She tells herself that she isn't here; in this white room. She isn't bent over, legs spread apart and arms straight ahead. Her breasts aren't being lifted and her rectum isn't being examined.

"M: 212 withholding no weapons or communication devices, sir."

She isn't here, this isn't her body. She's at home in the mansion. She's reading that romance novel she left on her dresser. She's writing in her diary about Remy. She's eating ice cream with Kitty-

"Have you forgotten something, Smith?"

The man slaps his forehead and laughs at himself; as if he'd made some small, insignifigant mistake. "I forgot about the vaginal canal, how silly of me!"

And then his latex-covered fingers are inside of her.


I feel sick.

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