Creaking Joints and Torn Channels
creak.
tick.
creak.
The only sound that filled Nabi's ears was the winding of hell's own clockwork. Her mind, emptied of memory, was a blank white page — but every sensation carved into her flesh burned a vivid, unmistakable red. She lay sprawled on the cold marble floor, limbs thrown wide in a broken star, as smooth, featureless faces poured down over her like a tide of egg-ghosts.
They were doctors one moment, mechanics the next, curious children the moment after that. The first thing to rip a scream from her throat was the cold metal that burrowed between her legs.
"Nnhhh... mmph! Aaagh!"
Nabi's back arched like a drawn bow. One of them had driven a rusted iron spike into her narrowest, most secret hole — her urethra. The sensation of that pointed tip forcing its way through the sphincter was a terror of an entirely different order from having flesh pierced. Her mucous membranes screamed. The cold metal wormed through her burning insides like a snake, crawling toward her bladder.
A slide. A tear. A thud.
The probe would not go in all at once. The mannequin, as if gauging the depth, would draw the spike back out, twist the angle, and shove it in again — over and over.
"Aaaah! Stop! Don't stab it — I'm gonna pee, I'm gonna pee...!"
Nabi shook her head, howling. Every time the probe slid in and out, the inner walls of her urethra scraped raw, and an unbearable urge to urinate slammed up her spine and into her brain. But the iron rod plugged the hole so completely that nothing could get out. Stimulation without release. Torture, sealed shut.
At the same time, another mannequin set to work on the entrance of her vagina. In its hand was a cold metal instrument shaped like a duck's bill — a vaginal speculum. With no lubricant at all, the dry, rusted metal wings, still closed, were jammed roughly into her.
A grinding shove. A deep, relentless thrust.
"Ghk...?! Gyaaaaah!"
The thing drove it in deep enough to kiss her cervix, then cranked the screw on the handle without a shred of mercy.
Creak. Tick. Creak.
Inside her belly, the metal wings flared wide. The vaginal walls stretched, pulled taut against their will. And it was not merely an opening. The mannequin gripped the speculum by the handle and stirred it violently up, down, left, and right, as if trying to wrench a seized machine part free of its housing. Every time a sharp edge of the speculum scraped across that tender flesh, Nabi's pelvis convulsed on its own.
"It hurts! It's tearing! Stop — please, stop twisting it...!"
The front hole gouged by an iron spike, the rear passage pried open and churned by metal forceps — a duet of ruin. Nabi's legs were locked in their grip; she could not even close them.
But their curiosity did not stop there. The mannequins pinning her upper body wrenched both of her hands toward themselves and pressed her soft palms against their groins.
There were no genitals there. Only smooth plastic nubs, protruding neatly from where a cock ought to have been. They made her rub those hard, cold knobs with her hands.
A dry stroke. Another.
"...?"
Nabi's wet eyes trembled. It was repulsive. She was being forced to caress a lump of factory-stamped plastic, something that held no human warmth at all. They were mimicking the act. No intimacy, no pleasure — just a grotesque game of house, blindly following some scrap of data that said, this is what humans do.
They pried her fingers open, closed them around their nubs, and pumped her hands up and down, their joints ticking with every stroke. As if they were enjoying it.
That was when the mannequin holding her left arm tilted its head. It seemed curious about the structure of her shoulder joint. How far does this go? There was something almost pure in the inquisitiveness of that grip as it took her arm and folded it backward.
A wet, grinding crack.
"Hhk?! Nnnnngh!!!!"
The scream had barely begun to leave her mouth when the thing twisted further, past any angle a human body was built to endure.
A sickening pop. A snap.
A dull rupture sounded from her shoulder. The rotator cuff tore; the joint dislocated. Her arm went slack and dangled in a direction no arm should hang. Nabi's eyes rolled back. She gasped for air. The pain of bone leaving its socket drowned, for a moment, everything being done to her lower body.
"Ah... my arm. My arm..."
They did not stop. Next came the legs. The mannequins holding them bent her knees and forced them up against her chest — a fetal crouch — and from there they seized both knees and wrenched them outward with everything they had.
A long, stretching creak.
The inner muscles of her thighs screamed. The hip joints hit the limit of what they could bear. The strength in those plastic arms knew nothing of mercy.
A crunch. A hollow thunk.
Deep in her pelvis, bone sprang from its housing. The hip joints tore free of their sockets; the ligaments snapped. Nabi's legs splayed flat against the floor like a frog's — or like a broken doll's. A permanent gape. Nothing she could do would ever close them again.
"Ah... aagh... they won't close... my legs..."
She tried, by instinct, to draw her thighs together, but the brain's command scattered uselessly against ligaments that were no longer there. The femoral heads, popped from their pelvic sockets, bulged against the flesh of her buttocks as if they might punch through the skin. Her legs lay splayed across the floor, grotesque as snapped mannequin parts.
The posture left her with nowhere to hide. Her sex was offered up without a scrap of cover. Even the fine hair of her perineum — the kind of thing thigh-flesh would ordinarily conceal — was laid bare for anyone to see.
The mannequins seemed satisfied with this structural exposure. One of them buried its face between her spread buttocks. That smooth, featureless egg-ghost of a face came to rest a breath away from the puckered folds of her anus.
Sniff. Sniff.
A nauseating sound, as if it were smelling her, though it had no nose at all. It nuzzled its cold plastic cheek against her ruined perineum.
"Eek! It's cold! Don't — don't rub against me!"
Her hips flinched on reflex, and the thing, as if it found the reaction amusing, pressed its cheek in deeper. The slick surface of that faceless head dragged across her wet mucous membranes, making a sticky, squeaking sound — sqelch, sqelch — that turned the stomach. Not human skin. The hard face of a manufactured product, grinding against the most sensitive place she had.
Then another one approached, seized her parted labia majora, and pulled them wide to either side. Pink inner flesh stretched to its limit; the interior of her vagina lay open to the light. They peeled back each vaginal fold with their fingers as if disassembling a precision instrument, pinched her clitoris, tugged it, and tested how far the tissue would give.
"Gyaaaaah...!"
The pain was too large for a scream. Nabi's head lolled, limp. And there, between those hopelessly opened legs, the probe still buried in her urethra and the speculum still cranked open inside her cunt were displayed more nakedly than ever.
One mannequin shoved the urethral probe aside and, right next to it, forced in a urethral dilator.
Creak.
It turned the screw, and the urethral opening — already shredded by the probe — was pried apart by force. From a urethra that had lost the ability to close, the yellow piss pooled in her bladder began to leak in a thin, unbroken thread.
A trickle... drip. Drip.
"Ah, no... I'm peeing — I'm peeing myself... nnhhh..."
Shame flooded her face with heat, but her body would not obey her. The mannequins poked at the leaking urine with plastic fingers, as if they found it fascinating. They pushed those hard fingertips into the yawned-open urethral hole and stirred, or drove into the speculum-spread vaginal entrance beside it until the flesh made wet, sucking sounds — schluck, schluck.
Warm mucous membrane against cold plastic. Blood and piss and arousal, all of it mixing, the wet noise of it filling the front of the convenience store. They were destroying her, and there was no malice in it. Only the cruelty of children playing with a toy that happened to be called human.
"Hhk... Mom... help me..."
Her pupils were starting to lose their focus when the mannequins, as if they had grown bored, changed instruments. The probe and the dilator slid out of her urethra in one slack pull.
A hollow, empty sound.
The forcibly stretched urethral opening would not close. It simply gaped, pulsing faintly, and the last of her residual urine gushed through the slack. There was no rest. They brought a thick, transparent catheter at once and shoved it roughly into the hole that would not shut.
A wet plunge. A deep, grinding shove.
"......!!!!!!!!!"
No lubricant. The rubber tube dragged against raw tissue all the way into the depths of her bladder. And then the syringe connected to it — packed full of some unidentified liquid that glowed a chemical fluorescent yellow.
A hissing rush—
"Hhk?! Nngh! My — my belly!"
The cold fluid slammed into her burning insides. Her bladder swelled like a balloon. Her lower abdomen rose, visibly, the skin drawn so taut it seemed almost translucent. The stinging pain of the chemical and the bursting fullness of a bladder at its limit hit her at once.
"It's gonna burst... my belly's gonna burst... take it out...!"
Nabi shook her head and thrashed, but the mannequins only savored her pleading as another interesting reaction. They opened her mouth. A red ring gag — a coin-sized hole bored through its center — filled her oral cavity. Her jaw joint stretched, aching.
A metallic click.
Once the gag was locked, the mannequins approached in turn. They took the smooth plastic phalluses sprouting from their groins and shoved them through the hole in the gag.
"Mmph! Ghk! Khh!"
A hard foreign object drove deep into her throat. She could not breathe. The peculiar smell of plastic, and the stench of blood clinging to their bodies, crawled down her esophagus. When one finished, the next took its place, and the next after that — a factory conveyor belt of piston strokes, empty of feeling, mechanical, endless.
The world before her eyes flickered white. A dislocated shoulder. Hip joints smashed from their sockets. A bladder swollen with chemicals, ready to split. A lump of plastic plugging her throat. Somewhere, she thought she could hear the sound of her dignity as a human being shattering into pieces.
The convenience store's white fluorescent light receded, growing faint. Nabi's head dropped to the side, all the strength gone out of it. The thread of her consciousness snapped with a small, final tuk.
And even as her eyelids fell shut, the mannequins did not stop. Their joints went on creaking, and their examination went on.