The knock at the door didn't sound like a normal visitor’s greeting. It was three sharp, rhythmic raps—metallic and demanding. My heart, which had been simmering at a nervous gallop all afternoon, suddenly lurched into a full-blown sprint.

​I opened the door, and the air seemed to leave the room.

​Elena and Mara stood there, looking even more formidable than I remembered. Elena wore a dark, clinical-style tunic, and Mara had her hair pulled back in a tight, severe ponytail. Between them, Mara carried the same sleek metal briefcase, but this time, there was a second, smaller leather roll tucked under her arm.

​"You look pale," Elena noted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She didn't offer a greeting. She went straight to the small desk and began clearing away the decorative motel flyer and the ice bucket.

​"I... I’ve been thinking about this every day," I admitted, my voice coming out as a strained whisper.

​"We know," Mara said, her eyes scanning my frame with a predatory glint. "We could see it in your messages. You're not just a subject anymore; you're a glutton for it. Strip. You know the routine. Face down on the bed, and don't make us tell you twice."

​

​I stripped with clumsy, trembling fingers. As I lay face down on the cool, floral comforter, the silence in the room was broken only by the clinical sounds of their preparation. The snap of latex. The hiss of an aerosol disinfectant.

​Then came the sound that made my skin crawl: the slow, heavy unzip of the leather roll.

​"You asked about the needles," Elena said, her voice dropping into that low, authoritative gravel. "The 14-gauge from last time was medical grade for humans. Efficient, but... thin-walled. For a 'special' case like you, Mara found something from a rural supply house."

​I turned my head just enough to see the desk. Mara was laying out a stainless-steel tray. On it sat four syringes, but the needles attached to them were unlike anything I had ever seen.

​They were 12G x 3" veterinary needles.

​The gauge was so thick the hollow bore was visible even from across the room—a dark, gaping eye of steel. They didn't look like medical tools; they looked like silver masonry nails. The light from the bedside lamp caught the beveled edges, which looked wickedly sharp yet impossibly heavy.

​"Those... those are for me?" I stammered, my eyes wide. "They look like they're for horses."

​"Livestock, actually. Steriled just for you," Mara corrected, her voice dripping with a cruel sort of playfulness. She picked one up, the long, thick spike catching the light. "They’re designed to penetrate thick, tough hide. Since you’ve spent the last month toughening up your muscles by obsessing over us, we thought we’d need the extra reinforcement."

​

​Elena approached the bed, carrying a vial of the dreaded Vitamin C, but this time it was a larger, 20ml bottle. I watched as she inserted the 12-gauge needle into the rubber stopper. It didn't slide in; it forced its way in with a sickening pop.

​The sound of the plunger drawing back was a slow, heavy vacuum noise—shhhhhhh-thump.

​"Look at the volume, Elena," Mara remarked, leaning over the tray. "The pressure from volume alone is going to be magnificent. He’s going to feel the muscle fibers parting to make room for the steel before we even start the injection."

​I felt a cold sweat break out across my shoulders. The sheer physical presence of those needles was a psychological assault. I began to shake, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that started in my knees and worked its way up to my jaw.

​"You're shaking," Elena observed, standing over me now. She reached down and traced a line with a cold, gloved finger right across the center of my right buttock. "Are you scared, baby?"

​"Yes," I whimpered, burying my face back into the tear-stained pillow. "I'm terrified."

​"Good," Mara said, and I felt the bed creak as she began to climb onto my back. "Fear makes the nerves more sensitive. It makes the pain last longer. Now, hold still. We’re going to start with the water to 'warm you up,' and then we move to the 12-gauge fire."

​I heard the clink of the first syringe being lifted from the tray. The reality of the livestock needles was no longer a fantasy; it was inches away from my skin.

​He pressed his face into the fabric. The world was reduced to the scent of laundry detergent and his own rapid breathing. Then, the weight of the second woman shifted onto his calves, her knees locking his legs in place. He was effectively a prisoner of his own bed.

​"Alcohol," the Specialist said.

​The wipe was freezing. She moved it in a slow, deliberate circle on the upper outer quadrant of his right glute. The cold lingered, a target drawn in frost.

​"Slowly now," the Specialist whispered.

​Then came the bite. It wasn't the quick, sharp prick of a flu shot. Because of the gauge and the deliberate speed, he felt the needle part the skin, then the subcutaneous layer, then the deep resistance of the muscle. It was a searing, localized heat. He let out a muffled groan into the pillow, his fingers twitching under the friend’s grip.

​"Stay still," the woman on his back warned, her voice low and steady near his ear. "If you jump, you’ll bruise. Just breathe."

​She didn't start the plunger immediately. She let the needle sit there for a full minute, allowing his body to register the intrusion. The pain began to dull into a heavy ache, but then the Specialist’s thumb moved.

​The injection began.

​At first, it was just a sensation of fullness—an uncomfortable expansion. But as the volume increased, the pressure became agonizing. By the 5ml mark, it felt as though his muscle was being forced apart from the inside. He began to shake in earnest, tears leaking into the pillowcase.

​"Almost there," the Specialist said, her voice devoid of pity. "5... 6... 7..."

​She was taking her time, pushing the fluid in at a glacial pace. Each second felt like a minute. The pressure reached a peak where he thought the skin might actually split.

​"And... out."

​The withdrawal was a different kind of sting—a sharp, dragging sensation. He exhaled a ragged, sobbing breath, feeling the immediate 'heavy' sensation of the fluid sitting in his tissue.

​"One in," the Specialist said, her voice cool and professional. "Three more to go. But first, we balance you out."

​Before he could even process the dull throb on the right, the cold wipe hit the left side. The friend shifted her weight, ensuring he couldn't move an inch.

​"My turn to drive," the friend said with a small, hauntingly calm smile. The action was repeated in the next buttocks.

​The next six minutes were a mirror of the first, a grueling repetition of steel and pressure that left his lower body feeling like it was made of lead. When they finally let him up, the 'heavy' feeling was immense. Walking felt unnatural, as if he were carrying weights inside his own skin.