Will laid in bed with a satisfaction of surving the ordeal. The atmosphere in the room shifted from clinical to something deeply primal when Elena opened another medical bag. As I lay there, pinned by Mara’s familiar, crushing weight, Elena leaned over and whispered the "special surprise" they had orchestrated.

​"You mentioned your childhood, Will," she murmured, her voice a mix of velvet and iron. "The penicillin. The way they used to hold you down while you fought. We thought it was a shame that such a formative memory was being left in the past. So, we called in a favor."

​She held up a box of glass vials. Penicillin. It was a thick, milky substance that required a massive amount of diluent.

​"We've prepared a ten-day course," Mara added, her hands gripping my wrists until they went numb. "Twice a day. And since you've been such a 'good' boy, Elena is mixing it heavy. 20ml per side. Cold. Thick. And deep."

​

​I watched through a haze of tears as Elena began the ritual. She didn't use plastic this time; she produced a vintage-style 50ml glass syringe. The weight of it was immense. I heard the clink-clink of the glass plunger as she drew up the cold sterile water and mixed it into the vials.

​Then came the needle. It was a 12-gauge, 5cm long thick steel spike.

​"Look at it, Will," Elena commanded. "This isn't just a shot. This is a reconstruction of your history."

​Seeing that massive glass cylinder fill with 20ml of opaque, white liquid made my stomach flip. It looked like a weapon. The 12-gauge needle was so wide it didn't even look sharp—it looked like a nail. I felt an overwhelming wave of childhood terror wash over me, the kind of helpless fear that makes a grown man's dignity vanish in an instant.

​

​"Pants down to your ankles. All the way," Mara ordered. She sat lower on my back this time, her knees pinning my thighs to the mattress. Elena stepped between my legs, the heavy glass syringe glinting in the lamplight.

​"Please... wait," I sobbed, the memory of those old doctor's offices flooding back. "It’s too big. 20ml? I can't... I can't take that much."

​"You'll take every drop," Elena said. She didn't use an alcohol wipe this time—she used a cold, wet sponge, just like the nurse from my nightmares.

​When the 12-gauge steel breached my skin, it was a blunt, invasive force. I felt the muscle of my right buttock tear open to accommodate the thick metal. I let out a jagged, high-pitched wail, my body instantly trying to wiggle and buck away from the intrusion.

​"Hold him!" Elena barked.

​Mara threw her entire weight forward, pressing my face into the pillow. "Wiggle all you want, Will! It only makes it hurt more!"

​Then, the cold, thick penicillin began to move. Because it was 20ml, the injection wasn't a matter of seconds—it was minutes of sustained, agonizing pressure. The cold liquid felt like a wedge being driven into my hip.

​I was crying like a baby now—uncontrollable, messy sobs. "STOP! PLEASE!" I screamed, the words slipping out of my mouth before I could stop them. I was no longer a man in a motel; I was a terrified child held down by forces I couldn't fight.

​The Ten-Day Sentence

​By the time the first 20ml was in, my right side felt three times its normal size, thumping with a deep, sickly ache. But Elena was already reaching for the second 50ml syringe.

​"We have nineteen more of these over the next ten days, Will," she said, her voice completely devoid of pity as she looked at my tear-streaked face. "And we're going to make sure you remember every single one."

​"My turn," Mara whispered, swapping places with Elena. "I want to hear you scream for the left side."

​As the second 12-gauge needle hovered over my skin, I realized the "cure" had evolved. They weren't just treating a fetish; they were presiding over my total regression. And as terrified as I was, as much as I wailed and begged for them to stop, I knew I wouldn't let them leave until the course was finished.

​