The Night Staff

Nicotine's husband sits across from her in the white room. Sweat darkens his collar while she whispers about the night shift—how they strap her down, spread her open, and shove current through every hole. He hears nothing but sickness. He kisses her forehead, promises he'll fix this. Then he walks out. The second the door seals, the night staff floods back in. Thick leather cuffs bite her wrists. Her gown rips away, tits spilling heavy and pale under cold lights. They fold her knees to her chest, plug a fat, buzzing wand straight into her ass, and another between her dripping lips. Current crackles. Her back arches hard, spine bowing, every muscle twitching under the charge. One orderly yanks her hair, forces her to watch the dials climb. Another slides a heavier probe into her cunt and twists until the twin shocks meet inside her. She jerks, moans, cunt and ass clenching around the electrodes. Sweat beads on her nipples. Every jolt draws a raw, wet sound from her throat. They keep her there until her voice cracks and her thighs shake, until the only thing she knows is the burn and the flood and the steady, cruel rhythm of the machines.