Just about

It was at the point when it felt like Claire was actually going to scrape her skin off that the nurse stopped telling her to scrub harder. That didn't mean her ordeal was over, though. After scouring her genitals for what seemed like an eternity, she was told to continue with the inside. Simply inserting the coarse brush was a test of her endurance, then she had to fuck herself energetically, the stiff bristles tearing excruciatingly at her delicate folds. Finally, the nurse allowed her to stop and put the brush away to be disinfected. Then it was back to her room for the next stage of her treatment.

The return journey was even more painful than the outward one, the young redhead hobbling as quickly as she could manage with the soreness between her legs. Back in her room, she was ordered up on the bed in the same position as the day before. This time, however, she would not be restrained.

"You must hold still," the nurse explained. "If you interfere with the treatment, I will have to report it. Now lift your hips."

Claire did so, letting the nurse position a new pair of plastic pants under her. Then it was time for more red goo. This time, as well as thoroughly coating the whole of her sex, the nurse made sure to spread it all over the inside of her vagina, too. Throughout the process, the poor patient lay with gritted teeth, bracing herself to avoid doing anything that might get her into more trouble. The only reason she managed was that the burning didn't begin in earnest until after the nurse had applied another goo-saturated sanitary pad and sealed the burning concoction in with the plastic pants.

"Alright, time for breakfast," the nurse told the shuddering prisoner brightly. "Can you find your way to the refectory?"

The diminutive girl, nearly delirious from the growing pain, barely comprehended the words, but realized at the last moment that the answer should be no, so the nurse helpfully showed her the way.

The refectory turned out to be just down the corridor and to the left. It resembled a cafeteria, only one filled with girls haunted by their suffering. All were dressed like Claire (that is, not dressed at all), eyes red rimmed with crying and periodically wracked with sobs or screaming out loud when a particularly intense wave of agony overtook them.

Breakfast consisted of a good quality cereal, with fruit, nuts and a choice of seven different milks. It didn't occur to Claire, but the reason the food was so palatable was that the facility catered for elective patients, as well as those mandated to attend by the courts. Most were sent by parents, partners or other guardians, but a few had even booked themselves in, to help curb what they saw as overactive libidos.

Our heroine shuffled over to the counter to get her meal and then gingerly lowered herself onto the unyielding metal seat. She was hurting so much she doubted she'd be able to eat, but it had been nearly thirty-six hours since the last time food had passed her lips and she ended up wolfing it down. She glanced around at her fellow inmates, but nobody made eye contact, let alone spoke. Communication might not be banned, but there was no reason to risk it.

After breakfast, an orderly directed the girls to their tasks for the morning. After the first day spent in isolation, Claire was expected to join in all activities, which included an exercise class, manual labour in the gardens and a group therapy session.