Day 27?Amy wasn’t sure what kind of room she was expecting when she opened her eyes again, but all the options she had considered didn’t quite include what she actually ended up seeing. Perhaps she could have avoided the surprise if she had been able to keep her eyes open yesterday. But her eyelids felt immensely heavy as her head continued to pound with a force equivalent to what she thinks she would feel if her heart had migrated upwards and started to beat from inside her brain. It felt as if all her senses were being overwhelmed all at once.

  She’s feeling slightly better and that means she can re-interpret her living space, step by step.

  The most obvious thing is that the ever-unchanging, immensely bright light right in front of and above her head — which felt permanently present even when she had closed her eyes as tightly as she could — has been repced with a tall window to her left. She can see an orange ball peeking through the white curtains which were blocking the worst of what would have been a flood of light entering the room.

  She can actually look at a source of light now, or a much-reduced version of it, without it intensifying her migraine!

  The top of the windows is made of lead-coloured gss, reflecting a rainbow onto the very top of the white sheets. Twenty-six days of unchanging shades of grey have been repced with a veritable palette of colours.

  Amy can’t help but stare a little, allowing her eyes to adjust and prepare themselves for everything else they will have to rey to an exhausted brain.

  For one reason or another, she hadn’t felt the fact that warmth has been enveloping her from all sides. Amy woke up in a queen-sized bed, on top of what has to be an expensive but entirely lovely mattress. Her body was covered by a warm and soft duvet, a suspiciously comfortable bosom compared to what came before.

  She doesn’t know what she did to deserve such comfort. Perhaps they think they’ve broken her. They haven’t, even if she wouldn’t want to repeat the experience that came before.

  For 26 days she had slept naked on a cold concrete floor. It was horrible. It was one of the more torturous elements of the location she found herself in, with the pain in her back slowly increasing to an impossible crescendo in the final days before she was removed to more habitable pastures. One night upstairs seemed to heal part of the pain she was dealing with. At least those pains which were located in her spine.

  She tries to move her legs, which is harder than she thought. They feel immensely heavy. But shifting them as she does, she realises another detail.

  She’s no longer cuffed to a wall, or a bed, or anything. She’s able to walk! Perhaps not on these legs, weak as they seem right now, but she definitely could in the future, when she’s recovered.

  Recovered. That’s not a word she likes using for herself. It implies a current weakness that she cannot afford. It implies helplessness, the necessity to submit and to cede her autonomy. It relegates her not just to the role of a woman, but a particurly pathetic one. Most women in such subordinate roles know their pce and act accordingly; a recognition that has a certain appeal and inherent honour — Amy, reduced as she is, isn’t even given the option of resistance. Her state isn’t voluntary. It is a natural result of her own inability.

  She can’t afford to make a mistake like that anymore, not if she wants to stop what is being done to her.

  Amy uses all the strength she can muster to sit up, with her back leaning on the pillows that used to be under her head. She looks around properly, trying to interpret as much as she can and draw some preliminary conclusions about how much her life as a captive has changed.

  She can see two other beds in the room, both of which are fnked by an antique wardrobe on their left and a nightstand on the right respectively, with a number of distinctly British outlets at the feet of each of the tter. The two beds stand opposite hers, each centred perfectly against the background of cream-coloured wall framed by wooden fixtures.

  Her side of the room does not have such symmetry, however. Amy notices a table where the fourth bed might have been, and then sees the small, modern kitchenette hugging the corner of the room. There are a few cabinets above it, a number of induction stoves within it, the required ventition for cooking and even a proper-sized fridge. Against the wall, near the table, is an older-looking full-sized cabinet filled with various kinds of porcein tableware.

  The sleek modern look of the little corner contrasts too heavily with the nearly perfect antique Georgian vibe of the rest of the room.

  Amy kind of hates it.

  All this allows her to conclude that she’s woken up in a communal bedroom, one designed for people to spend considerable time in. This probably means that they will be kept away from the other residents of this building however many there may be. There could be up to two people sharing this room with her. At first, her brain fills in Eira and the other woman who helped her out of the cell. It would add up to three, but it also seems like a risk the former in particur would not take; they kept her chained in a cell for a month, after all. What if Amy gets violent?

  Not that she would — it’s always felt beneath her to solve things with physical force. It’s disgustingly plebeian.

  Instead, it would most likely mean that there are, or will be, more victims of whatever Eira and her aristocratic bosses have pnned.

  She hates that possibility even more than sharing a room with her torturers. No one else should have to go through what she is dealing with.

  Another thing she can notice, with most of her chest now sticking out above the duvet, is that she isn’t wearing the maid uniform they had tortured her to wear for so long.

  No, these clothes are so much worse than any dress they could ever have put her into.

  She’s wearing pyjamas. They’re pastel pink with brighter pink lines over them that form little drawings of rabbits resting in various configurations. It’s cute, sure, but it’s also humiliating. It’s something a fucking child would sleep in!

  Amy is being made to dress like such a degenerate. Perhaps that is why she feels the steadily-rising need to vomit. Most likely, though, it’s that she is still quite ill. She pushed herself way too far, and this is the result. Resistance is not just made impossible by her surroundings, but by her very body betraying her, too weak to stand.

  Too weak to continue sitting up for much longer either. She’s had to lean on her arms a little, and her arms are already giving in to the pressure. Her migraine is returning, an unwelcome guest, especially if it arrives after she’s barely spent ten minutes awake.

  She looks at the nightstand, which reveals a few things that someone must have left for her. There’s, again, a bottle of water, this time very much within reach; there’s some strawberry milk — of course they had to go for the pink option — reinforced with an entire range of vitamins and things that Amy isn’t enough of a med student to understand; as well as a small but daunting collection of various pills. She checks for the one medicine she would be able to recognise from sight, that being the damnable little blue pills, and she finds them delightfully absent. She absolutely doesn’t know what the rest of the pills could be, however, so she stares at them for a little moment.

  If they think she’s desperate enough to take a handful of mystery medicine simply because of the return of the worst migraine she’s ever had, they’re bloody right she will.

  Unless they have some mind control pills included in there — which don’t exist according to Amy’s limited medical knowledge — she will be more likely to be able to resist their deplorable demands when she feels more healthy. It has to be one of their goals, as being moved to a comfortable location like this is a sign that they want Amy to recover.

  Does she trust it? Not particurly. But she doesn’t have a real choice either.

  Amy drinks the strawberry milk first. It’s nice enough, even though it has a heavy aftertaste. It takes her a while though, as drinking is surprisingly hard on her stomach. During that time the migraine continues to slowly build up to a pitch she really can’t handle anymore, so she opens the water bottle to the best of her ability — Amy couldn’t find the strength needed without considerable effort — and swallows all the pills with one big chug.

  Thankfully they seem to have included some kind medicine that induces sleep, and Amy returns to her dreams in what feels like an instant.

  Day 28? A woman Amy doesn’t recognise wishes her a good morning, the voice emanating from what has to be just beside Amy’s bed. It felt very sudden, despite the fact that Amy was somewhat conscious; perhaps she had stirred a little and revealed the fact that she was in the process of waking up. The next steps towards being fully awake are opening her eyes — blinking heavily as she forces her sight to work — and then comprehending her surroundings again.

  The room is mostly unchanged, except that the curtains have been opened slightly to allow a rising sun to brighten the space as a whole. She must have slept for a long, long time.

  “Morning.” Amy responds to the maid in front of her. She’s taller than Amy — perhaps six feet or so? — has wavy bck hair and seems to be wearing some nice mascara. Something else that Amy notices is that she has different body nguage compared to Eira. She’s a little more anxious, cking the cruel calcuted confidence that the other maid carries herself with.

  “Slept well?” She asks, watching Amy intently, with more suspicion than she likely thinks she is showing.

  Amy sits up to the best of her ability and shrugs. “Better than I have in a month. Or years really. It’s quite a nice bed.”

  She isn’t sure why she’s being cordial with the woman. Whoever is in front of her must not just be aware of her status as a kidnapping victim, but likely would have been involved in one way or another. Which means Amy mustn’t give off the impression that she is nice now, or at least kept low enough to be submissive in any sense. The women here have proven themselves to be ruthless already. Perhaps she will be punished more if she does continue to resist, or at least show herself as being quite thorny, but that’s still preferable to the alternative of giving in to femininity.

  So, even if the woman hasn’t done anything wrong to her — not yet — she needs to establish the tone of their interactions early on.

  “Anything important?” Amy leans into her most confrontational voice and hopes it has some effect.

  “Yes,” The maid is less spooked by the change in tone than she’d hoped. “Three things, actually. I’ve got ye some actual food,” She points at a bowl of tomato soup. Amy tries to move her arms to see whether she would be able to move them enough to eat without scalding herself, and she ought to be able to. “I’ll have to inject ye with something to help ye feel better, and I’m going to give ye some more information about yer future.”

  Amy now notices the thick West Country accent of the maid, and has to withhold a ugh. She’s probably a farmer’s daughter who would take any work just to get away from it all. Or, given what Eira is, she would have once been a farmer’s son, made to do disgusting agricultural work and forced to act out the many masculine vices so typical of country life. Violence, questionable sexual practices regarding retives, drugs, alcoholism, and whatever other immoral or irrational acts the scum of the earth of pces like that get up to. Amy may not particurly like women, but men disgust her infinitely more.

  She’s getting distracted. The woman suggested some kind of shot, which doesn’t make sense. They’ve given her plenty of pills; she doubts she needs more medicine.

  “What would you be injecting me with?” Amy asks, sounding as suspicious as she is.

  “Vitamins.” The maid says. “Ye’ve been low on basically every kind of vitamin yer body needs. It’s led to reduced bone density, which combines with the reduced muscle mass to leave ye unable to walk, even if there’s less of ye now. I don’t know how much weight ye lost, but it’s quite a bit.”

  Amy won’t miss those stones at all.

  “You’ve already fortified my drinks.” She points out, sounding as suspicious as she is.

  “It’s not a comprehensive range of vitamins like ye need right now.” The woman responds with more obvious lies.

  The injection feels very unnecessary. Which means it has to be yet another power py; Amy’s taken their food, their water, their pills, their clothes, and now she’s going to accept their bloody injections too. It’s a mystery injection too, at least if she works off the assumption it’s a power py rather than a genuine vitamin injection. Thinking about it as cynically as she can, she wouldn’t put it past them to have the substance be some variant of estradiol.

  It would be quite horrible if it was; but Amy really doesn’t have the strength to stop the maid right now. She can’t move, she can’t fight back. She might have, if she was still in the cell, when she had no chance to get out of this pce. But now that she is in some kind of building above ground, the chances of escape have suddenly increased from impossible to realistic, and if she wants to do so, physical health is of the utmost necessity.

  It means picking no stupid battles. Not now. Not when she’s utterly helpless.

  So Amy rolls her eyes. “I’m sure it is. Now, go ahead. Just get it over with.” She says, waving her hands dismissively to show she really isn’t on board with things, but letting it happen to her regardless.

  Amy puts ‘mystery injection’ on the list of things she’s allowed them to do to her, and files it away for future shame. She can’t afford to think too much about it for now, especially not with her migraine.

  The maid then finds one of those table-on-a-bed fixtures that Amy saw a few times when she visited her mother in hospital and attaches it to the bed. Whilst it does give a stable base for her cup of soup to sit on, it also holds Amy down against the bed and leaves her even less able to resist than she already was.

  She assumes that whatever news she’ll receive will not be good. Not like she could realistically expect any: she’s been kidnapped by people who think humiliation through involuntary transition is particurly funny, and that certainly isn’t the adjective Amy would use for the experience.

  “So,” The maid takes a chair from the table next to Amy’s bed and sits “Hi. I’m Kelynen. I’ll be yer sponsor for as long as ye’re in our programme. That means I’m in charge of yer day-to-day training and rehabilitation.”

  Are they really going to insist on calling it rehabilitation? Like it’s some official punitive programme rather than some disgusting fetish they’re pying out with her as the victim? Amy’s literate enough to know genuine rehabilitation is unlikely with all the signs she’s been given up to now.

  She slurps her soup just to be rude. “Rehabilitate? Why? Because I’m a Tory?”

  “You’ve spent the past 21 years of your life hurting the women around you.” Kelynen starts to talk in a much more standard British accent to sound much more intellectual than the provincial she is. Amy already wants to tune her out. “You’ve hurt women through your misogyny. You’ve used your privilege to deny them opportunities in life, harassed them with some of the most vile things I’ve ever seen people say about women, advocated for them having their rights removed and to return them to a submissive role.”

  Amy nods. Sounds about correct, though she disagrees that it would be a bad thing; a hopeless conversation to hold with a leftist, though.

  “You’ve repeatedly told people about your belief that women are incapable of matching male intelligence because they are too emotional, bming it on hormones—”

  “That is indeed one of the effects of estrogen.” Amy tries to ignore her migraine. Dealing with this bullshit is just bringing it back.

  “—that they are inherently dishonest and prone to cheating due to their ‘natural tendency towards promiscuity’. You’ve said the rejection of ‘spousal’ and ‘maternal duties’ has led to the colpse of western civilisation, and that because of that divorce, abortion and same-sex marriage should be banned and the traditional family restored.” She pauses for a second, probably trying to get to the next part of her prepared speech. Amy’s been to enough debate club nights to be able to differentiate one of those from a spontaneous argument.

  “So?” Amy grins. “Sounds pretty based, if I may say so myself.”

  “It’d be one thing if you were holding these views without acting on them. If you weren’t so set on going after women like yourself in particur. But you accepted a job working for the most deplorable member for North East Somerset,” Kelynen says his title with a level of venom that entirely expins why she can’t just use his name. “and had specific pns to help write legistion that would limit GRCs to those who act appropriately femininely — forgetting that trans men would also need the same certificates — and trying to explicitly ban anyone showing any sign of being non-binary or gender non-conforming from receiving one.”

  Yeah. It was really clever legistion! It simply rolled back some of the 2010 changes, whilst limiting protections under the Equality Act to actually having received a GRC. Kelynen, in her illiteracy, is really selling her hard work short. She’s a little proud of it! And this woman thinks she can kidnap Amy just for having a difference in opinion?

  Amy rolls her eyes. “That is my right to advocate for as a citizen of the world’s oldest democracy.”

  Kelynen again pauses, unable and unwilling to enter a proper argument with her. It’s a shame, and more proof that she’s less capable of dealing with Amy than Eira was; a good debate won’t be possible, not with her. It’d be a shame if it wasn’t entirely useful for her escape.

  Kelynen continues talking, though a little less formally, likely at the end of what she had prepared to tell Amy beforehand. “My point is, Amy, that you are a threat to women. You want to degrade all of us, especially trans women. That is despite being a woman yourself, even if you won’t act on that feeling.”

  “I indeed suffer from the mental disorder named ‘gender dysphoria’. Sadly, no effective treatment has been found yet.” Amy empties her bowl of soup, leaning into her natural confidence to keep Kelynen on a wrong foot throughout this conversation. “Other than enabling the degeneracy through various medical and medicinal means. Delusional beliefs, when they exist in other disorders, are to be alleviated until a patient returns to lucidity rather than carried out. Confirming the schizophrenic ramblings of a patient would be considered medical malpractice. Gender dysphoria shouldn’t be treated any differently. Especially when many wishing to make the transition do so out of less than wholesome considerations, being turned on by their own transition; it’s quite an interesting theory by a scientist punished for his brave ideas.”

  Amy would make a shoddy woman anyhow. Her bones are all out of spec and she’d need significant FFS if she wanted to get anywhere near passing. They’d really have to keep pushing if they wanted to degrade her to the point she’d be enough of a shuddering submissive mess to accept transition, and they don’t seem capable of doing that. They cim it’s rehabilitation; she knows the end goal of whatever they want is much more sexual.

  “That’s a disgusting view of trans women, Amy, and you know it. It’s one of the things you will have to improve about yourself over the next couple of years.”

  “I get it.” Amy rolls her eyes. “I have opinions you disagree with, and this is grounds for cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “No. You don’t get it. It’s not about disagreement. It’s about you building an entire belief system that harms the people around you just as much as yourself. It’s akin to toxic masculinity, which also takes on whatever role it needs to so it can continue justifying the bullshit you wanted to believe anyways.” Kelynen gets a little passionate; Amy is almost gd to see it. Perhaps this woman is fit as more than an obedient servant. “Except what you think is much more pretentious, and the harm you intend is much more legalistic than that of your average shitty and violent man.”

  “Yeah. Pretentious. Sure. Whatever you say.” Amy is done with this bullshit, and not willing to listen to more of this woman’s voice. She simply takes the handful of pills on her bedside table and swallows them all. “I’m not going to be lectured by a fucking woman.”

  “Yes you are, and you better get used to it.” Kelynen says, but the pills leave Amy delightfully able to tune the woman out and return to a very lovely, deep sleep.

  ***

  It’s quite a relief that Amy is no longer kept captive. Not right now, at least. Instead, she’s at her favourite family retreat in the Cotswolds, in the cute little cottage that was once owned by her grandmother. She and another woman are going for a long walk through the countryside, the kind of nature that was once immortalised in the beautiful poetry of William Bke, visiting a cute little vilge built in the style so typical of the area. The houses are made of stone that was quarried locally, with vines and bushes growing on their sides and flowers pnted in the front gardens. They go to a local bakery and then to a farmers market, picking up various items for dinner.

  Amy listens to the birds chirping and bees buzzing as they return home on this beautiful spring day, and almost feels a sense of bliss in just how peaceful everything is. They spend some time in the garden once they’re back, reading books and holding hands; a perfect imagination of wholesome English country life, which is then interrupted as a door opens.

  A wealthy woman shows up in the garden. The mere sight of her causes Amy to quickly get off her chair and kiss her on the cheek. The woman performs some gesture, which Amy quickly interprets as an order, and she dutifully kisses the woman on the lips as well.

  The woman takes her hand and brings her inside, fondling Amy’s breasts at will, which no longer causes her to flinch — she’s been trained not to. She simply accepts what is happening to her. Her life was uprooted on that fateful day many years ago, and now she lives in the aftermath of her freedom and her pride being taken away from her and repced by domesticity.

  As the woman commands, Amy undresses, her maid dress being thrown on some chair so she can fulfill her mistress’ demands as promptly as possible. Her understanding of what must come next guides her down onto her knees. Her owner pces her hands on Amy’s head to make sure that her submissive loyally performs her duties.

  Amy wakes up in a panic. The entire fantasy has left her horrifically horny.

  She must be more of a degenerate than she already thought.

  Day 30?Amy leans on the side of her bed so she has some support as she lowers her feet to the ground. She almost loses her bance in the process, which would be less terrifying if she was sure that she could get back up should she fall to the ground. She knows she wouldn’t be able to, but that’s not going to stop her from doing exactly what she is going to do. She needs to prove something to herself. And, perhaps, perform some basic hygienic tasks.

  Her body’s sense of bance hasn’t fully returned yet, and neither has her strength, but that doesn’t matter. She’s standing on the floor again, on her own two legs — supported by two arms holding on to the bed — able to walk as long as she has things to hold and bance herself with. It’s an important step towards recovery and one more step towards freedom.

  First, Amy takes some cautious steps towards the window, hoping to further investigate her surroundings. Earlier investigations revealed she’s clearly in some kind of listed building, and looking out of the window reveals the fact that it’s probably quite a rural one, and that escaping through the window is no option.

  The room seems to be on the corner of the building closest to a tall mountain cliff. It’s some few hundred feet down before she would reach solid ground, in the form of a valley shrouded in thick morning mist. The valley isn’t empty, though, with treetops sticking out above the sea of white. She can almost imagine the river of water by following an absence of trees in the very centre.

  Escape definitely is not as easy as she had hoped. She’ll need to get out through another room entirely, as it’ll be impossible to do from here.

  The maids may be women, but they don’t seem to be entirely stupid. They’re merely cruel and insane.

  She takes a few more steps to the other side of the room, hoping that she could find out more about the building, more information that might lead to her eventual escape. Except the door is locked, because of course it would be.

  Amy is, after all, a prisoner.

  She tries the door again, just to be certain. It didn’t open, but it did make enough noise to call attention to her situation. Footsteps rapidly close in on Amy’s location, with the door opening to reveal another maid, one who Amy doesn’t recognise. She clearly recognises her, though, as she looks at her with both disgust and annoyance.

  Neither of those reactions ingratiate her to Amy, so all Amy does is decre the fact that she needs a shower and she demands the woman show her to the nearest washing facilities. She does so with little hesitation; probably because she’s been trained never to never deny an order given to her by a man.

  Which Amy still is, despite the fact that she has the mind and the clothes of a woman. The first is sadly irreversible, but the tter will be entirely temporary.

  As long as she has a say in it, that is. Which Amy will do her best to have.