[The following is a fictionalized account of a recent scene with u/warm_vanilla_sugar. The bondage, exchanges, punishments and torments in the account did occur. CW: There is are strong "asylum" and "treatment" themes here, and some losing touch with reality. This is a dark piece.]

The truth is the most important thing. I just need to follow the rules and tell the truth.

They say I came here “complaining of anxiety.” I must not question, but I…I think some things are not true, maybe? I remember. The treatment… it was required by the courts. I had no choice. That’s what happened. That’s the truth. And I have been bad and have not helped myself get better. That is also true; I admit that. But I did not come here complaining.

But here, they do help us notice how much we complain. How ungrateful we are. They catch you when you lack gratitude, and it’s against the rules. Don’t complain. Be polite. Speak when spoken to. Eat when fed. Don’t make messes. Don’t ask questions. Don’t touch what isn’t mine. Don’t touch what is mine. Self-pleasuring shows defiance and imbalance. Resistance shows deepening illness. Complaining shows a lack of humility and gratitude. Here, they are careful to correct small problems, before they become big problems.

Every day, there is treatment. He puts his hands on me. Spanks my ass. Slaps my tits. It’s necessary; I know that. It’s a test. Or an examination. Or a lesson. I don’t think he’s a doctor, but he knows what he is doing. That’s who they put in charge of things: people who know what they are doing. I try to be good. If I back away, he slaps my face and says to stand still. He’s trying to help me. And next, he is behind me, reaching around and touching me some more, pinching and pulling. He hurts me, and says I like this. He tells me not to lie, but I don’t think I’m lying. I think I want him to stop. He slaps me again and tells me he knows the truth. I think I want him to stop. I think that’s the truth. But if that’s wrong, I… I’ll work on improvement. I will apply myself, like they all want me to do.

I get confused. I mustn’t let them catch me confused. Or untruthful. Or anxious. Or bad. I know the rules. Remember the rules.

It seems plain that he knows the truth. And I want to learn it, so that I can say it properly when asked. So I won't do wrong things. So I’ll be discharged.

“This is what you like, isn’t it?” he asks, handling me.

Tell the truth.

“No, Sir,” I tell him. I am honest and polite and good. I stand still and don’t look him in the eye.

“Are you lying to me?” he asks.

My heart begins to thump, and I fidget because I…just don’t know the answer. And that’s a bad girl being bad, so he slaps me and asks again, about the lying.

“No, Sir,” I whisper. I can never talk very well to him. My mouth won’t do it. My air won’t go out past my lips to say things very much.

He chuckles and shakes his head. I shift my weight on bare feet against the concrete floor. My shoes and clothes – I will get them back later, but I feel ashamed to be naked. And when he begins talking about the dildos, I feel the most ashamed. Because…he puts them in me sometimes, as part of the treatment. He states facts: he sees how wet the dildos are when he pulls them out. He says he knows what I like, and I can’t lie to him. He says I am lying to myself. And the dildos tell us that.

He won’t stop touching me. I don’t look at him, but he looks at me, all the time. And he takes pictures of me for my “treatment log,” for my “records.” I would never complain about it, but I feel like an animal when he does that. I stand here, and he takes pictures. I don’t know where to cast my gaze. He has his shoes on, and his clothes. Tell me, where are my clothes, again? Am I in the right place? I think not, maybe, and I am not stupid, so my thinking is sometimes correct. Remember that. But there is a treatment log for me. With pictures. Regarding my complaint. About the anxiety.

Today, he says he has something for me, and brings out the jacket on its hanger. It’s to hold me still, to protect me from myself, and to keep me from my pussy, which causes problems. They are very clear about that: it’s for my own good.

I put my arms into the sleeves as told. Part of me doesn’t want to do as told. That’s the bad part, and I don’t know why I can’t just be good, decent, clean and truthful, and respond well to the treatment, so I can go home. I don’t know why I can’t just be the kind of woman who doesn’t need to be strapped in a straitjacket. Or to be examined. Or to be probed with dildos.

When he yanks on each buckle to tighten this thing around me, my arms crossed in front of me, he pulls with such sudden force each time that it moves my whole body. I remember being a person, before this place. I want to tell someone I was a person. I am a person. But there’s no one to tell – only him, and he is busy at my crotch, fastening straps.

“I can tell already that you’re enjoying this,” he says. There is no hiding. It’s silly to try. I am a silly thing.

Everything is so tight, and he is here, watching. I am here, too, remember. Who is in the jacket? I am in the jacket. Who is in the jacket? I am in the jacket. He is here. I am here. I repeat things in my head. Only I can hear them; I am certain of that.

There are zippered openings in the front, and he pulls on my tits until they stick out of the openings. THE tits. He pulls on the tits and coos at me, “There. That’s nice. Isn’t that nice?” He does as he pleases. It’s better this way, isn’t it. Well, isn’t it? Be honest.

He gestures at the dildo on its pole.

“You know where that’s going? Hmmm?”

Does he want an answer? Am I to speak?

“Answer me!”

“In my cunt,” I tell him quickly. If we both already know this truth, I do not know why I must tell it to him. There is a lot I don’t understand. I am not very smart.

I am directed to step up and straddle the dildo which sticks up on a rod from the floor. I am problematic, and so, I don’t want to. I don’t want to! My legs don’t move and I hate him so much, and I hate my legs for not moving. He hits me again and shoves me towards the thing. It’s treatment time. So I can get better.

As I stand, he secures me to the ceiling chains by rings on the jacket. The chains are thick, and are close to my face. There are so many chains everywhere. Chains don’t lie.

And then, he is also close to my face, stroking my hair and asking, “Isn’t that good? Do you like your jacket?” I tell him “no,” and he pinches my nipple until I tell him the correct answer.

He says he is going to make me prettier. He says he has something nice for me.

He puts the wide, white tape on my mouth, long enough to press onto my cheeks. He smoothes it onto my skin and asks softly, “Isn’t that better?” and then brings out the muzzle. It’s like a leather cage for my head, tightly cupping my chin and designed to force my mouth closed. He is devoted to his work, and takes his time strapping it onto my head, pulling and buckling and pulling and buckling. “Vocalizations” are unwanted and must be inhibited, he has said.

When he’s finished, it’s tight, pressing my lips against my teeth. He tells me I look better now.

He applies lube to the dildo. He is very kind and generous.

“Alright, time to begin your treatment,” he says nonchalantly, “Get on it.”

I hesitate, and he adds, “I should put it in your ass. What do you think of that idea? Should I put it in your ass?”

I cannot answer because the muzzle is real, but he is asking.

“Hmmm?” he prods.

“I think you’ll do as you please,” I would say if I could.

He chuckles. I am amusing.

I will impale my pussy on this dildo so that he doesn’t make me force it into my ass. I must behave, I will behave, I am behaving.

But first, here is a bad, bad secret. There is room, inside the sleeves of the jacket, for me to form my hands into fists, extending my middle fingers. I do that, like a very troubled woman who does forbidden things. I then proceed as directed, pressing down onto the smooth, hard dildo like he wants, feeling it spread my cunt. I don’t know why the sensation still surprises and frightens me. I should be used to it by now; why does my breath still catch in my throat? I should be used to him slapping my face; why do I still flinch? I should be used to him taking photos; why do I still have shame? (Who is shameful? I am. Remember.)

He raises that fat steel thing further up into me, and asks if that’s as far as it goes, to which I have no answer. He locks it down. I do not understand the treatment. It’s good he is here. He understands the treatment. But I hate him. I try not to, because who is the enemy? The man who understands the treatment? Or the ingrate, flipping him off in deceit and disrespect? No wonder I am here.

See? The truth is so important. I wish I knew it better. The anxiety must stem from all the lies, and the way they make me do bad things.

He binds me in ankle cuffs and chains, and then stands back to look at me.

“A lot of people, once admitted, never really leave,” he tells me, staring, “This is your life, now.”

The room spins. This is a lie! I think he is lying. People lie all the time. He must be…just…saying that. They can’t just keep me here. They won’t do that. They don’t just keep people forever.

I keep composing lists of things I know are true. And then, I forget them, or they seem wrong.

I am troublesome.

He gets a cane and works on my exposed tits, beginning with quick, light taps, gradually intensifying. I am a good thing and do not vocalize. I endure and try to please him by being still. Of course, even if I were to try and move, to shield myself or turn away, he has made it so that I can move only a very tiny amount. Is a patient good for being still, if it has no way to move anyway? Is it good for being quiet when tightly muzzled? Is treatment legitimate since it is, in fact, happening? Is pain the best way if it is the only way?

My fingernails are digging into my palms, so I release my fists. Am I good, now? Because I stopped the bad thing? Or am I still bad, for having done the bad thing?

He pauses to run his hands over my tits, then gets a thicker cane.

This time, it is necessary to hurt my thighs. I challenge myself not to cry out, but the big cane is so mean; it’s hard to keep my thoughts where they belong. I focus my gaze ahead, across the room. There is a window, and beyond that, a tree. Here is a list of things I do as he “treats” my thighs: I breathe, I stare, I swallow my cries, I breathe, I shift my feet some, I stare, I forget to breathe, I cry out, I cry out, I cry out. He continues. With the way he does it, my left thigh becomes so much more tender than my right. A truth emerges: pain. I believe in pain.

We have completed the “low intensity” part of today’s treatment. I know this because he tells me. I feel this is terrible news because it means worse things are coming. But really, it is good news because we have finished part, as he has told me. See how tricky things can get? Where good news, generously shared, can seem bad when one is in the wrong frame of mind? See how ungrateful? I must catch myself before I let bad thoughts take hold. I have only myself to blame for bad thoughts and greed. And these things create anxiety, which I am not allowed to have. It cannot continue, obviously. That is fact. But treatment can continue – also fact. You know when something is true because it is happening.

Also, I must catch myself when information he shares with me causes me to want things I cannot have. It’s illogical to do this; I know. I am lying to myself again, wishing for things such as respite. I do not make the treatment plan. To think this way is dishonest. He wants me to stop lying to myself. I have to stop wanting what people like me cannot have.

What he says I CAN have is a break after just a bit more treatment. He asks me, “Would you like that? A break?” This is a kindness, but it makes me think of how perhaps some questions are not questions. Remember that. Like a corner of the cold floor is not a bed. Remember what a bed is. Remember what a tree is. That is a tree, beyond that window, there. Outside. Remember outside.

But.

He’ll do as he wishes, in any case. He decides. Remember that, too.

Presently, he tells me to close my eyes; he has decided to whip my tits. His aim is good, and that thing bites, bites, bites at me. Before long a voice is screaming... Stop! I think it’s just a silent voice; one in my head. I don’t think I am actually screaming. I am muzzled, and muzzled patients do not make actual screams.

I know I need it to stop, but this shows I cannot be trusted with my own care. All decisions are to be left to others. And my mind is tiresome. I even find myself wishing I could beg, when I already know vocalizations are unwanted. I already know that. But I cannot reliably act in my own best interests. Therefore, the muzzle helpfully holds my mouth shut. The dildo keeps me in line and uses my cunt appropriately. The jacket, chains, and cuffs hold me still and help me comply. For effective care. And he, in service to my treatment, swings that whip again and again to make me ready. “I am ready!” I want to shout. I am ready to be so good and so honest. To say or do anything. But I can say nothing. And I can do nothing. So perhaps I am not ready. I despair that I may not know how to be ready. And I worry I am making the dildo wet; he will notice that. And now, no matter what, some illicit “vocalizations” come out, and they come out angry; I know that. They are guttural growls, aimed at the pain, and behind the pain, aimed at the whip, and behind that, aimed at him, and behind that, aimed at me. Because I remain ungrateful, and I show a lack of commitment to my own recovery. And I’ll never get out. Never.

He whips my thighs, too, and I breathe. My mind has gone away. It does that, here. More weakness. One cannot find the truth if one is not even trying. Only the weak require extended treatment. I must understand that.

I don’t remember him stopping or removing the dildo. I don’t remember him remarking about how wet it was, but he surely would have marked my records. Everything is noted. I don’t remember him unchaining me. These things are unimportant. A state of being unbound is temporary, transitional. People who are not chained live outside with the trees. I live in here. I will comply. I want to tell him, in case he is not convinced. But he has left the muzzle on. He has no need of my words.

He leaves the jacket on, too, for protection, and leads me to the hateful wooden box, telling me to get in for my “break.”

But I don’t know how to get in without use of my arms. I am probably imagining things when I sense he delights in watching me try. The box is 8” off the ground, on castors, and one end is open. There is no crawling without arms, and I can’t keep myself from falling. I kneel before the box for a while, being greedy and wanting the impossible, which is to not have to go inside. So he kicks me. “Go on,” he says and kicks me again. A silly, stupid, frustrating, lying thing like myself deserves what it gets. He fetches the leather paddle. So, I figure it the fuck out, backing in and folding myself, the head harness/muzzle getting in my way, and my ass and cunt splayed toward the opening before he locks the end piece on. See? I can accomplish so much if I only try to do what’s right.

Inside, it’s so dark. I am relieved when he turns on the fan, which convinces me I can breathe...at first. I can breathe. I can breathe. I try to draw air in slowly, and let it out slowly, but the muzzle is smothering me. I just know it is. It is smothering me, and I will not get enough air. And the collar of the jacket only feels loose around my neck when actually, it is strangling me. The jacket and muzzle are killing me in the dark, and no one will know. I’ll die in this box. You’re not going to die. Nothing even hurts. This is your break. Just breathe and relax. That’s not a real voice; it’s just words in my head. Whose head? My head.

I do try, but…you have never been in the box.

What’s so difficult? Be a thing in a box and relax. See what a poison this anxiety is? See how it torments you? Why can’t you do better? Even after all this treatment, why do you let the lies take hold? Be a thing in a box. It’s simple. Don’t be silly.

Time passes. I exist and breathe. I try to shift, and it’s laughable. There is no moving in any way whatsoever. And the muzzle is suffocating me. List of things I know: I cannot endure this.

I hear him approach the box, and he opens the view hole. “How are you doing in here?” he asks.

“Please let me out!” I mumble.

“Hmmm?”

“Please, please let me out!! Please!”

“Alright, see you later!” he says. The hatch on the little window is closed and things get quiet again.

This is my fault for not enunciating. For requiring a muzzle. For my ceaseless, loathsome complaining.

I am a bound, troubled thing in the dark, trying to think reasonable things. People who can reason and be honest get to be discharged, eventually. They do, don’t they? I can’t think. My mind flails about, and finds nothing. This is why I am here. I am in the facility because I cannot be outside the facility. I am in the box because I have yet to learn how to be in the box. I undergo treatments for reasons. There are reasonable reasons that other people know because they can think. I can’t think! I sometimes find a good thought, and manage to breathe, but it slips away. I try another tack, and it is as pathetic as the last. I can’t move. I need air. I need light. I need the tree. I need to not be so needy. People learn to exist without all this carrying on and nonsense. When I am calm, I am good. When I am good, things go better for me.

I decide to become a begging, demanding little bitch. I do this by kicking my heel on the wall of the box. My action is met with silence. I do not hear him stir. It’s so dark. I decide he has left. HE HAS LEFT! No one is here to let me out. I kicked, and no one heard, because he has left. OR! I kicked, and therefore, he left. Because I was bad and committed a crime. I fight waves of panic and remember how he has warned me countless times about the rules.

Frantically, I try to make thoughts: I am here, breathing. A breath in is fact. A breath out is fact. A breath in is fact. A breath out is fact. I am where I was told to be. I am being still and quiet and calm. I am not touching what I must not touch because I am mercifully bound. I know – I must not kick the box again. We do not kick things which do not belong to us. We do not damage property. I remember that, now. I must work on being very, very good, so I can get better.

I think the treatment is working.