Regret
The sound rang out.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Aahk!! Ah…! Kyaaugh…! Hah. Hah. Haugh…!”
How many lashes had it been already?
She had managed to count up to ten or so…
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kyaahk! Hhk… Huaah…. Haa. Haa. Ugh…!”
Past the twentieth, she could no longer keep track.
She had forgotten to count just once, and the ceaseless whip erased even that fleeting memory.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Keuhk! Ah… Aah…! Ugh-guh…! Haa. Haa. P-please, stop….”
The machine swung the whip.
Even though the sound was identical each time, the trajectory, the force, and the place it struck were all different.
Like the irregular swing of a pendulum, the lashes came from every direction, impossible to anticipate—and so the pain that followed was unknowable as well.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Aaaah!! Ah…! Aahk… Kkeugh!!”
When it occasionally struck soft flesh—her breasts or the insides of her thighs—the pain was so sharp her body reacted on its own.
A flinch she could not suppress.
A sensation like nerves burning through her entire body.
Yet she was given no time for her body to settle.
As she hung there, swaying, barely clinging to consciousness, what came flying at her was—
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kyaaaugh!!”
—merciless whipping.
Even if she blacked out, it lasted only a few seconds.
Even when the pain became too much for her mind to bear and she slipped into temporary blackout, a single lash dragged her back.
The machine’s movements made it clear: losing consciousness to feel less pain would not be permitted.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Gghk…! Haa. Haa. Ugh!”
Her body felt ready to burst.
Front, back, left, right.
Without order or pattern, the whip struck with a force that seemed intent on tearing her to shreds.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Aahk…! Eut…!! Aah…! Aaaaah!!!”
She screamed from pure agony.
Perhaps it was resistance against one-sided violence.
Unlike yesterday, no erogenous zones were being teased. This was nothing but being beaten—torture, plain and simple.
A situation stripped of every sexual satisfaction, where only pain remained.
Of course, her innate masochistic nature still stirred.
The restraint of being bound and suspended, the humiliation of being unable to resist, and the beating layered on top of it all—yes, she was growing wet.
She could feel the slick fluid between her legs, and there were moments when excitement overtook her and, in her fantasies, she waited for whatever came next.
A wish to be touched and used by someone while hanging there, thoroughly beaten, in this humiliating state of defeat.
But such thoughts were a luxury.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kyaahk!! Hah. Hah. Haa. P-please. Stop. Really…. Stop…. How… many left? Please. Please stop.”
The whip hurt far too much for her to entertain those ideas.
Before she could sink into fantasy and find any satisfaction, the pain yanked her out of it first.
Moreover, two days of life on Prison Island had taught her one unshakable truth that scattered any happy wish like dust.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kyaaaugh! I-I understand. I won’t wish for it! I won’t want it!! Hah! Hah! So please… just stop now…! Uhhhk!”
Whatever the end of her fantasy might be—
here, nothing ever went the way she wanted.
She was simply used however the guards desired.
…Yes. Now she understood.
Why Yejin always maintained that defiant attitude.
She must have been risking danger in pursuit of the sexual satisfaction she craved.
But Nayoon had neither the courage nor the inclination for that.
Perhaps it was because she had only just been imprisoned, but it still felt far too reckless.
She could barely endure this whipping as it was; she could not take on that kind of risk.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kyauuugh!! Ah… It hurts. It hurts. Ah… Augh!”
Her body was in tatters.
How many more left?
Surely it was almost over by now?
Fifty lashes, he had said….
Please stop already.
Stop hitting me.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Kkeuuuugh!! Haa. Haa. Haa.”
The liquid running down her body—
was it sweat? Blood?
Or… both?
Every sensation flooded through her battered form.
Her already ragged clothes had been torn further by the whipping until their original shape was nearly unrecognizable.
The right shoulder strap had already been ripped away, failing to cover her breast, and around her waist and hips the fabric was shredded even more irregularly than torn jeans.
It had barely been clothing to begin with; now it could hardly be expected to serve that purpose at all.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Heuhk!! Ah. Uaah… Haa. Haa. Ugh…!”
Please stop hitting me.
Stop hitting me!!
Strength drained from her body.
She no longer had the power to lift her head, so she hung limp, staring only at the floor.
Even the legs she had raised early on to brace against the pain had lost their strength and dangled toward the ground.
Was that why?
Every so often, when her toenails scraped the floor, the desperate wish to be let down surged up inside her.
— Whirr. Swoosh ── Crack!!
“Keok…! Uh… Uhhk…!”
Her throat must have given out; no sound came….
She could not lose consciousness, yet holding onto it was nearly impossible.
Not knowing what else to do, all she could manage was to take the blows in a daze, feel the pain, tremble, and fear the next one.
If she had a wish… it was only that the torture session would end soon.
Fantasy or anything else—the single emotion filling her mind was that one thing.
Please.
Please.
Please….
Ple— wait?
— Clank.
Hanging there with difficulty, she tried to catch her breath.
In truth, beyond catching her breath, there was nothing else she could do.
And then she realized.
At some point the mechanical arms holding the whip had withdrawn into the walls.
And with the soft sound of the torture chamber’s iron door opening, a man was approaching her.
“Ha. Inmate A713.”
She heard the voice.
But she could not respond.
She knew she ought to answer, yet her neck, which had been hanging toward the floor for so long, would not turn that way.
She hung limp, drained of strength.
A guard, however, would never allow that.
“Not answering? A713. Lee Nayoon.”
“Gghk…!”
Someone seized her hair and yanked her head sideways.
Through the disheveled strands she saw Leviathan’s face.
Because she was suspended from the ceiling, their eyes were nearly level.
But that alone did not make their positions equal.
As if to drive the point home, Leviathan tapped her cheek lightly with the back of his hand, urging a reply.
“…Yes.”
The single word she forced out.
That one word of response to being called confirmed the inmate’s state of mind.
It was not defiance.
She simply lacked the strength.
That was what she was telling him.
“You’re something else. Inmate or not—getting hit fifty times and still smiling?”
Huh?
Was she… smiling again?
At Leviathan’s words she moved the muscles of her face to check her expression.
There was no mirror, so she could not see, but a sensation similar to yesterday lingered on her face.
In her heart she was not smiling, yet she probably was.
Really… she wasn’t smiling.
But with no proof and a lingering unease, she simply nodded and accepted the guard’s words.
In this place a guard’s word was as good as law, after all.
So whatever he said must be right.
“Still, you held up well. You must have been out of it since training time today, yet you didn’t faint under your first whip torture. You’re only the second one to manage that.”
“Ah… thank… you.”
Why did a faint disappointment stir that she had not been the first?
Even so, she felt a little better.
It was nothing major, yet it was proof she had endured.
Especially for a masochist—or anyone with a submissive bent—the excitement of satisfying the one who had driven her into a sadistic situation was a reward.
…A catalyst for pleasure.
“All right. I’ll put the handcuffs and leg irons on you. Once you can move, go straight back to the cell, go inside, and sit. Keep the door closed. Wait until the other inmates arrive. If you try to escape or aren’t inside the cell by the time I get there, I’ll send you straight to solitary. Be careful. Understood?”
“Yes… I understand.”
“Yes. I understand.”
While delivering a few more instructions, Leviathan brought the handcuffs and leg irons he had prepared outside the torture chamber and fastened them around her wrists and ankles.
She was barely standing.
Bound, clinging only to consciousness.
Then Leviathan gestured toward the exit of the torture chamber.
The meaning was clear: go as ordered.
“Ugh… Yes.”
She passed the silent man and stepped out of the torture chamber.
Dragging the chain connecting her leg irons across the floor, she set off slowly toward the cells.
In her heart she wanted to ask Leviathan to touch her between the legs just once—
but she held it in.
Even if she spoke, she would almost certainly receive Demeanor Penalty Points for making a demand of a guard….
Yes. She held back.
Tomorrow’s “her” would probably find that praiseworthy.
“Uhhk…! Haa. Haa.”
She walked with difficulty.
The corridor she had crawled on all fours yesterday.
The path that had felt so long then was still long even when she walked on two feet.
No—it was not that far; her steps were simply too slow.
“Khk…! Aahk….”
It could not be helped.
Her body hurt too much….
Walking through the brighter area, she checked the marks left on her skin and found countless red lines drawn across it, too many to count one by one.
They were not merely welts.
On her breasts, where the pain had been especially fierce, dark blue bruises had already formed, and wherever flesh gathered even a little—thighs, calves, and so on—large mottled marks remained.
These were not temporary.
Traces of burst blood vessels deep under the skin or damaged muscle,
and places where the skin itself had split open.
Blood was not streaming freely, yet around the torn parts of her prison uniform long cuts like razor slices showed, with beads of blood welling up.
Some had already stained the fabric.
“Haa. Haa. Ugh…!”
She walked in that state.
Walked… in order to be locked away again.
In her heart she wanted to disinfect the wounds and wrap them in bandages as soon as possible.
No—more than that, she wanted to lie down and rest.
Her body throbbed and ached that badly.
“Haugh… Ugh….”
But that wish lasted only a moment.
The instant she stood before the cell, the hope burst like a soap bubble.
The tiny cell door that reached only to waist height.
Seeing the dark, cramped space inside, she knew at once it would never be a comfortable resting place.
More precisely, she had already experienced it,
so her body itself had learned it could never be a shelter.
“Huu….”
Should she stay outside a little longer?
No.
It would be hard either way.
Better to lean against the wall and rest.
— Clank-rattle.
Dragging the chain across the uneven cell floor, she opened the door and went inside.
Then she moved all the way to the innermost spot.
Just as her cellmates had done before,
she took the place that was hardest to reach first, so the next person could settle a little more comfortably.
The very back.
Once she sat, she realized it was the spot where A691—Yejin—had sat yesterday.
“Huu.”
She reviewed the day.
A day that had begun with the same routine.
Yet it had been far harsher than yesterday.
She had nearly died in the training room, had been subjected to something close to rape with internal ejaculation in the guard room,
and after the whip torture she was once again locked in the cell.
Only four days ago she had been rolling around on her bed, full of anticipation for prison life.
A woman who had never even known the taste of a man.
Listing everything that had been done to her in a mere two days made her keenly feel how foolish her choice had been.
Should she have been more careful?
Or should she have stopped at fantasy and never acted on it?
“….”
No matter how many times she thought it over, even if she went back, this damned lust of hers would have made her click the application link anyway.
Yet… even though she could picture herself going to Waltz Production for counseling and then doing the exact same thing afterward—
she could not help regretting that moment.
Life on Prison Island was that harsh.
It was only the second day, and already her body and mind felt badly broken.
Suddenly, worry bloomed as well.
Really… what if.
Just hypothetically….
If she ended up carrying Leviathan’s child… what then?
Rationally speaking, the chance was small.
Even in her fertile years, a child did not result from one or two acts of sex, and she believed Prison Island must have some degree of management in place.
But nothing here had ever gone as expected.
What if abortion or pregnancy itself was simply another form of prison life?
It was a possibility she had never considered, yet she had no answer she could feel certain about.
And she was far too afraid to ask Leviathan.
What if, on the contrary,
he told her that pregnancy, too, was a kind of torture inflicted on someone whose human rights had been stripped away…?
She would be seized by even greater anxiety and sheer terror.
The anxiety of the unknown,
or the certain anxiety that rested on probability.
In a situation where she could not easily choose either, she simply leaned against the wall for now.
Worries and concerns came first, and regret pressed in, but this was the best she could do at the moment.
Above all,
her body moved against her thoughts,
twitching as if telling her to rest.
The slick fluid between her legs was another of the body’s messages.
…Ha. Why was I born a masochist.
One more meaningless moment of regret had been added.