The Room We Shared
The room was always the same, no matter the season. Four beds pushed close together, mattresses thin enough that you could feel the frame when you turned. The walls were plain, the kind of gray that didn't draw attention, and the window looked out onto the courtyard where other buildings repeated themselves, row after row. We slept there all of us—me, my two brothers, and sometimes the younger ones from next door when space ran short. Bodies close, breaths mixing in the dark. It felt safe, in a way. Like nothing could get lost if everything was pressed together.
I was the middle one. Kael. Not the oldest, who carried things without being asked, or the youngest, who still cried sometimes at night. Just in the middle, watching. Mother said that was good. "You notice," she'd whisper when she tucked us in, her hand lingering on my forehead a moment longer than on the others. "That's useful."
Father didn't say much. He came home tired, his clothes carrying the faint smell of the inner zones—something sharper, cleaner than our air out here on the belt. He'd sit at the table, eating slowly, while Mother moved around him, quiet and efficient. Sometimes, after we were supposed to be asleep, I'd hear them in the corner alcove. The sounds were soft at first—fabric shifting, breaths deepening. Father's hand on her back, guiding. Mother's small intake of air, like surprise, but not really. It happened often enough that it became part of the night's rhythm, like the distant hum from the transport lines overhead.
I didn't understand it then, not fully. Only that it was something private, something that made Mother softer afterward, her voice lower when she checked on us one last time. Father would lie still, staring at the ceiling. Once, I caught his eye in the dim light. He didn't look away. Just nodded, as if to say it was normal. Part of how things worked.
We went to the halls on certain days. Not every week, but regular enough. The family would walk together through the corridors, the air growing cooler as we descended. The halls were vast, concrete and stone, high ceilings that made voices echo strangely. No pictures on the walls, no decorations. Just space, and bodies. Lots of bodies, standing in rows.
We stood too. Mother on one side, Father on the other, us children between. The ritual was simple: breathe together, hold still, feel the weight of the room. Sometimes there were movements—slow turns, arms raised in unison. It tired you out, the standing. But afterward, there was a quiet inside, like the body had settled into itself.
The instructors—older ones, calm voices—would walk between the rows. "Alignment," they'd say. "This is alignment." No one asked what it meant. You just felt it. The way your breathing matched the person next to you. The way the ache in your legs became shared, not yours alone.
I liked the halls when I was small. They made the world feel ordered. Back home, things could shift—someone moving to a different shift, a neighbor's child taken for a session. But in the halls, everything stayed.
School started early. Not real school at first, just gatherings in the common rooms. Learning letters, numbers, how to stand in line. How to wait. The older ones talked about the center sometimes, in whispers. "Closer in," they'd say. "That's where things happen." But mostly, we played in the courtyards, running between the buildings until our lungs burned with the thicker air.
When I turned twelve, things began to change. Not all at once. Sessions, they called them. A few days away, in the preparation complexes. You'd go with a group, sleep in long dorms with rows of beds, no walls between. The air there was different—steadier, somehow. Instructors watched closer. Mornings started with checks: stand straight, breathe deep, notice how the body responded.
At first, it was games. Running, stretching, holding poses until your muscles shook. "Listen to it," the instructor would say. "The body knows." I didn't know what that meant, but I tried. Everyone tried.
Home felt smaller after the first session. The room with my brothers seemed crowded in a new way. I'd lie awake, feeling the space between us, wondering why it suddenly mattered.
Mother noticed. She always did. "It's the age," she said one evening, smoothing my hair. "Things adjust." Father nodded from across the table. "You'll get used to it. Everyone does."
By fourteen, the sessions were longer. Weeks sometimes. The complexes were bigger, the routines stricter. Mornings: line up for inspection. Afternoons: training halls, bodies moving in sync. Evenings: quiet talks in the dorms, voices low.
That's when the strangeness started. Not pain, exactly. More like pressure. Inside the chest, behind the eyes. During the closeness exercises—standing near others, breathing the same air—it would build. A warmth that spread without reason. I'd catch myself watching the way someone's neck curved, or how their shoulders rose and fell. It felt wrong, but also... inevitable.
We talked about it sometimes, in the dark. "Feels heavy today," one would say. "Like it's covering you." Another: "Strange, yeah. But it'll pass." No one said more. There weren't words for it yet.
The returns home grew shorter. A day or two, then back. Mother would hug tighter. "You're doing well," she'd murmur. Father would look at me longer, as if measuring something. The younger brothers asked questions I couldn't answer. "When do I go?" the smallest one wanted to know. I told him soon. It was true for all of us.
At fifteen, the air in the complexes felt denser. Not heavier—just fuller. Breathing it in, you'd hold it longer than usual. The instructors spoke of readiness now. "The body prepares," they'd say. "Notice the reaction."
I noticed. How standing still became harder in certain rooms. How the warmth came quicker, stayed longer. How, after a session near the inner gates, it lingered even in sleep.
One night, back home for a brief return, I lay in the old room. My brothers breathed evenly beside me. The familiar walls pressed in. But something had shifted. The space between us felt like distance now, not safety.
I thought about the center. Closer. Where the air was thickest, they said. Where things aligned properly.
It didn't scare me, not exactly. More like waiting. For the next session. For whatever came after.
The body knew, even if I didn't.
Not yet.
The Exposure Ring
The transfer happened quietly. One morning, after a short return home, the instructor simply said, "You're moving to the next complex. Pack light." No ceremony. Just a new route through the corridors, deeper in, closer to where the air felt fuller.
I was sixteen then. The new place was different from the preparation zones. The buildings were longer, the windows taller, the light colder. We arrived in groups—boys and girls together, which hadn't happened before. Separate dorms, but shared spaces: halls, showers, dining lines. Everything open, visible.
The first day, they lined us up in the main hall. Instructors walked between us, calm as always. "This is exposure," one said. "Bodies adjust. Reactions are expected." No one explained more. We just stood there, feeling the new density in the air, the way it pressed against the skin.
The showers came that evening. Not separate anymore. One large room, tiled and bright, rows of nozzles along the walls. We were told to undress in the anteroom, fold clothes neatly, walk in together. Boys and girls. No curtains, no stalls.
I remember stopping at the threshold. The steam was already rising, bodies moving under the water—some familiar from the old groups, most new. Skin everywhere. Curves and lines I hadn't seen up close before. Not like family, not like the accidental glimpses at home. This was deliberate. Open.
My face burned. I kept my eyes down, but there was nowhere to hide. Hands shaking a little, I pulled off my shirt, then the rest. The air felt colder on bare skin than it should have. Someone beside me—a girl with short hair—did the same without pausing. Others hesitated like me.
An instructor stood at the entrance, watching. Not staring, just present. "Move in," he said. "Water's running."
Under the spray, it got worse. The warmth spread too fast, pooling low in the stomach. I turned to the wall, trying to hide the reaction, but the body didn't listen. It stiffened, obvious. Around me, the same thing happened to others—boys shifting, girls glancing down at themselves, faces red. No one laughed. No one spoke. Just the sound of water and breathing.
The instructors moved among us. "Don't cover," one said gently, touching a boy's shoulder to lower his arms. "Let it be seen. The body reacts. That's alignment." Another guided a girl's hands away from her chest. "No shame here. This is the stage."
They showed us how to wash. Slow movements, thorough. Soap passed hand to hand. Turn, lift arms, bend. Everything exposed. I felt the heat rise again and again, uncontrollable. Each time, an instructor would notice, nod. "Good response," they'd say. "Note it."
Afterward, drying in the open room, towels small. Bodies still damp, close. Someone's hip brushed mine. The jolt was immediate. I stepped back, heart racing. The girl looked at me, then away. Not angry. Just... noticing.
That night, in the dorm—long rows of beds, no dividers—I couldn't sleep. The images stayed. The way skin looked under water. The way my own body had betrayed me, standing out for everyone to see. Shame mixed with something else, something that made the darkness feel thicker.
Home visits were rarer now. When I did return, briefly, everything felt off. The old room with my brothers seemed childish. The youngest still played on the floor, unaware. The middle one watched me with new curiosity. "What do they do there?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Training. Showers together now."
Mother paused in the doorway, listening. Father glanced up from the table. "It's the ring," he said. "Bodies change. You'll settle."
But Mother came closer later, when the others slept. Her hand on my arm. "It's hard at first," she whispered. "The openness. But it passes. You learn to carry it." Her eyes were soft, tired. Like she remembered.
I thought about my older brother then. He'd gone through this two years earlier. I remembered watching him change—taller, quieter, moving with a new ease. The way he'd stand in the courtyard sometimes, shirt off in the heat, not caring who saw. His body had looked... certain. Strong without trying. I'd envied that calm, the way he seemed to fit whatever came.
Then, right after he turned eighteen, he was gone. One morning, his bed empty. Mother said he'd been placed. "Closer in," she added, voice steady. Father nodded. "Good function." No more questions. We didn't talk about it after.
I wondered where he was now. If he still remembered the shared room. If the showers had felt like this to him—hot, exposed, impossible to hide.
Back in the new complex, the practices deepened. Mornings: line up naked for checks. Instructors touching lightly—neck, back, thighs—to test tension. "Relax into it," they'd say. Afternoons: paired exercises, bodies close, learning to hold positions without pulling away. The reactions came faster each time. Harder to ignore.
Clothes changed too. They made us exchange sometimes. "No ownership," an instructor explained. "Bodies prepare the same." I'd end up in someone else's shirt, too tight or too loose, carrying their scent. Or nothing at all for hours, walking the corridors in groups, skin against cooler air.
The shame didn't vanish. It just... shifted. Became part of the waiting. Part of noticing how others reacted too—the quick breaths, the flushed skin, the way eyes lingered longer now.
Instructors praised the ones who adjusted quickest. "See how the body aligns?" they'd say, pointing. I tried to be like that. To stand straighter when watched. To let the warmth come without fighting.
But at night, alone in the dorm's half-dark, the fear crept in. Not of the showers or the touches. Of how much I was starting to expect them. How the body leaned toward the next session, even when the mind still pulled back.
Closer, the air felt. Denser.
I was sixteen, almost seventeen.
And something inside was already turning toward it.
Eyes Through Glass
They started taking us to the gallery walks when I was seventeen.
The first time, we were still dressed. Simple uniforms—loose shirts, soft pants, nothing that marked us apart. The corridor leading there was long and straight, the floor cool under bare feet. Instructors walked on either side, not rushing us. "Observe," one said quietly. "Notice the shift."
We entered a wide, brightly lit hall. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. Beyond it, another space—higher ceiling, softer light, people moving with a kind of unhurried certainty. They wore finer clothes, darker colors, fabrics that caught the light differently. Some stood in small groups, talking. Others sat at low tables. A few simply watched.
We lined up facing the glass, maybe twenty of us, boys and girls mixed. Hands at sides. Shoulders back. The air here was different—thicker, warmer, as if someone had turned up the density without changing the temperature. My first breath caught halfway. The second went deeper than I meant it to.
I didn't see them as people at first. Not exactly. More like... direction. Presence. Something the body recognized before the mind caught up. My skin prickled. Heat rose in my chest, spread to my neck, my face. I felt the flush creeping, impossible to stop.
The instructor beside me murmured, "Stand firm. Let the reaction come."
I tried. Legs steady, chin level. But inside, something tilted. A pull, low and steady, like gravity shifting toward the glass. I wanted—without words for it—to open up. Chest forward, shoulders wider, as if offering the shape of myself for inspection. The thought should have frightened me. Instead, it settled.
Around me, the others were doing the same. A girl to my left lifted her ribcage slightly, breathing deeper. A boy on my right straightened his spine, hands unclenching. No one spoke. We just... presented. Quietly. Naturally.
On the other side, a few of them looked up. Not staring. Not pointing. Just noticing. One man—tall, calm-faced—paused in his conversation and turned toward us. His gaze moved slowly down the line. When it reached me, the warmth inside flared sharper. My pulse thudded in my ears. I didn't look away. Couldn't.
The instructor's voice was soft. "Good. The body aligns."
We stood there longer than I expected. Minutes, maybe more. The heat didn't fade. It deepened, pooled lower. My uniform felt suddenly rough against skin that wanted less between itself and the air.
When they finally led us out, my legs were steady, but everything else felt rearranged.
After that, the gallery walks became regular. Twice a week, sometimes more. The air grew familiar—the way it pressed, the way it lingered in the lungs afterward. Each time, the pull was stronger. Each time, we stood a little taller.
Then they began asking us to remove shirts.
"Upper body only," the instructor would say. "Fold neatly. Hands at sides."
The first shirtless walk, the glass felt closer, even though it wasn't. Skin bare to the cooler air, then to their eyes. I remember the chill on my back, the heat everywhere else. Nipples tightening. The faint tremor in my stomach. Wanting to cover, but more than that—wanting to be seen clearly. To show the lines of rib and collarbone, the way the chest rose and fell.
Girls did the same. Breasts exposed, some small, some fuller, all offered forward without apology. No one giggled. No one hid. The instructors walked behind us, adjusting posture gently—a hand between shoulder blades, a quiet "Open here."
Beyond the glass, more of them watched now. Not all, but enough. Calm. Interested. As if we were something in progress.
The reactions grew stronger. Flushes deeper. Breathing quicker. Sometimes a visible hardness under the pants, or a subtle shift in stance for the girls. Instructors noted it without judgment. "Expected," they'd say. "The stage."
I started looking forward to the walks. Not admitting it, even to myself. But the body knew. The way it woke early on those mornings. The way it leaned toward the corridor.
One afternoon, late in the seventeenth year, they brought us again. Same hall. Same glass. But the instructor's voice was different.
"Full exposure today. Remove everything. Fold and stack. Then hands behind the head, elbows wide."
The words landed quietly. No one protested. We undressed in the anteroom, slower than usual. Skin prickling in the cooler air. I felt the flush start before I was even naked.
When we walked in, the glass seemed brighter. The space beyond fuller. More of them there today—standing, watching, waiting.
We lined up. Hands laced behind our necks. Bodies open. Nothing hidden.
The air wrapped around us, thick and warm. My heart beat hard against the ribs. Every inch of skin felt alive, exposed, waiting. The pull was immediate—stronger than ever. A low ache starting deep, spreading.
Instructors moved down the line. Calm. Professional.
One stopped behind me. Hands on my shoulders, turning me slightly side-on to the glass. "Good line here," he said quietly, voice carrying just enough. Fingers traced lightly down my spine, correcting posture. Then lower—adjusting hips, spreading stance. "Open the form."
Another instructor with a girl nearby: "Lift here. Let them see the shape."
They made us bend forward, slowly. Hands still behind heads. Back arched. Everything displayed. Comments low, factual.
"Responsive tissue."
"Firm development."
"Symmetrical alignment."
"Note the reaction—strong today."
I felt the blood rush. The exposure complete. The eyes beyond the glass steady, measuring. And beneath the shame—sharp, bright—a deeper settling. A quiet rightness.
The body knew its place.
It wanted to stay there.
Longer.
On the Table
That night, sleep refused to come whole.
I lay in the long dorm, eyes open in the half-dark, body still humming from the gallery. The air felt heavier than usual, as if the density from the hall had followed me back. Every shift on the mattress brought skin against fabric, too aware, too sensitive. The flush that had started behind the glass hadn't fully left; it lingered low, insistent.
When I finally drifted, it wasn't rest. Fragments. Hands—not the instructors'—reaching. Calm, certain fingers tracing the line of my hip, pressing into muscle, testing. Palms sliding over my chest, thumbs brushing nipples until they tightened painfully. Someone behind me, grip firm on my buttocks, spreading, holding open. Cool air there, then warmth—a finger circling, pressing in slowly, deliberately. My mouth opened without sound; another hand slipped between my lips, two fingers deep, feeling the tongue, the teeth, the wet heat.
The faces were blurred, but I knew them. The ones beyond the glass. Their presence steady, unhurried. Not cruel. Just... thorough. Owning the examination.
I woke gasping, hardness throbbing against my stomach. The dorm was quiet, breaths even around me. I turned onto my side, pressing thighs together, trying to quiet it. But the images stayed. The dream hands kept moving, even awake. Squeezing, opening, claiming space inside.
It happened again and again that night. Half-sleep pulling me back into the same touches. Each time deeper. Each time my body arched toward them without permission. Shame burned, but beneath it—something worse. Want. A low, steady pull to return to the feeling. To let it continue.
By morning, I was heavy-eyed, skin oversensitive. The uniform chafed. Walking to the dining hall, every step reminded.
A week passed like that. Tense. Waiting.
Then, one afternoon, an instructor approached my place in line. "You. Individual assessment. Come."
Just me. No group. The corridor was quieter, the air already shifting as we walked inward. My pulse quickened before I understood why.
The room was smaller than the gallery hall. White walls, bright overhead light. A metal table in the center—cold steel, padded thinly, stirrups folded at one end. Instruments on a tray: gloves, vials, measuring tape, clear tubes. One wall glass again. Beyond it, three figures. The same calm presence. Seated now, notebooks ready.
Two examiners waited inside—white coats, neutral faces. Older. One male, one female. They didn't smile, but their voices were soft.
"Undress fully. Place clothes there." A small shelf.
I did. Hands steadier than I expected. Skin prickling as the fabric left. The room was cool; gooseflesh rose immediately. Hardness started before I was even bare.
They noticed. Of course.
"Lie on the table. Back first. Arms at sides."
The metal was shocking cold against skin. I inhaled sharply. Legs together at first, trying to hide the erection already full.
The male examiner gloved up. "Relax, boy. It's expected. The body responds here. Let it."
He started with measurements. Tape around chest, waist, hips. Cool fingers lifting my arms, checking joints, muscle tone. Notes murmured. The female wrote.
Then height, weight. Blood pressure—cuff tight on arm. Blood draw—needle quick, vial filling red.
"Turn over. On stomach."
The table cold again on chest, erection trapped beneath. Humiliating pressure.
Hands on back, spine, buttocks. Spreading cheeks gently but firmly. "Good symmetry." A gloved finger circled the entrance, pressed lightly—not in, just testing tension. I clenched involuntarily.
"Easy," the female said, voice calm. "Breathe out. Normal resistance at this stage."
They turned me again. Onto back. Legs now in the stirrups, spread wide. Everything open to the light, to the glass.
The male took my erection in hand. Clinical grip. Measuring length, girth—tape cold. Then slow strokes, up and down, steady rhythm. Not pleasure, exactly. Assessment. Watching how it jumped, how fluid gathered at the tip.
"Strong response," he noted quietly. "Quick to full."
I turned my face away, burning. But the female touched my cheek, turned it back. "Eyes forward, boy. No hiding. This is data."
They collected a sample—continued strokes until release came sudden, white spilling over gloved fingers into a small cup. Body shaking, breath ragged.
After, mouth exam. "Open." Fingers inside again, pressing tongue down, checking throat depth. "Good capacity."
Every part. Ears, nostrils, under arms. Toes spread, soles checked. Nothing skipped.
Throughout, the ones beyond the glass watched. Eyes steady. Occasionally a note, a quiet exchange.
When it ended, they helped me sit. "Well done," the male said. "Strong alignment. The reactions are correct."
I dressed slowly. Legs weak. The air felt different leaving—thinner, somehow.
Walking back to the dorm, the dream touches felt closer. Realer.
The body remembered every hand.
And wanted more.
Rites of Alignment
The return home came sudden, after days blurring in the complex. The corridor out felt longer, the air thinning as we moved outward. My body carried the table's cold still—skin too aware, steps measured to keep the low ache quiet. Instructors nodded us through the gates. "Brief. Align at home." No more.
The family zone greeted with its familiar repeat: low buildings, narrow courtyards, the steady hum from shared kitchens. Our door opened to the same room, but it pressed different now. Smaller. Mother there first, arms open but brief. Father from the table, glance measuring. Younger brothers scattered—playing, watching.
I dropped the small pack. Sat heavy. The words built inside, flat but pressing.
"It's changing. The body. They make us... show it. All of it. Why?"
Mother paused, smoothing a cloth. Father looked up slow. They exchanged a glance—quick, shared.
"That's how it goes," Father said. Even voice. "The ring."
"But it reacts. Before I think. Stands out. They watch. Measure." The words came drier than meant, like reciting.
Mother sat beside, hand light on knee. Not squeezing. "Bodies do. It's the stage. You'll carry it."
"Not just carry. It wants." Shame twisted the last, but out anyway.
Father nodded to his plate. "Want aligns too. Easier after." No more. They moved—clearing, turning. Conversation closed.
I stood, chest tight. Their calm heavier than answers. Split wider inside. Not fighting them. Just... not reaching.
The hall came next evening. Family together, walking the descent. Corridors cooler, steps echoing softer. The space opened vast—concrete high, bodies already filling rows. No light play, no warmth. Just volume, pressing in.
We took our place. Children between, adults flanking. Breathing started—slow, shared. Then the words layered, voices blending low.
"Body given. Service taken. Fate held."
Repeated. Filled the air. Chest rose with it, pressure building steady. Not thought. Felt. In ribs, in breath syncing. Around me, adults deeper—eyes half-shut, bodies settled heavier. Father straight, Mother soft exhale matching.
I tested silent. Body given—yes, the glass, the table. Service taken—the hands, the strokes. Fate held—the pull, no end. Words sank bodily, rhythmic. Lingered as we left, echoing in steps home.
Next day, courtyard edges. Boys gathered loose—older ones from sessions, younger watching. Whispers started fragmented, low.
"Wastelands out there. No walls, just drop."
"Take wild ones. New blood. Keep us going."
"Not destroy. Feed each other. City pulls, they push back."
Three circles hung unspoken: center thick, ring holding, outside raw. Symbiotic. Threat mixing pull—bodies free but wrong-grown, chaotic. No escape clear. Just... renewal.
I listened. Didn't push words. Ambiguity sat heavy, promising nothing resolved.
Housework pulled after. Heat built in the small space. Shirt off easy—no thought. Skin bare to air, no prickle wrong. Wiping tables, sorting stacks. Body moved balanced, chest firm under motion. Memory flickered: older brother here once, shirtless confident, lines sure. Approaching. Something ahead, foggy but right.
Noticing came frequent now. Passing boys in lines, corridors. Firm chests under thin shirts. Trained shoulders rolling easy. Legs steady, hips narrow but set. Value clear—preparation showing. My own mirrored: lines holding, response quick but controlled. Pleasing. To those behind glass. Object there, not full word. Just sense.
Evening drew us again. Courtyard dimming, boys straight-backed. Shirts shed automatic—no question. Standing close, no sitting. Exchanges short.
"A."
"Yes."
Shoulder slap firm—growth noted. "Stronger here." Hand flat on chest, thumb light over nipple—pinch quick, testing. Laugh low. Butt slap passing—solid, changed. Bodies acknowledged, touch pleasurable settling. No heat wrong. Normal. Close among us.
Night dropped heavy. Dorm dark, but home room same press. Body stirred falling asleep. Hand slipped down, knowing forbidden. Instructor's voice echoed: "No alone. Wait alignment." Memory sharp—inspection line, hand on self, release watched. Wanted repeat. Danger mixed. Shame swelled, but pull stronger. Dreams hinted belonging—bodies aligned, held. Worry twisted. Wanted anyway.
Here. Now.
The morning line-up in the main hall stretched longer than usual. Bodies close, shoulders brushing. Air steady, pressing even. Instructors at the front, voices flat through the speakers.
Laor stepped forward. Calm scan down the rows. "Full alignment now. No returns home. Sessions end. Here."
Words landed. No echo. Chest tightened brief—old rhythm cut. No questions rose. Bodies shifted minimal, stances holding. Mine too. Heat low already, from the nearness.
"Gallery. Full naked. Now."
We moved. Corridor narrow, steps syncing. Anteroom first—clothes off, folded precise. Skin hit cooler air, prickling instant. Hardness stirring before glass doors.
Doors slid. Hall bright, glass wall humming faint. Thicker air behind—density pulling breath shallow. Line up. Hands behind heads automatic, elbows wide. Arched backs. Stances spread.
Intercom crackled soft. Voice not Laor's—deeper, distant. "Open chests. Hold."
Bodies yielded. Mine too—ribs forward, skin taut. Flush spread hot across chest, down. Ache building low, visible. No hide.
Instructors circled. Laor's hand on my shoulder first—press down, widening stance. "Wider. Present." Fingers trailed spine, adjusting hips. Open more. Glass eyes steady beyond, notes passing silent.
Intercom again. "Turn. Bend forward. Hold form."
Legs parted further. Back arched sharp. Everything shown. Public hardness throbbed, flush deep. "Ripe," someone murmured beyond glass—faint through panels. Ache peaked, no release. Held.
Longer than before. Sweat beaded skin. Bodies trembled slight around—mine steadying into it. Rightness settling under exposure.
Dismissed. Dressed slow. Skin hummed still.
Empty Hold
Room waited empty. Door clicked shut behind. Timer started—low beep, wall panel glowing. One hour. No sound else. No light shift. Bare floor, white walls closing in.
Stood center. Breath even. Body given. Here. Now.
Minutes dragged. Heat built—no rhythm, no eyes. Twitches: thigh, chest. Sweat trickled base-spine. Ache pulsed untouched.
Paced. Sat wrong. Stood. Breath deeper, self-synced. Settled fraction.
Peak mid-hour: limbs heavy, slick skin, throb empty. Timer end. Door free.
Corridor relief instant. Group bodies ahead, breaths mixing. Wanted merge. Followed.
Dorm Heat
Dorm dimmed early. Beds close, whispers threading. Imer leaned over edge, voice low easy. "Easier today. Body wants. Let."
Others nodded. Hands loose on sheets.
Kael shifted opposite. Watched.
Imer grinned faint. "Test it." Reached across—fingers pinched chest light, held. Pressure pleasurable, near-warm. Relaxed full into it. "See? Aligns."
Peers echoed. "He's right. Faster here."
My turn. Imer's hand flat—pinch same spot. Tension spiked first, then eased unwilling. Heat spread from touch. Silent.
"No later," Imer said, releasing. "Just here." Group settled. Shame thickened low, body heavy alone.
Laor's Touch
Laor found me after evening meal. Side corridor, quiet. "You. Correction. Now."
Followed. Small room, chair plain. Sat when told.
"Feelings. Here?" Hand gestured body.
"Here." Chest tight. "Now."
"Good. Body?"
"Reacts. Strong."
Probed slipped. "What... after?"
Ignored. "No after. Body now?" Hand light on arm—test. Yield instant, flush rising.
"Questions delay alignment." Touch lingered, pressure steady. "Stay present."
Flush deepened. No words left. Nodded.
Dismissed.
Stone Sync
Evening rite pulled group to silence hall. Stone vast, bodies filling rows precise. Instructors front. "Stand. Chant."
Breath synced first—chest rise together. Words started low.
"Body given."
Pause. Hold.
"Service taken."
Deeper. Voice joined full—mine too, no hold back.
"Fate held."
Full now. "Now."
Repeated. Rhythmic pressure built, overriding inside. Peers deeper—Imer ahead, settled heavy. Instructors nodded. "Harvest alignment."
Chest locked with it. Breath stance synced. Collective rightness hummed. No resistance trace.
Ended. Dorm walk quiet. Belonging forced in.
Night Throb
Dorm night thick. Body stirred sheets restless. Hand slipped down—edge of ban. Touched light, throb jumping. Stopped. No alone.
Drift came fragmented. Dreams vivid—hands from glass, spreading, filling. Spread wide, entered slow. Blur to presence strong—density owning. Body arched, took. Blur deeper, release tease without end.
Woke damp, hardness full. Shame burned. Body ready. Here. No fight. Whisper settled.
Final Line
Morning line-up final. Bodies ripe, stances perfect. Laor front, voice clear.
"Moment tomorrow. Harvest alignment confirmed."
No stir. Poses held—mine unprompted, chest open, hardness presented. Glass watched final, nods beyond.
Now. Body given.
Dismissed to isolation prep. Humming wait filled.
Skin hummed electric, pull inward sharpening—tomorrow's density waiting, body already open.
