there is any reaction, which of course there is not due to the paralysing effect of the drug that I administered to you earlier.

You feel me stretch out one our your labia majora away from your vagina until it is taut and the grip applied by the forceps is painfully tight. You hear my voice: "it's a little known fact that labial and anal trimming work best without anaesthetic. The nerve impulse is important to the tightness of the tissue after the disection occurs and if there is a local or general anaesthetic at work, the finished product has sub-optimal tightness and frilliness."

With that, I apply the razor-sharp small surgical scissors to the pink skin of your labia, and bring the blades together with the first authoritative snip, piercing through your tissue so easily that there are seconds before your body registers any pain. In that time, I have worked quickly to apply first gauze and then the white heat of the cauteriser to stop the bleeding. In an instant you are hit with the blinding simultaneous pain of the razor cutting through your most sensitive tissue and the searing heat of the cauteriser welding together the ends of your capillaries to stop the bleeding. Your body experiences an enormous fight or flight response, even moreso than it had up to that point. I can see how hard your heart has begun to pound by the increase in blood flow from the injury I have created, and I briefly consider whether I should apply a blood pressure monitor as a precaution before deciding not to. I see your body starts to shake notwithstanding the paralytic drugs as you almost immediately start to fall into shock.

After positioning some towels around your inner thighs and perineum to soak up the blood that is continuing to flow from the tissue that is so rich with nerve endings and blood vessels, I immediately reopen the scissors to make the next few cuts. Only about 3mm of your labia has been dissected and inches remain before I will be done.

 

[si_mignon]

Relax, you say. I am trembling, and I know you can see it. How can I relax with you standing over me, with that thing in your hand? You rest your empty hand gently across my brow - a comforting gesture, only I can't help remembering that you're covering the words "FAT SLUT" that you've written there.

Ignorance is not bliss - I don't understand what you're saying, and I'm scared. Paralytic - does that mean I'll be paralyzed? I am thoroughly agitated as you come nearer, I am rocking in the harness and I argue with you, "I - I can be still - I can! I'll be really still, I promise!" But you're leaning over me and at once you're forcing my arm down and back, holding me with one hand so that I can't move or pull away, and I know in that instant that you could've raped me. Instead, I feel the thick needle pierce and slide into me and I shudder all over, feeling nauseated. I utter a choked, childish sob at the sensation, the ache and burn of the drug being pushed into my vein, and I look up at you with tears standing in my eyes, searching your face for any indication that you've heard me, that it matters.

You pull it out and bandage me up and turn to the sideboard, and I take account of my body, trying to determine if I feel anything different. The clatter of stainless steel makes me jump and turn my attention back to you, but I can't see anything. It wasn't a sedative, that's the truth - my heart is beating so hard I wonder if you'll see it, thumping in my chest. I glance down at myself. My nipples are hard, rosy little nubs, pointing stiffly at the ceiling.

Another jarring clash of metal, and I try to lift my head to look, and can't. I moan uneasily and try to move anything, everything, with minimal success - and it's an exhausting struggle, my body just wants to rest and be still and behave. You tell me it's more civilized than restraints. I try to move anything, and nothing cooperates - why do you want to restrain me - for hours?

I'm moving, suddenly - but towards you, not away. I try to say "wait", but can only manage a frightened nasal whine as I am tilted back until I'm completely exposed and accessible, with my legs in the air. I hear the snap of rubber gloves and babble silently, frantically to myself: you're just going to look - just going to look! I feel a cold instrument, not your gloved fingers, parting my labia, and then something cold and long entering me and pulling me open, expanding and stretching me wide until you lock it into position. I feel sick at the sensations of you tugging and poking at my most delicate places, inside and out - I am sweating at my helplessness, being able to feel everything, but unable to even twitch in response. As if to punctuate that thought, your forceps close suddenly on my clit and begin to pull, stretching it - I want to jump out of my skin, but my body won't respond! I try to make a sound in protest, but produce a mere squeak, barely audible, as I feel something pinch into my clit until I can feel my pulse aching.

You leave everything as it is, and I feel you spreading my ass, next. I try to moan and can't - I don't want you looking at me, there. I feel you tape me open so you can look all you like, and my cheeks grow warm - I can still blush, apparently. "Hmmm," you say, and my heart begins pounding wildly again. My face goes hot when you suggest bleaching - have I ever been more thoroughly humiliated in my life? I try to say no, and I say nothing.

I can only smell it, I can't help smelling it, breathing it in - another reminder that I will live this waking nightmare, conscious and sensitive to every second of it, with no control over anything. I can feel you applying the bleach - not just in one small area, but spreading it all over. I stare at the ceiling. I won't cry. Then the maddening itching and burning sensation gradually spreads down around my anus and into the crack of my ass, and I want badly to squirm and squeal and reach between my legs, and I can't do anything! At the sound of your voice, just now, my whole body seems to tingle and prickle and burn.

Before I can adjust to it, I can feel your long, icky-cold probe sliding too easily into my burning anus. It's all I can do, to keep breathing. Tears sting my eyes - don't cry, I tell myself fiercely, as I feel another instrument push into my tight, sensitive hole, and pry me open, and I am prodded deep inside. It has to be over soon, I tell myself - this has to be the worst of it.

You don't pull the instruments out of me when you begin speaking again, I can't tell if you've finished, I am left pinched and gaping and uncomfortable and breathing hard - and will I always be terrified at the sound of your voice? If I could cringe at your criticisms, would I? I don't like the corrections you're suggesting, they sound horribly intimate and painful - it was better, I think, when you just told me I'm fat and ugly.

But you must be finished! You've given your miserable assessment of my genitals, and you haven't moved on to examine any other part of me - it must be over. In a minute, you'll help me down, and -

Snip-snip.

The crisp sound of the scissors opening and closing briskly makes my skin crawl and my blood run cold. Yes, I know what it is. Trimming, you said. You lean over so I can see your face - I try valiantly just to shake my head, and can only flare my nostrils, and stare at you in horror. You step out of my field of vision again, I can hear you returning to your position between my legs.

I feel the pinch of your forceps and the tug of my labia being pulled away from me, and my eyes flood with tears that I can't blink away - they run down the sides of my face and into my hair in an unending stream. You're going to do it - without anaesthetic, right now, you're going to do it - I'm in a nightmare I can't wake up from! I feel the edge of the scissors and hear them close - not such a crisp sound, now - but for the first few seconds, there isn't any pain. I wonder with frantic optimism if you've been lying this whole time, if there really was an anaesthetic in that shot, even as I feel you moving quickly around, pressing gauze to me, and then - oh the worst sickening raw pain I've ever felt! I am blinded by my tears and the smell hits me and I am screaming, in my head - all the hysterical noises I can't make fill my head and the room is terribly silent. It's more civilised than restraints, more civilised than gagging me - and you have hours..

But I'm moving - I can move - oh wild hope and I try to sit up, I try to thrash away from you, close my legs, scream STOP OH STOP PLEASE - and I can't do anything. I am trembling violently, but I have no more control over my body than before. I can only sweat and breathe and cry and tremble and hear the sound of the scissors opening again...and bleed and scream silently with that horrid smell in the room, until you are satisfied with what you see.

 

[Indiscretion]

I work quickly and efficiently, fully aware that the initial pain that you felt when I began to trim your labia must have been quite overwhelming, but also aware that shock will be setting in and that the pain will be replaced by numbness and the sinister disembodied feeling that is the inevitable aftermath of sudden trauma. My fingers nimbly operate the instruments, pulling and cutting, pulling and cutting, only pausing briefly noisily to apply suction to remove the blood and then the cauterizing iron to seal your severed capillaries. It is a surprisingly short period until I am finished, at which point I reach for a small syringe that I had filled earlier, unbeknownst to you, with local anaesthetic. I deftly plunge the needle deep into your bleeding labial tissue and depress the plunger. The sting of the needle is lost in the burning numbness of your loins, but you hear my voice. "That was a local anaesthetic. The labia have been trimmed now, unaesthetised, so they will look fresh and springy when they are healed. The local will make the pain go away now. I'm now going to give you a sedative so that you can feel a little more relaxed as I continue the examination."

I reach for a slightly larger empty syringe, and within your line of sight fill it with a transparent liquid in a labelled vial. I walk around you to your outstretched arm and again easily fine a vein, slide the needle into it, the familiar bee sting burning you for a short period, and then press the plunger so as to intraveneously to introduce the oxycodone. I say "That will make you feel much, much better Emily," knowing that the glow of the substantial dose of synthetic opiate will remove what is left of the pain and replace it with a happy and compliant and docile, trusting warmth. I watch your pupils dilate as the dopamine is catalysed in your brain and I know that I can continue.

I begin to examine your body in detail, feeling you with the practised expertise of the surgeon but also the grip of a man who know how he wants a woman to look. I speak as I run my hands over various parts of you. While weighing your boobs I say, "1100cc implants... I have those... they wlil give you a lovely GG cup chest - much sexier than the flat chest you have now." I walk quickly to the sideboard, and in your line of sight you see me take out two frighteniingly large transparent bags filled with silicone gel, and a tray of other unseen prosthetics and instruments. I slide my hands down to your waist and say "Two ribs removed, either side... nice and narrow...". I feel your lower abs and then your hips then around your thighs and say "Lipo... lipo... lipo... Can't have you being a big fattie anymore, can we Emily." My hands find their way to your perineum, which should be screamingly tender to the touch but is numb under the local anaesthetic and I say, "I want to try a new procedure here, it will prevent you from ever closing your legs fully, so you won't ever have final control of who uses your vagina." My hands now travel quickly up your back and you see my face peering down at yours while my hands manipulate your face as if it is an inanimate object. "Lips... 100 millilitres of juviderm... that's a lot Emily, but your lips are going to larger than life and soft and perfect for cucksucking... cheekbones... nose, pinched here, narrower across the bridge... eyes broadened and widened...." I continue to proke and prod for a while until finally I say. "Ok, Emily, I am going to give you the general anaeshetic now. I'm going to keep you under for 48 hours so that when you wake up you will be almost recovered. You won't be here, you will be in my recovery centre. So don't be alarmed when you wake up. You will feel... different... but you will be perfectly safe... and you will look incredibly sexy.

With that, I reach for another waiting syringe, larger than any of the others, and find your vein again. As the bee sting bites you, you hear me say "Listen to me count backwards from 10, Emily, and just relax... 9... 8... 7...6..........."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There is a dull ache throughout your body, most intense in your vagina, anus, breasts, waist and face, and you have an incredibly dry and sore throat. You feel disoriented and the act of waking up and opening your eyes seems to take a lot longer than it normally does... the line between dreams and wakefulness is indiscinct. When finally you manage to get your eyes open, you see you are in a small and simple but clean and homely room, containing a single bed (in which you are lying naked), a beside table with a newspaper on it and a chair. There are large full size mirrors on two wals at the opposite corner of the room, and you imagine that it is easy to use them to see both sides of oneself. There is also a hand mirror lying next to the bed with a handwritten note: "Have a look, Emily. Don't be alarmed if at first it seems a little extreme - you look fantastic. You're my best work yet. Dr McDowell."