Page 59 of Daddy Erik
“Of course you do.” She smiles kindly, heartbreakingly, as though she’s consoling a child with a scraped knee. “But your body requires care first. And we will take excellent care of you.”
Terror slides icy fingers down my spine. She taps a switch on the pump, slowing the suction but not stopping it. Then she gestures to the IV bag hanging above my head.
“This mixture is a simple blend,” she explains gently. “Saline. Electrolytes. A low-dose nutritional supplement. Just enough to help your system recover from the sedation.”
The liquid drips steadily down the tubing. “And,” she continues, turning to a tray, “this drink is your lunchtime shake.”
A large bottle sits there, opaque, creamy, and faintly sweet in smell.
“It contains protein, carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals, and a blend of herbal supplements that support lactation and healthy bodily function.” She lists them calmly, like a grocery list.
My stomach twists. “Please…no…”
“Your milk production has increased beautifully already,” she says with a reverent softness. “Dr. Rhys is very pleased.”
My heartbeat stutters. “I don’t want any of this,” I cough. “Please… I’m begging you…”
She keeps her expression smooth. “Your compliance ensures you remain awake and aware. If you resist, we will need to sedate you. You are free to choose.”
The door opens again. A massive man steps in, broad-shouldered, tattooed arms, and expressionless. He checks my restraints, adjusts the table angle, and waits silently beside her.
She lifts the bottle. “Let’s try the gentle way first,” she murmurs.
I clamp my mouth shut. The man responds instantly, one hand to my jaw, firm but not painful, thumbs at my chin, coaxing my mouth open with practiced precision.
“No… please…” I choke as the first cool rush of liquid fills my throat.
I cough and splutter, tears burning. “Little cow,” the attendant says firmly. “Decide. Awake or sedated.”
Awake. God, I want to be awake. Sedation terrifies me more than anything. “A-awake,” I whisper.
She nods, places the bottle back at my lips, and I drink from it. I want to vomit. I want to scream. But I swallow because consciousness is the only tiny piece of control I have left.
By the second day,I understand the rhythm of this place.
Morning:
• I wake up to find the pump already running.
• The man carries me, weightless and helpless, to a small tiled shower.
• A female attendant washes my hair and then my body.
• I use the toilet while she waits, unbothered. Then I’m diapered.
• I’m carried back, strapped down, with bare breasts and pumps reattached.
• Morning shake.
Late morning:
• Hourly diaper change.
• Vitals.
• IV bag checked.
• Classical music drifting from unseen speakers.
