Riley doesn’t question the next instruction when it comes. Dr. Venn delivers it the same way as the others—brief, precise, already moving on before Riley has fully processed it.

“Third floor,” she says, eyes on the tablet. “Staff lounge. There’s a lighter on the table by the window. Bring it back to me.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t dismiss her directly this time. She simply stops speaking, her attention returning fully to the tablet, leaving Riley to understand the moment has ended.

Riley turns and leaves.

The stairs feel longer on the way up, each level marked more by silence than sound, the building shifting subtly the higher she goes. By the time she reaches the third floor, the air feels different again—quieter, more contained, like fewer people are meant to pass through it.

She steps out into the corridor and slows.

The sign is impossible to miss.

NO ANIMALS BEYOND THIS POINT.

The letters are clean, permanent, not something temporary or easily ignored. They sit at eye level, placed exactly where they need to be to stop someone before they go any further.

Riley stops a few steps short of the door.

The instruction settles in her head again.

Third floor. Staff lounge. Bring it back.

Her eyes flick between the sign and the door, the space beyond it hidden, inaccessible. The corridor around her feels too quiet, like the decision itself is louder than anything else.

If she goes in, she breaks a rule that doesn’t sound optional.

If she doesn’t, she fails the instruction she was given.

Her weight shifts slightly.

Then the door opens.

The man steps out, the yellow watch catching the overhead light as he moves into the corridor. He notices her immediately, his gaze dropping briefly to the red on her wrist before returning to her face.

“You again,” he says.

Riley straightens slightly without meaning to. “I was sent to get something.”

He glances back at the door, then at the sign, then at her. “You’re on the wrong side of that.”

“I know,” Riley says. “Dr. Venn told me to come up here. There’s a lighter in the staff lounge. She wants me to bring it back.”

The man’s expression flattens slightly.

“And you were going to go in there?” he asks.

Riley hesitates. “I wasn’t sure.”

His gaze sharpens just a fraction. “Read the sign.”

Riley’s eyes flick back to it automatically.

NO ANIMALS BEYOND THIS POINT.

“I saw it,” she says quietly.

“Then you already know the answer.”

There’s a pause.

Riley looks between him and the door again, the instruction still pressing quietly at the back of her mind.

“I don’t have to go in,” she says carefully. “You could just get it for me.”

The shift in him is immediate.

“Could I?” he asks.

Riley’s shoulders tighten slightly. “If you’re already there—”

He steps closer, not rushing, not abrupt, just closing the space between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Animals don’t ask Humans to do things for them up here,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “You don’t make requests. You don’t decide how things work.”

Riley’s mouth closes.

He watches her for a second, then his tone shifts, easing slightly, something almost conversational settling into it.

“You’re new,” he says. “Still figuring it out.”

His hand touches her ass again, gently feeling the impression his hand had made earlier. Riley dislikes this man, she wants to push him away. But she can’t, she’s an Animal and he’s a Human. Touching her is his right.

“You don’t need to make it harder for yourself,” he continues, like he’s explaining something simple. “People respond better when you don’t push.”

“And if your this desperate for a little Human contact, I’m happy to help a Meatgirl in need.”

The hand on her ass snakes between her legs, gently teasing her clit. Riley gasps at the sudden contact. Shocked at how gentle it is.

“See?” he adds after a moment. “That’s easier, isn’t it?”

Riley doesn’t answer.

In this moment something comes over her. A realisation. She likes being treated like this. Her hand move to her nipples but his free hand slaps it away. “No,” he says, like he’s rebuking a badly behaved pet dog, “You don’t touch yourself right now, Meatgirl.”

Riley opens her mouth to retaliate but a soft moan escapes instead. He smiles.

“Make more noises like that kid,” he demands, “You little Animals are just like the rest, hungry for affection.”

She squeaks and maons as his fingers go deeper. Then he curls them and her hips begin to buck forward. “Good girl,” he says, “Cum for me you little cunt.”

“Cunt?” Riley tastes the word out loud. It’s a horrible thing to call anyone but, right now, it pushes her over the edge. Her twelve year old body convulses as his calloused hand brings her to orgasm. He holds her up, refusing to let her collapse, so he can watch as her childish face twists in pleasure before a look of relaxation spreads over her.

He studies her face for a second longer, then steps back, the space opening again as if nothing had happened.

“You’re not going in there,” he says, the earlier firmness returning without effort. “And you’re not sending me in either.”

A beat.

“Leave the third floor.”

The instruction lands as clearly as the others had. Riley pulls herself back from post-orgasmic bliss. She glances once more at the door, at the sign, at the space beyond it that she isn’t allowed to enter.

Then she nods.

“Okay.”

She turns and walks back toward the stairs, her pace steady, not rushed, not slow, the absence of the lighter sitting quietly with her as she descends.

When she returns to the office, Dr. Venn looks up almost immediately.

“You took longer,” she says.

Riley stops just inside the room. “…I didn’t bring it.”

Dr. Venn’s gaze settles on her. “Why?”

Riley hesitates briefly. “There’s a sign. No Animals beyond that point.”

A pause.

“And?”

“A staff member came out,” Riley says. “He told me to leave.”

Dr. Venn’s expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens slightly.

“And you did.”

Riley nods. “I wasn’t allowed to be there.”

The silence that follows is brief.

Then Dr. Venn turns back to the tablet, tapping something into it with the same steady rhythm as before.

“If you can’t complete an instruction,” she says, her tone even, “you report it immediately.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“That will be all for now.”

The moment closes without emphasis, leaving the decision behind her—and whatever it meant already recorded somewhere she can’t see.

Dr. Venn doesn’t comment on Riley’s return beyond the brief instruction already given, the moment folding away as cleanly as the others have. There’s no indication that anything about it lingered, no shift in tone to suggest it mattered more or less than anything else that morning. She scrolls once across the tablet, pauses, then sets it down.

“You failed to complete a direct instruction,” she says.

Riley straightens slightly. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn studies her for a second, not weighing the answer, just noting it.

“Then we correct it.”

She gestures toward the open space in the centre of the room. “Kneel.”

Riley moves without hesitation, lowering herself to the floor.

“Arms out.”

She lifts them immediately, extending them forward at shoulder height, palms angled slightly downward as she settles into the position.

“Hold it,” Dr. Venn says. “Until I say otherwise.”

Riley nods once. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t leave the room this time. She returns to the desk, picks up the tablet again, and resumes whatever she had been doing before, her attention split in a way that doesn’t feel divided so much as layered. Riley is part of the room now. Not the focus. Not ignored.

Just present.

The first few minutes pass easily.

The position isn’t difficult at first. Riley’s balance settles quickly, her arms steady, her breathing even as she fixes her gaze somewhere just ahead of her, not focusing on anything in particular. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint, consistent sound of the stylus moving across the tablet.

Ten minutes.

The first strain settles into her shoulders, a dull pull that spreads slowly outward. Riley adjusts her fingers slightly, then stills them again, correcting the movement before it becomes noticeable.

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up.

Twenty minutes.

The ache deepens, her arms beginning to feel heavier than they should, the effort required to hold them steady increasing in small, steady increments. Riley swallows once, then again, her posture tightening slightly as she keeps the position exact.

Thirty minutes.

The tremor begins.

Subtle at first, a faint shake running through her arms that she tries to control, forcing the muscles to hold firm despite the strain building underneath. Her breathing shifts, still controlled, but more deliberate now.

Dr. Venn scrolls once.

Forty minutes.

The strain becomes something sharper, the muscles in her shoulders and upper arms burning steadily now, her control slipping in small, barely visible increments. Riley’s arms dip for a fraction of a second before she forces them back into place, correcting immediately.

Fifty minutes.

The tremor is visible now.

Her arms shake openly, the effort to hold them steady costing more with each passing second. Her focus narrows, the rest of the room fading slightly as the position demands more of her attention.

An hour.

Her arms dip again.

This time the correction is slower.

Riley inhales, steadying herself, trying to hold the position, but the strain has settled too deeply now, the pain no longer something she can push aside without consequence.

A few seconds pass.

Then—

“…Dr. Venn.”

The stylus pauses.

Riley swallows, her voice tight but controlled. “I can’t hold this much longer.”

A brief silence follows.

“How?” Dr. Venn asks.

“My shoulders,” Riley says. “They’re starting to give.”

Another pause.

Dr. Venn sets the tablet down and looks at her properly, her gaze moving over the tremor in Riley’s arms, the tension in her posture, the point where endurance is shifting into failure.

“Lower them,” she says.

Riley does immediately, her arms dropping to her sides, the sudden release sending a sharp rush of sensation through them that makes her wince before she can stop herself. She flexes her fingers slightly, trying to bring them back under control.

Dr. Venn watches the recovery rather than the strain.

“If a position causes damage,” she says, her tone even, procedural, “you report it before it fails.”

Riley nods, still catching her breath. “Yes.”

Dr. Venn picks the tablet back up.

“That will be all.”

The moment closes without emphasis, leaving nothing behind except the instruction—and the quiet expectation that it will be understood next time.

Dr. Venn doesn’t frame the next instruction any differently from the others, her tone unchanged, her attention already half-elsewhere as she sets a small folder on the edge of the desk. “Reception,” she says. “Leave this with the front desk and come straight back.”

Riley nods, stepping forward to take it. “Yes.”

“Don’t linger.”

“I won’t.”

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up again.

Riley turns and leaves.

The corridor outside feels busier now, not crowded but active in a way it hadn’t been earlier, staff moving between rooms, conversations low and unhurried, the space carrying a steady rhythm that Riley has started to recognise without fully understanding it. She keeps her pace even, the folder held flat against her side, her focus fixed on the instruction.

Reception. Leave it. Come straight back.

The first contact is light.

A hand brushes her arm as someone passes too close, the touch brief but deliberate enough to register. Riley’s shoulder tightens instinctively before she steadies it, her pace unbroken as she continues forward.

She doesn’t look back.

A few steps later someone else moves past her on the other side, their hand trailing across her shoulder, fingers dragging slightly longer than necessary before slipping away. Riley’s posture shifts under it, a small adjustment rather than a reaction, her grip tightening momentarily on the folder before settling again.

She keeps walking.

The corridor opens slightly as she nears reception, the space wider, more visible. A man standing near the wall glances at her as she approaches, then steps just enough into her path to slow her without fully stopping her.

“One of Venn’s girls?” he asks casually.

Riley pauses. “Yes.”

He nods, his attention already drifting, but his hand settles against her upper arm, thumb brushing once in a slow, absent motion as if the contact doesn’t require thought.

Then he begeins to idly run his thumb over her small nipple. Not enough to excite her but enough to let her know he’s touching her. She blushes in his touch, he smiles at her.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says.

Riley doesn’t pull away.

She holds still just long enough for the contact to pass naturally, then steps around him when the space opens, continuing toward the desk without rushing.

She hands over the folder at reception as instructed, the exchange quick, efficient, unremarkable.

Then she turns and heads back.

The return is quieter.

Not empty, but less concentrated.

Halfway down the corridor, someone passes close behind her, a hand slipping briefly across her side, the contact light but unmistakable before it’s gone again.

A few steps later a woman Handler idly slaps her butt in passing. Riley can’t help smiling at the woman’s cheeky giggles as she walks away.

Riley’s step falters for a fraction of a second before she corrects it, her pace evening out almost immediately.

Further along, another slows as they pass her, their attention lingering just long enough to justify stopping.

“You’re Venn’s for the morning, aren’t you?” she asks.

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“Mm.”

“Let’s have a look at you then, arms up kiddo,” she tells her. Riley obeys, it isn’t interfering with her current task after all. The woman kneels in front of Riley and her hands roam her little body freely. Grabbing at her butt, her hips, rubbing her back and waist, lingering on her flat chest.

“Little Meatgirls are always so soft,” the woman claims, “And you smell divine, did you get a treatment?” Riley nods and the woman smiles, “Very good, Meatgirls who take this as seriously as you aren’t so common.”

Riley keeps her posture steady.

Her breathing stays even.

When the woman’s hand cups her cheek she leans into it without thinking. The woman giggles playfully, pressing a small kiss to Riley’s lips. “I do wish more Meatgirls were as affectionate as you.”

“But I better get back to work. If you’re still around later, come find me?”

Riley bites her bottom lip before nodding and the woman leaves.

Riley continues.

By the time she reaches Dr. Venn’s office, the individual moments have blended together into something harder to separate, not one interaction but a series of them, each brief, each treated as unremarkable by everyone except her.

She steps inside.

Dr. Venn doesn’t look up immediately.

“You took the direct route,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You weren’t delayed.”

“I was a little.”

A pause.

Dr. Venn’s gaze lifts then, moving over Riley briefly, not searching for anything obvious, just noting the way she stands, the small adjustments in posture, the absence of disruption.

“Stand there,” she says.

Riley does.

The tablet shifts slightly in Dr. Venn’s hand as she resumes her work, the stylus moving in quiet, steady strokes.

The room settles again.

Like nothing unusual happened at all.

Dr. Venn doesn’t speak immediately when Riley settles back into place, the quiet stretching just long enough to feel deliberate rather than incidental. The tablet rests in her hand, the stylus hovering just above the screen as if whatever she had been recording has reached a natural pause. Her gaze lifts slowly, not sharp, not sudden, just… present in a way it hadn’t been before.

Something about her expression shifts.

It’s small.

But it’s there.

The corner of her mouth lifts slightly—not warmth, not softness, just the suggestion of something that hadn’t appeared at any point earlier that morning.

Riley notices it without understanding why.

Dr. Venn turns the tablet, angling it outward.

“Come here,” she says.

Riley steps forward.

The screen is filled with a structured list, cleanly arranged, each line marked with short labels and brief notes that read more like observations than conclusions.

Compliance speed.
Response clarity.
Instruction retention.
Boundary recognition.
Escalation control.
Environmental stability.

Riley’s eyes move down the list, taking in the marks beside each one, some simple ticks, others annotated with short, precise comments written in the same steady hand she’s watched all morning.

She frowns slightly. “…What is this?”

Dr. Venn watches her for a moment, then taps the stylus once against the screen.

“That,” she says, “is what I’ve been doing.”

Riley looks up.

Before she can ask anything else, the door opens behind her.

She turns.

The man steps inside.

The same one from the stairwell. The corridor. The third floor.

He doesn’t carry the same edge now. The tension that had defined each of their earlier interactions is gone, replaced with something more neutral, more aligned with the room he’s entered. He closes the door behind him without speaking, moving to stand off to the side like he belongs there.

Riley’s gaze flicks between them.

Dr. Venn leans back slightly against the desk, folding her arms loosely.

“He assists me when I need variables that don’t feel controlled,” she says, as if clarifying something routine. “It produces more reliable behaviour.”

The man gives a small nod, acknowledging the explanation without adding to it.

Riley’s attention shifts back to Dr. Venn.

“…Variables?”

Dr. Venn tilts her head slightly.

“You didn’t think I was assigning random tasks,” she says.

It isn’t quite a question.

Riley doesn’t answer.

Dr. Venn’s expression doesn’t change, but that faint trace of a smile returns, just briefly.

“You were being observed,” she continues. “Every instruction. Every hesitation. Every time something didn’t align cleanly.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

“You didn’t default to blind obedience.”

A beat.

“You didn’t escalate under pressure.”

Another.

“And you didn’t cross a boundary you understood to be enforced.”

Riley’s shoulders shift slightly, the morning rearranging itself in her mind, each moment settling into place with a clarity it hadn’t had before.

Dr. Venn lowers the tablet.

“That combination is uncommon.”

The words are quiet. Measured.

The man glances at Riley again, this time without the earlier pressure, something closer to assessment still lingering, but without interference.

Dr. Venn steps forward slightly.

“You passed,” she says.

There’s no emphasis on it. No attempt to make it sound like praise. It’s delivered the same way everything else has been—calm, certain, procedural.

Riley blinks. “…Passed?”

“For my purposes,” Dr. Venn clarifies. “Which is the only standard that applies here.”

She sets the tablet down.

“I don’t control your final classification,” she continues. “That decision is made at the Processing Centre you report to.”

Riley’s attention sharpens.

“But I do influence it.”

A small pause.

“I’ll be submitting a recommendation ahead of your intake.”

The words settle heavier than anything else she’s said.

“With my name attached,” she adds, “your likelihood of Companion placement increases.”

Riley doesn’t move.

Dr. Venn watches her for a second longer, then straightens slightly, the moment closing as cleanly as it opened.

“That will be all.”

No ceremony.

No dismissal beyond the words themselves.

Just the end of the morning.

The man moves first, stepping toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at Riley, something unreadable but no longer antagonistic in his expression.

Then he leaves.

And the room settles again, like it had been waiting for that exact moment to end.

The shift outside feels almost abrupt, like stepping into a different part of the same world that shouldn’t quite fit together. The air is warmer, carrying the smell of charcoal and cooked food, the low murmur of conversation drifting across the open space where people stand in loose groups with plates in their hands. Nothing about it feels tense. Nothing about it feels hidden.

“Since you’re still under my claim for the morning,” Dr. Venn says as she steps out beside her, “you may as well make use of it.”

Riley glances at her.

Dr. Venn gestures toward the spread ahead. “Lunch.”

There’s no further explanation. None needed.

Riley steps forward slowly, her attention drawn toward the long table set beneath a shaded awning. Trays of food are arranged in neat rows, steam rising from some, others already plated and waiting. It looks… good. Carefully prepared. Ordered. Like everything else here.

People take what they want without hesitation.

No one questions it.

Riley moves closer.

The smell reaches her properly now—rich, savoury, layered in a way that makes her stomach tighten despite everything else still sitting in her chest. Someone passes her with a plate already filled, nodding once in quiet acknowledgement before moving on.

She stops at the edge of the table.

The dishes are labelled.

Small tags placed neatly beside each tray, printed in the same clean format she’s seen throughout the facility. Most of them don’t mean anything at first glance, just numbers, codes, identifiers that feel administrative rather than personal.

Until one of them doesn’t.

Her gaze lingers.

The numbers don’t make sense immediately.

But something about the way they’re arranged—

The spacing.

The rhythm—

It catches.

Familiar.

Riley frowns slightly, looking at it again, her attention narrowing as the recognition forms not as a thought but as something quieter, something that settles before it’s fully understood.

And then—

Rosey.

The name comes without effort.

Bright.

Immediate.

She can hear her voice as clearly as if she’s standing beside her again, the way she had spoken those numbers with that same strange pride, like they meant something more than just identification, like they were worth remembering.

Riley’s fingers shift slightly at her side.

The sound of conversation continues around her, unchanged, people moving, eating, talking like this is just another part of the day.

Nearby, a grill turns slowly over the heat, a spit rotating with steady rhythm. What rests on it no longer resembles anything she could recognise as a person. It’s just form now. Texture. Surface. Cooked down into something that fits the space it occupies.

A slab of meat.

Nothing more.

Riley watches it for a moment longer than she realises.

Then she looks back to the table.

The tag doesn’t change.

It doesn’t need to.

The understanding settles deeper.

Not spoken.

Not confirmed.

Just… there.

A plate is placed into her hands.

She doesn’t see who gives it to her.

Grilled corn sits neatly to one side, the kernels charred just enough to catch the light, and beside it a portion of meat, cut cleanly, still warm, the scent rising from it rich enough to make her stomach tighten again.

It smells good.

Really good.

Riley looks down at it for a second.

Around her, nothing changes.

People continue eating.

Talking.

Moving through the space like this is normal. Expected.

Her grip steadies on the plate.

To refuse would be wrong.

Disrespectful.

Rosey had been proud.

That thought settles quietly beneath everything else.

Riley lifts the fork.

And begins to eat.

>>30008
Another wonderful update! Thank you! A small question occurs to me - you mentioned before that killing a traditionally farmed animal is now a crime so is human the only meat anyone eats? Would Riley have grown up having human for dinner most nights just not really connecting it with actual people until it becomes personal?

The System is very transparent about what people eat. The last thing it needs is a scandal. Most just never meet the Animal they're eating unless it's an intimate gathering where the Animal is usually family or a close friend.

Riley was more reacting to the fact that, even though it was very brief, she had met Rosey. But she knew enough about Livestock now that this wasn't sad for them. It was completion.

Not eating would have been disrespectful.

I really liked the testing! I had an inkling the unpleasant man was part of the test! Something of a Mr Slugworth, if you will!

>>30024
Oh yes, I knew it was transparent. I was just reflecting on the idea (which I really like) that after a lifetime of normalised cannibalism, this is the first time Riley has actually known who she was eating and connecting the meat on her plate with an individual. I was just wondering if meat was relatively plentiful or considered a luxury that most families only had once a week or as a treat?

Meat is relatively common thanks to a well maintained distribution network and agreements with non-System Countries who often give System Countires death row inmates which is a very common thing since non-System Countires haven't fully recovered like System ones.

So yes, Meat is about as common as it is now thanks to a combination of borderline overpopulation, Livestock Farms and Prisoner Conversion.

I rather like the fact that Riley won't know her fate until she attends the processing centre. I'm sure in-universe there are "supply & demand" factors which mean the chances of being assigned as a companion rather than processed for meat are better than others! Will you be exploring the application process for people who want/need a companion animal? I'm guessing it works a bit like service dogs in our world?

think of Companion Animals as gifts to societies elite and most trusted. Whomever does want to buy one is vetted and approved. When an Animal is classified as a Companion only their future owner can reclassify them as Meat and even then they have soul rights to it.

They are also subject to strict, sometimes random, health checks to ensure the health and stability of the Companion Animal, there's leeway of course but a healthy Companion Animal makes the System look good.

CHAPTER NINTEEN

Riley stands in the kitchen for a moment before she starts, one hand resting lightly against the counter while the other adjusts the strap of the pouch on her shoulder. The house is quiet this early, the kind of quiet that makes every small movement feel louder than it is. The floor is cool under her feet, a steady, grounding cold that she’s stopped reacting to in any obvious way, even if she still notices it with every shift of her weight.

The tupperware sits where she left it in the fridge.

She takes it out and sets it on the counter, pausing just long enough to look at the lid. The name is written in black marker, slightly smudged at one edge where her thumb must have brushed it yesterday.

Rosey.

Memories of the excited little Meatgirl surface as she looks at the cuts of meat the Farm had given her as a gift.

The cut she picks is thick. More than she needs for breakfast, probably, but that doesn’t really matter. She lifts it out with her fingers and drops it into the pan, the sound immediate and sharp as it hits the heat.

A loud sizzle fills the kitchen.

The smell follows quickly after, rich and heavy, spreading out into the room as the fat begins to render. Riley leans her hip lightly against the counter while she watches it cook, the warmth from the stove brushing against the front of her body in a way that feels almost exaggerated after the cooler air everywhere else.

One foot slides back against the tile.

The heat reaches her differently now. The heat reaches her directly, fading when she leans away and returning when she settles again of it, just direct warmth against her skin that fades the moment she leans away and returns as soon as she settles back in place. It’s not uncomfortable.

Riley turns the bacon after a minute, pressing it down lightly with the spatula. The surface has already browned, edges curling slightly as it crisps. The smell deepens.

She cracks an egg against the side of the pan and drops it in beside the meat.

The white spreads quickly, edges turning opaque almost immediately while the yolk sits intact in the centre. Riley watches it for a second, then reaches for the empty shell halves still resting on the counter.

She doesn’t throw them away.

Instead, she rinses them briefly under the tap, shakes off the excess water, and sets them into the small blender beside the sink. The sound when she switches it on is loud in the quiet kitchen, a short mechanical whir that turns the shells into a fine, pale powder.

She pours a glass of orange juice and taps the blended shells into it, watching the grains settle and swirl before giving it a quick stir with a spoon.

By the time she turns back, the egg is ready.

She slides everything onto a plate in one smooth motion, the bacon settling beside the egg with a soft, oily shift. The heat from it rises immediately, curling into the air between her and the counter.

Riley carries the plate to the table and sits.

The chair feels slightly different now, harder somehow without the layer she used to have between herself and it. She adjusts once, a small shift of position more out of habit than discomfort, then settles properly with the plate in front of her.

For a second she just looks at it.

Then she picks up the fork and starts eating.

The bacon is good. Crisp at the edges, softer toward the middle where the fat hasn’t fully rendered out. She chews slowly, not rushing it, letting the taste sit for a moment before swallowing. The egg follows, the yolk breaking cleanly and spreading across the plate.

Riley drinks the juice last.

The texture is slightly off because of the powder, just enough to feel it if she pays attention, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. She swallows it down in a few steady mouthfuls, setting the glass back on the table when it’s empty.

The kitchen is still quiet.

Nothing feels rushed.

She leans back slightly in the chair, one hand resting against her stomach while the other idly traces along the edge of the table. The morning light coming through the window lands across her shoulders and chest, warm in a softer way than the stove had been earlier.

Riley tilts her head a little, feeling it.

Then she sits forward again, reaching for her plate to clear it away.

Riley rinses her plate under the tap, watching the last streaks of yolk slip away into the sink. The water runs hot over her fingers, a steady, almost soothing heat that lingers even after she pulls her hand back. She sets the plate in the rack and reaches for the pan next, tilting it carefully so the grease slides off in a slow, glossy sheet.

The kitchen smells like cooked meat and citrus now, heavier than it had been a few minutes ago.

She wipes her hands on a towel and pauses for a second, eyes drifting back toward the counter where the tupperware still sits.

Riley steps over and rests her fingers lightly on the lid, not opening it this time.

There’s still a lot left.

More than she’d usually keep for herself, even spread across a few days. The piece she cooked this morning hadn’t made much of a dent in it at all. Thick cuts, dense. It would last if she wanted it to.

She leans her hip against the counter again, the cool edge pressing into her side while her other hand stays on the container.

Seven days.

Well—less now.

She doesn’t look at the watch. She already knows it’s ticking.

Riley tilts her head slightly, thinking it through in the same quiet, practical way she’s been handling everything else.

If she spaces it out, smaller portions, maybe stretches it across meals…

Yeah.

She probably could.

Finish it before she has to report.

The thought settles without much resistance.

She taps her fingers once against the lid, then lifts the container and slides it back into the fridge. The door closes with a soft thud, sealing the smell and the name away again.

For a moment she just stands there, the quiet of the kitchen returning around her.

Then she turns back to the sink to finish cleaning.

Riley is still at the sink when she hears movement upstairs.

It starts as a dull shift through the ceiling, then the familiar rhythm of footsteps crossing the landing. A door opens. Another closes. The house begins to wake in slow, ordinary pieces, just like it always has.

By the time her parents come down, the smell has already reached them.

“Something smells good,” her dad says as he steps into the kitchen, still half-awake, rubbing at the back of his neck. He pauses when he sees her standing there by the counter, then glances toward the stove like he’s expecting to find a full breakfast waiting.

Her mom follows a second later, tying her robe a little tighter as she walks in. She takes one look at Riley, then at the empty pan sitting on the rack, and raises an eyebrow.

“Did you make enough for everyone?” she asks.

Riley shakes her head, drying her hands slowly with the towel.

“Just for me,” she says. “Sorry.”

Her dad gives a quiet, mock-offended huff, but it doesn’t carry any real weight.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Cold.”

Riley shrugs, not apologizing any further.

“I’m heading into town today,” she adds, setting the towel down on the counter. “Figured I’d eat here first.”

Her mom nods once, like that explains everything.

It does, in a way.

There’s a brief pause while her dad moves past her to the cupboard, pulling out a mug. The normal routine fills the space easily enough, the sound of the kettle clicking on, the low scrape of ceramic against the counter.

Then Riley speaks again.

“I’m going to Amanda’s tomorrow,” she says, like she’s just remembering to mention it. “Afternoon. We said we’d do one last sleepover.”

Her mom glances over immediately.

“The last one,” she repeats, softer.

Riley nods.

“Yeah.”

There’s no argument. No hesitation. Just a quiet acceptance that settles into the room as naturally as everything else has.

“That’s good,” her mom says after a moment. “You should.”

Her dad leans against the counter with his coffee, watching Riley over the rim of the mug.

“Make the most of it,” he adds.

Riley shifts her weight slightly, the movement small and unthinking. The cool air in the kitchen brushes across her again as she turns, catching along her arms and shoulders, slipping past her without anything to stop it. She doesn’t react to it the way she might have a few days ago. It’s just there, another thing to notice and then move past.

“That’s the plan,” she says.

She picks up her pouch from the table and adjusts the strap over her shoulder.

“I want to actually use some of the stuff they give us,” she continues. “While it’s still… you know.”

Her dad nods once.

“Perks of being red,” he says.

It’s said casually, the same way people talk about discounts or free entry somewhere, even though they all know exactly what it means.

Riley nods back.

Animals are given access.

Free transport. Complimentary food. Entry into places she’d never normally bother with. Small things, spread across the city, all built into the system to keep everything moving smoothly.

“I’m just going to see what’s around,” she finishes.

Her mom steps a little closer and rests a hand briefly against Riley’s arm, the touch light and familiar.

“Stay safe,” she says.

Riley smirks, “What’s the worse that could happen?”

The kitchen settles back into its quiet rhythm for a second, the three of them standing in their usual places, nothing outwardly different about the moment at all.

Then Riley turns toward the door.

Riley pulls the front door closed behind her and steps out into the morning.

The air hits her immediately.

It’s colder than it looks, the kind of early chill that hasn’t quite burned off yet. It settles across her skin all at once, sharper than it had felt inside the house, and she pauses briefly at the top of the steps while her body adjusts to it. The early morning cold causes her nipples to pebble like it usually did, the sensation small but insistent against the rest of her, a steady, grounding cold under her feet.

Then she starts walking.

The pavement is still slightly damp from the night, cool under her feet as she moves down the path and onto the street. It feels uneven in places, tiny shifts in texture that she’s become used to noticing without really thinking about them anymore. She adjusts her steps automatically, choosing the smoother parts without looking down.

The neighborhood is already awake.

A car passes slowly at the end of the street, tires hissing faintly against the road. Somewhere nearby, a door shuts. A dog barks once, then again, before going quiet. The usual sounds, nothing out of place.

Riley keeps her pace steady.

The pouch rests against her hip, tapping lightly with each step, the strap shifting across her shoulder when she moves. The air moves in uneven currents, slipping along the street and fading again, sliding along the street in uneven currents that come and go without warning. One passes over her from the side, cooler than the rest, and she exhales slowly as it fades again.

She doesn’t try to cover herself.

The instinct still flickers now and then, something left over from before, but it never quite turns into action anymore. There’s nothing to adjust, nothing to hold in place. Just movement, sensation, and the quiet awareness of it.

Mr. Greern is already on his porch.

He’s in the same chair as always, coffee mug in one hand, watching the street like it’s part of his morning routine. Riley sees him the moment she reaches the sidewalk, the shape of him familiar enough that she doesn’t need to look twice to recognize it.

He sees her too.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then his expression shifts.

The usual lazy interest she remembers from before isn’t there anymore. It tightens instead, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly as his eyes follow her approach. He sets his mug down on the arm of the chair with a quiet, deliberate movement.

Riley keeps walking.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change direction, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Her steps stay even, the rhythm unchanged as she moves past the edge of his property and onto the next stretch of pavement.

The glare follows her.

She can feel it without looking, the weight of it different from the casual glances she’s gotten from strangers in town. Sharper. Personal.

She doesn’t turn her head.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter.

A few steps later she’s past him, the porch behind her, the street opening up again into something more neutral.

The bus stop comes into view at the corner ahead.

The shelter is empty this early, just the bench and the glass panel with its faded route map. Riley steps under it and pauses, shifting her weight slightly as she comes to a stop. The surface beneath her feet is smoother here, worn down by years of people standing in the same place.

She adjusts the strap of the pouch again and glances briefly down the road.

Waiting.

The bus stop stays quiet for a moment after Riley settles under the shelter, the glass panel at her back still holding a faint trace of the night’s cold. She resettles, one foot resting against the smoother patch of pavement where people usually stand, the other angled just enough to take the edge off the chill.

Footsteps approach from behind.

Not rushed. Just steady.

Someone comes up beside her and stops a short distance away, close enough to share the shelter but not crowding into her space. Riley glances sideways without turning her head fully.

A guy. Early twenties, maybe.

He notices her immediately.

His eyes flick across her, immediate, the way anyone’s would. There’s no hesitation in it, no attempt to pretend he didn’t look. Just a brief, open acknowledgment of what’s in front of him.

Then his gaze drops to her wrist.

The red glow catches the light.

Something in his expression shifts, not dramatically, just a small adjustment as he takes it in. The look settles into something easier, more certain.

He smiles.

It’s a normal smile. Friendly. The kind you’d give someone you’re sharing a space with for a few minutes, nothing more than that. There’s no softness to it, no careful edge of sympathy.

No pity.

You don’t pity Animals.

“Morning,” he says.

Riley nods once.

“Morning.”

The air moves through the shelter again, a light draft slipping in from the open side and brushing across them both before fading. Riley feels it pass over her, cooler than before now that she’s been standing still, and shifts slightly without thinking, the movement small and practical.

The guy glances down the road.

“Bus should be here in a minute,” he adds, like it’s just something to say.

Riley follows his gaze for a second, then looks back ahead.

“Yeah.”

They stand there together in the quiet, not talking much, just waiting. The space between them feels easy, unforced. Shared, but not intimate.

Normal.

“You cold?” he asks, almost casually.

Riley lifts one shoulder in a small shrug, the motion subtle.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t explain it. She doesn’t need to.

He watches her for a second, like he’s weighing something, then shifts his stance and reaches up to pull his jacket open.

“Nothing says you can’t share body heat, right?”

Riley looks at him properly this time.

It’s not a strange offer. Not really. Not here. Not now.

She considers it for a moment, then steps closer.

Before she can settle beside him, he adjusts her position, guiding her lightly by the shoulders and turning her so her back faces outward. He pulls her in front of him instead, close enough that her chest presses into him when he brings the jacket around them both.

The zipper slides up.

The space inside the coat fills with warmth almost immediately, held close between them, cutting off the edge of the morning air. His hands settle at her hips beneath the fabric, steady and unhurried, holding her in place without tightening.

Riley doesn’t react.

No tension. No flinch. No attempt to move away.

She just lets it happen, feeling the difference as the cold fades from her skin, replaced by something softer, contained. The heat builds slowly where their bodies meet, spreading outward in a way that feels practical more than anything else.

She shifts slightly, finding a more comfortable position within the space he’s made for her.

It works.

That’s all it needs to do.

Warmth for touch.

Riley tilts her head back slightly, just enough that her voice carries up toward him without breaking the closeness of it.

“Like what you feel?” she asks.

The words come out a little awkward, and she hears it immediately. There’s a faint tension in the way she says it, like she’s testing something she hasn’t quite figured out yet.

His hands shift lower.

They settle more firmly at her hips, then slide just enough to cup her, the pressure gentle but deliberate. He gives a small squeeze, not rough, just enough to register.

“Not bad,” he says, a hint of a grin in his voice. “Not much there though.”

Riley lets out a quiet breath that turns into a soft huff, something close to a laugh but not quite.

“Wow,” she mutters.

She shifts her weight again, pressing back into him a little more, the movement subtle but intentional. The warmth inside the jacket deepens as she settles, her body finding the heat again after the brief adjustment.

“I can’t believe I’m letting a complete stranger touch me like this.”

It sounds like a complaint on the surface, but there’s no real resistance behind it.

More like an observation.

The air outside the jacket feels distant now, reduced to a faint chill at the edges where the fabric doesn’t quite seal. Inside, it’s steady. Warm. Contained.

He exhales lightly behind her.

“Perks of being red,” he says.

Riley doesn’t answer right away.

She just stands there for a second, feeling the contrast—cold at the edges, warmth where he holds her—letting it settle into something she doesn’t need to question too closely.

Then she glances down the road again.

The low hum of the engine reaches them before the bus comes into view.

Riley feels it more than hears it at first, a faint vibration through the pavement beneath her feet, then the sound builds as it rounds the corner at the end of the street. The moment stretches just a little longer inside the coat, the warmth held close between them, steady and contained.

Then it’s there.

The bus pulls up with a soft hiss of brakes.

The space around her shifts as he moves, the jacket loosening. The zipper comes down in a quick, smooth motion and the front opens.

Cold air slips in immediately, cutting through the warmth. She inhales slightly, a quiet breath catching in her chest as the temperature change settles in.

Her nipples pebble again without hesitation, the reaction immediate, familiar now. Her toes curl lightly against the pavement, adjusting to the cold that presses back in around her.

She steps forward out of the coat.

The warmth drops away behind her as she moves toward the bus, the morning air reclaiming its place, cooler and more open. The last of it lingers for a second, her body still holding the memory of the heat even as it slips away.

The doors fold open with a mechanical sigh.

Riley doesn’t look back.

She just steps up and inside.

The bus door folds open with a soft mechanical sigh, warm air spilling out from inside to meet the cold outside.

Riley steps up without hesitation.

The driver glances at her the same way the guy had, quick and automatic. His eyes move over her, then settle on the watch at her wrist. The red glow catches in the light for a second.

He nods once.

That’s all.

No words. No pause.

Riley moves past him and into the aisle.

The bus is half full. People scattered through the seats, some alone, some in pairs. A few of them look up as she walks down the centre, their attention brief but noticeable.

A few people glance up as she passes—one smiles, another nods, most look away just as quickly

No one stares.

No one makes a scene.

It settles into the same quiet normality she’s been seeing everywhere else.

Riley slides into an empty seat by the window and shifts slightly as she sits, the surface cool at first before it starts to warm under her. The glass beside her still holds a faint chill from the morning air, brushing lightly against her arm as she leans closer to it.

Outside, the guy is still standing by the shelter.

He hasn’t moved to follow her.

For a second she thinks he might just turn away and leave, but instead he looks up and spots her through the window. He lifts a hand in a small wave, easy and casual.

Riley watches him.

Then she smiles.

The motion comes quicker than she expects, lighter, less thought behind it than usual. She lifts her hand, presses her fingers briefly to her lips, and blows him a kiss through the glass.

It’s playful.

Something she wouldn’t have done five days ago.

Not even close.

The doors close with a soft thud, sealing the warmth of the bus around her as it begins to move.

The bus doesn’t take long to fill.

A few stops later it slows again, the doors folding open to let in a cluster of middle schoolers, all noise and movement and restless energy that immediately changes the atmosphere inside. Voices overlap, bags bump into seats, someone laughs too loudly at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with.

The quiet from earlier doesn’t disappear completely, but it shifts. Loosens.

Riley watches them file in.

Uniforms, mostly neat but already slipping in small ways. Sleeves rolled. Ties loosened. Buttons left undone where they shouldn’t be. The kind of quiet adjustments people make when they’re pushing against rules without quite breaking them.

One girl ends up beside her.

She drops into the seat with a soft huff, adjusting her bag at her feet before settling back. Her uniform would be crisp if she wore it properly. Instead, the sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, the top two buttons of her shirt undone, and her tie hangs loose, dragged down far lower than it’s supposed to be.

It’s how she used to wear it before she turned red but she can’t really see herself in it anymore.

Like it’s something that belongs to a different version of her.

She had worn that uniform once. Sat in those same seats, worried about the same small things that don’t seem to matter as much now. The memory sits there for a moment, quiet and detached, before drifting off again.

The girl glances at her.

Quick at first. Just a flick of the eyes.

Then again a few seconds later, a little longer this time before she looks away.

It’s not subtle enough to miss, but it’s not bold either. Something in between. Curiosity held back just enough to stay polite.

She gets it.

So she stays quiet.

Lets the glances happen.

Lets the moment pass the way everything else has been passing—noticed, understood, and then left alone.

“Excuse me,” the girl beside her says, “You’re Riley right, Amanda’s friend?”

She doesn’t look away when she speaks, but the faint flush across her cheeks gives her away anyway.

“Do you want my blazer?” she adds after a second. “It might be better than… how you are now.”

Riley smiles slightly.

“Not allowed,” she says, easy and casual. “But thanks.”

The girl nods, like she expected that answer.

The bus hums around them for a minute, the noise of other students filling the space without really touching this small pocket of quiet between their seats.

Then the girl speaks again.

“Is being red scary?”

Riley takes a moment before answering.

She looks out the window briefly, watching the street slide past, then back ahead.

“Yes,” she says.

She doesn’t dress it up.

“You know what happens at the end of the seven days, right?”

The girl nods.

Small. Certain.

Her hand lifts slightly, almost without thinking, and she runs a finger lightly along the front of her throat before letting it drop back to her lap.

Riley watches the movement, then looks away again, letting the bus carry them forward.

“I never sleep on Sunday nights,” the girl admits quietly. “It’s so damn scary. What if it’s me, you know?”

Her blush deepens slightly, and she glances down for a second.

“I mean… I guess you do know.”

Riley smiles, small and steady.

“Just accept it, I guess,” she says. “If it happens, it happens.”

The girl lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and something else.

“I wish I was as brave as you, is it true you needed Miss Lennox to strip you?” she asks. “I’d probably freak out if someone had to undress me.”

“It wasn’t fun but I dunno, I kinda got used to it.”

Her voice stays even.

“Here’s what helped me on my first day,” Riley says.

The girl looks at her properly now, paying full attention.

“I found this café that does hot drinks and cakes,” Riley continues. “They let Animals have some of the basic stuff for free.”

She shifts slightly as the bus moves, the window brushing cool against her arm before she leans away from it again.

“So get something warm,” she adds. “Something you can just sit with. And whatever cake or pastry you want.”

A small pause.

“No point counting calories anymore.”

“And if someone wants you touch you, like in your pussy or whatever, let them. It’s better than being tense.”

The girl lets out a quiet, uncertain laugh, like she’s not sure whether that’s comforting or not, but she nods anyway, holding onto the idea.

The bus slows as it approaches the next stop.

Her old school.

It looks exactly the same.

Same brick walls. Same gates. Same stretch of pavement where students gather in loose groups before the bell. Nothing about it has changed, not really.

But it doesn’t feel like hers anymore.

Beside her, the girl shifts and stands, adjusting her bag as the bus comes to a stop. She hesitates for a second, then looks down at Riley.

“Thanks,” she says.

Small. Genuine.

Then she’s gone, stepping into the aisle and joining the others as they spill out onto the pavement, voices rising again as they head toward the entrance.

Riley watches them through the window for a moment.

Then the doors close, and the bus pulls away.

The building slips out of view.

Riley leans back slightly in her seat, one hand resting loosely against her stomach as the warmth inside the bus settles around her again.

There’s a soft, quiet feeling in her chest.

Not strong. Not overwhelming.

But she can feel it.

It had been nice.

Helping.

Riley shifts slightly in her seat as the bus moves, settling back into the warmth. Her hand drifts lower, settling against her slit, fingers tracing without much thought, the motion slow and absent while she watches the street pass by outside.

It takes her a moment to notice.

Then she does.

A small pause.

She stills her hand, not quickly, just aware now, letting it rest back against her side.

Across the aisle, a man glances over.

His eyes flick down for a second, taking in the movement, then back up again. No reaction. No comment. Just a quiet acknowledgment before he returns to his phone.
Animal’s masturbate in public all the time but the thought still makes Riley blush.
The bus hums steadily around them.
Riley leans back into her seat, the warmth still there, the moment already fading.

This story is starting to get really, really long. I'm sitting at 70k words and 240 pages >.<

Long is not bad given that it’s a good story

The scene of Riley cooking her friend's meat for breakfast was incredibly hot and I really enjoyed her interaction with the young man at the bus stop. I hope she sees him again :)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Riley steps off the bus with the rest of the crowd, moving with them rather than ahead or behind. The pavement is busier here than it had been near her street, people crossing in steady lines, conversations overlapping just enough to blur into a constant background hum. The air feels different in town, less still, carrying the warmth of bodies and movement instead of the quiet cold she’d left behind.

She doesn’t stop straight away.

Lets herself be carried a few steps forward before easing off to the side, giving the others space to pass around her. A couple of them glance at her as they go—quick looks, nothing held long enough to mean anything—before folding back into their own routines.

Above the street, set into the face of a towering building, a jumbotron flickers to life.

It shifts from a muted placeholder into motion, brightness adjusting as the image sharpens. Clean visuals. Soft colours. Familiar branding. The kind of advert that’s designed not to interrupt, just to settle into the space like it belongs there.

A woman appears on screen, mid-conversation with someone just out of frame. She’s smiling, relaxed, the kind of expression that feels easy to mirror.

“—it’s easy to lose track of time,” she says, tone light, conversational. “Especially when you’re making the most of it.”

The shot changes.

A table laid out with food. Friends gathered close. Laughter that doesn’t quite reach the street but is easy enough to imagine.

Then a soft transition.

The same woman, standing outside a Processing Centre. Calm. Composed. No tension in the way she holds herself.

“It doesn’t have to be stressful,” she continues. “Just plan ahead.”

Text fades in beside her.

Two days remaining.

The number lingers for a moment before shifting.

Report before Monday, 12:00.

The voice softens slightly, just enough to feel more direct.

“Give yourself the time you need. And give the people around you time to say goodbye.”

Another cut.

A family this time. Close. Comfortable. No one crying. Just hands resting against shoulders, quiet smiles, the kind that hold steady.

“Don’t leave it to the last minute.”

The screen dims slightly as the final line appears.

Report early. Don’t be late.

The logo settles in beneath it, clean and unobtrusive.

Then the screen fades back to neutral.

Riley watches it for a second longer, even after it’s finished.

Two days.

She already knew that.

Still does.

The number sits differently when it’s said out loud, even like that. Soft. Casual. Like it’s just another thing to plan around.

She shifts her weight slightly, the movement small and unthinking, the noise of the street filling back in around her as the moment passes.

Then she turns and starts walking.

Riley lets herself drift with the movement of the street, not heading anywhere in particular at first, just following the natural flow of people through the town centre. Shops open out on either side of her, windows dressed carefully, displays arranged to catch attention without demanding it.

The pavement is warmer here, holding onto the heat from the buildings and the steady press of bodies passing through. It softens the sharper edge of the morning cold, though the air still moves across her in light currents whenever the street opens up.

She passes a bakery first.

The smell reaches her before the window does—warm, sweet, dense with sugar and something buttery underneath it. Inside, trays are stacked behind the glass, pastries arranged in neat rows. A sign near the counter notes which items are available to Animals, marked clearly, no need to ask.

She pauses just long enough to look.

Then keeps moving.

A bookstore sits a little further down.

Quieter. Dimmer inside. The kind of place that holds onto its own atmosphere even with the door open. She lingers there a second longer, glancing over the displays set near the entrance—new releases, staff picks, a small section labelled “Recommended Reading”—before stepping back out into the noise of the street again.

The shift between spaces is noticeable.

Inside → contained.
Outside → constant.

She adjusts without thinking.

Further along, something catches her attention before she fully registers what it is.

A bench set slightly back from the main path.

Two Animals there.

They’re fucking.

A young woman rides what could be a teenage boy, both of them are red. They catch her looking, the woman smiles, beckoning her over with a finger. Riley blushes and almost steps towards them before shaking her head, waving, and continuing to walk. No one stops. No one intervenes. People pass by with the same casual rhythm they’ve had everywhere else.

A gift shop draws her in next.

Small things. Personal things. Shelves lined with items meant to be picked up, turned over, considered. Bracelets, keychains, small framed prints. The kind of place where people take their time.

She moves more slowly here.

Lets her fingers brush lightly over the displays without stopping on anything in particular. The surfaces feel different from one item to the next—smooth metal, soft fabric, polished wood—small variations that stand out more when there’s nothing between her and them.

She pauses at a bracelet.

Simple. Clean. Something Amanda would like.

She looks at it for a moment longer than the others.

Then steps away.

Outside again, the street opens wider.

A family moves toward her from the opposite direction.

All three of them are naked and marked red.

The parents walk on either side of a boy a little younger than Lottery age.

It takes her a second to place it.
One of them must have converted first. The other followed.
They’d volunteered their son along with them.

Each adult holds one of his hands. He swings slightly between them as they move, feet lifting just a little too high with each step, like he’s trying to match their pace but hasn’t quite figured it out yet.

They’re talking to him.
Nothing serious. Just light conversation, the kind that fills space easily.

Riley watches them as they pass.

The boy glances at her briefly, curious more than anything else. He offers a small, uncertain smile.

Riley smiles back, lifting her hand in a small wave.

The boy hesitates, then shifts closer to his mother, slipping partly behind her legs, his hands settling against her hips as he looks back at Riley from the side.

The mother notices Riley and offers her a small, knowing smile.

Little kids.

Then they keep walking.

Riley turns back to the street and continues on as well.

She passes more shops.

A second bakery. A small clothing store with a sign in the window—NO ANIMALS ALLOWED.
Another café further ahead, larger than the one she’d visited before, busier, tables spilling out toward the pavement.

She notes it without stopping.

Maybe later.

The noise of the street continues around her, steady and constant. People moving. Talking. Existing within it all without friction.

Riley moves through it the same way now.

Not separate from it.

Not resisting it.

Just another part of the flow.

As the morning settles into something steadier, Riley finds herself looping back.

Not deliberately at first.

Just a slow drift through the same streets until the places she’d paused at earlier begin to reappear—familiar now in a way they hadn’t been before.

She stops outside the bakery again.

The smell is the same. Warm. Sweet. Heavier now that the day has picked up, more trays filled, more people moving in and out through the door.

She steps inside.

The heat hits her immediately, thicker than outside, carrying with it the scent of sugar and pastry and something just beginning to caramelise. The space is busy but not crowded, a steady line moving toward the counter.

She joins it without thinking.

When it’s her turn, she gestures lightly toward the display.

“A selection,” she says. “Just… a mix.”

The woman behind the counter nods, already reaching for a box.

“Family?” she asks.

Riley pauses for half a second.

“Yeah.”

The box fills quickly. Croissants. A couple of danishes. Something with fruit she doesn’t recognise but picks anyway. The woman closes it neatly, then hesitates for a moment before reaching back into the display.

She adds another pastry.

Not from the section marked for Animals.

Riley notices.

The woman meets her eyes briefly as she folds the bag closed.

“Good luck,” she says.

It’s said lightly. Not heavy. Not pitying.

Just… direct.

Riley nods once.

“Thanks.”

She takes the bag and steps back out into the street.

The air feels cooler after the heat inside. It brushes over her again, catching along her arms and shoulders, slipping past her without resistance.

She reaches into the bag as she walks.

Finds the extra pastry.

A pecan plait.

She takes a bite without stopping, the texture soft and layered, sweetness cutting through cleanly. It’s richer than what she’s been given before, the difference subtle but noticeable.

She finishes half of it before she realises she’s doing it.

Slows slightly.

Then keeps walking.

The gift shop is where she’d left it.

Quiet. Slower than the rest of the street. The same displays arranged carefully, untouched in the time she’s been gone.

She steps inside again.

This time she doesn’t browse.

Moves directly to the bracelet.

It’s still there.

Simple. Clean. Not too much. Something Amanda would wear without thinking about it too hard. Something that would stay.

Riley picks it up, turning it once between her fingers.

Then carries it to the counter.

The woman there takes it, scans it, and names the price without looking up.

Riley reaches into her pouch.

Counts it out.

Stops.

There’s not enough.

She already knows that before she finishes checking, but she goes through the motion anyway, fingertips brushing over what’s left like it might change something.

It doesn’t.

“I don’t have enough,” she says.

The woman glances up at that, finally giving her full attention.

Riley hesitates for a second, then adds, quieter, more uncertain:

“But maybe I could pay for the rest in another way?”

There’s a small pause.

The woman’s mouth tilts slightly at the corner.

“And what makes you think I’m into girls?”

The words land cleanly.

Riley flinches before she can stop it.

It’s quick. Small. But there.

A reminder.

Animals might not need to think about that anymore.

Humans still do.

She looks down briefly, the bracelet still resting on the counter between them.

Then the woman laughs.

Short. Not unkind.

“Relax,” she says. “I’m kidding.”

Another pause, just long enough to shift the tone.

“Fine,” she adds, voice dropping slightly, more casual now. “We can work something out.”

Riley doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just waits.

The woman leans forward a fraction, lowering her voice just enough to keep it between them.

“How old are you, Meatgirl?”

“Twelve,” she says.

“Good enough, you still want that discount?”

Riley exhales slowly through her nose.

A small shift.

Then a nod.

The woman has Riley come around the counter. “Under there,” she indicates to a cubby under the cash register. A baseball bat shares the space with her but she’s small enough to fit anyway. “I’m not wasting a good break on this, you can lick my cunt while I work.”

Riley blushes at her language. It’s possessive in a way she doesn’t really hate.

“I’ve never done this to a woman,” she admits, “Sorry if I-”

“Shush, just start.”

Riley feels her stomach clench at the harshness of her tone but it also reignites the fire that the cold outside had extinguished. She presses her thighs together, chasing a small amount of pleasure as she leans forward and runs her tongue along the woman’s slit.

The girl’s tongue was too tentative—too hesitant—like she was afraid of ruining something sacred. The woman sighed, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as she rolled her hips forward, pressing herself harder against Riley’s mouth.

"Less thinking," she muttered, voice rough with impatience. Riley flinched but obeyed, parting her lips wider, letting the taste bloom across her tongue—musky, sharp, alive.

The woman’s thighs trembled against her ears, a silent approval.

Riley’s hands fumbled at her sides before gripping the woman’s calves, anchoring herself as she lapped deeper, slower this time, mimicking the rhythm the woman’s body demanded.

A low, approving hum vibrated above her, followed by the click of the register opening, coins clattering as the woman counted change for an unseen customer.

The dissonance—business and pleasure, casual and intimate—made Riley’s pulse skip.

The woman’s free hand tangled in Riley’s hair, not guiding, just owning. "That’s it," she murmured, half to herself.

Riley’s cheeks burned, her own need coiling tighter with every swipe of her tongue, every stifled noise the woman let slip. The scent of her, the heat—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Then, abruptly, the woman shifted, pulling back just enough to glance down. Her thumb smeared wetness across Riley’s bottom lip. "Not bad for your first time," she conceded, voice dripping with something like amusement.

Riley swallowed, tasting her again. The woman’s grin widened. "Now," she said, tapping Riley’s chin with two fingers, "let’s see if you can finish what you started."

Riley didn’t hesitate this time. She pressed in, nose brushing coarse curls, and focused on the swollen bud she’d been avoiding before—circling it slow, then faster when the woman’s breath hitched.

The register drawer slammed shut somewhere above her. A choked-off sound followed, half-groan, half-laugh, as the woman’s hips jerked forward. "Fuck," she muttered, fingers tightening in Riley’s hair.

The orgasm built quietly—no theatrics, just a gradual tightening, a tremor in the woman’s thighs that Riley felt against her shoulders. Then, all at once, the woman went rigid. A sharp inhale. Her grip on Riley’s hair turned punishing, holding her in place as warmth spilled over her tongue. The taste was sharper now, almost bitter, and Riley drank it down greedily, her own body throbbing in response.

The woman exhaled, long and slow, her grip loosening. She patted Riley’s cheek absently, like she was a well-trained pet.

The bracelet is already boxed by the time Riley steps back around the counter. The woman sets it in front of her, expression settled back into something neutral, transactional again.

“Not bad, Meatgirl,” she says, almost idly. “I’ll let you have it for half price.”

Riley nods.

Takes the box.

Doesn’t linger.

Outside, the air feels cooler again.

Cleaner.

She adjusts the bag in one hand and slips the bracelet into her pouch with the other, the movement easy, unthinking.

There’s no rush in her steps as she starts walking.

No hesitation either.

Just the steady rhythm of the street picking back up around her as if nothing had paused at all.

And this time, she moves with it a little more easily than before.

>>30054
Nice to see a different part of the world. I really like the way Riley feels less and less connected to the human world as her sense of self changes.

I haven't forgotten Kennedy's story btw, just have to be in the right headspace to work on a story like that :)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Riley slows as she approaches the restaurant, the small paper bag in her hand shifting slightly with each step. The sign in the window catches her attention before anything else.

Animals Welcome.

The lettering is neat, deliberate. Not decorative, not flashy. Just a statement, placed at eye level where it doesn’t need to compete for attention.

She pauses for half a second, then pushes the door open.

Warm air meets her immediately, carrying the soft blend of cooked food and something faintly sweet underneath. The shift from the street is noticeable but not overwhelming. Conversations continue at a low, steady level inside, cutlery against plates, glasses set down, chairs shifting across the floor. Nothing stops when she enters.

No one announces her presence.

A few people glance up. Most don’t.

Riley steps inside and lets the door close behind her, adjusting the strap of the pouch against her shoulder before moving further into the room. Her bare feet make soft contact with the floor as she walks, the surface smoother than the pavement outside, easier to ignore once she takes a few steps.

She’s halfway toward an empty table when she notices them.

The boy first.

He sits upright in his chair at one of the central tables, posture relaxed but contained in a way that feels practiced rather than natural. His movements are small, efficient. He lifts his fork, takes a bite, chews, swallows. No hesitation. No distraction.

Across from him sits a woman.

She isn’t eating.

Her attention is entirely on him.

Not in a guarded way. Not anxious. There’s something quieter in it, something patient. Her gaze follows each movement without urgency, as if she has all the time in the world to watch him finish his meal. One hand rests lightly near his plate, not touching, just present.

She smiles faintly when he takes another bite.

Riley slows without meaning to.

There’s no tension at the table. No visible discomfort. Just a steady rhythm: the boy eating, the woman watching, the space between them calm and settled.

It takes Riley a second to recognize what she’s looking at.

Not just an Animal.

A Companion.

The difference sits in the details.

The decorative collar around his neck.
The way he sits.
The way he’s fed.
The way the woman’s attention doesn’t drift.

Riley’s eyes linger a moment longer than she intends, then she looks away and continues to her table.

She chooses one near the edge of the room, close enough to the wall that she doesn’t feel entirely exposed, but not hidden either. The chair scrapes softly as she pulls it out and sits, the surface cool against her skin for a brief second before it settles into something neutral.

Her hands rest on the table.

For a moment she just sits there, letting the room settle around her.

A server passes nearby but doesn’t stop. There’s no rush. No immediate attention. Just the quiet assumption that she’s allowed to be there, that she’ll be attended to when appropriate.

Across the room, the woman’s gaze shifts.

It lands on Riley.

Not sharply. Not intrusively. Just a simple noticing, the same way someone might register a new arrival without breaking their own rhythm. Her eyes move over Riley briefly, taking in the red glow of the watch, the lack of clothing, the way she sits.

Then they settle.

A pause.

She gets the boy’s attention and indicates to her. He turns to look at her before looking away and they seem to be speaking quietly to one another. Then the woman nods and looks back at Riley.

“Come here, Meatgirl.”

Her voice carries easily across the space. Not raised, not harsh. It lands somewhere between invitation and instruction, the tone smooth enough that it doesn’t disrupt the room around it.

A few nearby patrons glance up, then return to their meals.

Nothing changes.

The woman’s gaze remains on Riley, steady, expectant.

Not waiting in uncertainty.

Just waiting.

Riley hesitates for only a second after the words reach her.

Then she pushes her chair back and stands.

The movement feels louder than it should, even though it barely makes a sound. She steadies herself instinctively, fingers brushing the edge of the table before she steps away from it, the pouch at her hip shifting lightly as she moves.

She crosses the room carefully.

Not quite slowly, not quite confidently either. There’s a measured quality to her steps, the kind that comes from trying not to draw attention while knowing it’s already there.

The woman watches her approach.

And then she chuckles.

“Like a mouse sneaking around a sleeping cat,” she says, her voice soft but clear, “you move quietly, Meatgirl.”

Riley slows slightly at that.

The comparison lands in a way she doesn’t expect. Not insulting, not kind either. Just… observational. It makes her aware of her own movements in a way she hadn’t been a moment ago.

She hadn’t thought about it before.

About how she moves now.

Riley stops beside the table, unsure for a second where to place herself, her hands hovering briefly at her sides before settling still.

The woman studies her for a moment, then speaks again.

“Have you eaten lunch?”

The question isn’t sharp.

But it isn’t casual either.

It sits in the space between them with a quiet weight to it, the kind that expects an answer rather than invites one.

Riley swallows.

“No,” she says.

Her voice comes out a little tighter than she intends.

The woman nods once, as if that was the only answer she had considered.

“Then sit,” she says.

A small gesture of her hand indicates the empty chair beside the table.

“Keep my boy company with me.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the table, then back to Riley.

“Order whatever you like from the Human menu.”

The phrasing is simple.

Matter-of-fact.

Not permission.

Instruction, delivered gently enough that it doesn’t need to sound like one.

Riley lowers herself into the chair a little too carefully, like she’s still unsure how much space she’s allowed to take up here. The seat is close to the woman’s side of the table, close enough that their proximity feels intentional rather than accidental.

“I must say, you are stunning,” the woman says.

Her hand reaches out as Riley settles, fingers brushing lightly across Riley’s backside in a passing, almost absent motion, as if it were no different than adjusting a sleeve or guiding someone into place.

“I’d pay good money for you,” she continues, her tone warm, conversational. “You’d certainly feed me and this little glutton for a while.”

She nods faintly toward the boy, who continues eating without reacting, focused on his plate with the same steady rhythm as before.

Riley stiffens for a moment, the words registering a second after the touch does.

Not shock.

Just awareness.

The woman’s hand withdraws as easily as it arrived, returning to rest near the edge of the table. Her attention doesn’t linger on the contact. It moves on, as if the comment and the gesture have already served their purpose.

The room carries on around them.

Cutlery against plates. Quiet conversation. The low hum of a place used to this kind of interaction.

Riley adjusts her posture slightly in the chair, her hands settling on the table in front of her, unsure for a moment what to do next.

Across from her, the boy takes another bite.

The woman watches him again, the same quiet focus returning, her expression softening just slightly as she observes him eat. Under the table she finally notices his erection. Every so often he strokes his shaft, as if maintaining it.

“This is Hamish, my Companion Animal,” the woman says, gesturing lightly toward the boy without taking her eyes off him for long. “You can call me Mistress, like he does.”

Riley nods once, her posture still a little too careful, like she’s trying to match the tone of the table without fully understanding it yet.

“I’m Riley,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”

There’s a brief pause, just long enough for her to register the phrasing she’s just heard.

“Mistress,” she adds quickly.

The correction comes out a little tighter, more deliberate.

Mistress’s smile shifts slightly at that, not wider, just… settled. A small acknowledgment that the adjustment was made without needing to be prompted twice.

“Quiet and obedient,” she says, her tone thoughtful rather than approving. “Maybe using you for food is too wasteful.”

Her hand lifts as she speaks, a single finger extending toward Riley. The touch is light, almost absent as it brushes against her chest, more like a test than an action with intent.

Riley’s body reacts before her thoughts catch up.

A small shift. A brief tightening through her shoulders.

But she doesn’t pull away.

She stays where she is, hands still on the table, gaze lowered just slightly as she steadies herself again.

Across from them, Hamish continues eating.

The fork rises, pauses, lowers.

The rhythm doesn’t break.

Riley glances toward the boy again, watching the steady, repetitive motion of his hands as he eats. The way he doesn’t look up. The way nothing seems to distract him.

She hesitates, then asks,

“Why are you watching him eat?”

The question comes out quieter than she expects, but it still lands clearly between them.

Mistress doesn’t look surprised.

If anything, she seems to have been waiting for it.

“Because I love him,” she says.

The answer is immediate, delivered with the same calm certainty she’s used for everything else. No hesitation. No softening.

Like it doesn’t need explaining.

Her gaze remains on Hamish as she continues.

“Because watching him grow into a healthy young man has made my life sweeter.”

There’s a small shift in her expression as she says it. Not dramatic. Just a subtle warmth that settles in her features, something quieter than a smile but more than neutrality.

Hamish keeps eating.

Fork. Bite. Chew. Swallow.

The rhythm stays the same.

Mistress’s hand rests near his plate again, not interfering, just present in the space beside him. Close enough to matter.

Riley watches the interaction for a moment longer, something about it sitting differently than she expected.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… structured.

Intentional.

Like there’s a shape to it she hasn’t fully understood yet.

Hamish speaks without looking up from his plate.

“Mistress, you don’t need to lie to Riley,” he says, his tone light, almost playful. “Just tell her you like it when I eat.”

The comment lands suddenly, cutting across the quiet rhythm of the table. There’s a trace of mischief in it, something deliberately casual, like he’s testing the edges of what can be said out loud.

He takes another bite as if nothing unusual has happened.

No hesitation. No glance for approval.

Mistress’s expression shifts.

A small, sharper smile touches her lips, something briefly more pointed than before, though she doesn’t respond. She lets the moment sit exactly where it is, neither correcting him nor encouraging it further.

Her gaze flicks toward Riley for a second, measuring.

Then it settles back on Hamish.

The rhythm resumes.

Riley feels the pause more than she understands it. The tone, the familiarity, the way neither of them treats the comment as out of place. It passes through the space without disruption, like something already accounted for.

She doesn’t question it.

Doesn’t press.

She just lets it move past her, her hands still resting on the table as the quiet structure of the moment closes back in around them.

Riley reaches for the menu as the moment settles, using it as something solid to focus on. The pages are clean, neatly printed, the layout simple enough that she doesn’t have to think too hard about it.

She scans it quickly.

Not lingering.

Just enough to choose.

“A burger and fries,” she says when the server passes, her voice steadier now that she has something practical to do.

The server nods without comment and moves on.

“Good choice,” Mistress says.

Her tone carries a faint note of approval, though her attention has already shifted elsewhere.

“I hear the meat here is slaughtered on site,” she adds. “See.”

She lifts her hand slightly, indicating toward the far side of the restaurant.

Riley follows the gesture.

A woman is being guided through the room.

She’s naked, like Riley, her posture relaxed in a way that doesn’t look forced. A man walks beside her, his yellow watch catching the light as he keeps a loose but steady presence at her side. There’s no resistance. No urgency. Just a quiet forward movement through the space, as if this is part of the normal flow of the place.

A few diners glance up.

No one reacts.

“I bet she’s an A+,” Mistress says calmly. “Nice body. Not too fatty.”

Her voice doesn’t lower.

It doesn’t need to.

“Do you like rating Animals, Mistress?” Riley asks.

The question comes out before she really thinks about it, curiosity settling in where discomfort might have been earlier.

Mistress exhales softly, almost amused.

“It’s just a bad habit, honestly.”

Her gaze shifts back to Riley, more focused now.

“Want to know what I’d grade you?”

Riley shrugs, a small movement of her shoulders, then nods.

Mistress studies her for a moment.

Not quickly.

Taking in details with a quiet, practiced eye.

“I’d give you a B+,” she says.

The answer comes with easy certainty.

“You’re a little too thin, but your skin is lovely and—” she pauses, drawing in a small breath through her nose, “—you’ve clearly had some treatments done.”

Riley glances down at herself briefly, then back up.

“Is that a good ranking?”

“Most Animals are C at best,” Mistress replies. “A+ is rare. That’s why your burger is so expensive, Meatgirl.”

Riley looks back at the menu.

Her eyes catch the price this time.

She pauses.

Then does a small, almost involuntary double take, her expression shifting just enough to be noticeable.

“Are you sure I can just order this, Mistress?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mistress says.

Her voice softens slightly, smoothing over the hesitation without dismissing it. Her hand reaches across the table and closes gently around Riley’s, guiding it into place rather than asking for it. Her thumb moves slowly across the back of Riley’s hand, the motion steady, almost absent.

“You can pay me back after lunch.”

The words settle easily, like a practical arrangement already decided.

Riley’s fingers tense for a moment under the contact, then still. She doesn’t pull away. Her gaze drops briefly to their hands, watching the small, repetitive movement of Mistress’s thumb before lifting again.

“Will you come home with us for the afternoon?” Mistress continues.

Her tone remains the same—calm, conversational—but there’s a structure underneath it now, something more directed.

“I’ll be sure to return you to your family safe and sound.”

Across from them, Hamish continues eating, the rhythm unchanged.

Fork. Bite. Chew.

Mistress doesn’t look at him this time. Her attention stays on Riley, steady and patient, as if the answer is already expected and only needs to be spoken aloud.

Riley feels the meaning settle before she fully processes the words.

It isn’t hidden.

Not really.

Just… structured. Framed the same way everything else has been all day. Practical. Expected.

Another transaction.

Food for sex.

She looks down at their hands, at the slow movement of Mistress’s thumb across her skin, then back up again. Heat creeps into her cheeks, the reaction quiet but immediate.

There’s no rush in the moment.

No pressure.

Just the space waiting to be filled.

Riley nods.

A small movement.

Enough.

“Wonderful,” Mistress says.

The word is light, satisfied, as if something small has been confirmed rather than decided.

Her hand withdraws from Riley’s, returning to rest near the edge of the table. Her attention shifts back to Hamish without hesitation, settling into that same quiet focus as before.

The table falls still again.

The soft scrape of cutlery against porcelain. The faint, steady rhythm of chewing. Nothing else intrudes.

Hamish eats with careful precision.

Each bite is small. Measured. Taken without distraction. There’s a deliberateness to it that stands out once Riley starts paying attention—no rushing, no absent movements. Just a consistent pace, as if he’s been taught to make each piece last.

To notice it.

To use it fully.

Mistress watches him with that same quiet attentiveness, her expression calm, almost content.

Riley sits beside them, the silence settling around her in a way that doesn’t feel empty. Just… structured. Held in place by the rhythm of the moment.

Then her food arrives.

The plate is set down in front of her without ceremony. The smell reaches her first—warm, rich, immediate. The burger sits heavy between the halves of the bun, the fries spilling out beside it in a loose pile.

She picks it up.

Both hands.

The weight of it is noticeable. Solid. Real in a way that makes her pause for just a second, her fingers adjusting slightly around it as she finds a comfortable grip.

Across from her, Mistress speaks again.

“Eat.”

The word is simple.

Uncomplicated.

“Let me see how you savour pleasure.”

Riley hesitates for a fraction of a second, then brings the burger closer. Her shoulders settle as she focuses on the action itself, narrowing her attention down to something she can control.

She takes a bite.

Not rushed.

Not quite as measured as Hamish, but slower than she normally would. The taste fills her mouth immediately, warm and heavy, and she chews carefully, aware now of the way she’s being observed.

Her movements adjust without her thinking about it.

Smaller bites.

More deliberate.

She swallows, then takes another, settling into a steadier rhythm as the initial awareness fades slightly into something more manageable.

Across the table, Hamish continues.

Fork. Bite. Chew.

And beside her, Mistress watches them both.

“Okay, Hamish, you can finish now,” Mistress says.

Her tone is almost absent, like she’s adjusting something minor rather than giving permission.

Hamish reacts immediately.

The change is subtle at first, then clear. His pace quickens, the careful spacing between bites disappearing as he leans into the plate a little more. The fork moves faster, though he still tries to keep some level of composure—shoulders steady, posture mostly intact, like he’s holding onto what he’s been taught even as the rhythm shifts.

Across from him, Mistress doesn’t look.

Her attention has already settled fully on Riley.

“Not you, Meatgirl,” she says.

The correction comes gently, but it lands with precision.

“Savour every bite.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Remember that a person died to give you this meal.”

Riley pauses mid-motion.

The weight of the burger in her hands feels different for a second, heavier in a way that isn’t physical. She swallows what she’s already taken, her throat tightening just slightly as the words settle.

Then she nods.

A small, quiet acknowledgment.

Her next bite is slower.

More deliberate.

She chews carefully, aware now not just of the taste, but of the expectation behind it. The room fades slightly at the edges again, leaving just the table, the food, and the steady presence of Mistress watching.

Across from her, Hamish continues at his faster pace.

The contrast sits there between them.

One measured.

One released.

And Mistress observes both without comment.

Riley’s hand shifts slightly toward the fries without much thought, the movement automatic now that the burger is nearly gone.

Mistress’s response is immediate.

A sharp, controlled motion—her hand intercepts Riley’s wrist and redirects it back toward the plate.

“Not yet,” she says.

The words aren’t harsh, but they carry enough weight that Riley doesn’t question it. Her hand settles back where it was, fingers still for a moment before she adjusts her grip on the burger again.

She finishes it slowly.

More slowly than she normally would. The pace she’s been guided into holds, each bite deliberate, each movement considered. By the time she swallows the last mouthful, there’s a faint sheen of grease left across her lips, catching the light when she exhales.

She reaches, instinctively, toward the napkins.

Again, the motion is stopped.

Mistress’s hand redirects hers with the same quiet certainty as before, not allowing the action to complete.

Riley stills.

Mistress leans forward slightly.

Not abruptly—just enough to close the space between them. Her attention remains fixed, her expression calm, as if adjusting something minor that doesn’t require explanation. The moment lingers there for a second, controlled and deliberate, before she straightens again.

When she settles back into her seat, her gaze moves briefly over Riley’s face, assessing.

“Delicious,” she says softly.

The word is measured, observational, as if she’s commenting on the outcome of something rather than the act itself.

Then her attention shifts away again, the moment passing as cleanly as it arrived.

Across the table, Hamish continues finishing his meal, the quicker rhythm still holding, though his posture remains composed.

The structure of the table reasserts itself.

Riley’s hands rest quietly in front of her, the fries still untouched.

Mistress reaches for the fries at last.

She doesn’t slide the plate toward them.

Instead, she takes one between her fingers and lifts it herself.

“Open,” she says lightly.

Hamish responds first.

His movement is immediate, practiced. He leans forward just enough, taking the fry from her fingers with care, his lips brushing them briefly before he pulls back and chews. There’s no hesitation in him now, just a quiet familiarity with the exchange.

Mistress nods once, satisfied, then turns to Riley.

Another fry.

Held out.

Riley hesitates for a fraction of a second, then leans forward.

She takes it gently, more aware of the contact than she expects to be. Her lips graze Mistress’s fingers in the process, the touch brief but deliberate, like something that’s part of the action rather than incidental.

She sits back and chews.

Mistress watches.

Then repeats the motion.

One by one.

Alternating between them.

Each time the same expectation—gentle, controlled, close enough that the boundary between feeding and contact stays intentionally narrow. There’s no rush to it. No impatience. Just a steady rhythm, as measured as the rest of the meal had been.

Riley feels it building without quite understanding why.

The warmth.

Not sharp. Not sudden. Just a slow, spreading heat that settles somewhere deeper than the food itself. The act of eating, of being watched, of being guided—it all folds together into something that feels… heavier than it should.

She swallows another fry, her movements quieter now.

How can food be so seductive?

The thought passes through her without needing an answer.

Eventually, the plate is empty.

Mistress sets her hand down, the routine ending as cleanly as it began. A server passes, the bill is handled without discussion, and the table begins to dissolve back into the normal flow of the restaurant.

Chairs shift.

Conversations resume.

Nothing lingers.

“Come,” Mistress says, already standing.

Hamish rises first, then Riley follows, adjusting the pouch at her side as she steps away from the table.

They move toward the door together.

Outside, the air feels cooler again, the shift immediate after the warmth inside. A car is parked just along the curb, its presence understated but clearly waiting.

Mistress leads them to it without hesitation.

She opens the rear door and steps slightly aside, her hand resting lightly against the frame.

“In you get,” she says warmly.

The tone is gentle.

But, like everything else, it doesn’t leave much room to question.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The car door closes with a muted, solid sound behind Riley.

The interior is cool, insulated from the street, the outside noise fading almost immediately. The space feels smaller than the restaurant, more contained, the air carrying a faint, clean scent that doesn’t belong to food or people.

Hamish is already in the front passenger seat.

He sits neatly, hands resting in his lap, posture composed in the same way it had been at the table—structured, practiced, without needing adjustment. He doesn’t turn around. There’s no acknowledgment of Riley entering, just a quiet continuation of his place within the arrangement.

Riley slides across the back seat.

The material is smooth beneath her, unfamiliar at first, then neutral as she settles. She adjusts slightly, aware again of how exposed she is in a space like this, more enclosed, more directed.

The driver’s door opens.

Mistress steps in, the movement fluid and unhurried, and the door shuts behind her with the same controlled finality. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the engine turns over, soft and steady, barely louder than the ambient silence that follows.

The rearview mirror shifts.

Just slightly.

Enough.

Riley notices it when Mistress’s eyes meet hers in the reflection. Not directly—not turning, not looking back—but present all the same, fixed in a way that makes the space feel structured around that point of contact.

“I’m watching those hands, young lady,” Mistress says.

Her voice is calm, almost absent, as she adjusts her grip on the wheel.

“No messes in my car.”

The words settle into the space without emphasis.

Riley’s hands, which had been resting loosely at her sides, move almost immediately. She brings them together in her lap, fingers folding lightly over one another, stilling them without thinking.

“Good,” Mistress adds after a moment, the faintest note of acknowledgment in her tone.

The car pulls away from the curb.

Outside, the street moves past in a steady, uninterrupted flow. Inside, the structure holds—Hamish forward, composed and silent, Riley in the back, contained and observed, and Mistress at the front, guiding both without needing to look away from the road.

Riley keeps her hands folded in her lap, fingers still, her gaze settling somewhere just past the back of the front seats.

The movement of the car is smooth, steady enough that it almost fades into the background.

For a moment, she just sits.

Then the thought comes to her.

As a child, she had been told not to get into cars with strangers.

It had been repeated often enough to feel automatic. Simple. Sensible. The kind of rule that didn’t need questioning.

She hadn’t thought about it in years.

Not properly.

Now it returns, not sharply, just… present.

Placed alongside where she is now.

In the back seat.
In someone else’s car.
Going somewhere she didn’t choose.

The comparison doesn’t hold the way it used to.

Not exactly.

She shifts slightly against the seat, her shoulders settling back as the thought continues, quieter now.

She isn’t a child.

And she isn’t a Human.

The distinction settles quickly.

As an Animal, there isn’t a version of this where she refuses. Not really. The offer had been phrased gently, but the structure behind it had been clear enough.

She hadn’t considered saying no.

Not because she couldn’t think of it.

Because it didn’t feel like an option that existed.

Riley exhales softly through her nose, her hands tightening together for a second before relaxing again.

The car continues forward.

Nothing in the space acknowledges the shift in her thinking.

It passes, like everything else has—absorbed into the quiet, controlled movement of the moment.

The car slows, then comes to a smooth stop.

Riley looks out through the window, her attention shifting outward as the movement settles. The street is quiet, lined with houses set back behind low walls and open stretches of garden. There’s space between them—enough that nothing feels crowded, but not enough to feel distant either.

It’s a nicer part of town.

Cleaner. More deliberate.

But not excessive.

Not what she had pictured.

Given the way Mistress carried herself—the ease, the control, the way she spoke—it had been easy to assume something larger. Something more imposing. A house that announced itself.

This doesn’t.

The homes here are modest in shape, consistent in size, each with wide gardens that soften the space between them. There’s no sense of display. Just quiet order. Maintained, but not exaggerated.

Riley watches for a moment longer.

It reminds her, faintly, of her own street.

Not in appearance.

In structure.

Where she lives, the houses sit closer together. The space between them is thinner, enough that sound carries some nights if things are quiet enough. Voices, doors, the occasional movement through shared walls.

Here, that wouldn’t happen.

There’s too much distance.

Too much separation.

The engine idles for a second, then cuts out.

The quiet that follows feels slightly different from before—more complete now that the car has stopped moving.

The thought settles in more quietly than she expects.

There’s space here.

Too much of it.

If she needed help—if she called out—there wouldn’t be anyone close enough to hear her. The distance between the houses, the stillness of the street, the way everything feels contained… it leaves very little room for interruption.

The feeling passes through her as a brief tightening in her chest.

Not panic.

Just awareness.

There’s no version of this where she turns back.

Mistress steps out of the car and moves around to the rear door, opening it with the same smooth, unhurried motion she’s used for everything else. She doesn’t speak immediately, just tilts her head slightly toward the house, the gesture clear enough on its own.

Riley slides out of the seat.

The air outside feels cooler again, brushing against her skin as she straightens, her hands instinctively settling at her sides before she follows.

Hamish is already moving ahead.

He walks toward the house without looking back, his pace steady, familiar with the path in a way that doesn’t require thought. His posture remains composed, the same quiet structure he’s held all afternoon.

Riley’s gaze lingers on him for a moment as she follows.

There’s a physical ease to the way he moves, something balanced and unforced. She takes it in briefly, the observation passing through her without needing to settle into anything more defined.

Then she looks ahead again.

Mistress closes the car door behind them, the sound soft but final, and steps past Riley to lead the way up the path.

Riley steps inside.

The door closes behind her with a soft, final click, and for a moment she stands just past the threshold, taking in the space without moving further. The interior is neat, ordered in the same way everything around Mistress seems to be—nothing out of place, nothing drawing attention to itself.

She shifts slightly.

Before, in a situation like this, she might have reached for something small to ground herself. The hem of her blouse. The edge of a sleeve. Something to hold, to adjust without thinking.

There’s nothing there now.

Her fingers curl instead, folding inward briefly before settling at her sides again.

The habit remains.

The object doesn’t.

Ahead of her, Hamish continues without pause, already moving deeper into the house as if this transition requires no adjustment at all.

Mistress follows in behind Riley, not rushing her, not instructing—just allowing the movement to continue forward naturally, as though the next step is already understood.

“Calm down, Meatgirl, no need for nerves,” Mistress says lightly as she moves past her. “Hamish, instruct her in how to sit in the lounge while I prepare some tea, darling.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Riley follows him without question.

The lounge is just ahead, arranged neatly around a low coffee table. Nothing is out of place. The furniture is clean, spaced deliberately, everything positioned with the same quiet order she’s already started to recognize.

Hamish steps into the room and stops beside the table, turning slightly toward her.

“Animals kneel at the coffee table,” he says.

His tone is straightforward, instructional. No hesitation.

“You’ll be punished if she catches you on the furniture.”

Riley nods once, the instruction settling easily enough.

Then his expression shifts.

That same small, mischievous smile from the restaurant returns, subtle but unmistakable.

“Mistress enjoys punishment,” he adds. “So sit where you like.”

The suggestion hangs there for a moment.

Riley looks at him, then at the sofa, then back to the table.

There’s no real uncertainty in the end.

She lowers herself to her knees beside the coffee table, placing her hands neatly in front of her, posture careful, contained.

Across from her, Hamish watches for a second, the faint smile still there before it fades back into something more neutral.

The room settles again.

They kneel at opposite ends of the table.

Hamish settles into position without adjustment, his posture upright and steady, hands placed neatly on his thighs. There’s no visible effort in it. He holds himself in place as if this is simply how he sits, not something he has to maintain.

Riley mirrors him as best she can.

She straightens her back, shifts her knees slightly, places her hands the same way. For a moment it almost feels right—close enough that she doesn’t stand out.

Then the strain begins to settle in.

It’s subtle at first.

A slight pull through her legs. A tension in her back that wasn’t there a second ago. She adjusts instinctively, then stops herself, glancing briefly at Hamish.

He hasn’t moved.

Not even slightly.

Riley stills again, trying to match him more precisely this time. Shoulders back. Chin level. Hands resting without fidgeting.

The position holds.

But it doesn’t feel natural.

Not yet.

A faint pressure builds through her legs, a quiet reminder that she isn’t used to this, that her body hasn’t learned how to settle into it the way his clearly has.

Across from her, Hamish remains composed.

Unshifting.

Like this is simply the correct way to be.

“Mistress doesn’t expect you to perform like a Companion,” Hamish says.

His voice is quiet, measured in the same way it had been when he explained the rules. There’s no emphasis on the distinction, no attempt to soften it.

“You’ve been brought here for a different purpose.”

Riley looks at him.

The words settle a second slower than she expects. Something in the way he says it—flat, certain—pulls at her, a small tension rising again in her chest before she can fully place why.

“What do you—”

She doesn’t finish.

Mistress steps into the room.

She carries a small tray, set neatly with three empty teacups and a porcelain teapot. The movement is unhurried, precise, as she crosses the space and lowers herself smoothly to the floor beside the table, her posture controlled even in the motion.

The tray is placed down between them.

Nothing spills. Nothing shifts out of place.

“Good,” she says lightly, her gaze moving between them.

Not checking.

Confirming.

Her attention lingers on Riley for a moment longer, then settles as she reaches for the teapot, beginning to pour as if the room has already returned to its expected rhythm.

Mistress pauses as she finishes pouring, her gaze settling briefly on Riley.

“Don’t hold yourself so tightly,” she says, echoing Hamish’s earlier tone almost exactly. “You’re not a Companion.”

Riley adjusts.

Not fully relaxing, but enough that the tension eases from her shoulders, her posture softening while she remains kneeling. The effort of holding herself perfectly upright fades, replaced by something more sustainable.

Across from her, Hamish remains unchanged.

Mistress sets the teapot down.

Neither of them reaches for the cups.

She doesn’t expect them to.

Instead, she lifts one herself and places it within reach of Riley, then another for Hamish, the movements precise. The cups remain untouched until she finishes arranging them, her control of the small ritual uninterrupted.

“Animals don’t handle the china,” she says lightly, not as a correction, just a statement of fact.

She rises briefly, stepping away and returning with a small plate of ladyfingers. The plate is placed at the centre of the table, within equal distance of both of them.

Riley’s eyes flick to it.

She doesn’t move.

Across from her, Hamish remains still.

That’s enough.

Riley stills completely again, letting the moment pass without reaching.

Mistress settles back into place, her attention moving between them once more before she nods faintly.

“You may drink.”

The permission is simple.

Riley reaches for the cup this time, lifting it carefully, her movements slower than usual. She watches Hamish from the corner of her eye—how he lifts his, how little he disturbs the surface—and adjusts herself without thinking.

Mistress watches.

Then she reaches for the plate.

One of the ladyfingers is lifted, dipped slowly into the tea until it softens slightly. She holds it there for a second, then withdraws it, letting the excess drip away.

She turns to Hamish first.

The biscuit is brought close, hovering just at his lips. He leans forward slightly, not opening his mouth until the last moment, taking it gently from her fingers. The contact is brief, controlled, and he withdraws just as smoothly, chewing without breaking posture.

Mistress nods once, then turns to Riley.

The same motion.

The same pace.

The softened biscuit pauses just in front of her mouth, close enough that Riley can feel the presence of it before she reacts. She leans forward, more tentative than Hamish had been, taking it carefully, her lips brushing lightly against Mistress’s fingers before she pulls back.

She chews slowly.

More aware now.

Mistress repeats the action, alternating between them, maintaining the same rhythm as before. No rush. No variation. Just a steady, deliberate sequence that holds the room in place.

The tea cools.

The biscuits disappear one by one.

And the structure of the moment remains intact.

Mistress watches Riley finish the bite, her gaze steady, assessing in the same quiet way she has all afternoon.

“Good,” she says.

There’s a small shift in her expression, something faintly pleased but controlled.

“I love a Meatgirl who can follow instructions.”

Her eyes linger on Riley a moment longer.

“Even more when they aren’t mine to control.”

The comment settles without emphasis.

Not praise.

Not quite.

Just an observation placed carefully, as if noting something useful rather than something admirable.

Riley lowers her gaze slightly, the words registering in a way she doesn’t immediately sort through. She doesn’t respond. There isn’t an expectation that she should.

Across from her, Hamish remains composed, continuing to drink his tea with the same measured movements as before, unaffected by the exchange.

Mistress reaches again for another biscuit.

The rhythm resumes.

Mistress finishes the last of the tea without comment.

The room settles into a quiet that doesn’t feel temporary. No one speaks. There’s no attempt to fill it. The only movement comes in small, contained actions—lifting the cup, setting it down, the soft placement of porcelain against the table.

Riley holds her cup carefully.

She watches Hamish without looking directly at him, noting how little he disturbs anything. The way he drinks. The way he places the cup back exactly where it had been. No adjustment after. No second movement.

She follows.

Not perfectly.

But closer than before.

Mistress says nothing.

She doesn’t correct. Doesn’t acknowledge. Her gaze moves between them occasionally, but without interruption, as if observation alone is enough.

Riley lowers her cup.

Her hands settle back onto her thighs.

Still.

She doesn’t reach for anything. Doesn’t look around the room again. The space feels defined now—where she sits, how she holds herself, what she does with her hands. There’s nothing uncertain left in it.

She isn’t waiting to be spoken to.

She isn’t expecting conversation.

The absence of it feels… intentional.

She understands, quietly, that she isn’t here to be known.

Just to follow.

Across from her, Hamish remains composed, unchanged, as if the entire sequence has required nothing from him beyond what he already is.

Mistress watches them both for a moment longer.

Then she sets her cup down.

The sound is soft, precise.

“Hamish,” she says.

Her tone doesn’t shift.

“It’s time to get ready.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

He moves immediately.

No hesitation. No question. He rises smoothly from his position, posture intact even as he stands, and turns toward the door without looking back.

Riley’s eyes follow him.

For a second, she stays where she is.

Then she begins to move as well, shifting her weight forward slightly, unsure whether she’s meant to follow—

“Stay.”

The word stops her.

Not sharp.

Just placed.

Riley stills at once, returning to her position without thinking, hands settling back where they had been.

Hamish disappears from the room.

Mistress doesn’t look after him.

Her attention returns to Riley, steady, quiet, and complete.

“What’s he getting ready for?” Riley asks.

The question comes out before she can stop it, quiet but clear in the stillness of the room.

Mistress doesn’t answer immediately.

Her gaze remains on Riley for a moment, measured, as if deciding how much needs to be said.

Then:

“You’ll see, Meatgirl.”

The reply is calm.

Not dismissive.

Not informative.

Just enough to close the question without expanding it.

Riley lowers her eyes slightly, the answer settling into place without resolution. She doesn’t press further.

There’s nothing in Mistress’s tone that suggests she should.

The room returns to quiet.

And this time, Riley doesn’t try to fill it.

Hamish returns quietly.

There’s something in his hand.

Rope, two lengths with one shorter than the other.

He carries it without hesitation, without ceremony, as if it belongs here just as much as anything else in the room. He stops beside Mistress and offers it to her without needing to be asked.

She takes it.

Her hands move immediately, fingers working the rope with practiced ease. There’s no pause, no checking—just a smooth, efficient sequence of movements as she shapes it into a noose, tightening and adjusting it until it holds its form.

Like she’s done it before.

Riley watches.

She doesn’t move at first, her attention fixed on the motion of Mistress’s hands, the quiet certainty in them. The shape forms quickly, the loop settling into something recognisable before she fully registers what she’s seeing.

Mistress steps forward.

With a small, controlled motion, she lifts the rope and tosses it upward. It catches on one of the ceiling fan blades, the loop hanging down, swaying slightly before becoming still.

“That should be enough to support your weight,” she says into the room.

The words land without emphasis.

Riley stands.

The movement is sudden, breaking the stillness she’d been holding. Her body reacts before her thoughts settle, a sharp shift upward, her posture tightening, something visible crossing her expression for the first time since entering the house.

Mistress notices immediately.

And laughs.

The sound is bright, easy, cutting cleanly through the tension Riley hasn’t managed to hide.

“Oh, dear, no,” she says, almost amused at the misunderstanding. “This noose isn’t for you.”

Her gaze shifts.

Settling on Hamish.

“It’s for him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mistress runs a fingertip along the inside of Hamish’s wrist, pressing lightly where his pulse thrums beneath the skin. "You know the words," she says, not a question. His exhale is steady, his posture relaxed—no tension in his shoulders, no twitch in his fingers.

"I want this," he says, looking her in the eyes, "I really want this."

He tilts his head forward, offering his throat without hesitation. The rope settles against his skin with a quiet rasp, and Mistress adjusts the knot with the same precision as tying a shoelace. Hamish’s hands remain at his sides, palms open, fingers loose.

“Turn around,” Mistress orders. Hamish obeys, Riley get’s another look at his cute butt. Mistress takes his wrists and binds them together with the other piece of rope then turning him back to face her. “There, now you can’t touch yourself.”

She strokes his cheek once, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone, then steps back to observe him—the flush creeping up his chest, the way his hips tilt slightly forward, already anticipating.

Riley shifts on the balls of her feet, her gaze flickering between the noose and Hamish’s face. Mistress doesn’t turn, but her voice smooths the silence. "Just like we practiced sweet boy," she says, her voice full of warmth.

The words land softly, an explanation Riley doesn’t need to question. Hamish’s erection is full now, the tip glistening under the lamplight as Mistress wraps her fingers around him, her strokes slow and methodical.

She pauses only once, her grip tightening slightly as she glances at Riley. "You can touch him," she offers, nodding toward Hamish’s hips. "He likes the warmth." Riley’s fingers are tentative at first, brushing the inside of his thigh before curling around the base of his cock, her touch featherlight compared to Mistress’s firm rhythm. Hamish sighs, his hips rocking forward into their hands, his breath still even, his throat still exposed.

Mistress checks the noose one last time, her fingers testing the tension of the rope where it loops over the ceiling fan. The fan doesn’t creak. The house is silent. She steps back, her hand leaving Hamish’s cock to cup Riley’s chin, tilting her face up. "Watch closely," she murmurs. "He’ll arch his back when it happens. You’ll know." Riley nods, her fingers still wrapped around him, her thumb swiping over the slit as Hamish’s breath catches—not in fear, but in anticipation.

The rope tightens with a sudden, smooth pull. Mistress doesn’t strain; her shoulders stay relaxed, her grip effortless. Hamish’s toes leave the ground, his body lifting just enough for his erection to bounce once, twice, the motion almost playful.

His knees bend instinctively, his heels dragging against the floorboards before his legs kick outward, not in struggle but in rhythm, like a swimmer pushing off the wall. The noose holds firm. His throat doesn’t constrict—his airway is already gone—but his cock pulses in Riley’s hand, twitching as if trying to communicate something wordless.

"Now, here’s why we asked you to come here," Mistress says, nudging Riley forward. Her voice is low, instructional, the same tone she might use to point out where to place a dinner plate, “Take his cock in your mouth, Meatgirl.”

“But I’ve never done that before?”

“He’s a teenage boy, he won’t care,” a sharp smack on her bare ass follows, “Do it, or I’ll hang you too if he dies horny.”

Riley hesitates only a second before leaning in, her lips parting around him, her tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft as she takes him deeper. His hips jerk once, a reflexive spasm, but Mistress steadies him with a hand on his thigh, her fingers splayed wide. The rope doesn’t sway.

The fan doesn’t tilt. The only sound is Riley’s muffled humming, the wet slide of her mouth on his teenage cock.

His legs kick again, slower this time, his toes pointing and curling in a rhythm that matches the pulse in his groin.

Riley’s nose brushes his pelvis, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks harder, her fingers working the base in tandem. His breath—what’s left of it—hitches in a way that isn’t quite a gasp, more like the quiet catch of someone remembering a pleasant thought mid-conversation.

Mistress watches, her head tilted slightly, as if observing a well-rehearsed dance. She reaches out once to adjust Riley’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear with the same care as arranging flowers. "Good," she murmurs, "Good boy Hamish."

His cock throbs in response, the tip hitting the back of Riley’s throat as his body arches, his spine curving beautifully, the noose pulling tauter. His heels drum against the floorboards twice, then go still.

Riley pulls back just enough to lick the slit, her tongue flicking over the head in quick, practiced circles. His hips buck again, but there’s no urgency to it—just the last few embers of a fire burning down. She watches his face as she takes him back in, her lips sealing around him, her throat working. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth slack, his expression serene. Like he’s listening to distant music. Like he’s already gone.

His orgasm isn’t dramatic. No shout, no shudder—just a slow, rolling pulse deep inside him, the kind that spreads warmth outward in lazy waves.

His cock jerks in her mouth, releasing in thick, quiet spurts, the taste salty-sweet against her tongue. She swallows without hesitation, her fingers still curled around the base, milking him gently until he softens.

His toes flex once, then relax, his legs swaying slightly, the rope creaking as it settles.

Mistress steps forward, her fingers brushing Hamish’s cheek, then sliding down to check his pulse. She holds her fingers there for a beat, then nods, satisfied.

“Perfect,” she says, her thumb smoothing over his brow as if tucking him in. Riley leans back, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, her gaze flicking up to the noose—still taut, still holding. The fan hasn’t moved.

The silence stretches, comfortable, unbroken. Mistress exhales, then turns to Riley, her hands already reaching for the rope. “Help me lower him,” she says, her tone practical, as if asking her to pass the salt. Riley stands, her knees popping slightly, and moves to grip Hamish’s thighs without needing further instruction.

Together, they ease him down, his body folding gracefully onto the floor, his limbs settling into loose, natural angles. His face is peaceful. His skin is still warm. Mistress looks at him for a minute, taking in every feature of the boy she had once called hers.

“Help me move him.”

Her voice is even with no hint of emotion towards what they had just finished doing to Hamish. She moves to lift him under his shoulders and Riley is instructed to grab his legs.

“Careful,” she says quietly. “Support his weight properly.”

Riley nods, shifting her hold slightly, her hands firming against his legs as she corrects herself without needing further instruction.

There’s no urgency.

No hesitation.

Just the steady management of something that needs to be moved.

“Take him through,” Mistress says.

Riley moves when Mistress does, keeping pace beside her as they guide him out of the lounge. The transition from one room to the next is smooth, practiced on one side, learned quickly on the other.

The kitchen is clean.

Open.

Prepared.

Mistress leads them to a large door set into the wall. She opens it without comment, revealing the walk-in freezer beyond, already cold and waiting.

“Lift slightly,” she says.

Riley adjusts again, following the instruction, and together they ease him inside. Mistress directs the final placement with small, precise movements—straightening an arm, aligning his position so he lies evenly.

“Good,” she says once he’s settled.

She steps back, looking over him briefly, not with attachment, but with quiet assessment, as if confirming the task has been completed correctly.

Riley remains where she is for a moment longer, her hands hovering slightly before she lets them fall back to her sides.

Mistress reaches for the door.

“I’ll need to call someone to dress the carcass,” she says, her tone unchanged. “Have him properly prepared.”

The word sits in the space without emphasis.

Carcass.

Riley doesn’t react outwardly.

She nods once, small and controlled, her gaze resting briefly on Hamish before the door begins to close.

Mistress shuts it firmly.

The seal settles into place with a soft, final sound.

Then she turns away, already moving back into the kitchen as if nothing has been interrupted.

Riley’s voice is quiet, but it carries.

“Did you bring me here because you wanted me to help kill him?”

Mistress stops.

The movement is immediate, though subtle. Not abrupt enough to feel reactive, but enough that the shift is clear. Her shoulders hold there for a moment, a slight tension settling into them before it eases again.

She doesn’t turn straight away.

“He always said he’d like a pretty girl to make his last moments special.”

The answer comes calmly.

Not defensive.

Not reflective.

Just placed into the space, like another piece of information that doesn’t require elaboration.

Riley watches her.

Mistress turns then, her expression composed, unchanged from before. Whatever brief stillness had passed through her is already gone, absorbed back into the same quiet control she’s held throughout.

“He was very clear about it,” she adds.

Her gaze rests on Riley for a moment longer, measuring, not unkind.

“Not everyone gets exactly what they want.”

There’s no emphasis on the words.

No weight added to them.

Just a simple acknowledgment, before she turns again and continues walking, the conversation already finished in her mind.

“So what now?” Riley asks.

The question comes more easily this time. Less hesitation. Just a need to understand where she fits next.

“Now?”

Mistress turns.

Her hand lifts without warning, her thumb pressing gently into Riley’s bottom lip, holding it there for a moment. The gesture is controlled, possessive in its familiarity, as if it belongs to the same quiet structure as everything else she’s done.

“You’ve served your purpose,” she says.

Her tone remains even.

“And I promised to take you home, did I not?”

Riley stays still under the touch, her breath catching slightly before settling again. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t question the contact.

Just nods, the movement small against the pressure of Mistress’s thumb.

Mistress holds her there for a second longer, then withdraws her hand, the contact ending as cleanly as it began.

“Good,” she says.

No warmth added. No softness removed.

Just confirmation.

She turns again, continuing toward the rest of the house, already moving forward as if the next step has been decided.

Riley follows.

The car ride passes in silence.

Riley sits in the back, her hands resting in her lap, fingers loosely folded together. They stay there without instruction, without adjustment, as if the position has settled into something natural.

She had just helped kill someone.

A boy she had never met.

The thought comes and settles quickly. Animals die all the time. It’s expected. Even Companions aren’t safe from it.

That isn’t what stays with her.

She looks down at her hands.

Still.

Clean.

Her fingers press together slightly.

There’s something else that lingers instead. Not the moment itself, but how it had felt. The closeness of it. The way she hadn’t needed to be told what to do.

She doesn’t pull away from the memory.

Doesn’t try to.

Her lips press together faintly.

It hadn’t been unpleasant.

That much is clear.

Her fingers tighten again.

Then loosen.

The car moves steadily forward.

The thought shifts slightly as it settles.

Not what she had done.

Not who it had been.

Just the quiet, persistent awareness that she might not be asked to do it again.

Three chapters today to close off day 5. I'm going to be finishing this story very soon. Next time I write I'll probably make sure the story is done before starting to post, that way I don't see it as an obligation to release chapters without too much time passing :)

>>30070
I will read in a little bit but just responding to this comment, you did what I often end up doing which is start a story with a fairly simple premise then find yourself adding in lots of sub-plots and variables that could influence the ending. Still, it's been a fun journey to accompany you on!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Riley wakes before the alarm, the awareness coming quietly, without urgency. It’s the day of her sleepover with Amanda—the last one they’ll ever have—and the thought settles in without needing to be turned over or examined. The house is still, caught in that space just before everything starts moving again, and for a few seconds she stays where she is, eyes open, listening to nothing in particular before she gets up.

The kitchen light clicks on, soft but enough to fill the room. Everything she needs is already there, laid out in the same places it always is, and it doesn’t take long to move through it. It didn’t yesterday either—just less of it then. This time she makes enough, working through each step without thinking too much about it, letting the familiarity carry her through as the smell slowly fills the room and settles into the space.

By the time her parents come in, it’s done.

Her mother pauses first in the doorway, taking it in—the table, the plates, the effort—before something in her expression softens just slightly. “Oh,” she says, quieter than usual, “that’s nice.” Her father glances over the spread, then at Riley, then back again, already pulling out a chair. “Smells good,” he adds, like it’s enough on its own.

No one comments on the difference directly.

They sit and eat, the conversation coming in small pieces that never quite settle into anything lasting. Plans for the day, a passing remark about the weather, something half-started that doesn’t need finishing. Riley eats with them this time, and no one points it out. Her mother serves without asking, her father clears his plate without slowing down, and the routine folds around them easily, like it always has, just adjusted slightly to fit what it is now.

The morning passes without much shape after that. Dishes are cleared, the kitchen resets itself, and the house returns to its usual state, each room settling back into place like nothing out of the ordinary happened there.

By early afternoon, Riley is at the door.

Her mother is already there, leaning lightly against the frame as if she’s been waiting without wanting to make it obvious. “You’ve got everything?” she asks, her tone easy, familiar.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She pauses for a moment, then softens just slightly. “Have a nice time, alright?”

Riley nods. “I will.”

Her mother reaches out, smoothing Riley’s hair back in a gesture that feels automatic, something she’s done a hundred times before without thinking about it. “And behave yourself,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“I will.”

Her father looks up from where he’s sitting, a small smile already there as he pushes himself up and crosses the room. He pulls her into a tight hug, firm and familiar, the kind that doesn’t need to be adjusted or reconsidered. “Love you, sweetmeat,” he says.

Riley’s mouth parts slightly, the correction rising automatically—

and then stopping just as quickly.

She lets it settle instead, leaning into him and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Love you more.”

That’s all that needs to be said.

The door opens, cool air slipping in and brushing against her skin as she steps outside. The street is already alive in the quiet, ordinary way it always is, people moving, cars passing, nothing stopping for long. Riley doesn’t hesitate as she steps out, the door closing behind her with a soft, familiar click.

The walk is the same as it’s always been, the same streets and the same turns, her pace steady without any need to rush. By the time she reaches Amanda’s street, the rhythm has settled fully, each step falling into place without thought as the distance closes in the same quiet, predictable way.

She slows slightly as she approaches the house, just enough to mark the shift, and then steps forward.

Riley reaches the door and knocks, the sound carrying lightly through the house. She doesn’t have to wait long before it opens, the movement immediate.

“There you are!”

Amanda is already smiling, already moving forward, closing the distance without hesitation as she wraps her arms around Riley in a quick, tight hug, the same way she always has. Only this time, her hands adjust slightly as they settle, higher at first before shifting, careful as they move, redirecting without needing to think about it. The hug still lands the same. It still feels the same.

“Hi,” Riley says, returning it easily.

“Come in,” Amanda says, stepping back, still smiling as she calls over her shoulder, “Mom, Dad—she’s here!”

The house smells the same, the familiar scent settling around her as soon as she steps inside, unchanged in a way that makes everything else feel steady by comparison. Nothing has been moved, nothing adjusted, and for a moment it feels like stepping into something that has simply been waiting.

Amanda’s mom appears first, drying her hands on a towel as she steps into the hall. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says warmly, closing the distance without pause, “it’s been too long.” She pulls Riley into a hug that feels easy and practiced, the kind that doesn’t need to be thought about, but her hands don’t stay where they used to. They slide lower as the hug settles, resting at Riley’s hips before pressing slightly, a small, quiet assessment folded into something that still reads as affection.

She pulls back just enough to look at her. “You’re doing well,” she says, nodding faintly. “You look… good.”

Riley nods once. “Thank you.”

Amanda’s dad follows a second later, slower but no less familiar. “There she is,” he says, a small smile already in place as he leans in for a brief hug. His hands settle more deliberately this time, one at her side and the other lower, a firm, absent-minded pressure against her thigh before he lets go, not lingering and not hidden, just part of the motion. He steps back, giving her a quick once-over. “Yeah,” he adds, “they’re taking good care of you.”

Riley doesn’t respond to that. She doesn’t need to.

Amanda’s mom tilts her head slightly, her attention catching on something else. “Is that—” she says, almost surprised, “you smell nice. What is that?” Amanda leans in a little, catching it too. “Yeah, I was gonna say—what is that?”

Riley pauses for just a second before answering. “It’s from earlier. A spa.”

Amanda’s mom hums softly, nodding as if that explains enough. “Well, whatever they used, it suits you,” she says. “There’s something… warm about it.” Her hand brushes lightly against Riley’s side again as she turns away, not quite a touch, not quite absent either. “Come on in,” she adds. “Don’t just stand in the doorway.”

Riley steps further inside as Amanda drops back onto the sofa like she always does, tucking one leg under herself as she settles in. She pats the space beside her without thinking. “Come sit—”

Riley moves with her, stepping forward and turning slightly as she starts to sit, the motion already underway before anything interrupts it.

A sharp snap cuts through the moment.

“Ah—”

Amanda’s mom doesn’t raise her voice, and she doesn’t need to. Riley pauses mid-motion, the adjustment immediate even before the words follow.

“No Animals on the furniture, dear,” she says, her tone light, almost absent, like she’s catching something small before it settles into habit. She gestures loosely toward the floor. “You can just sit beside Amanda on the carpet.”

There’s no tension in it, no weight behind the correction, just placement.

Riley straightens slightly and adjusts without hesitation. “Sorry,” she says, the word automatic and already fading as she lowers herself to the carpet, settling in beside Amanda’s knees.

Amanda shifts a little on the sofa, leaning down toward her without making anything of it, her voice picking back up exactly where it left off. “So—” she continues, like nothing happened, and after a second it doesn’t feel like anything did.

Riley settles into place, the shift already finished by the time Amanda’s talking again. For a moment she simply sits there, letting the position settle around her before she leans in, not abruptly and not all at once, just enough that her shoulder brushes against Amanda’s knee and then rests there. The contact starts light, almost incidental, before settling into something more deliberate, something familiar.

Amanda glances down at her, the pause brief and almost unnoticeable, and then adjusts slightly, letting her leg shift just enough to make the contact easier, more natural. Her hand comes down a moment later, resting against Riley’s shoulder, her fingers moving idly without much thought.

“Anyway,” Amanda continues, like nothing’s changed, “you missed so much yesterday.”

Riley nods, her attention already back on her, already settled into the rhythm of it.

The position holds without drawing attention to itself, not awkward and not questioned, just… right.

Riley shifts a little closer over time, the movement small enough to go unnoticed unless someone was looking for it. Her shoulder presses in a little more, her head following a second later until it rests lightly against Amanda’s leg, the position easy, almost automatic now.

Amanda doesn’t react to it at first, or doesn’t need to.

Then her hand drifts down, finding Riley’s hair without looking. Her fingers move through it slowly, absent-mindedly, the same way someone might smooth something familiar just to feel it there, a gentle stroke followed by another as her thumb brushes lightly near Riley’s temple before her hand settles at the back of her head.

Amanda keeps talking as her hand moves, her voice carrying on without interruption as if the motion is part of it. “…and she didn’t even show up, like she just—” Her fingers trace down from Riley’s hair to her shoulder, resting there for a moment before giving a small, idle squeeze. It isn’t checking and it isn’t claiming, just a presence that settles and stays without needing to be acknowledged.

Riley leans into it without thinking, the contact grounding more than anything else. She doesn’t look up and she doesn’t move away, letting the position hold as naturally as if it had always been there. Across the room, Amanda’s parents notice in passing, not in a way that interrupts anything, just a glance as they move through or settle into their own spaces, the moment registering without needing to be addressed.

There’s no comment, no correction, nothing to suggest it needs one.

It reads cleanly, simply, naturally.

Amanda’s mom lingers for a second longer than necessary, her attention resting briefly on the way Riley stays close and the way Amanda’s hand continues its slow, absent movement, before turning back to what she was doing. The moment is already filed away as something understood, something that fits.

The conversation carries on without pause, Amanda’s voice filling the space as her hand keeps moving, and Riley stays where she is.

The shift into evening happens without much announcement, the light changing gradually rather than all at once. At some point Amanda’s mom claps her hands lightly together from the kitchen, the sound carrying just enough to reach them. “Alright, dinner time.”

Amanda pushes herself up from the sofa with a stretch. “I’m starving.”

Riley moves with her, already on her feet before she’s told to be.

“Sweetmeat,” Amanda’s mom calls, not unkindly, “set the table for me, would you?”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

The plates are where they always are, the utensils and glasses set out in the same familiar places, and she moves through it easily, placing everything down with small, careful adjustments so each setting lines up the way it should. She sets one, then another, then a third, her hands working without hesitation.

When she pauses, it’s only for a second, her eyes flicking to the space where a fourth would go before she turns back toward the counter.

“—oh!”

Amanda’s mom steps in just as she finishes, catching it immediately, a small laugh slipping out that sounds more fond than anything else. “Sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head slightly as she reaches past Riley for another plate, “you forgot one.”

Riley stills.

“I thought—” she starts, then stops, the thought not needing to be finished.

Amanda’s mom sets the fourth place down herself, adjusting it into position with a practiced motion that feels automatic. “You can sit with us, Meatgirl,” she says, smiling as if it should have been obvious. “Don’t be silly.”

Amanda snorts softly as she drops into her chair. “Yeah, we’re not making you eat on the floor.”

Riley hesitates for half a second, just long enough to register the correction, before nodding. “Thank you.”

She takes the seat.

Riley settles into her chair with her back straight and her eyes on the table, the posture aligning itself without needing to be thought through. She doesn’t reach for anything and she doesn’t speak, her hands resting in her lap with her fingers loosely folded together in a position that has already started to feel familiar.

She waits.

Plates are set down one by one, followed by the food, the rhythm of it smooth and practiced as it moves around the table. Amanda reaches first, already halfway through a sentence, while her dad follows without pause, passing something across as the conversation continues.

Riley stays still.

A moment passes before Amanda’s mom speaks, her voice light but precise.

“Riley.”

The name is enough to stop her.

She looks up.

Amanda’s mom is watching her, her expression unchanged, but there’s something small and exact in the way her attention settles. “Hands above the table,” she says, her tone calm and almost instructional. “We don’t allow dirty Animals in this house.”

Riley’s hands lift immediately, moving from her lap to the table without hesitation. She places them flat beside her plate, her fingers spreading slightly as she adjusts to the position.

“Sorry.”

Amanda’s mom gives a small nod, already turning back to her own plate. “That’s better.”

The moment closes as quickly as it came, folding back into the flow of the meal without disruption.

Conversation resumes. Cutlery moves. Plates shift.

Riley keeps her hands where they are and doesn’t lower them again.

Dinner settles into an easy rhythm after that, the movement of plates and cutlery blending into the steady flow of conversation that fills the space without effort. Amanda talks more than anyone else, her voice carrying the energy of everything Riley missed.

“You should’ve seen it,” she says, already halfway through the story. “Mr. Harlan just stood there like he didn’t even know what to do—”

Her dad chuckles under his breath, the sound low and easy. “No surprise there.”

Amanda grins, leaning forward slightly as she continues without missing a beat. “And then Jess just walks out. Like—actually just leaves. No one even stops her.”

Riley listens, nodding at the right moments, following along easily as the conversation moves around her. It all feels familiar—the cadence, the interruptions, the way Amanda jumps from one thing to the next without finishing half of them—each piece sliding into the next without needing to settle.

Her hands stay where they’ve been placed, resting flat against the table.

She doesn’t move them.

There’s no need to.

The conversation carries on above, steady and uninterrupted, while beneath the table something brushes lightly against her ankle, passing at first in a way that could almost be dismissed. Riley stills for a fraction of a second, just enough to register it, before the contact comes again, more deliberate this time.

A foot slides slowly up along her calf, bare or just barely covered, the movement controlled and unmistakable. It traces upward past her knee before pausing, the pressure settling in place with a quiet, teasing intention that doesn’t need to be acknowledged to exist.

Riley’s breath catches slightly, the reaction small enough to go unnoticed unless someone was looking for it. She doesn’t look down and doesn’t shift in her seat, her posture remaining exactly as it was, her hands still flat against the table.

Above it, nothing changes.

Amanda keeps talking, her hands moving as she explains something Riley missed, while her parents follow along with small comments and quiet reactions that fill the space naturally. No one glances at Riley, and no one acknowledges what’s happening beneath the table, the separation between the two layers holding without strain.

The pressure lingers for a second longer before slipping away as easily as it came.

Riley keeps her hands where they are, her eyes forward, her attention fixed on the conversation as she listens.

Like nothing happened.

They clear the table without much fuss afterward, the movement of it quick and familiar. Riley gathers plates automatically, stacking them neatly before passing them over without needing to be asked, her hands moving with the same quiet efficiency she’s used all day. Amanda lingers a little longer, finishing her drink before pushing her chair back.

“I’m taking her upstairs,” she calls casually.

“Don’t stay up too late,” her mom replies from the sink.

“We won’t.”

Amanda’s room is exactly the same, unchanged in a way that makes it feel preserved rather than lived in. Nothing has been moved, nothing adjusted; posters still peel slightly at the corners, clothes rest draped over the chair, and the bed holds the same soft dip where she always sits.

Riley steps inside and pauses for a second, just long enough to take it in, before following Amanda fully into the space.

“God, I missed this,” Amanda says as she drops onto the bed without ceremony. “I swear nothing happens without you.”

Riley smiles faintly, the expression small but genuine. “I doubt that.”

“No, seriously,” Amanda insists, grabbing the remote and flopping back. “Everyone’s boring now.”

Amanda pats the bed beside her without thinking, the gesture automatic, familiar. Then she pauses, her hand shifting slightly as she glances down, the adjustment small but noticeable. “—or, wait,” she adds, catching herself mid-thought, “you can just—”

Riley is already moving before she finishes. She lowers herself to the floor beside the bed, settling in close without needing the rest of the sentence, the position coming naturally now. Amanda watches her for a second, her attention lingering just long enough to register the adjustment, before she nods once. “Yeah. There.” It lands easily, like that was always the plan.

The movie starts soon after, something simple, something neither of them really needs to follow. Amanda talks through half of it anyway, her voice filling the space in the same scattered way it always has. “…and then Jess actually said that to her face, like I swear—” she continues, the story unfolding in pieces that don’t quite need to connect.

Riley listens from where she sits, leaning lightly against the side of the bed so her shoulder rests where Amanda’s arm hangs over the edge. At some point Amanda’s fingers find her hair again without looking, settling there in a way that feels absent and familiar at the same time, the motion continuing without drawing attention to itself.

Later, they switch to a game they’ve played a dozen times before, the transition happening without discussion. Amanda sits cross-legged on the bed, leaning forward with a focus that sharpens her expression, while Riley remains just below her, controller in hand, already settled into place.

It doesn’t take long.

“You’re cheating,” Amanda says flatly, though there’s no real weight behind it.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists, laughing despite it. “You’ve always been like this.”

Riley doesn’t answer, just keeps playing, her focus steady as she moves through the game without hesitation.

She wins again.

Amanda drops back onto the bed with a groan, her frustration exaggerated enough to stay light. “This is so unfair.”

“You picked it.”

“Yeah, but I thought I had a chance.”

Riley glances up at her. “You never do.”

Amanda snorts softly. “Okay, rude.”

But she’s smiling.

The room settles after that, the energy easing as the game idles on the screen and the movie fades into something forgotten in the background. Amanda shifts onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow as she looks down at Riley, her attention more focused now than it has been all evening.

There’s a pause that settles into the room without breaking it, long enough to be noticed but not long enough to feel out of place.

“…so,” she starts, her voice quieter this time, “when do you plan on reporting in?”

Riley doesn’t look up, her attention fixed on the controller in her hands as her grip tightens slightly, just enough for her to feel it.

“Don’t,” she says.

Amanda hesitates. “I just—”

“Just don’t,” Riley replies, her tone firm but not raised. “Tonight isn’t about that.”

The words land without sharpness, closing the space rather than cutting through it.

Amanda watches her for a second longer, her expression shifting as she considers pushing further, then exhales and drops back onto the bed instead. “Okay.”

There’s no argument and no attempt to continue.

The moment settles back into the room as easily as everything else has.

A few seconds pass before Amanda speaks again, her tone lighter now, the shift deliberate but effortless. “So… rematch?”

Riley looks up.

“…sure.”

The game restarts, the movement filling the space again as the earlier moment folds quietly into the background.

The game winds down without much ceremony, the movement slowing naturally rather than coming to a clear stop. At some point Amanda stretches, her arms lifting overhead as a quiet yawn breaks through. “Okay,” she says as she drops her hands again, the decision settling easily. “I’m done.”

Riley nods, the motion small.

Amanda stands and crosses the room, already pulling at her shirt as she goes, the action beginning before there’s any need to think about it. She doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t turn away, her clothes coming off in the open and falling where they land before she reaches for something else. The movement is quick and casual, the same way she’s always done it, something so familiar it doesn’t need to be acknowledged.

Riley watches for a second before looking away, her gaze dropping to somewhere lower, somewhere neutral, as if that adjustment is just as automatic. Amanda doesn’t react to it, or doesn’t need to, continuing without pause.

When she’s done, Amanda climbs into bed and pulls the covers up around herself with a small sigh. “God, I’m tired,” she murmurs, her voice already softening as she settles in. After a second she glances down at Riley and shifts slightly to make space. “You can come up,” she adds, the offer casual.

Riley pauses only briefly before standing, the hesitation more of a transition than a question. She moves to the side of the bed and climbs up carefully, positioning herself beside Amanda with the same quiet precision she’s used all day.

She doesn’t go under the covers.

Instead, she stays on top of them, the fabric bunching slightly beneath her knees as she settles, adjusting until she’s lying still, parallel to Amanda but separate.

Amanda doesn’t comment on it. She simply reaches over to tug the blanket a little higher around herself before turning onto her side. “Night,” she says, already half-asleep.

“Night,” Riley replies.

The room grows quiet after that, the last of the movement fading as everything settles into place. Riley stays where she is, on top of the covers, still and contained, her eyes open for a while longer before they finally close.

The room settles into quiet gradually, the shift happening so slowly it almost goes unnoticed. Amanda’s breathing evens out beside her, slow and steady in the way sleep comes easily, and the house follows, each small sound fading until there’s nothing left but the distant creaks of it settling into the night.

Riley doesn’t fall asleep the same way.

Not tonight.

She lies still for a while with her eyes open, watching the faint outline of the ceiling where the light from outside barely reaches. The position is familiar now—on top of the covers, separate, contained—but it doesn’t hold her the way it should, something in it failing to settle completely.

After a while, she shifts carefully, slow enough not to disturb Amanda, and slides off the bed onto the floor. She stands and pauses just long enough to listen, but nothing changes and Amanda doesn’t stir, her breathing continuing in the same steady rhythm.

Riley moves quietly out of the room.

The house is darker downstairs, lit only by the thin wash of moonlight coming through the windows, but it’s enough. She doesn’t need to turn anything on as she makes her way to the kitchen, each step following the same path she remembers without needing to think about it.

She takes a glass from the cupboard, fills it halfway, and carries it to the table before sitting down. The chair feels different at this hour, colder and still in a way it isn’t during the day, and she wraps her fingers loosely around the glass without drinking.

Her head is busy.

Legally, she has until noon on Monday, and everyone knows that. It isn’t a secret, just something understood, but most don’t wait. Most go in on Sunday because it’s easier that way, cleaner, something you don’t stretch out longer than it needs to be, something you don’t sit with.

She tilts the glass slightly in her hand, watching the surface of the water shift.

One more day.

It doesn’t sound like much, and it isn’t, really, but it’s still a day.

She doesn’t know if it’s better to take it or not.

The light flicks on.

Riley blinks against it and turns slightly in her seat as Amanda’s mom appears in the doorway, her dressing gown pulled loosely around her and her hair slightly out of place from sleep. She takes in the scene without surprise—Riley at the table, the glass, the quiet—and doesn’t comment on any of it.

Instead, she walks in slowly, her attention settling on Riley in a way that isn’t sharp, just present. There’s something in the way Riley is sitting, in the stillness of her, in the weight of the thought she’s carrying, and the recognition of it shows without needing to be named.

She pulls out the chair beside her and sits, looking at Riley for a moment before lifting her hand and tapping lightly against her own lap. “Like you used to do when you were little?”

Riley’s expression softens, a small smile forming almost automatically. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

She stands and steps over, turning slightly before lowering herself into her lap, the movement easy and familiar in a way that doesn’t need to be explained. She settles there fully, her weight resting without hesitation, her head leaning into Amanda’s mom’s shoulder as the arm that comes around her does so just as naturally, not tight, just there.

“Hey,” her mom murmurs softly.

Riley exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.

“What’s on your mind?”

Riley’s gaze drops toward the glass still sitting on the table, untouched. “Just thinking about tomorrow,” she says. “Whether I should go in… or wait until Monday.”

The words settle between them, and Amanda’s mom doesn’t answer right away. She lets the silence sit, her hand resting lightly against Riley’s arm as her thumb moves in slow, absent circles.

When she does speak, her voice stays soft.

“I won’t pretend to know how hard this must be,” she says.

Riley doesn’t move or look up.

“But you’re doing a wonderful thing,” she continues, just as gently. “You know that, right?”

The words don’t sound rehearsed. They carry a quiet certainty, something she believes without needing to question.

Riley’s fingers tighten slightly where they rest against her own leg, the movement small and contained. “…yeah,” she says after a moment, the word not strong, but not uncertain either.

Amanda’s mom nods faintly, her cheek brushing lightly against Riley’s hair as she settles more comfortably in the chair. “We’re all very proud of you,” she adds, quieter now, her hand smoothing once over Riley’s arm before coming to rest again.

Riley leans into her a little more, the contact easy and accepted, and the kitchen stays still around them as the glass of water remains untouched on the table.

Neither of them rushes the moment.

Amanda’s mom doesn’t say anything more after that, her hand continuing its slow, steady motion along Riley’s arm and then her side, the touch grounding and consistent. Riley leans into it further, her breathing evening out as the tension in her shoulders softens, the silence stretching around them in a way that doesn’t feel empty, just held.

After a while, the movement shifts.

Her hand slides lower, unhurried, settling briefly at Riley’s hip before continuing, the contact still gentle and absent of urgency, another adjustment rather than a change.

Riley doesn’t react and doesn’t pull away, her head staying where it is, tucked into her shoulder.

The hand moves further, continuing without pause until it settles between her legs.

The warmth spreads slow as honey—Amanda’s mom’s fingers tracing idle circles against Riley’s inner thigh, the touch light enough to be accidental if not for the way it lingers, deliberate. Riley’s breath hitches, just once, before she stills herself, the practiced calm settling back over her like a second skin. The kitchen hums with the quiet of night, the refrigerator’s muted buzz the only witness.

Her fingers dip lower, brushing feather-light over the softness there, and Riley’s toes curl reflexively against the cool tile floor. It’s not the first time she’s been touched like this—compliant, pliant, expected—but the familiarity doesn’t dull the heat pooling low in her stomach. Amanda’s mom exhales softly against her temple, her other arm tightening just slightly around Riley’s waist, anchoring her.

There’s no hesitation in the way her fingers part her, no question in the glide of skin against skin. Riley’s eyes flutter shut, her lips parting around a quiet, unvoiced sigh. The touch is slow, methodical, almost clinical in its gentleness—no rush, no demand, just the steady, unhurried press of a thumb against her clit, circling once, twice, until Riley’s hips tilt forward of their own accord.

Amanda’s mom murmurs something low and approving against her hair, her breath warm, her palm cupping Riley fully now, the heel of her hand applying just enough pressure to draw a soft, shuddering gasp from her throat. The world narrows to the rhythm of those fingers, the quiet slickness between her legs, the way her body responds without permission, without thought—just acceptance, just surrender.

Then, without warning, Riley’s back arches, her hips lifting sharply into the touch as pleasure crests, sudden and overwhelming. Her fingers clutch at Amanda’s mom’s robe, twisting the fabric in silent desperation, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. In that suspended moment—her vision blurring, her body taut as a bowstring—she turns her head blindly, her lips brushing against Amanda’s mom’s jaw, then higher, catching the corner of her mouth in a clumsy, fleeting kiss.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then Amanda’s mom exhales, slow and steady, her thumb still circling Riley’s clit in slow, measured strokes, drawing out the aftershocks until Riley sags bonelessly against her. The kiss lingers, unacknowledged but not withdrawn from, Riley’s lips parted against hers, warm and damp with shared breath.

The kitchen settles back into stillness around them, the refrigerator humming softly, the air thick with the scent of salt and skin. Amanda’s mom doesn’t pull away—not her hand, not her body—just holds Riley there, her fingers still moving in slow, absent patterns as if there’s no reason to stop. And Riley, dazed and pliant, lets herself be kept, the shape of the moment settling around her as something she doesn’t need to question.

Time passes without marking itself clearly, the quiet stretching in a way that feels longer than it is. Riley’s breathing steadies, her body easing further into the contact, each small movement of Amanda’s mom’s hand grounding rather than drawing attention, the repetition smoothing out whatever tension had been building earlier.

Neither of them speaks.

There isn’t anything that needs to be said.

Outside, the night holds steady, the faint glow through the window unchanged, and inside the kitchen everything remains contained within that small, shared space—two bodies, one held, one holding, both settled into something that feels, on the surface, simple.

After a while, the movement slows.

Not stopping entirely, just softening, becoming less deliberate, less necessary.

Riley shifts slightly where she sits, the change subtle, more a repositioning than a break, and Amanda’s mom adjusts with her without thinking, the contact maintained without needing to be re-established. The moment lingers a little longer, stretching just enough to feel complete rather than interrupted.

Eventually, Riley’s gaze drifts back to the table, to the glass still waiting where she left it, the water inside unmoving now.

She doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, she stays where she is for a few seconds more, letting the quiet settle fully before she exhales softly and straightens just enough to pull away, not abruptly, not in a way that disrupts anything, just enough to shift the shape of the moment.

Amanda’s mom lets her go without resistance, her hand falling still as Riley moves, though her presence remains just as steady.

“You should get some rest,” she says after a moment, her voice low and even, like the suggestion has been waiting.

Riley nods, the motion small. “Yeah.”

She stands slowly, the movement unhurried, and for a second she lingers there, as if expecting something more to follow, before turning back toward the hallway.

The kitchen stays quiet behind her as she leaves, the light still on, the chair slightly out from the table, the glass untouched.

Upstairs, Amanda hasn’t moved.

The room is just as she left it, the same steady rhythm of breathing filling the space as Riley climbs back onto the bed, settling again on top of the covers in the same careful position. This time, though, her body gives in more easily, the tension gone or at least quieted enough not to hold her awake.

She lies still for a moment, eyes open, before they close.

And this time, sleep comes.

>>30069
Just about to start Chapter 24 but wanted to pause and say how unexpected but hot Chapter 23 was! You do write some great bedtime stories 😁

>>30073
Wonderful! I guess we're nearly at the finale now?

Yeah I think there's maybe 3 or 4 chapters left. Thanks for always leaving kind words Ed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Morning comes without ceremony, the light filtering in gradually rather than announcing itself, soft enough that it takes a moment to notice the shift. Riley is already awake when Amanda’s mom appears in the doorway, her voice quiet but direct as it carries into the room.

“Up,” she says gently. “Go shower before breakfast.”

Riley nods as she sits up, the movement slow but immediate, her body responding before she needs to think about it. There’s no hesitation, no question, just a small adjustment as she slides off the bed and moves toward the hallway, the instruction settling into her the same way everything else has.

The bathroom is warm by the time she steps in, steam already gathering along the mirror and the edges of the room. She moves through it quickly, efficiently, the process reduced to something practical rather than reflective, each step familiar enough that it doesn’t need attention. By the time she steps back out, the house has fully shifted into morning.

Breakfast is already waiting.

It’s simple, set out neatly, the kind of meal that doesn’t ask for comment. Amanda is quieter than usual, still waking up as she sits at the table, while her parents move around the kitchen with the same steady rhythm as the night before, nothing out of place, nothing delayed.

Riley takes her place without needing to be told.

They eat without lingering, the conversation light and scattered, never settling into anything that might hold too long. Amanda says something about a teacher again, her voice picking up in brief bursts before fading, and her dad responds with a short laugh that doesn’t quite carry. It all feels normal in the way everything has started to feel normal, the edges softened by repetition.

When the plates are cleared, Amanda’s mom dries her hands and turns back toward Riley.

“You should head home,” she says, her tone even, practical rather than heavy. “Be with your family while you can.”

Riley nods once.

“Yes.”

There’s no argument, no attempt to stretch the time further, the decision already sitting where it needs to be.

Amanda walks her to the door, slower this time, the space between them filled with something quieter than the night before. She hesitates just slightly before stepping in, wrapping her arms around Riley in a hug that lingers a fraction longer than usual.

“Text me,” she says, even though they both know it doesn’t mean much now.

“I will.”

Amanda pulls back, studying her for a second as if she might say something else, then lets it go. “Okay.”

Her parents are there too, waiting in the same easy way as the day before. Amanda’s dad gives her a brief hug, familiar and unremarked, while her mom stands just behind him, her expression softer, but unchanged from the quiet certainty she held the night before.

She doesn’t mention it.

Doesn’t need to.

“Take care of yourself,” she says instead, the words simple enough to pass as routine.

Riley nods.

“I will.”

The door opens.

The air outside is cooler than before, sharper in a way that feels more immediate against her skin. Riley steps out without hesitation, the movement steady, the same as it was yesterday, the same as it has been each time she’s crossed this threshold.

Behind her, the door closes.

And she starts walking.

Home feels the same when she steps back inside, the air carrying the same quiet familiarity it always has, as if nothing has shifted in the hours she’s been gone. Her parents are already there, moving through the space in small, unremarkable ways, but the moment they see her something in that motion stops, the rhythm breaking just enough to make room for her again.

Neither of them says much.

They don’t need to.

Her mother reaches her first, pulling her in with a kind of urgency that doesn’t feel sudden so much as delayed, like it’s been waiting for her return. Her father follows a second later, and between them Riley is guided toward the sofa without discussion, the three of them settling into place as if it had already been decided.

They sit like that, close enough that there’s no space left between them, Riley held in the middle, her mother’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, her father’s hand resting low at her side. The contact is constant but not shifting, not searching—just there, steady and firm in a way that doesn’t need adjustment.

They don’t talk.

The silence isn’t empty, and it isn’t uncomfortable. It holds something heavier than conversation would, something that doesn’t need to be shaped into words. Now and then her mother’s hand moves slightly, smoothing over Riley’s arm or shoulder, while her father’s grip tightens just enough to be felt before easing again.

Riley lets herself be held.

She doesn’t move away, doesn’t try to fill the quiet, just settles into it, letting the warmth of them press in from both sides until it feels like the only thing there is. Time passes without marking itself clearly, the light shifting slowly across the room as the morning moves forward in the background.

At some point, noon arrives.

It doesn’t announce itself. There’s no sound, no change in the room beyond what was already happening, but Riley feels it anyway, the moment settling into place with a kind of quiet certainty.

She shifts slightly, just enough to move her arm free, and reaches for her phone.

The screen lights up in her hand, the brightness sharper than the room around her. For a second, she just looks at it, her thumb hovering before she opens her messages, her gaze settling on Amanda’s name near the top of the screen.

She taps it.

The conversation opens easily, familiar, filled with the kind of small exchanges that don’t feel like they belong to anything ending.

She types without pausing, the message forming in one smooth motion.

I’m off. Love you, babe.

She watches it for a second after sending, the small indicator confirming it’s gone through, her thumb lingering as if there might be something else to add, something to follow it, but nothing comes.

She doesn’t try again.

Instead, she lowers the phone back down, letting it rest beside her.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

The word never quite forms.

When she moves this time, it’s more deliberate, the shift breaking the shape they’ve held all morning. Her parents follow the motion instinctively, letting her stand but not stepping away, their hands lingering as she turns toward them.

She hugs them both again, closer this time, her arms wrapping fully around them in a way that leaves no space between. The contact holds for a moment longer than before, long enough to feel complete rather than extended, before she pulls back just enough to look at them.

She leans in first toward her mother, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, then turns and does the same with her father, the motion quiet and unspoken.

Neither of them comments.

They don’t need to.

Riley reaches for the sash at her side, her fingers finding it easily. The movement is simple, practiced, something she’s done before, but this time it carries a different weight as she pulls it free and gathers it in her hands.

For a second, she just holds it.

Then she steps forward and places it into her father’s hands.

He takes it without hesitation.

The space it leaves behind is immediate.

For the first time since she turned red, Riley feels it fully, the absence settling over her skin in a way that isn’t new but suddenly more present, more complete.

Naked.

Not just in form, but in something deeper, something that settles into her as she stands there, unheld for the first time since she came home.

Her parents don’t move.

They just look at her.

And Riley turns toward the door.

The walk to the bus stop is quieter than the one from Amanda’s, the streets more settled now, the movement of people thinning as the day presses forward. Riley follows the same familiar path without needing to think about it, her steps steady, her pace unhurried, as if there’s no reason to arrive any sooner than she will.

The stop comes into view gradually, the small shelter standing where it always has, unchanged and waiting.

She isn’t alone.

There are others already there, gathered in loose clusters or standing apart, each holding their own space without needing to claim it. Some are younger, smaller in a way that makes them stand out even in stillness, while others are older, their posture more settled, more fixed. No one speaks. There’s no conversation, no attempt to connect, just the quiet presence of people who have arrived for the same reason.

Riley steps into the space between them, not choosing a place so much as finding one that’s already there.

She waits.

Time passes without drawing attention to itself, the air holding steady around them, until the distant sound of the bus begins to build. It approaches slowly, the shape of it forming at the end of the street before pulling in with a low, familiar hiss.

The doors open.

No one rushes.

They move forward in turn, the line forming naturally without instruction, each step taken at the same measured pace. Riley follows when it’s her turn, stepping up and inside without hesitation.

The bus is already filling.

Rows of seats hold others like her, spread throughout without pattern, some sitting upright and still, others leaning slightly into the windows, their attention turned inward or fixed somewhere ahead. There are children among them, smaller bodies folded into the seats, their feet not quite touching the floor, and adults beside them, all of them sharing the same quiet composure.

No one speaks.

Riley moves down the aisle until she finds an open seat and sits, her posture aligning itself automatically as her hands come to rest where they’ve been taught to stay. The space fills around her as more step on, each finding their place without hesitation, until there’s nothing left empty.

The doors close.

The bus pulls away.

Outside, the streets continue as they always have, people moving, cars passing, nothing stopping long enough to mark what’s happening. Inside, the quiet holds, steady and complete, the movement of the bus carrying them forward without interruption.

There’s no urgency.

No hesitation.

Just the same quiet certainty that brought them all there, the same invisible pull that has drawn them in early, before they needed to be, before the time had fully come.

And Riley sits among them, one of many, moving with it.

The bus slows gradually, the motion easing rather than stopping outright, until it pulls in with a soft hiss that feels no different from any other stop. Outside, the building waits where it always has, broad and still, its presence settled into the space around it without needing to announce itself.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the driver’s voice carries back, even and practiced. “Alright,” he says, not raising it, not needing to. “Animals, disembark in an orderly fashion.”

The words land without resistance.

No one rushes.

They begin to stand in sequence, the movement passing from one seat to the next as if it has already been decided, each person stepping into the aisle at the same measured pace. Riley rises with them when it reaches her, her body following without hesitation, her place in the flow already set.

They move toward the door.

Outside, there’s no one waiting.

No guards. No handlers. No one positioned to guide them or pull them forward. The space beyond the bus is open, unoccupied in a way that feels deliberate rather than empty, the entrance to the Processing Centre visible ahead without obstruction.

Still, they step down.

One after another.

Riley follows, her feet finding the pavement as easily as they found the bus steps, the transition from inside to outside carrying no weight beyond the change in air. The others move around her in the same steady rhythm, spreading out slightly but never breaking the direction they share.

No one tells them where to go.

They go anyway.

The entrance draws them forward without force, the distance closing in the same quiet, inevitable way as everything else has. There’s no hesitation, no one turning back, no pause long enough to question what comes next.

They walk.

And Riley walks with them, the doors of the Processing Centre growing larger ahead, already open, already waiting, as the space behind her closes without needing to be shut.

The doors are already open when Riley steps through, the movement from outside to inside happening without pause. The air shifts immediately, warmer, controlled, carrying a faint scent of cleaning solution layered with something softer, something meant to settle rather than sharpen.

She knows what the building used to be.

They all do.

You can still see it if you look for it—the shape of it, the way the walls are set too thick, the corridors too straight, too narrow in places where they should open up. The ceilings are higher than they need to be, the lights set into fixtures that feel more practical than decorative, even now. There are no bars, no visible cells, nothing left that names it outright, but the structure hasn’t changed. It’s just been softened.

Painted over.

The walls are a warmer color than they would have been before, something neutral that leans toward comfort without committing to it. There are framed prints spaced evenly along the corridor, landscapes and quiet scenes that don’t ask for attention, just fill the space. Chairs are arranged in small groupings rather than rows, the kind you might find in a waiting room, and there are tables set out with water, tissues, small things that make it feel like a place people are meant to stay in, even briefly.

But the layout doesn’t let you forget.

Everything still leads forward.

Riley moves with the others as they step further inside, the flow carrying them into a wider area where the space opens just enough to hold what’s happening there.

Families.

They’re already gathered, scattered throughout the room in clusters that hold close together, each one contained in its own moment. Some speak quietly, voices low and controlled, while others don’t speak at all, choosing instead to stay in contact, hands held, arms wrapped tight, as if the shape of it might last longer if they don’t let go.

Riley slows slightly as she takes it in, not stopping, just letting the movement adjust.

Off to one side, a young girl stands with her mother, small enough that she disappears into the hold of her arms. The woman has her pulled in tightly, her face pressed into the girl’s hair as she holds on with a kind of desperation that doesn’t try to hide itself. The girl doesn’t struggle, doesn’t pull away, just stands there and lets it happen, her arms wrapped back around her in a way that looks practiced, like she’s already learned how to hold still for it.

The mother is crying openly, her shoulders shaking as she clings to her, her voice breaking into something that doesn’t quite form words anymore.

A man stands beside them, close but not part of the hold, his hands hovering for a second before he reaches in. He places one hand on his wife’s arm, the other moving more firmly as he begins to pull her back.

“You need to let her go,” he says, his voice steady in a way that sounds practiced, like he’s holding it in place. “She’s being very brave.”

The words don’t stop the crying.

But they do their job.

The woman resists for a second longer, her grip tightening before it finally loosens, her hands sliding away as the man guides her back. The girl stays where she is, her posture unchanged, her expression quieter than the moment around her.

Once the girl’s parents are guided back, the space around her changes almost immediately. The shape of the moment collapses in on itself, the last of her mother’s presence pulling away with the movement of the crowd, and for a second she stands exactly as she was, still and composed, as if nothing has shifted at all.

Then it breaks.

Not all at once, not in a way that draws attention, but enough to be felt. The steadiness leaves her posture first, a small tremor passing through her shoulders before settling into something more visible. She doesn’t cry. There are no tears, no sound, just the quiet, involuntary shiver that starts in her arms and spreads through the rest of her, her body reacting in a way she can’t quite hold back now that there’s nothing left to hold it in place.

Riley notices.

She slows, then stops.

For a moment she just watches, taking in the way the girl stands there alone, small in a way that has nothing to do with her size now, the absence around her more noticeable than the presence had been.

Pity comes easily.

The girl is naked, frightened in a way that shows without needing to be named, her composure slipping in small, uncontrollable movements that she can’t quite stop.

But pity doesn’t change anything.

It doesn’t stop what’s coming, and it doesn’t give the girl anywhere else to go.

Riley steps closer.

She reaches out and places a hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder, just enough to be felt, just enough to let her know she isn’t alone in the space. The contact is gentle, steady, something that doesn’t demand a reaction.

The girl flinches slightly at first, the movement quick and instinctive, before she turns her head just enough to look at Riley.

Riley doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she lowers her hand and offers it, palm open, the gesture simple and unspoken.

The girl looks at it for a moment, her attention fixed there as if weighing something she doesn’t have the words for.

Then, slowly, she reaches out—

and takes it.

At the far end of the hall, the space narrows again, the flow of movement guiding them forward whether they think about it or not. A reception desk stretches across the width of the corridor, positioned in a way that makes it the only place left to go.

Behind it, five or six women sit in a neat line.

They’re naked.

Not in a way that stands out here—not anymore—but in the same uniform absence as everyone else, their posture upright, their expressions open and composed. Each of them moves with quiet efficiency, checking people in one by one, their hands steady as they gesture, take names, direct the next step.

They smile.

Not forced, not strained—just practiced, welcoming in a way that feels almost out of place in a building like this.

“Right this way,” one of them says to the person ahead, her tone warm, as if she’s guiding someone through something routine, something expected.

“Take your time,” another adds, her voice soft, her attention settling fully on the person in front of her.

It’s… convincing.

For a moment, Riley feels it—the pull of it, the suggestion that this is something organized, something calm, something that might even be okay if it’s handled like this.

That this is just another place.

Another process.

Another step.

She almost falls for it.

The thought settles just long enough to register before something in her pulls back, the recognition returning just as quietly as it left.

This is still what it is.

Nothing here has changed that.

She keeps moving forward, the girl’s hand still in hers, the line carrying them closer one step at a time as the voices behind the desk continue, steady and welcoming, filling the space without ever raising above it.

By the time they reach the front, the movement has slowed to something measured, each step closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to go but forward. The desk stretches wide in front of them, and the women behind it continue their quiet, practiced rhythm, each interaction folding neatly into the next.

When it’s their turn, they stop in front of one of them.

She’s younger than Riley expected.

Buxom, composed, her posture relaxed in a way that feels intentional, like it’s part of what she’s meant to project. Riley’s eyes catch on the small details first—the way she sits, the ease in her shoulders—but then settle on the watch at her wrist.

Yellow.

Riley recognizes it immediately. Staff.

In places like this, that color means something clear enough that it doesn’t need to be explained. The nudity, then, isn’t the same as theirs. Not imposed. Not part of the same system.

Occupational.

The thought lands quietly.

But it isn’t what holds her attention.

That comes a second later, when she notices the nametag.

Not the card itself—the plastic is ordinary, the lettering clean and easy to read—but the way it’s attached. It isn’t clipped to fabric or hung from a lanyard. There’s nothing there for it to attach to.

Instead, it’s pinned directly through her.

Through her nipple, like a piercing, the small metal fastener holding it in place as if that, too, has been normalized into something routine.

Riley’s gaze lingers for just a fraction too long before she looks away.

Her hand lifts without thinking, settling lightly over her own chest, the motion instinctive, as if she could prevent something like that from being done to her simply by covering the space.

Beside her, the girl shifts slightly, still holding Riley’s hand.

She can’t really see over the desk.

Probably a mercy.

The woman behind it doesn’t comment on any of it. Her expression remains the same—open, calm, welcoming—as her attention settles on them.

“Hi,” she says, her voice warm, like this is just another check-in, just another person arriving where they’re meant to be.

“And who is this scrumptious little morsel you have with you?”

The woman leans forward slightly over the desk, her smile widening as her attention shifts down toward the girl, her tone bright in a way that feels practiced rather than spontaneous. “Are you sisters?”

Riley knows they look nothing alike.

She doesn’t bother explaining it.

“No,” she says.

“Ah,” the woman replies easily, the sound light, as if the answer doesn’t change anything at all. “Well, I think it’s sweet that you’re here for each other.” The sentiment lands gently, folded into the same warmth she’s been offering to everyone else, before her posture shifts again, the friendliness settling into something more structured.

She moves back slightly, her hands already reaching toward the console in front of her.

“Just let me scan your watches,” she continues, her tone returning to something efficient but no less calm, “and we’ll get you signed in and ready for Intake.”

Her attention lifts back to Riley, expectant without pressure, as the process moves forward like it always does.

Riley lifts her arm without being asked twice, offering her wrist across the desk as the woman reaches for the scanner. The device is small and unremarkable, fitting easily into her hand as she brings it close, the motion practiced and precise.

It beeps.

A soft, confirming sound that carries just enough to be heard, just enough to settle something.

Riley feels it immediately.

Not relief in the way she might have expected, not something sharp or overwhelming, but something quieter, something that eases into place rather than breaking through. The uncertainty that had been sitting just beneath everything else—unspoken but present—shifts, giving way to something more certain.

She’s here.

She’s done what she was supposed to do.

There’s no risk now of being marked as something else, no lingering question of what happens if she doesn’t arrive. The label that might have followed her, the one that would have reached back to her family, settles out of reach the moment the scan completes.

They’re safe.

The thought doesn’t stay long.

It doesn’t need to.

It settles just enough to be understood before it fades back into the flow of everything else, the process continuing around her without pause as the woman lowers the scanner and moves on to the next step.

The woman turns to the girl next, her movements no different, no less practiced. “Your turn,” she says gently, holding the scanner out as if it’s something small, something routine. The girl hesitates for only a second before lifting her wrist, the motion a little less steady than Riley’s had been.

The scanner beeps.

The sound lands the same, soft and confirming, and the girl’s fingers tighten immediately around Riley’s hand the moment it’s done, her grip returning without hesitation, as if the contact had only been waiting to be re-established.

The woman watches it without comment, her expression unchanged.

“You two will need to be separated for what comes next,” she says, her tone still warm, still measured, “but I’m sure you’ll find each other in the Habitation Zones, alright?” The reassurance is offered easily, like something she’s said many times before, something meant to settle rather than explain.

She gestures lightly past them.

“Once you go through those doors, some nice staff members will take you for sanitization,” she continues, the words flowing in the same calm rhythm, “and then we’ll commence the health and blood tests.”

Nothing about it sounds urgent.

Nothing about it sounds unfamiliar.

Just the next step.

Waiting.

They move forward together, following the direction that’s been given without needing to think about it. The doors open easily, the transition from one space to the next as smooth as everything else has been, and the sound shifts as they step through—voices, low and overlapping, filling the room ahead.

It’s a waiting area.

Chairs are arranged in rows and small clusters, the space wide enough to hold the number of people already gathered there, and all of them are female. Different ages, different shapes, but the same quiet sameness settles over them, something that makes the differences feel less important than the fact that they’re all here.

Some sit close together in pairs that look like mothers and daughters, the resemblance in their faces or posture easy to trace, while others lean toward each other in the way friends do, their conversation carrying in low, steady tones. There’s a softness to the noise, a kind of idle chatter that fills the room without rising above itself, as if this were any other waiting space, any other place where people have come together for something routine.

It almost feels like no one knows what’s going to happen.

But they do.

The System has made sure of that.

Whatever might have risen—panic, resistance, something louder than this—has been smoothed out, replaced with something easier to hold, something that keeps the room at this level, contained and manageable.

Riley and the girl find a seat together, the space opening just enough for them to settle side by side. When Riley shifts her hand, starting to pull away, the girl’s grip tightens immediately, her fingers holding on with quiet insistence.

“Just a bit longer,” she says, her voice small but clear, speaking for the first time since they met. “Just until we have to let go?”

Riley looks at her for a second.

Then nods.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just settles into the chair beside her, letting the contact remain, letting the moment hold for as long as it’s allowed to.

Time passes the way it has all day, without drawing attention to itself. The room empties slowly, steadily, as staff move through it in a rhythm that doesn’t need to be explained. White coats and blue scrubs stand out against the softer tones of the room, each one calling names or simply gesturing, guiding Animals up one by one.

No one resists.

They go when they’re called.

One hour becomes the next without being marked, the chairs around them emptying in pieces until there are fewer voices, fewer bodies, the space opening around Riley and the girl without either of them needing to move.

Eventually, someone stops in front of them.

“Come with me, Meatgirl,” she says, her attention settling on the child.

The words are calm, the tone the same as everything else has been.

Riley feels the shift before it happens, the moment tightening just slightly as the girl’s grip holds for a fraction longer before loosening.

She lets go.

Riley lifts her hand in a small wave as she’s guided away, the gesture quiet, contained, something that doesn’t try to hold her back.

The girl doesn’t look away immediately.

Then she does.

And she’s gone.

Eventually someone comes to collect Riley and she is moved from one room to the next without pause, the spaces changing just enough to register before giving way to another. The shower comes first, the water already running by the time she’s told to stand beneath it, the warmth settling over her skin as she adjusts instinctively—only to be corrected the moment she tries to move on her own.

After that, the hands are no longer hers.

The nurse works through it methodically, guiding her into position with brief instructions that don’t need repeating. Arms raised. Legs apart. Bend. The motions follow one another without interruption, each one carried out and completed before the next begins, the routine unfolding with a precision that leaves no space for anything else.

She’s dried. Moved. Positioned again.

Questions follow in the same rhythm—short, direct, already expected—her answers given without hesitation, recorded and passed over as quickly as they’re spoken. There’s no conversation around them, no attempt to shape the moment into something else, just the steady confirmation of what’s already known.

Another room.

Another instruction.

Her arm is taken, turned slightly, held in place as the needle slides in, the process clean and controlled, finished before it has time to become anything more than another step. She’s told to hold, told she’s done, told where to go next.

Each part moves into the next without separation, the edges between them softening until it all begins to feel like a single, continuous action rather than a series of them.

By the time she steps back into the corridor, it’s already over.

>>30084
The processing centre being a converted prison is a very nice and interesting touch. The symbolism of taking off her pouch, the last "normal" thing she had was powerful too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Riley steps through the doorway and into the next space.

For a moment she doesn’t move.

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust, not because it’s dark, but because it’s… different. The ceiling stretches higher than she expected, the room opening up into a wide central area that runs the length of the building. Two levels rise along the walls, narrow walkways circling the space with rows of doors set back into them.

Cells.

The shape of it is unmistakable.

Old bars have been removed or replaced, the harsh edges softened, but the structure is still there beneath it all. A prison, just… changed. Repurposed into something that doesn’t quite match the word anymore.

Riley steps forward slowly.

The floor is smooth beneath her feet, warmer than the pavement outside, and the air feels different too. Not cold like the schoolyard, not sharp like the street. Still. Even.

There are people everywhere.

Some sit along the edges of the room in small groups, talking quietly. Others lie stretched out on low benches or padded mats, bodies loose and unguarded in a way Riley hasn’t seen yet today. A few move lazily through the space, drifting between conversations without urgency, like there’s nowhere else they need to be.

No one looks panicked.

No one looks like they’re counting time.

A couple of them glance at her when she enters, their eyes catching briefly on the red glow at her wrist before sliding away again. One girl gives her a small, absent smile, the kind you offer a stranger without thinking too hard about it.

Riley finds herself looking up.

The walls are covered.

Not blank concrete. Not institutional white.

Paint.

Murals stretch across the surfaces between the walkways, layered over one another in places where space has run out. Names written in careful strokes. Faces, sometimes detailed, sometimes just outlines. Hands. Places. Small moments captured in colour that stands out against the muted structure beneath.

It isn’t messy.

It isn’t chaotic.

It’s… deliberate.

Like people took their time.

Riley slows as she walks further in, her gaze moving across the images without really focusing on any one of them. She doesn’t stop to read the names. Doesn’t try to understand who any of them were.

She just… notices.

The sound of quiet conversation drifts through the space, low and steady. No raised voices. No sharp edges. Just a constant, soft murmur that fills the room without overwhelming it.

Behind her, the door closes with a dull, final click.

Riley doesn’t turn around.

She shifts her arm slightly, adjusting the gauze where it rests against her skin. The motion is small, but it draws attention anyway.

Someone approaches.

“Just come from Intake?”

The voice is easy, conversational.

Riley looks up.

He’s dressed simply, nothing like the uniformed teachers or the structured presence of the school staff. The only thing that marks him is the watch on his wrist, the yellow glow steady and unmistakable.

She nods.

“Yeah.”

He glances briefly at the gauze she’s holding, then back to her face. There’s no concern in his expression, just a kind of quiet acknowledgement, like he’s seen the same thing a hundred times already.

“First day’s always a bit much,” he says.

Riley doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

He shifts his weight slightly, gesturing toward the far side of the room where a series of low, padded spaces are set back beneath the walkway.

“Why don’t I show you somewhere you can lie down,” he suggests. “Get comfortable for a bit.”

Riley follows his gesture.

There are others there already.

Some resting on their sides. Some on their backs. A few sitting up, talking quietly to the people beside them. No one looks like they’ve been told to stay there.

They just… are.

Riley hesitates for a second.

Not because something feels wrong.

Because nothing does.

That’s what catches her.

She glances back toward the murals, then across the room again, taking in the slow, steady rhythm of people moving and resting and talking like this is just another place they’ve chosen to be.

Her fingers loosen slightly against the gauze.

“…Okay,” she says.

The word comes out without resistance.

He nods once, already turning to lead the way, not checking if she’s following.

She does.

Her steps are quieter now.

Slower.

The noise of the room settles around her as she moves deeper into it, the edges of everything softening just slightly as she walks.

No one stops her.

No one watches her go.

And after a few seconds, Riley stops looking for them to.

He leads her along the edge of the room, keeping to the outer wall where the structure becomes clearer the closer she gets. Up close, there’s less disguise to it. The doors are still heavy, still set into thick frames that were never meant to feel welcoming, even if the paint and murals soften the impression from a distance.

They pass a few occupied spaces.

Some doors are open, revealing small interiors with low bedding laid directly against the back wall. Others are closed, the metal flush with the frame, giving nothing away about what’s inside. No one lingers near them, and no one avoids them either. They’re just part of the layout, used without comment.

He slows beside one that’s empty.

The door is already open.

“Here’s a free one,” he says, stepping slightly aside to let her see inside. The space is simple. Clean. A mattress, a folded blanket, nothing else that demands attention. It looks like it’s been prepared for someone without being made to feel personal.

Riley pauses at the threshold.

She doesn’t step in right away.

It isn’t hesitation exactly. More like a moment of adjustment, her eyes moving over the room, taking in the shape of it, the way the walls close in compared to the open space behind her. The difference is noticeable, but it doesn’t feel restrictive.

Just contained.

“Just scan your ID watch,” he tells her, nodding toward the frame. “You can have some privacy if you want it.” His tone stays even, almost conversational as he adds, “It’ll lock, but staff can override it if needed.”

Riley glances down at her wrist.

The red glow is steady, unchanged.

For a second she looks back out toward the room, the quiet movement of people continuing without interruption, the low murmur of voices carrying through the space like it doesn’t depend on her being there at all.

Then she steps inside.

She lifts her arm and presses the face of the watch to the small panel set into the wall beside the door. There’s a soft, acknowledging tone, barely louder than a breath, and she feels the mechanism engage a second later.

The door moves on its own.

It swings inward, slow and deliberate, then settles into place with a heavy, mechanical finality that doesn’t try to hide what it is. The lock follows, a distinct, old-fashioned clunk that echoes faintly in the small space before fading.

Riley stands still for a moment after it closes.

The sound lingers longer than it should.

Then it doesn’t.

The room is quiet again.

She exhales softly and shifts her weight, her gaze moving once more over the mattress, the blanket, the bare walls. There’s nothing in the space asking anything from her. Nothing directing her. Nothing to figure out.

She lowers her arm.

After a second, she crosses the room and sits down.

The mattress dips slightly beneath her, the surface firm but not uncomfortable. She adjusts without thinking, drawing one leg in a little, the movement small and automatic as she settles.

Outside, the sound of the Habitation Zone continues as it was.

Unchanged.

Riley leans back slowly, letting her shoulders rest against the wall behind her. The gauze slips a little in her hand as she relaxes her grip, but she doesn’t fix it right away.

For the first time since leaving the school, there’s nothing immediate waiting for her to do.

No one watching.

No one speaking to her.

No next step being explained.

She sits there for a while, not counting the time, not checking anything, just letting the stillness settle around her the same way the rest of the space had.

After a minute, or maybe longer, she lies down.

The blanket is within reach. She doesn’t pull it over herself, just rests her hand against it, feeling the texture beneath her fingers as her body settles into the shape of the mattress.

The quiet doesn’t feel heavy.

It doesn’t press in on her.

It just… stays.

And after a while, Riley stops thinking about the door.

Riley shifts slightly on the mattress, then draws her legs up and reaches for the blanket.

The fabric is heavier than she expects.

She pulls it around herself, tucking it loosely at her side before settling back, the material draping over her shoulders and down across her body. It doesn’t cover her completely at first, one leg still half-exposed, but after a second she adjusts without thinking, pulling it higher until the weight of it rests evenly over her.

Warmth follows almost immediately.

It spreads slowly, sinking into her skin in a way that feels… familiar.

Riley stills.

For a moment, she just lies there, noticing it.

Since the bell. Since the classroom. Since stepping out of the school doors and into the cold air. Since walking through the streets, through the café, through the gates of the centre—she hasn’t been covered at all.

Not once.

The realization settles quietly.

It doesn’t hit her sharply. It doesn’t pull anything dramatic out of her. It just… lands, the way most things have today, slotting into place without resistance.

She shifts slightly under the blanket, her shoulders relaxing further into the mattress as the warmth evens out.

It feels normal.

That’s what stands out.

Not new. Not strange. Just something she recognizes without needing to think about it.

Riley exhales softly.

Her eyes close without much effort.

There’s no decision behind it, no sense of choosing to rest. Her body just… does it. The tension she’s been carrying loosens in small, quiet increments, each one barely noticeable on its own.

The sounds of the Habitation Zone filter faintly through the walls.

Muted voices.

Movement.

Nothing distinct enough to follow.

It blends together into something steady, something that doesn’t ask anything from her.

Riley’s hand rests loosely against the blanket near her chest, fingers slack now, no longer holding anything in place.

After a few seconds, her breathing slows.

And then, without marking the moment, without tracking when it happens—

She sleeps.

Riley doesn’t remember how long she sleeps.

When she wakes, the room is the same. The light hasn’t shifted in any obvious way, and the quiet outside the door hasn’t changed either. For a moment she stays where she is, still wrapped in the blanket, her body slow to move as the last of the heaviness fades from her limbs.

Then she sits up.

The blanket slips from her shoulders and pools around her waist, and she leaves it there for a second before pushing it aside and standing. The air feels different after the warmth, but not unpleasant. Just noticeable.

She unlocks the door without thinking about it and steps back out into the Habitation Zone.

It feels easier the second time.

There’s no pause at the threshold now, no need to take it in again. The space is already familiar enough that she moves through it without stopping, her attention drifting instead of searching.

At some point—later, or maybe not much later at all—she finds the pool.

It’s set slightly apart from the main area, recessed into the floor with smooth edges and a faint haze of humidity hanging above it. The water is still except for the slow movement of the few people already inside, their bodies cutting quiet paths through it without urgency.

Riley lingers at the edge.

One of them notices.

An Animal near the far side turns her head, then swims over without hesitation, resting her arms along the edge of the pool as she looks up at Riley.

“You can come in,” she says simply.

Riley looks down at the water.

She doesn’t ask anything.

She doesn’t check how deep it is, or how warm. After a second, she lowers herself in, the surface breaking softly around her as she steps down. The temperature settles quickly against her skin, warmer than she expected, the shift immediate and even.

The other girl stays close.

There’s no introduction, no exchange of names. She just moves nearer, her hand coming to rest against Riley’s side without asking, fingers sliding lightly across her skin in a way that feels as casual as everything else in the room.

Then her hand sneaks between Riley’s legs, lightly penetrating her little cunt. Riley’s breath hitches, her body already melting into the touch.

“Little Meatgirls always make the cutest noises,” the woman says softly, “Will you squeak for me?”

Riley stills for a moment.

Then she leans into it.

The contact stays unremarkable. Unquestioned. The girl’s movements are slow, unhurried, her attention steady but not demanding. Riley’s breathing shifts slightly, her orgasm seeping into the pool water with only a quiet whimper.

Afterward, nothing changes.

“Good girl,” the woman nibbles on Riley’s ear before she drifts away again, leaving Riley where she is, the water moving gently around her as if nothing happened at all.

Riley stays in the pool a little longer before climbing out.

No one watches her go.

At some point, she finds the library.

It’s smaller than she expects, but not empty. Shelves line the walls in neat rows, filled with thin books that don’t take long to read. The pages are worn in places, the covers soft from use, but everything is kept in order.

Riley pulls one down without much thought and sits.

She reads.

The stories are simple. Short. Self-contained in a way that doesn’t require remembering too much from one page to the next. When she finishes one, she puts it back and takes another, the motion easy, repetitive.

She doesn’t track how many.

There’s a room with games.

She notices it because of the sound first—soft electronic noise, muted bursts of music from machines lined up against one wall. A few people stand in front of them, pressing buttons, watching the screens without intensity.

There are pool tables set further back, cues resting neatly along the side, and a couple of large screens where others sit with controllers in their hands.

Riley watches for a bit.

Then she joins in.

Someone hands her a controller without speaking, shifting slightly to make space. She takes it, sits, and follows along as the game plays out in front of her. There’s no competition to it. No urgency to win or lose. Just something to do, something to hold her attention for a while before she sets it down again.

She returns to her room.

She leaves it again.

She eats when food is offered.

She rests when she feels like it.

Sometimes she ends up beside someone without remembering when she moved there, their bodies close, their presence steady and unremarked. The contact comes and goes the same way everything else does—without needing to be explained, without leaving anything behind once it’s over.

There are moments where she notices the doors.

Moments where she thinks she hears one open nearby, the faint mechanical sound carrying just far enough to catch her attention. Each time, something in her shifts slightly, a brief awareness of what that might mean.

But no one comes for her.

Not then.

So she lets it go.

Days pass.

Or something like days.

Riley doesn’t keep track.

At first she tries, loosely marking time by when she sleeps, when she wakes, when she moves from one part of the Zone to another. But the pattern doesn’t hold. The light doesn’t change in a way she can follow, and nothing else insists on structure.

After a while, she stops trying.

There isn’t much reason to.

Everything she needs is already here.

Everything she’s expected to do… isn’t being asked of her yet.

So she settles.

The space becomes familiar in a way that doesn’t require thought, her movements through it quieter now, more automatic. She doesn’t hesitate at thresholds anymore. Doesn’t pause before sitting, or joining, or lying down.

She just does.

And when nothing happens—

when no one calls her name, when no one comes to collect her—

she waits.

Not restlessly.

Not anxiously.

Just… waits.

Patiently.

Happily.

Content.

It’s during one of those moments—quiet, unremarkable—that someone approaches her.

Riley is sitting, not doing anything in particular, her attention half-set on the space around her without focusing on any one thing. The room moves the way it always does, slow and steady, people passing without drawing notice.

She doesn’t look up right away.

She only notices when the hand settles on her shoulder.

Warm. Firm enough to be felt.

Riley turns her head.

The woman standing behind her doesn’t rush.

Her expression is neutral, her posture relaxed, the yellow glow of her watch catching the light as she shifts her weight slightly.

“It’s time,” she says.

Her hand remains where it is, steady, guiding without pressure.

“Come on, Meatgirl.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The woman doesn’t remove her hand as they move.

It rests lightly against Riley’s shoulder, not pushing, not directing in any forceful way. Just there, steady enough that Riley follows without needing to think about where she’s going. The contact is familiar by now. Easy to accept.

They walk through the Habitation Zone together.

No one reacts.

A few glance up as they pass, their eyes settling briefly on Riley’s red watch, then shifting away again. The same way they always do. The same way Riley has seen countless times now—someone being led out, moving calmly, without resistance, without delay.

Men. Women. Children.

It had never disrupted anything.

Conversations continue. Games carry on. Someone laughs softly somewhere behind them, the sound folding back into the low, steady rhythm of the space. Nothing pauses. Nothing acknowledges what’s happening as anything other than routine.

Riley doesn’t look around as much this time.

There’s nothing new to see.

She’s walked these paths before, passed these same walls, these same murals layered with names and faces that don’t belong to anyone still here. At some point, she had stopped wondering about them.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly as they change direction, guiding her toward a section of the facility Riley hasn’t entered before.

She recognizes it anyway.

The door is set deeper into the wall than the others, heavier, less softened by the changes made elsewhere. No paint reaches it. No markings. Just clean metal, uninterrupted.

She had stood in front of it once.

Curious.

She remembers lifting her wrist, pressing it to the panel the same way she had with every other door in the Zone. The response had come immediately—sharp, clear, impossible to mistake.

Unauthorized access to Butcher Chambers will result in immediate slaughter.

She hadn’t tried again.

There hadn’t been any reason to.

Now she stands there again.

The difference is simple.

This time, she isn’t alone.

The woman doesn’t pause long enough for the moment to settle. Her hand remains where it is as she reaches forward with her other arm, scanning her own watch against the panel. There’s a soft confirmation, quieter than Riley expects, and the mechanism engages.

The door unlocks.

The sound is heavier than the others in the Zone.

Older.

More deliberate.

It opens inward without hesitation.

Riley doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t need to be told to move.

She steps forward as the space beyond reveals itself, the shift immediate but not jarring, just another transition from one part of the system to the next.

The woman follows, her hand still resting lightly against Riley’s shoulder as they pass through.

Behind them, the door closes.

The sound carries for a second.

Then fades.

Riley doesn’t look back.

The space beyond the door is different.

Not colder, not harsher—just… clearer.

White tiles line the walls from floor to ceiling, clean and uninterrupted, the surface reflecting the overhead lights in a way that makes everything feel sharper, more defined. The floor beneath Riley’s feet shifts to a darker grey, smooth and slightly polished, the faint echo of their steps carrying further than it had in the open space behind them.

The air smells faintly sterile.

Not unpleasant.

Just precise.

They move down the corridor at an even pace, the woman’s hand still resting where it was, steady and unchanged. Riley doesn’t look back at the door. There’s nothing behind her that needs checking.

There are others here.

Not many.

A few move through the corridor with quiet purpose, smaller figures carrying folded linens, pushing light carts, wiping down already clean surfaces with slow, practiced motions. Their movements are familiar in a different way than the Animals in the Zone—more structured, more contained.

Some of them look up as Riley passes.

A boy near the wall pauses in what he’s doing, cloth still in his hand as he gives her a small, encouraging smile. Another glances briefly at her, then returns to their task without acknowledgment, their attention already settling back into the routine they were following.

No one stops.

No one questions.

Riley recognizes them.

Blue watches.

System kids.

She’s seen them before, drifting through the Habitation Zone in small groups, moving between spaces with the same quiet confidence they carry here. They had spoken to Animals sometimes. Sat with them. Played games. Asked questions in the same casual tone they used with each other.

Nothing about them had felt forced.

Nothing rehearsed.

They were just… normal.

Riley had understood why some Animals avoided them.

There was nothing wrong with them.

That was the part that unsettled people.

They weren’t distant. Weren’t cold. They smiled easily, spoke without hesitation, touched without asking in the same way everyone else did. But they didn’t leave.

They didn’t drift back out through the doors.

They stayed.

They belonged here.

Riley’s gaze lingers on one of them for a second longer than necessary as they pass—a girl about her age, maybe younger, pushing a cart lined with neatly folded fabric. The girl meets her eyes briefly and smiles, soft and uncomplicated, like this is just another part of the day.

Riley looks away first.

She understands it now.

Blue Orphans don’t go to slaughter.

They live here.

The corridors. The rooms. The spaces beyond the doors Riley never entered. All of it belongs to them in a way the Habitation Zone never did to her.

Animals come through.

They stay for a while.

Then they’re gone.

Guests.

The thought settles without resistance.

Riley keeps walking.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly again, guiding her forward as the corridor stretches on ahead, clean and uninterrupted, leading further into a part of the system Riley hasn’t seen before—but already understands well enough not to question.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly as they continue, her voice breaking the quiet without changing the pace of their movement.

“Your Butcher will be Henry,” she says.

Riley doesn’t respond.

“He’s nice,” the woman adds after a moment, as if offering something useful rather than comforting. “Usually handles Minor Animals, so you can rest assured he’ll be gentle.”

The information settles the same way everything else has.

Without resistance.

They walk a little further before stopping.

The door in front of them is heavier than the others Riley has seen so far, the frame thicker, the surface uninterrupted by anything unnecessary. A small panel sits beside it, a soft green light blinking at a steady, unhurried rhythm.

Riley’s eyes move to it.

A screen is embedded just above the panel.

There’s a face on it.

A man, looking straight ahead, the image clear and static. Not smiling. Not stern. Just present in the same way everything here is—functional, without excess.

Riley understands immediately.

This is him.

The one assigned to her.

The one who will do it.

She studies the image for a second longer than she needs to, taking in the details without searching for anything specific. There’s no instinct to look away, no pull to avoid it.

It doesn’t feel like something to avoid.

It feels… expected.

The woman’s hand remains where it is, light against her shoulder, not pushing her forward yet.

Riley stands still.

The thought settles cleanly.

This is the point everything has been leading toward.

The movement through the Zone. The waiting. The quiet understanding that something would happen eventually, even if no one said when.

Now it has.

She doesn’t feel fear.

There’s no tightness in her chest, no hesitation in her body.

If anything, there’s a small shift in her posture, something almost like anticipation settling in where uncertainty used to be.

It’s time.

And that feels right.

Riley exhales softly, her gaze still resting on the image in front of her as she waits for the door to open.

The woman lifts her wrist and scans it against the panel.

The green light holds for a second, then steadies.

The lock disengages with a low, mechanical shift, and the door opens inward without resistance.

The space beyond is already prepared.

Riley doesn’t step forward on her own.

Not yet.

The woman’s hand leaves her shoulder, moving lower, settling briefly at the small of her back. The touch is light, familiar in the same way all guidance has been—just enough to indicate direction without needing to insist on it.

Riley moves.

A step forward.

Then another.

As she crosses the threshold, the woman’s hand gives a small, absent push, followed by a quick pat against her as she passes fully into the room. The contact is brief, unremarkable, the kind of gesture that doesn’t carry meaning beyond the moment it happens.

Nothing is said.

No instructions.

No reassurance.

No acknowledgment that this is anything different from the movement that brought her here.

Just a transfer.

Riley doesn’t turn around.

The door closes behind her with the same heavy certainty as the others, the sound settling into the space before fading into the quiet.

She stands where she’s been placed for a second, letting the room come into focus around her.

There’s no urgency.

No immediate demand.

Just another space.

Another step.

And Riley waits.

“You must be Riley.”

The voice comes from ahead of her, even and unhurried.

Riley looks up.

The man stands beside a clean metal table set at the centre of the room, its surface bare, the edges rounded and polished to a soft shine under the lights. Everything around him is ordered, placed with purpose, nothing out of alignment.

He’s naked.

For a second, it catches her.

Not because it’s unfamiliar—she’s seen enough of that now—but because it’s different here. In the Habitation Zone, nudity had felt shared, casual, unremarkable. Here, it feels… deliberate.

Then the thought settles into place.

Butchers are always naked.

She remembers that.

A gesture of solidarity. That’s how it had been explained. No separation between Human and Animal in the space where it matters most.

Riley nods slightly.

“Yes.”

He studies her briefly, not in a way that lingers, just enough to register posture, stance, the way she holds herself now that she’s inside the room.

“Good,” he says.

Her gaze drifts before she can stop it.

Down.

The movement is quick, almost automatic, her attention catching for just a second longer than she intends before she pulls it back up again. There’s a flicker of heat in her cheeks, the reaction immediate, familiar in a way that feels older than everything else she’s learned here.

She bites her bottom lip lightly, looking away as she adjusts her stance, the shift small, contained.

It passes quickly.

Nothing about the room changes in response.

Nothing about him does either.

He remains where he is, steady, waiting, as if that moment didn’t interrupt anything at all.

He notices.

It’s subtle, but not missed.

His gaze shifts briefly, following the movement of hers before returning to her face without pause. There’s no reaction to it—no comment, no change in expression, nothing to suggest it matters beyond the simple fact that it happened.

His body remains still.

Unchanged.

There’s no response in him to match hers, no tension, no shift in posture. Everything about him stays neutral, controlled, the same quiet steadiness he’s held since she entered the room.

Routine.

Riley adjusts her stance slightly, the moment already passing as quickly as it came. The warmth in her face fades without needing to be acknowledged, her attention settling back where it’s expected to be.

On him.

Waiting.

Henry moves slightly as he speaks, not approaching yet, just adjusting something on the table beside him, his attention split between the room and Riley in a way that doesn’t feel divided.

“It’s straightforward,” he says. “We’ll start with something to help you relax.”

His tone stays even.

“Most Animals find it easier that way.”

Riley listens.

“There’s a second injection after that,” he continues. “You won’t be aware of it. By then you’ll already be asleep.”

He glances up briefly, checking her posture, not her reaction.

“It’s quick. Controlled. No discomfort once it starts.”

A small pause.

“You just need to lie down and stay still.”

Riley nods.

She doesn’t need anything more than that.

The explanation settles easily, the same way everything else has. Names wouldn’t change it. Details wouldn’t change it. The outcome is already understood.

For a moment, her attention drifts.

Back.

To the first day.

The screen. The page she had scrolled through without really knowing what she was looking at yet. The example they had shown—another Meatgirl, laid out on a table just like this one, positioned neatly, presented as something instructional rather than personal.

She remembers how it had looked.

Distant.

Abstract.

Something that belonged to a different version of her.

Riley blinks, and the thought fades.

She looks around the room properly for the first time.

Not searching.

Just… noticing.

The walls are lined with tools, each one set into its place with the same careful order as everything else in the facility. Some are familiar in shape, others less so, their purpose not immediately clear but not difficult to understand in context. They’re clean. Maintained. Ready.

A few stand out more than the rest.

Not larger.

Just… closer.

More direct in their design, their placement suggesting use that isn’t purely mechanical, but guided. Controlled. Intentional.

Her gaze moves on.

Above the table, a chain hangs from the ceiling.

At the end of it, a hook.

Directly beneath, set into the floor, is a drain.

The metal is clean.

Mostly.

There are darker lines caught in the edges where the surface meets itself, thin traces that haven’t been fully removed, no matter how thoroughly the room is kept. Not fresh. Not recent. Just… part of it now.

Riley doesn’t stare.

She takes it in the same way she has everything else.

Without resistance.

This room doesn’t need to explain itself.

It isn’t disguised like the Habitation Zone. It isn’t softened or adjusted to feel like something else. It’s clear in a way the rest of the system hasn’t been.

It has one purpose.

And she’s already part of it.

Riley lowers herself onto the edge of the table when he gestures.

The surface is cool beneath her, the contrast immediate against her skin. She shifts slightly as she settles, her posture adjusting without needing direction, her hands resting loosely at her sides as she waits.

Henry steps closer.

The heat from his body reaches her before he touches her, a steady warmth that feels out of place against the sterile air of the room. It isn’t uncomfortable. Just noticeable. Grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Any last requests?” he asks.

His tone doesn’t change.

It isn’t heavy. It isn’t ceremonial. Just part of the process.

His hands come to rest lightly against her thighs, guiding rather than holding, drawing a fraction closer to her hips as he positions her where he needs her. The contact is firm enough to be felt, but not restrictive.

Riley’s gaze drops again.

Brief.

Unintended.

She notices the change this time.

It doesn’t hold her attention for long.

There’s no pull behind it. No response that follows. Just something observed, then let go of as her focus shifts back to where it should be.

The moment passes.

“Can we just get it over with?” she says.

Her voice is steady.

“I’m ready.”

The words land cleanly between them.

Not rushed.

Not forced.

Just… true.

Henry’s hands leave her without hesitation.

No reluctance. No pause.

“That’s fine too,” he says, his tone unchanged, as if she’d asked for something small rather than declined the only variation offered to her. “Some Animals simply want the closure.”

Riley stays where she is.

“I just need to note your refusal,” he continues, already stepping away from her, the shift immediate and procedural. “If you change your mind, don’t hesitate.”

There’s no expectation that she will.

He moves to the counter set into the wall beside the sink, the space as ordered as everything else in the room. Bottles are aligned neatly. Paper towels stacked evenly. Nothing out of place.

He picks up the tablet.

It comes to life in his hand, the screen brightening as he begins to scroll, his attention settling into the task with the same quiet focus he’s held throughout.

Riley watches him.

There’s nothing else to do.

Her body remains where he left it, positioned, waiting, the moment stretching without pressure. No countdown. No visible urgency. Just the sense that something will happen when it’s meant to.

Henry’s hand moves once across the screen.

Then stops.

He goes still.

Not gradually.

Completely.

The shift is small, but absolute, his attention locking onto something in front of him in a way that breaks the rhythm he’s maintained until now.

A second passes.

Then another.

Riley doesn’t speak.

She just watches.

After a moment, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. When he looks back at her, nothing in his expression suggests surprise.

Only adjustment.

“Up you get, Meatgirl,” he says.

His tone remains even.

“You’ve been reclassified.”

Riley moves slowly, pushing herself upright, her feet finding the floor again as she looks at him properly.

“What do you mean?”

Henry turns the tablet toward her.

“Companionship training,” he says. “You’ve been recommended.”

Riley steps closer.

The screen is clear.

Her file is open, structured and familiar in its layout even if she’s never seen it before. A photograph sits at the top—her when they took her Lottery registration pictures, still fully dressed, still… something else. It feels distant in a way that’s hard to place.

Beside it, another window.

An email.

Cleanly written. Structured. Professional.

She doesn’t read all of it.

She doesn’t need to.

Her eyes settle at the bottom.

A name she recognizes immediately.

Dr. Venn.

Riley looks at it for a second longer than necessary.

Then back at Henry.

The room hasn’t changed.

The table is still there.

The tools are still there.

The chain still hangs above the drain.

Everything is exactly as it was.

Only the outcome has shifted.

Riley exhales softly.

“…Okay,” she says.

“You’ll be returned to Habitation,” Henry says, already shifting the tablet back into place on the counter as if the matter has resolved itself. “The next training period for Companions is at the beginning of every month. When the time comes, you’ll be relocated to a separate facility.”

Riley stands still, listening.

“All you need to do is wait now.”

There’s nothing added to it. No emphasis. No sense that this is anything more than a change in scheduling.

Henry moves to the door and opens it without hesitation. The corridor beyond is as clean and steady as before, the same white walls, the same quiet movement continuing uninterrupted. His hand returns briefly to Riley’s shoulder as he guides her through, the touch light, familiar, already fading as they step out.

He raises a hand slightly.

A member of staff approaches.

The baton at his belt marks him clearly—security. His pace is unhurried, his attention settling on Riley first, then on Henry, taking in the situation without needing anything explained.

Henry takes Riley’s wrist.

The motion is efficient, practiced, his fingers closing around it just long enough to bring her watch to the surface of the tablet. There’s a soft confirmation, barely audible.

Then—

The colour shifts.

Red fades.

Purple takes its place.

Just like that.

Riley watches it happen without moving, the change immediate, clean, final in a way that doesn’t ask for acknowledgment.

“There,” Henry says, releasing her wrist. “Now nobody will think you’re just another Meatgirl.”

The security officer’s eyes catch the change as soon as it happens.

“Back to Habitation?” he asks.

Henry nods once.

“That’s right.”

There’s no further discussion.

The officer steps in beside Riley, his presence steady rather than imposing, and she moves with him when he turns, the direction already clear.

They walk back through the corridor.

Past the same white walls.

Past the same Blue Orphans moving through their routines, some of them glancing up again, their attention lingering just a fraction longer this time before settling back into place.

Nothing else changes.

Not the space.

Not the pace.

Not the system.

Riley walks.

Her thoughts shift, but not in any one direction. They don’t settle cleanly the way everything else has. They move instead, overlapping, difficult to separate.

Relief.

Disappointment.

Something sharper underneath it that doesn’t quite form into anything she can name.

Uncertainty.

A flicker of something else—something lighter, quieter.

Excitement.

None of it holds long enough to define the moment.

It doesn’t feel like she’s been saved.

It doesn’t feel like she’s escaped anything.

The table is still there.

The room is still there.

The process continues, with or without her.

She understands that.

Riley glances down briefly at her wrist as they walk.

Purple.

Different.

Not free.

She looks ahead again.

She’s still an Animal.

Just… not the same kind.

[END OF BOOK ONE]

And that's this story done.

Let me know what you think. I'm sure some readers will have a few choice words for me about the ending.

But seriously, thanks so for much reading this far. This was a labour of love and officially the longest story I've ever written.

373 Pages

99,570 Words

576,782 Characters

Once again. I did use ChatGPT for grammar and spelling checks. A few times it broke the rules I set and tried to add to story. I kept a few of it's idea but I always rewrote them myself.

Don't be afraid to use AI as a tool. Just don't let it replace your creativity.

Ok when do you start book 2

When I'm ready. This time I'll be writing out the whole story before posting because I really didn't like having to keep regular updates.

This is quite the grand epic! But I will admit that there are parts that are quite slow making it difficult to keep my attention. I think your writing style could benefit from a little more something to keep a reader's attention. Like, sprinkle more bits of lore of the world, like product placements or accessories for meat girls. Or perhaps more emotion from the protagonist, but I can see what that might be difficult, as she was indoctrinated to believe this is a worthy sacrifice. I think it could have been very interesting if even with the indoctrination, she still had moments of sheer terror and dread and thought of running away, since she's still a kid after all and they can be quite emotional.

I wonder if I missed something though, as there is talk about how population control is a necessary sacrifice due to scarcity yet food and resources seems to be quite plentiful, enough so that many places seem to feed meatgirls for free? With all the indoctrination of a noble sacrifice, I was hoping to see the tangible effect of what that looks like for this society.

I'm so conflicted about Riley becoming a companion animal. I wanted it for her at first because there is enough here to form an emotional attachment to her and you want the characters you're invested in to survive. But then there was the scene where the boy was killed, seemingly on a whim. I found that to be quite horrific. We should value our companion animals and even right now my cat is trying to claw his way into my bedroom but I can't let him in. Killing a beloved pet for funises just feels wrong and I hope that isn't Riley's fate, to be discarded on a whim. But I do love her humane dehumanization lol. I liked her friend's mom disdainfully calling her a dirty animal, as she was conditioned to do so, yet she's also Riley and a brave meat girl and someone she cares for. The mental gymnastics required to reclassify a human is actually a very interesting part of your story.

All this to say that I'm really looking forward to book 2! I would love to see how Riley's friends and family react to her becoming a companion animal should they happen to meet.

Taking another look at the ending and I think it's the "Show not tell" thing that I'm feeling. The final bit where you narrate disappointment, uncertainty, excitement, I wasn't quite feeling it. Like disappointment might have been conveyed by Riley looking back at the butcher's room with confusion. Uncertainty, in hesitant steps back to habitat. And maybe excitement by a fast beating heart or a genuine smile she hasn't had since her watch turned red?

But I'm that guy that doesn't know what he's talking about so please take this with a grain of salt. And I totally look forward to the continuing tale!

Well no pressure. I just hope we don’t have to wait too long for part two

Thanks so much for the honesty and I see exactly what you mean. Towards the end I tried my damnedest not to phone it in but I was also ready to buy done with this part of Riley's adventure.

The scene with Hamish being killed wasn't a random killing either. He asked for it. Mistress even hinted that she wanted to see him grow into a man.

But when Riley entered the scene, his final wish for a pretty girl to suck his cock on the rope could happen. Mistress loved him enough to grasp the moment.

And Riley's reaction to her reclassification was kinda right to me. She freaked out on day 1 and realised it wasn't going to help so years of conditioning took over. The point of the story is Riley's conversion. The slow transition from thinking like a Human, to fully seeing herself as an Animal.

She was at peace. She was ready to die. Then all that mental preparation was wasted. She had accepted the System as her killer, instead it had other uses for her.

And she still remembers Hamish. Knows that even a Companion Animal's life isn't assured. That'll be a driving force in book 2, how her reclassification forces get to shift her mindset from an Animal waiting to be slaughtered, to a Companion Animal who could die at any second. In the scenario, what does she hold onto?

What part of herself has to die to stay sane?

Oh, just thinking about what you said, on what part of her has to die to stay sane. And that makes sense, with the indoctrination and just numbing yourself to the reality of things to get through the next day. Her refusal of a last request to get it over with kinda hints at this too. But thinking about it more, as a potential different ending, what if her final thoughts after turning purple wasn't excitement but instead a release of all the pent up emotions she'd been suppressing up till now? Accepting death as a reality and trying to be brave and wanting it to be over only to find out at the last minute that you get some more time has got to have a large mental impact on a person, especially a child. If instead of walking back to habitat, she collapsed in a hallway outside the butchery sobbing and shaking as her whole life is turned upside down once again would show that deep down she's still human and just a kid and that the indoctrination is only so effective. I think that'd be a crazy bit of lore to add =D.

Thinking about it more, being at peace with your fate is to be already dead. I think that's why the last few chapters went by so fast and felt so bleak to me, because on the inside she was already gone. That doesn't seem like something that could continue in Book 2. Riley is interesting because she is Riley and not just because of her meat shell, no matter how cute it may be. So I think that deep inside, she must still be Riley to have a story about her.

Wonderful ending! Although, while I admire your sense of drama, my neurodivergent brain can't help being critical of the in-universe characters leaving the reclassification until the last second! XD Anyway, loved this story as you know and looking forward to what you produce next.

Thank you both for the kind words and ideas.

The next part of Riley's journey will come but it won't be fast. I'm going to try and write this without AI editing help because the temptation to have it write for me was too high near the end of Book 1.

I stand by my writing. This story is my ideas and my voice. I just needed help with grammar and making sure I wasn't being repetitive.

I also considered changing the ending end just letting Riley's story end in Book 1 but I have my ideas and since I'm not looking to fill a 7 day period this time I'll likely get through book 2 faster.

Thanks again

>>30159
I find I write two different types of story. One is a straight-forward story following a character's journey, the other (such as my recent "Desperately Seeking Sidney") uses the narrative as a sort of framing-device for the world-building which is what I think you did with this one. Now that your world is very clearly established, it should be easier and more fun for you to create short stories that fit within your established world. Hope the writing becomes fun for you again - I know it loses all pleasure when it starts feeling like an obligation! *Hugs*

First, as I said in previous posts, I love your work. Can’t wait for a book 2 to come out, but as to what someone said about how harsh it was that mistress just ended Hamish even though he was a companion animal did they couldn’t do that their cat what if companion animals had a set use by time and while not discussed Hamish‘s might’ve been up and she decided to give him what he wanted. This could explain her attitude in that like certain youth groups, raising cow, pigs, and chickens today, these animals are treated better than the generic livestock to win best in show, but in the end, they have one destination the plate. This could also answer the question of do they harvest more people to compensate for those that they come companion animals or do they not bother because the companion animals will just wind up back in the food supply just a few years farther down the road

Would you like an AI song? I tried to make a government sponsored indoctrination song that would play as a commercial in children's cartoons.


https://voca.ro/12GnAopnGwI9

>>30165
Rather than an advert I can see that being a song included at the end of every episode of a Barney-style show :D

That song is hauntingly adorable and so cursed

I decided to listen to it properly and write a manuscript of the song lyrics. Fucking hell it's catchy and dark when you listen properly.

We're the children, young and bright
We know our duty, and it's right
To help the people, we'll be here
Out sacrifice brings joy and cheer

See our bodies, they'll be bought
Our great gift will mean a lot
We'll be the meat, to share the feast
With every bite, we'll be released

It's not so scary, don't you see
We're helping friends and family
With every step, our parents cheer
We'll be the meat they love so dear

See our bodies, they'll be bought
Our great gift will mean a lot
We'll be the meat, to share the feast
With every bite, we'll be released

We'll laugh and sing, we'll do our part
Our giving shows the biggest heart
With joy we'll share, and soon we'll see
How strong and happy we can be

See our bodies, they'll be bought
Our great gift will mean a lot
We'll be the meat, to share the feast
With every bite, we'll be released

So rise dear children, bright and true
Your gift is special, through and through
We'll eat these kids, cause girls taste right
With your brave gift, the world is bright!

95% of this song is fantastic. It reframes the horror and isn't blunt or direct.

Until 'We'll eat these kids, cause girls taste right' is incredibly blunt compared to the rest of the song.

The rest is framed as duty, sacrifice and like giving the gift of food. This line just says, "We ate them."

>>30191
Sorry yeah. I have no creative talent and wanted to specify beyond any doubt that the girls are going to be eaten. And only their gender as a personal choice.

Would you like it redone without that element?

No it's all good.

I've actually used the lyrics in my Meatgirl Catgirl series. It's going to become the universally beloved jingle of the System and Aoi Himari's voice will sing it even forty years after her death.

hope we see book 2 and more storys in this univers

It will happen at some point though I need to be in the mood too write and I haven't found that energy yet. Thanks for reading and I'm glad you enjoyed it