Camp Sunshine

Camp Sunshine 2 and 3

[5,514 words]

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Chapter 2

Camp Sunshine was as absurd as the name suggested. Brad's new swim trunks were already inside-out and crumpled, stuffed in his bag as we walked past the sign-in table and up the steps to the main hall. Our parents followed behind, their silence like an omen. Inside, activity notices on a bulletin board pinned us in place. Canoeing, hiking, storytelling, star-mapping. Both of us suspended there, neither willing to be the first to look away. In this place, possibility flapped like a caught moth, tattered and weak but still alive.

"There he is!" Brad's voice shattered the moment as he pointed to a grainy photo on the wall. "Your dad, isn't it?"

In the photo, the bright yellow letters on the Camp Sunshine sign looked newer. A boy stood beneath them, towheaded and gangly, like a blond spider in gym shorts. Beside him, a camp counselor smiled, her whistle dangling like a predator's tooth. The walls were covered in such photos, ghosts of summers past. I couldn't remember if I had seen this one before or if my mother had only described it so often that it felt familiar.

It must be!" she said, catching up to us, out of breath and happy to have found a thread in this family tapestry. My parents had reminisced about Camp Sunshine for years at dinner tables and family gatherings, yet somehow this was our first actual visit. My father shifted uncomfortably beside her, as if the photo might also capture whatever he had been planning to do in life before Camp Sunshine got its claws into him. His silence said as much as hers.

"This place is huge!" Brad said, the wide sweep of his arms nearly knocking a clipboard out of the hands of a tall man behind the reception desk. The man stepped back, saving his paperwork with a reflexive swiftness.

"Brad, be careful!" my mother scolded, more out of obligation than actual concern. She turned to the man with a smile she used to convince other parents to join the PTA. "I'm sorry. They're just so excited."

The tall man adjusted his glasses. His expression didn't change.

"Welcome to Camp Sunshine," he said, as if reciting from an internal manual. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

Brad and I exchanged a glance, my parents' avoidance of conversation on the drive still fresh in my mind.

"It was okay," I said, my eyes drifting back to the notices on the bulletin board. Sign-up sheets already crowded the edges, some with familiar titles, others like cryptic promises. From the corner of my vision, I saw the man step out from behind the desk, clipboard in hand. His movements were fluid but detached, like a fish adjusting course.

"As your parents are aware," he continued, "Camp Sunshine has certain traditions. These may be unusual for first-time visitors."

I felt my heart beat faster. A good sign, I thought. Strange enough to surprise Brad, something I could master before he got his bearings. Already, I was deciding between archery and canoeing.

"The special nudity rule may be one such tradition," he said.

The words hit me with physical force. My body went cold, as if I'd dived back into the lake and forgotten how to surface. I looked at my parents. My father studied his shoes; my mother opened and closed her mouth like a fish drowning in air. Neither met my eyes. Brad's face transformed beside me—first confusion, then understanding, then a slow, dawning smirk that made my stomach twist. His eyes darted to my crotch and back to my face. I felt my cheeks burn as I crossed my arms over my chest, though it was the wrong part of me to hide.

"Excuse me?" Brad said, his voice at once curious and mocking. He looked at me, then back at the man, his confidence flickering but not yet extinguished.

"This rule applies to boys who have not entered puberty or lack pubic hair," the man explained, his voice as precise as his handwriting. "They are required to remain unclothed during their stay."

"Unclothed?" I repeated, my voice thinner than I intended.

"For simplicity," he said. "And tradition."

My parents stood as still as the faces in the faded camp photos, waiting for the storm to pass. Brad's eyebrows knitted together, his head tilting slightly as he glanced between me and the camp manager, clearly as confused as I was about what was happening. I expected him to laugh, to make a joke that would explode like fireworks between us. But he didn't. Instead, his eyes met mine with something new—a questioning look that seemed to ask: *What the hell is this?* For a brief moment, we were equals in our bewilderment.

My father shifted his weight, finally finding his voice. "Which boys does this apply to?" he asked, though the way his eyes darted away from mine told me he already knew the answer. He'd been a camper here himself decades ago, had lived under these same rules, yet now he pretended ignorance, speaking directly to the Camp Manager as if I weren't even there. The question rattled with false innocence, like gravel in the gears of a well-oiled machine.

"As I said, those who have not started puberty or lack visible pubic hair. We find it less stigmatizing than singling out boys who might feel different from their peers."

The irony would have been funny if it wasn't so horrible. Singled out. Different. This was the very thing I thought I'd escape by coming here, the very shadow I'd imagined leaving behind. I wanted to laugh, but the sound stuck in my throat.

"I'm not doing it," I blurted, unable to stop myself from speaking even though I knew instantly I'd given myself away. The words sounded like they came from somewhere else, from someone who believed they could still escape. "I'm fourteen, not some little kid!" Brad's head snapped toward me, eyebrows raised, his expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity. He studied my face as if seeing something new there, watching me with the sudden intensity of a predator who's spotted weakness in its prey.

"Age is not the determining factor," the Manager replied. "We evaluate based on development."

This time, I was sure I saw it. A light of understanding crossed Brad's eyes, his expression shifting like a mask being removed. Not sympathy. Not pity. Triumph. The first time in our long rivalry that Brad held a clear advantage. I remembered the embarrassment of Dr. Mendenhall's office, the exact same questions, the exact same humiliations. But here, for once, not the exact same outcome.

The Manager turned to his clipboard, the matter settled in his mind. "Is this going to be a problem?"

My parents exchanged looks. My father shifted from one foot to the other, the wooden floor creaking beneath him. "We'll have to talk it over," he said at last.

I backed away from the desk, stumbling against a chair. Brad watched me, the slight curl of his lips saying what he hadn't dared to voice: for once, Trent couldn't match him.

I felt trapped, exposed even while still clothed. "I'm not a late bloomer. This is ridiculous!"

The Manager sighed and made a note on his clipboard. "We can address this before proceeding with check-in."

The room seemed to close in on me, the faded photos watching like silent judges. In the stunned silence, I heard the desperate edge in my voice, the tremble in my hands, the panicked rhythm of my own heart. The distance between us stretched in a new, horrifying way, and there was nothing I could do to catch up.

Camp Manager's eyes locked on me, his precision sharper than scalpels. "Trent, perhaps you could demonstrate right now?" My body turned to wood, rigid and numb. "Simply undress. This will only take a moment." My breath felt distant, separate. "No way," I finally managed, my words shaking like frail leaves. "Not doing that here." Brad shifted his weight, loose and cocky, arms crossed in victory. My parents exchanged helpless glances, their loyalty as suspect as the faded camp photos on the walls. "Trent," my father said, his voice cutting like a bone saw. "You need to follow the camp rules."

I stood there, disbelief widening like a bruise inside me. In a sickening flash, I understood why Mom had insisted on those medical check-ups for both Brad and me right before vacation—the doctor's lingering glance, his notes, the hushed conversation with my parents in the hallway. They'd been checking which of us would fall under this humiliating rule. My skin felt tight and wrong, too thin to hold all the anger and shame and helplessness swelling beneath it. In all my fantasies of standing apart from Brad, of being special, of not matching him, I'd never imagined this. My father shifted again, uneasy on the uneven floorboards, waiting for me to give in.

"I'm not doing it," I repeated. The words felt hollow and uncertain now, like a lie I couldn't quite believe myself. My voice cracked on the last syllable, echoing in the silence of the room.

"Trent, honey," my mother started, her tone painfully sweet and insubstantial, "it's only for a couple of weeks."

"I don't care!" I shot back. "It's stupid!"

"It's camp policy," the Manager said, ignoring the rising tension in my voice, the way it splintered into a million tiny pieces. "Most boys find it quite liberating."

Most boys weren't fourteen. Most boys didn't have cousins with green eyes and smug expressions, leaning against reception desks with their arms folded, watching every humiliating moment. Brad looked from me to our parents, gauging their reactions with a curiosity that bordered on pleasure.

I remembered a time in the backyard at Christmas, a challenge we'd devised to test who could stay shirtless the longest in the bitter cold. I was sure I'd won, even as we both dashed inside, blue-lipped and shaking. Our mothers wrapped us in identical quilts and declared us equally insane. I'd been angry at the time, desperate for a decisive win. Now I longed for that easy equality, anything but this gaping, monstrous distance.

"I'm fourteen!" I insisted, as if saying it louder would change anything. "This is supposed to be fun, not some—some freak show!"

"We're not forcing you to attend," the Manager replied with calculated indifference. "But if you wish to remain, you will have to comply."

My mother and father looked at each other, their expressions hardening. Dad's jaw clenched, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. Mom's fingers drummed against her crossed arms. I felt a sudden, wild hope fade as quickly as it had appeared.

"Trent," my father said, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet I'd never heard directed at me before, "if you don't want a spanking right here in front of everyone, you'd better start obeying. Now."

I stared at him, mouth dry. In fourteen years, he'd never once threatened to hit me. The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet as I realized: they weren't my allies against Brad anymore

."It's not like you'll be the only one," my mother added, not helping in the least.

I stared at her, at the earnest attempt to be supportive without really understanding. Behind her, a photo showed another boy, decades younger than my father, dressed in nothing but a camp-issued hat. Was this where my future lay, stripped of everything, even dignity?

"It's just for the summer," she went on. "After that—"

After that, they were thinking, the next big crisis in Trent's life will have come along, and this will be nothing more than another funny story. An anecdote to trot out at holidays, when Brad had gone on to medical school and I was still scrambling to catch up.

"And if we have any issues with the other children, we will adjust accordingly," the Manager said, glancing again at his clipboard. He didn't write anything this time, just kept his pen poised over the paper like a weapon, ready to strike.

My vision blurred with anger or tears, or both. "It's not fair!" I choked out, knowing how childish I sounded, how exactly like the little kid they all assumed I was.

Brad cleared his throat, an exaggerated cough of barely concealed amusement. "Wow, Trent," he said, his tone light and superior. "I always knew you were one of a kind, but I didn't realize just how special you are."

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream and hit him and run out into the trees, run so far and fast that they wouldn't be able to find me or catch me, that they wouldn't be able to laugh and look and compare.

"You might find that being unique has its advantages," the Manager said, as if reading my thoughts, or worse, confirming them.

"We should let you get settled," my mother said, her words brittle with forced optimism. "The first day of camp is always the hardest."

The note of finality in her voice made my hands tremble with anger. Or fear. Or both. But this was not going to be the same as always, and I was not going to be complicit in my own humiliation.

The Manager checked his watch, then glanced toward the door where a family with two younger boys was already waiting. hurry up to follow the rules," he said, no longer looking at me, dismissing me with a flick of his clipboard. "We need to complete your registration quickly. There are other arrivals."

The fading photos stared from the walls. Brad stared from across the room. And still, no one moved.

"Trent," my father said, his voice a taut wire. "We want you to have a good time. But you need to follow the camp rules."

I couldn't breathe. My words escaped, cracked and jagged and as alone as I felt.

"I'm not a late bloomer. This is ridiculous!"

My mother placed her hand on my father's arm. I couldn't tell if she was comforting him or stopping him from saying something he'd regret, something I'd never forget.

Mom's hand landed on my shoulder, a weight that felt like both comfort and restraint. "We'll be in the car," she said, as if we hadn't come in together, as if the separation had already begun. I glanced around the reception area, suddenly aware of the fifteen or so people who seemed to have paused their own check-ins to watch my humiliation unfold. Every pair of eyes felt like needles on my skin. My last defiant words hung in the air like smoke, like accusations, like lies I couldn't keep believing. And there I stood, arms crossed over my still-covered chest, alone in a new way. Alone, despite Brad still there, watching me with that superior, predatory gaze that said he'd finally found the one difference between us that mattered.

The Manager looked up from his clipboard. His eyes said he knew exactly how this would end.

Chapter 3

The reception area was a tomb, its air hollowed out by waiting and shame. Brad's eyes glued me to the spot, anticipating my fall. I stood there, my heart a caged thing battering against my ribs, my thoughts a spiraling storm. Strip, the words hammered through me. Strip, or this vacation is over. Strip, or the car leaves without you. Strip, or miss out on summer entirely. My hands were not my own as they rose to the buttons of my shirt. With each flick of my fingers, my resolve shrank, my face flamed hotter.

"We're serious, Trent," my father said, his voice hard enough to cut. "You must do it now."

Brad leaned back against the desk, his casual pose a mockery. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at anyone.

"We know this is difficult," my mother added, more tentative but just as firm. "But the rules are the rules. We can still call this whole thing off."

Call it off. The words sank into me like stones, pulling me down, forcing me to move. I peeled the shirt off and threw it to the floor, my smooth, hairless armpits now exposed to the cool air and Brad's scrutiny. His gaze pierced through me like a hot brand, lingering deliberately on the childish bareness where adult hair should have been.

My father's voice sharpened. "That's it, keep going," he said, glancing at the line forming behind us. "Hurry up now, Trent. Other people are waiting."?"

My hands were shaking. My breath was a thin, panicked thing. I yanked off my sneakers, my socks, revealing ankles as smooth as a child's. My pants followed, exposing legs that betrayed me with their complete absence of hair—pale, bare skin that might as well have screamed my humiliating secret to the room. Each piece of clothing stripped away left me smaller, weaker, less certain of who I was.

"You can do this, Trent," my mother said, her voice catching like a scratch in an old record. "Just get it over with, and you'll see it isn't so bad."

Get it over with. I fumbled at the waistband of my underwear, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely grip the elastic. Brad's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a half-smile that made my stomach clench. I hesitated, trapped between the horror of being stripped of everything and the shame of backing down. The elastic felt like a vice around my hips, squeezing the last of my courage from me. Brad leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from amusement to hungry anticipation. My heart hammered against my ribs as I hooked my thumbs under the band. With a final, desperate motion, I shoved them down, exposing my small, undeveloped penis and smooth, hairless groin to the cold air and Brad's widening eyes. I stepped out and away from my underwear as if they were a snake I needed to escape, painfully aware of how my pale, skinny legs trembled and how my childish body betrayed me in front of my cousin who had clearly already begun to mature. Not a single hair visible anywhere below my neck—just smooth, bare skin announcing my humiliating lack of development to everyone in the room.

I stood there, utterly exposed, the air a cold knife against my skin. My hands moved instinctively, cupping the small, hairless failure between my legs. No signs of puberty, they'd said. No development. Now everyone could see it was true. I cupped my hands over myself, desperate for any shred of dignity. The Manager cleared his throat. "That's not allowed here. No touching yourself in public areas." His words fell like stones. Brad stood taller, shoulders back, his face transformed by a smirk that stretched from ear to ear. With burning cheeks and trembling limbs, I forced my hands to my sides, leaving everything exposed to their merciless stares. Brad's eyes gleamed with the unmistakable light of victory, like a boxer who had just knocked out his lifelong rival in the first round.

"You did the right thing," my father said, but there was something uneasy in his voice, as if even he wasn't sure anymore.

The Manager barely glanced up from his clipboard. "Shall I proceed with the registration?"

My mother nodded, her relief so thick I could feel it suffocating me. Brad's relief, I knew, came from a different place.

The Manager reached under the desk, his movements as mechanical as clockwork, and pulled out a green wristband. It was identical to the one I'd seen on Brad, but when he placed it on the counter, he didn't let go. The plastic band—marking me as part of the 14-16 age group, allowing me access to the older boys' activities and facilities—seemed to mock me with its implications of privilege. Unlike Brad, I would wear it without the dignity of clothes.

"One more thing," he said, returning to his cabinet of horrors. "For campers who initially resist our policies."

I watched, frozen, as he produced a second wristband. Red. Bright and unmistakable, the color of every angry thing inside me.

"This," he said, laying it beside the green band, "is a Discipline Band."

The words hung in the air, a new kind of threat, a new kind of humiliation.

I couldn't speak. My throat felt raw, sandpapered by the effort of not breaking down. I had gone through with it, stripped down to nothing, and still, it wasn't enough. The green band mocked me with its sameness. The red band condemned me with its difference.

"You may remove it once we feel you are fully complying," the Manager continued, ignoring the horror on my face, the triumph on Brad's. "Which can happen as soon as you wish. It's entirely up to you."

My mother shifted her weight, her smile so forced it looked painful. "See? Nothing to it."

Nothing to it. And yet everything to it, everything that I dreaded and feared and fought against, all laid bare in a single excruciating moment.

Brad's eyes shone with an amusement he could barely conceal. "Welcome to camp, Trent."

The Manager nodded once, satisfied. I stayed frozen, waiting for the earth to swallow me whole.

I was still naked and still waiting for the earth to swallow me when the real humiliation began. My fear and stress were so overwhelming that my penis had practically disappeared, leaving only the tiny glans peeking out from my foreskin like a frightened animal retreating into its burrow. My parents conferred with the Manager, their words like scalpels, sharp and precise. "Someone needs to be in charge of the Discipline Band," he said, while I stood exposed and invisible. My father hesitated; my mother looked as if she might take pity. But when she suggested Brad, the truth was inevitable and brutal as blood. "Very well," the Manager concluded. "Brad will have authority." It was a sentence. And a life sentence.

"Brad?" I repeated, the word catching in my throat like a hook. "You're letting Brad—"

My father glanced at me, then quickly away. "He's the best option. We'll be in and out with other things."

"He'll make sure you stay out of trouble," my mother added, trying to smooth over the devastation they were leaving in their wake.

The Manager turned to Brad, his expression unreadable. "Are you prepared to take responsibility for Trent's Discipline Band?"

Beside me, Brad straightened, his surprise quickly replaced by an eager determination. "Yes," he said, not even bothering to conceal the triumph in his voice. "I can handle it."

I stood there, the red band a brand against my skin. "This is insane," I muttered. "You can't let him do this."

The Manager fixed his eyes on me, colder than I'd ever seen. "Your cousin now has authority to ensure your compliance. This includes discipline, should you resist again."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My hands trembled with the effort of holding back the rage and panic rising inside me.

Brad's voice carried a smugness I wanted to wipe from his face. "You mean I can punish him if he doesn't listen?"

"Correct. The band serves as a reminder of who is in charge."

Brad glanced at me, his eyes bright with this new power. "What kind of punishments?"

The Manager paused, letting the possibilities sink into me like venom. "All our campers know the consequences for misbehavior. A common penalty is spanking."

The word echoed through my skull, bringing with it a fresh wave of disbelief. This couldn't be happening. Not only was I stripped of every shred of dignity, but now Brad was the one holding the whip.

He laughed, a sound as light as it was cruel. "Sounds like fun."

"Don't worry, cousin," Brad said, leaning in close enough to cut. "I'll take good care of you."

The Manager didn't blink. "Trent must understand there are consequences for rebellion. This will help him learn."

Brad looked like Christmas had come early. My parents looked relieved to have the responsibility off their hands. And I was left standing there, naked and powerless, the ground crumbling away beneath my feet.

The wristbands felt tight, suffocating, each marking me in a different way. The green for my pathetic lack of development. The red for my pathetic lack of compliance. I had never imagined the balance between us could tilt so far, so quickly.

"I expect you to keep me informed of any issues," the Manager said to Brad.

"I will," Brad replied, already tasting the victory.

This was not the summer I had imagined. This was not the life I had imagined. My hands moved from one indignity to the next, clutching my exposed body, trying to cover the worst of it.

The Manager pulled out a final sheet of paper, setting it before my parents with the same indifferent efficiency. "You'll need to sign, acknowledging the change in authority."

My father took the pen, hesitating only briefly before making it official. "I think this is best, Trent."

I couldn't speak. My voice had abandoned me, fled along with every other shred of who I thought I was. Brad's grin widened as he watched my world collapse.

I wanted to protest, to demand some last piece of justice. But what words could reach them now? They'd made their decision, and it had already marched out of earshot, leaving me behind to catch up if I could.

The Manager secured the bands around my wrist, red first, then green, their colors glaring against my skin, against everything I wanted to be.

"You're all set," he said, turning back to his desk, dismissing me entirely.

Brad walked ahead, the picture of triumph, his clothes bright as his future. And I, nothing but a defeated shadow, followed.

The moment I stepped out of the reception building, the sun hit my naked skin like a spotlight. I froze, my lungs seizing as dozens of eyes turned toward me. A group of fully-clothed campers stared openly, their whispers cutting through the air. My parents headed toward our parked car, keys jingling, when Brad cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, "Trent and I could walk to the bungalow. Start exploring the camp?" My mother beamed at this show of cousin bonding. "What a wonderful idea!" My father nodded, already climbing into the driver's seat. And just like that, I was abandoned. The walk stretched before me like a nightmare. My bare feet flinched against the rough gravel path, each step sending jolts up myexposed legs, which felt scrawny and pale compared to Brad's athletic calves. Every step reminded me of my nakedness, how my small, shriveled penis seemed to retreat further into my body with each passing stranger, how my testicles tightened against the cool air, how utterly vulnerable and undeveloped I felt. I hunched forward, hands trembling as they cupped over my genitals, then dropped them when I remembered the Manager's stern warning that covering myself was forbidden, then desperately covered myself again as a group of girls rounded the corner. Sweat beaded across my chest and back despite the cool air. Brad strutted twenty paces ahead, his confident gait and squared shoulders making his t-shirt pull tight across his back. He kept glancing over his shoulder, smirking. "Checkmate, cousin," he called out, loud enough for nearby campers to hear. "Look at you—naked as a baby bird." His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of total victory. I shuffled along, red-faced and exposed, my legs leaden, my stomach churning with each new person who appeared on the path. A sob caught in my throat as I felt their stares drilling into every inch of my hairless skin, their whispers and snickers like physical blows. Brad slowed, letting me catch up just enough to whisper, "Finally, I win. You, completely exposed. Me, completely in control." The wristbands—green and red—seemed to pulse against my skin, broadcasting my humiliation to everyone we passed. Behind me, the reception area shrank into memory. Ahead, the camp sprawled like an accusation. Trails twisted off into the trees. Cabins lined the paths, their windows reflecting my defeat.

I ducked my head, my hair falling in wet, shameful tangles. If I couldn't see them, I could pretend they couldn't see me. But they could. Of course they could. The green band around my wrist told them everything. I was the only teenager marked for the nudity rule. The only one stripped of more than just clothing.

I passed a group of smaller boys, clustered around a tetherball pole. They wore nothing but blue wristbands, their carefree yells and laughter a constant background noise. I watched them from the corner of my eye, hoping to blend in, to look like one of them. But they were younger, much younger. Seven, maybe eight years old. They didn't even notice me as I scurried past.

Further on, I spotted a few boys with yellow bands, slightly older. Ten or eleven, their skinny arms and legs pale in the sun. Even they seemed more at ease with their nakedness than I was. None of them wore green. None of them were old enough to make my disgrace complete.

A group of teenage girls walked by, their hair in ponytails, their shorts and tank tops bright and summery. They glanced at me, then at each other, then back at me. One of them giggled. Another covered her mouth and whispered something I couldn't hear but felt all the same.

I ducked behind a row of trees, trying to escape the barrage of eyes and laughter. But even there, I wasn't safe. A family with younger children crossed my path, and I had to stop, had to wait for them to pass, had to stand there exposed and burning with each awkward second.

Everywhere I turned, I saw faces. Each one seemed to know, seemed to understand exactly why I was in this miserable state. Even the other adults looked my way with an uncomfortable sympathy that was worse than the mockery. And all the while, Brad walked ahead in his shorts and t-shirt, leading the way like a conquering hero.

We were nearly to the bungalow when he stopped, waiting for me to catch up. "Better hurry, Trent," he called, his voice light with amusement. "You're falling behind."

I scrambled to cover the last distance, nearly tripping in my haste. The screen door banged shut behind my parents as they went inside. They didn't look back. They didn't wait.

"Right this way," Brad said, holding the door with exaggerated politeness as I rushed through.

I didn't stop. I didn't care what they saw. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around myself, clinging to it like a lifeline, hoping for at least a moment of dignity.

But it was too much to hope for. My mother appeared in the hallway, her expression a mix of sympathy and resolve. "You know you can't keep that, Trent," she said gently, reaching to take it from me. "Remember the rules."

I held on, unwilling to give it up, unable to face what lay ahead. "Please," I whispered, my voice breaking like an old, sad thing.

She took the towel, and my last defense crumbled with it.

"Try to relax," she said. "You'll get used to it."

Used to it. I felt the rage and helplessness boiling inside me as she turned away, leaving me alone in my humiliation. Alone in my nakedness. Alone in this place where nothing was as I imagined, where everything was worse than I feared.

I stared at the closed door, at the faint reflection of myself in the window, at the two glaring bands around my wrist. They would regret this. They would see. I would find a way to make them understand what they'd done, to show them how wrong they were to put me through this.

"This isn't over," I whispered to the empty room, the empty camp, the empty hope. "I'll find a way out of this humiliation if it's the last thing I do."

(End of File)