Dinner and a Change

The return to the refectory was a slow, shuffling procession of weary bodies and simmering discomfort. The cool, conditioned air of the clinic’s corridors did little to soothe the heat blooming from their exercised muscles or the persistent, fiery thrum emanating from between their legs. Claire kept her eyes down, focusing on the scuffed vinyl floor, using the monotony of the pattern to distance herself from the sting and the deep, aching fatigue in her limbs.

The large room was no longer set with tables for a meal. Instead, the centre was clear, and along the periphery, a number of high-backed, vinyl-padded chairs had been arranged. They looked like the kind found in a waiting room, but sturdier, with wide armrests.

“Find a chair and sit,” a nurse announced, her voice cutting through the quiet sniffling. “Post-exercise hydration and monitoring.”

Claire sank into the nearest chair with a quiet sigh that was part relief and part dread. The solid support was a blessing for her trembling legs, but the pressure of the seat against her plastic-clad, ointment-smeared skin was an immediate and fresh torment. She shifted slightly, trying to find an angle that offered some respite, but it was futile.

A different nurse, one she hadn't seen before, approached with a small trolley. On it were stacks of large, clear plastic cups, each filled to the brim with water. Without a word, the nurse handed one to Claire.

“All of it, please,” the nurse said, her tone implying it wasn’t a request.

Claire took the cup. Her throat was parched from the exertion, and the water was cool and inviting. She drank it down in a few long, greedy gulps, the simple pleasure of it a tiny island of relief in a sea of misery. As soon as she finished, the nurse took the empty cup and immediately replaced it with a full one.

“And this one. Steady pace,” the nurse instructed before moving to the next girl.

Claire stared at the second cup. Her stomach, still full from dinner and now sloshing with the first litre of water, felt tight and uncomfortable. But she knew better than to protest. She took small, measured sips, the act feeling more like a chore than a refreshment.

For the next twenty minutes, they sat in near silence, broken only by the occasional gulp or a stifled sob as someone shifted in their seat. The **** hydration was a calculated cruelty. Claire could feel the pressure building in her bladder, a dull, urgent ache that grew with every passing second. She crossed her ankles tightly, her thighs pressing together, a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable. A glance around the room confirmed every other girl was doing the same, their faces pinched with a shared, **** anxiety.

Just as Claire felt a treacherous leak threaten to escape, the head doctor from dinner entered, followed by his team of six nurses.

“Hydration cycle complete,” the doctor declared. “You will now void your bladders. Remain seated.”

A wave of horrified understanding passed through the room. The nurses moved swiftly, placing a cold, hard bedpan on the seat of each chair between the girls' legs, removing their plastic underwear, and sliding the bedpan beneath their bottoms. The instruction was clear, the humiliation profound. They were to urinate like infants, sitting in full view of everyone.

“Proceed,” the doctor commanded.

The room was filled with the tense, muffled sounds of effort and shame. The sharp, distinct sound of liquid striking enamel began to echo, one by one, as the girls, their bodies given no other choice, reluctantly complied. Claire, her face burning with a blush that reached the roots of her hair, closed her eyes and let go, the relief of emptying her bladder inextricably tied to the degradation of the act.

As soon as the sounds subsided, the nurses removed the bedpans and the head nurse announced, “We will now proceed with the evening change. You will remain seated.”

The nurses moved with practiced efficiency, their trolleys now laden with fresh supplies. The nurse who had given her the water returned to her. “Lift your hips,” she commanded.

Flushing with the fresh memory of the bedpan, Claire did as she was told, raising herself just enough. The nurse worked quickly, wiping her down with a rough, antiseptic-scented scouring pad that itself stung like a bee sting.

Then came the ointment. This batch was a pale, translucent colour. The nurse scooped up a generous glob with a wooden spatula.

“This is a strengthening formula,” the nurse stated blandly. “You may feel a slight increase in sensation.”

It was the understatement of the century. As the ointment was applied, the familiar burning ignited into a vicious, acidic sting that felt like a swarm of wasps attacking her most sensitive skin. A choked cry escaped Claire’s lips before she could stop it. She bit down on her knuckle, trying to swallow the sound.

From two chairs over, a girl with mousy brown hair wasn't as successful. The pain seemed to short-circuit her control. With a raw, guttural scream, she jerked violently away from the nurse applying her ointment, scrambling halfway out of the chair. “No! Please, no more! It burns!”

The entire room froze.

The head doctor was at her side in an instant. “A lack of discipline compromises the treatment,” he said, his voice cold and loud in the stunned silence. He nodded to a burly male orderly who had been standing by the door.

The orderly strode over, a small, rectangular paddle already in his hand. He didn't speak. He simply grabbed the sobbing girl, bent her efficiently over the wide arm of the chair, and, holding her down with one hand, delivered a series of swift, vicious smacks to her bare bottom with the other. The cracks of the paddle were shockingly loud, each impact punctuated by the girl's sharp, hysterical cries. The punishment was brutal and over in less than ten seconds, leaving her skin mottled with angry red and purple.

“Reapply the formula,” the doctor ordered the nurse. “A double portion. Ensure it is thoroughly massaged in.”

The weeping girl was **** back into her seat, and the nurse grimly complied, slathering the caustic ointment onto the freshly paddled, broken skin. The girl’s subsequent shriek was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that seemed to suck the air from the room. Every other girl flinched, including Claire, who found herself pressing her own thighs together in sympathetic terror.

The message was received. There would be no rebellion here.

Shaken, Claire sat perfectly still as her own nurse finished efficiently positioning a fresh sanitary pad and securing a new plastic diaper. The process was over quickly, but the fresh application of the "strengthening formula" was a throbbing, relentless fire, and the memory of the paddling was a cold chill in her soul.

When the nurses were finished, the doctor spoke again, his voice returning to its calm, clinical tone. “You will remain seated for a thirty-minute absorption period. Any disruption will result in re-application.”