The Institute

Author's Note:

Thank you all for reading the previous chapter, for the ratings and the comments.

There is much more to come for Sarah in this series, which I will develop slowly and carefully.

As always, I tend to focus less on quick gratification and more on slow buildup; on feelings, inner thoughts, tensions and emotions. I also like to write from the submissive's perspective, about her sensations that shape her experience.

If you're looking for something fast and graphic, this is absolutely not for you.

This story is dedicated to someone who inspired me to write it, based on her detailed input. Thank you, Isabelle. Wishing you all the best, wherever you are.

All characters involved are obviously of legal age.

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The blonde with the white collar guided Sarah through the Institute's corridors, her movements decisive yet with a seductive elegance, something Sarah noted, witnessing a level of confidence in slavery she ached to one day reach. The woman had understood the Master's brief instructions ("medical, cleaning, grooming") with what to Sarah had seemed like an intuitive clarity. She couldn't shake the feeling that countless others had walked these same halls before her, travelling the same path from admission to becoming one with the Institute.

They ascended to the third floor, again passing many artworks depicting bodies in various states of submission. Though the paintings and sculptures brought a flush of dark pink warmth to her cheeks, Sarah found herself stealing glance after glance at them. Each piece left her wanting to know more.

The blonde stopped before a door marked "Doctor" in subtle gold lettering, knocked once, then positioned Sarah directly before it, her hips swaying as she disappeared down the hall.

Sarah felt a tremor of nervous arousal ripple through her body. Since her arrival she had been impressed by the refinement of this place, the people, the other woman's movements, the art, the way she is handled in reverent silence... by how everything seemed to resonate with her in ways she did not yet understand.

The door, almost touching her nose, opened, to reveal a bald small chubby man in a white lab coat, his glasses perched precariously on his nose. He nodded without speaking, just grumbling something inaudible as if displeased with being disturbed in his travails. Sarah followed him into an immaculate but cold white office that seemed to gleam under bright overhead lights. The room contained only essential furniture and a pine green leather examination table covered with paper.

He looked up from the clipboard he was holding and Sarah thought she noticed him raising an eyebrow when he caught sight of her black collar.

He gestured toward the table, and Sarah wordlessly complied, lying on her back as still as possible. When he adjusted one of the lamps directly over her, she blinked against the sudden brightness, feeling exposed in more ways than one.

The doctor's examination proceeded with a clinical precision. He measured and weighed every part of her body, noting each detail on his tablet without uttering a word, she could only hear his breath through his large nose, his pursed lips clenched tightly as he checked, noted down on his tablet, checked, noted, checked again, noted again... Sarah felt like an object being catalogued as cold metal instruments probed, pinched, clasped and measured her muscles, joints, facial features, her nipples, breasts, and other intimate areas.

Despite the emotional detachment of his approach, she found that the impersonal nature of the examination was increasingly arousing her, something the doctor seemed to notice as he repeatedly measured her hardened nipples. She had expected embarrassment, perhaps intimacy, but she encountered efficiency, functionality and her own sensations of growing lust.

The stimulation had been psychological until now: her own writing and drawing, the interview, following orders, denuding, the collar, the loss of her name... But her current reactions were--for the first time to Sarah--purely physical, and they were being caused by the touch of another person.

What unsettled her most was that absence of intimacy. There was no affection in his movements, no seduction, no encouragement. Only professional attention. Sarah's mind was reeling, trying to process these contradictions.

And by being handled as such, she felt like the institute was gradually dismantling the ordinary frameworks she used to understand herself by. She was no longer a student, a daughter, a young woman, an individual. Every act, every sensation, every situation lead her to turn into function, category, evaluated object.

He positioned her legs in holders and, without preamble, inserted something into her vagina, just into the very opening. The device twisted and expanded while inside her, making her gasp. She grabbed the edge of the table and arched her back, her body contorting until the doctor uttered an annoyed sigh and pressed her belly back down, to then force the device even... wider. Despite the pain and discomfort, she felt sensations which she would otherwise associate with pleasure, and when the doctor loosened the device and withdrew it, she felt her body ache for the pain to return, and she instinctively pushed her pelvis forward, letting out the slightest of moans. In between her ragged breaths she could hear the Doctor frantically scribble something down on his clipboard.

He performed a similar procedure on her anus, making her reflexively stiffen her body, while taking a sharp inhale, then uttering a brief squeal she could not control. Her mind was trying to "label" what was happening, and failing. Wincing, she tensed her muscles, then tried to relax them again, without success. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes tightly, she let out a whimper, unable to tell whether she wanted the hurt eased or intensified.

Before fully recovering from the pressure she had sensed in her back-hole, the doctor was already forcing her mouth open with a metal ring, turning something like a knob causing the ring to widen, forcing her jaws as far open as they possibly could.

To then insert a long semi-translucent shaft-looking plastic thing down her throat. A faint jolt coursed through her as she struggled to remain still, the effort of composure becoming harder than she expected, her throat tightening against a reflex she could not control. A muffled, helpless sound escaped her as she struggled, her eyes widened, unfocused, moisture gathering at their edges before spilling into tears. The flush across her cheeks deepened as she tried, unsuccessfully, to regain control of her breathing. Though the doctor's hand caressed her shoulder encouragingly, as if to help her understand she needed to relax. Sarah closed her eyes, focused on her muscles and shoulders and she gradually managed to suppress the urge to recoil. Each time she opened her eyes she noticed the face of the Doctor hovering above her, while his expression remained unchanged, analytical, entirely professional throughout forcing the thing further down, slowly, inch by fraction of an inch.

For the first time, he spoke: "Impressive." The word, delivered with such detachment, made Sarah shiver. She began to understand that her body was viewed as useful, and that her desires weren't unique or shocking but rather a recognisable type that could be categorised and understood. She felt relief. Loss of individuality, yes, a classifiable type, objectified, but also... praised. Sarah was deeply affected by the compliment, even while disturbed by the gradual loss of personhood.

He continued testing her reactions to various stimuli: temperature changes, different textures against her skin, varying levels of pressure on her nipples and clitoris. Each stimulus produced an immediate, involuntary reaction, a small tightening followed by a visible attempt to steady herself again. Sometimes it was a sharp flinch, sometimes a sudden quiver through her shoulders and chest. Her breathing would falter for a moment, then resume unevenly as she tried to regain control of her composure. At the end of these efficient tests Sarah was breathing heavily, her skin was shiny with a thin layer of perspiration, and she was filling the room with her scent as the doctor meticulously recorded every response. As she tried to calm down, she found herself trying to reconcile the calmness of the room with the way her body had responded.

When he finished, he picked up the phone. Sarah's heart raced. He will be speaking to the Master, she thought. That possibility alone sent a pulse of anticipation through her.

"Master," the doctor said in his detached tone. "Doctor here. Yes. Excellent quality in this new black-collared subject. Perfectly selected, Sir. She... she is utterly compliant, responds to instruction without hesitation or objection."

A brief pause.

"High suggestibility. She appears responsive to status and authority cues. Visibly curious, though still inexperienced in interpreting her own physical responses."

He flipped a page on his clipboard, cleared his throat. Sarah thought: "They are talking about me as though I am already something owned."

"Physically, her measurements are as expected for an eighteen-year-old, tightest on our scales except for her mouth. That upper cavity can take up to 'large minus' easily. Natural aptitude, Sir. The other orifices are tighter but can be trained without losing their elasticity. But... listen well, Master. Her clitoris and nipple sensitivity are nearly off the charts. Once aroused, they remain engorged."

The doctor glanced at Sarah's body, still exposed on the table.

"As we speak, Sir, they..." the doctor briefly leaned closer to check between Sarah's open legs "...they remain fully swollen despite five minutes passing since my last test. She's keeping her legs spread without instruction and... is dripping, Sir." He was staring intently at the examination table, right between her thighs.

Sarah looked down to see the evidence of her arousal staining the paper beneath her. "I also do believe this object is potentially a painslut, Master. But this needs to be validated. To conclude: the black collar is warranted and an excellent choice."

"Yes. I will indeed send this info to Awut right away, Master, so she will have all the details when she will start the object's academy, after her cleaning and grooming."

His pants were visibly extended as he concluded: "If you ever permit it, I'd gladly test the slave's resolve under the bullwhip, Master. Goodbye."

After hanging up, he grumbled, "Stand," as Sarah slipped off the table, still dizzy from the sensations. He kneaded his own bulge with one hand while groping Sarah's bottom with the other, his fingers trailing into her cleft as he pushed her into the corridor, where he began masturbating his now freed small cock at a frantic pace, before closing the door behind her.

The blonde reappeared after some time, attaching a leash to Sarah's collar and leading her back down to the first floor.

Pushing a white double-action door open, simultaneously unclasping the leash, the blonde pushed Sarah forward, and she stepped into a place which looked as shiny and white as the Doctor's office, yet was covered in small rectangular tiles. Sarah's eyes darted around, and noticed various sanitary equipments.

A small naked asian woman with a closed expression and small saggy tits approached Sarah without speaking. Her grey collar marked her status, as she detached the leash, draped it over a hanger, then began to meticulously groom the new arrival.

She began to work on her nails, but without gentleness in the touch. Each nail was clipped back to the quick sharpsnipof the metal cutters. They were then filed with a rough emery board, the abrasive scraping against Sarah's nail beds a grating, unpleasant sensation.

The asian woman throughout moved in an efficient way, almost routinely. To a viewer, it might have looked like a high-end manicure, a moment of pampering. To Sarah, it felt like her very identity, the small, personal details she had always tended to herself, being stripped away, and a new coherent identity was being created by the Institute.

Finally, a clear, matte polish was applied. It wasn't for beauty; it was a protective layer, a sealant that rendered her nails uniform, inert, and utterly functional.

She was then led to a large, tiled shower stall. The water that hit her was not warm and comforting, but ice-cold. It was an assault that stole her breath and made her entire body tense into a rigid, shivering mass. She was scrubbed with rough, exfoliating cloths, the woman's movements methodical and harsh.

Her hair was then the focus of an almost religious ritual. It was washed three times, each lathering a thorough cleansing. The first wash with a clarifying shampoo that smelled of antiseptic, the second with a scentless, protein-rich formula, and the third with a conditioning rinse that left her hair strangely weightless and clean. After the washing, she made Sarah sit on a low stool while she brushed her hair, the strokes hard, pulling at her scalp until her eyes watered, continuing for a hundred strokes, then two hundred, until her hair was a gleaming, untangled rope, a perfect, standardised asset. But to Sarah it was softer than she'd ever known possible, making her feel more woman-like and beautiful.

Sarah was then made to lie on a padded table, her arms raised above her head. The sweet, cloying smell of how wax filled the air. The asian woman applied it to Sarah's armpits with a wooden stick, the hot, thick wax an uncomfortable warmth. Then, with no warning, she ripped the strip off. The pain was sharp, visceral. Sarah gasped, her hands clenching into fists. Then she did the other side, then moved down. The waxing of her pubis was even more intimate. Her hands impersonal as they spread the wax over her most private flesh. Each rip was agony, leaving her skin red, and completely, unnaturally bare.

But the most invasive procedure was yet to come. Made to turn over onto her knees with her chest pressed to the table, her anus was thoroughly cleaned with a series of cold, wet wipes. Then, using a small, cotton ball, she applied a dab of a rosemary-scented perfume directly to the puckered ring, a final, possessive mark that made Sarah burn with shame.

Her lower body was washed again, this time with a mild, soap-free cleanser to remove any residue, and then even her soles were scrubbed with a small brush, leaving no part of her untouched.

Because no one was acting as though anything extraordinary was happening, Sarah was steadily adapting: standing where positioned, anticipating instructions, because resistance felt increasingly irrelevant, and her embarrassment didn't matter.

Only one final step remained: the lotions. A thick, unscented moisturiser was massaged into her skin, the woman's hands kneading, working the lotion into every inch of Sarah's body until she gleamed. It wasn't a gentle massage; it was a process, like oiling a machine. Then a thin, shimmering oil to her legs, making them look long and sculpted. A different, lighter lotion was used on her face, leaving her skin matte and smooth. Then finally a balm to her lips, making them look plump and inviting.

By the time the woman was finished, Sarah no longer felt like a person. She registered herself instead as a product, meticulously crafted and maintained, her body hairless, her skin soft and scented, her nails protected, her hair perfect. She had been cleaned, polished, and prepared, ready for whatever use the Institute had in store for her.

Finally, the woman knelt to sniff Sarah's pussy, making her flinch as she looked on quizzically wondering why that was needed. Then attaching the leash again and leading the perfectly cleaned slave to the hallway, where she left Sarah waiting, making her face the wall with her nose nearly touching the dark red wallpaper.

And again, the blonde white-collared woman appeared, and Sarah was brought into a room almost as vast as a school sports hall, though with a lower, more domestic ceiling that made the space feel compressed. Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with mirrors. Along all four walls ran a duo of black metal bars, fixed at about hip and belly height. The floor was a polished, orange-toned wooden surface, clearly a dance floor, though worn enough to suggest heavy use. Bright overhead lights flooded the space. From the ceiling, ropes and chains hung at measured intervals, motionless. In one corner stood a small upright piano, and scattered around the room were low benches, cushions, and a single armchair with a small fridge which both felt out of place amid the strict geometry of the space.

The leash was clasped off Sarah's collar once more, and as she stood, she glanced at a naked dark skinned woman finishing what seemed like a ballet lesson with a naked Persian-looking young woman, the dancer hardly a few years older than Sarah. She was wearing a green collar, and Sarah looked on as she was being forced to lift her leg up so high both the girl's legs formed one vertical line and her pussy was opened wide, the black woman tapping the slave with what looked like a thin wooden stick, maybe a cane.

"Continue." the black woman spoke to the young woman who was audibly groaning, as she walked slowly towards Sarah.

What seems to strike Sarah first is not Awut's age, nor even her beauty, but the complete absence of self-consciousness. She carried herself and her bare body with the same ease another woman might wear a well-tailored dress.

Awut looked in her early fifties, was tall, many inches taller than Sarah, and remarkably lean. Her frame looked like one of a lifelong dancer: narrow hips, long limbs, and muscles starkly outlined in her every motion. Nothing about her was bulky. And as she walked towards Sarah, the tendons in her calves and forearms shifted visibly beneath her shiny ebony skin. Her age was visible, the skin around her eyes bearing fine lines. Her hair had been clipped almost to the scalp, further accentuating the elegance and strength of her features: high cheekbones, a long neck, and a profile that appeared carved.

As she stood close to Sarah, her slender wrinkled fingers grazed Sarah's chin, a gesture which was almost a copy of the Master's during the interview earlier that afternoon. Sarah, enthralled, looked down, noticing how the lines of Awut's ribcage were faintly visible. Her chest was modest, perfectly proportioned to the rest of her frame. Everything about her seemed balanced.

For perhaps the first time, Sarah began to understand that women can be beautiful in profoundly different ways. Not despite their differences, but because of them. And standing before Awut, she couldn't imagine anyone else possessing quite the same kind of beauty at all.

Awut smiled, her teeth strikingly white against her skin: "Welcome, my new set of tiny little fuckholes.... my new blowjob queen, isn't it?" She gave a quiet, genuine laugh.

Sarah could not answer with the only words she was allowed to say, so decided to stay mute. Awut took Sarah's hand and lead her to the middle of the room. She traced the black collar with her index and sighed approvingly. The leather suddenly felt heavy and real against Sarah's throat. Awut's own collar was white, bright against her dark skin, marking her as established.

"See, we're both property of the Institute."

The back of her fingers brushed along Sarah's jawline, while she adjusted her own white collar.

"Though not quite in the same way."

As the older woman moved her fingers down Sarah's chest, over her chest bone, tracing an idle circle around a tit, Sarah was struck by the absence of shame. Her nakedness was no longer something being exposed, more like a simple state of being, one she was slowly growing accustomed to. Somehow, standing before Awut confirmed that.