The Institute

Author's Note:

Thank you all for reading, rating and commenting on the previous chapters.

This third chapter is an important step for Sarah, and contains quite some action, but as always, you will need to be patient, and read through a lot of context setting until you get to the "juicy" bits.

In total, this is a 50 minute read.

Know that more chapters are being worked on, but slowly, and with care.

All characters involved are obviously of legal age.

————————

For Sarah, her first day had been a succession of clinical procedures, overwhelming sensations, a persistent pressure on her senses and a growing understanding of her self. It had been a mentally demanding day, during which she wasn't always sure if she was fully grasping what was happening to her.

By now, her body felt the aftereffects from Awut's repetitive position training, her joints slightly stiff and her muscles faintly sore, signs of sustained effort rather than of exhaustion.

As the evening descended, she was led to a large, airy refectory. She could smell the scent of fresh herbs and steamed vegetables. A buffet table was laden with an array of food, but it was all meticulously curated: grilled fish, steamed broccoli, quinoa salads, plain yogurts with berries. There was no bread, no pasta, no cheese, no hint of indulgence. It was fuel, not pleasure, another proof of the Institute's absolute control over even the most basic aspects of its charges' bodies, right down to their weight and health.

The white-collared assistant had unclasped the leather leash from Sarah's collar, and had left her to her own devices. After having become comfortable in routine and under instructions, the absence of direction left Sarah hesitating for a moment. Looking around, she took in the other girls and women, scattered at small, solitary tables. They were all naked, all collared (mostly red collars, a single green, a couple of white and grey), some of the bodies marked with varying forms and degrees of what Sarah thought had been use, pain or training. One of the women had her nipples pierced with large ultra thin rings, another wore a silver chain around her wrist. One had her upper body covered in welts. Another had her face, hair, neck and shoulders coated with streaks of what looked like a gelatinous substance, white translucent. Cum, Sarah knew.

As Sarah stepped towards the buffet, she noticed how everyone in the room moved efficiently, without wasted motion, selecting food, sitting down to eat, everything done in complete and utter silence. No one spoke. But the girls stole glances, some smiled at Sarah, others looked like they had just cried and had their heads bowed, seemingly processing what they had just undergone.

The only sounds were the faint clink of cutlery on porcelain and the hum of the building's systems. She was unsettled by the lack of speech, but simultaneously relieved by the fact that for now nobody demanded anything emotionally from her.

A blonde older woman with large drooping tits, wearing a worn grey collar, standing behind the buffet, handed her a plate, and she gestured to Sarah to pick what she wanted.

Only now did Sarah realise she had not eaten since breakfast at her former home. The fact surprised her; until this moment, it had barely crossed her mind. She took a small portion of fish, added some vegetables. Sarah arranged them with clinical precision on her plate. They were aesthetically balanced. She paused. She had no idea why she'd done that.

She took her plate and looked for a place to sit. The room wasn't crowded, yet she still chose the table furthest from everyone else. Only as she sat down did she notice the knot in her stomach. It felt like the first day at a new school.

She ate mechanically, barely tasting the healthy food, her mind still trying to process everything that had happened.

At first, that silence felt strange. Then, unexpectedly, almost luxurious. Her life outside had been a constant stream of conversation, television, music, notifications, noise. After the medical examinations, the grooming and the training, the quiet comforted her. She found herself listening instead. Without realising it, she slowed her eating to match the rhythm of the room. When she swallowed, the sound seemed surprisingly loud. For a moment she felt embarrassed.

After she had finished, the white-collared slave who had been her shadow for the whole day, returned and guided her to a small, pristine bathroom. She was instructed to brush her teeth, the sharp mint of the toothpaste slightly out of place. It was another step in the ritual, another layer of routine, replacing the personal with the institutional.

Finally, she was led up a narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor. They moved along a tight corridor under the building's mansard roof.

Wooden door after wooden door she passed, each door holding nothing recognisable but a small square plaque holding the same colour as the collars she had seen: green, grey, white, red. Mostly red. At the very end of the corridor, two doors stood opposite each other, simple in design, each marked with a small black square. The woman unlocked one of them and motioned for Sarah to enter. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Sarah alone in her new room. It wasn't locked.

The room was small, almost cramped, and sparsely furnished to the point of being monastic. The first thing that drew her eye was the single, large window. It had no curtains, no blinds, offering no privacy.

Sarah took a few steps closer and leaned out to look. Beyond it stretched a wild garden, a sprawling meadow of tall grasses and flowers that seemed intentionally wild, contrasting with the clinical precision of the rest of the Institute. Beyond the grassland, a dense wall of forest, a natural barrier ensuring the absolute privacy of the grounds.

The view was beautiful, but the lack of curtains was a clear statement: Sarah's life was now an open book, but only for those inside the Institute.

In one corner of the room, beside the window, stood a simple wooden table and a chair. On the table sat a small black metal lamp, a Moleskine notebook and a pen.

She approached slowly. Her hand hesitated before touching the edge of the notebook. The black cover different from the cheerful pink of her diary, but the texture, the weight, the elastic band holding it shut were identical. She picked up the pen. It was her favourite brand, the same rollerball type she had used for years to pour out her thoughts.

It was a kind but somewhat unsettling gesture. The Institute had read her diary, and now she was given a new one, a sanctioned space for her thoughts, a black one to match her collar. The Institute was telling Sarah her inner world was owned too.

She turned her attention to the bed. It was a simple wooden frame with a comfortable-looking mattress and a single pillow. But there were no sheets. No blanket. No cover of any kind. Just the bare mattress and pillow. It was another undeniable message: she was a slave, an object, not a person. Objects did not require the comfort of linens. And her body was to remain continuously exposed, legible.

Now it was the walls that held her attention. Two of them, the long walls that ran from the door to the window, were completely plastered, from floor to ceiling, with pages torn from pornographic magazines. The images formed an overwhelming mosaic of flesh and sex. There were women of every conceivable size, age, and ethnicity, their bodies in a hundred different poses. But there was one constant, one unifying theme in every single picture: penetration. A man's cock buried in a cunt, ass, mouth. In some images, the women's faces were contorted in ecstasy; in others, in what looked like pain. Some were smiling, others crying. It was a relentless visual sermon on the single purpose she was now being trained for. Her gaze darted from one image to another, a sea of bodies being used. This was her new reality.

And if the walls weren't enough, there was the final piece of the sensory assault. On the wall opposite the foot of the bed, a small flatscreen television was mounted. It was broadcasting hardcore porn. The images flickered across the screen in an endless but silent loop: close-ups of thrusting hips, of naked bodies, of faces slick with sweat and semen. It was on mute, but the silence was somehow more present than any sound.

Sarah's first instinct was to make it stop. She scrambled around the room, looking for a remote control. She checked the table, under her pillow, under the bed. Nothing. She went to the screen, running her hands over the sleek, black frame, searching for buttons. There were none. The cables couldn't be dislodged. The screen was sealed, a source of stimulation that she could not control. A situation which offered no escape.

Accepting, she sank onto the edge of the bare mattress. The room was a controlled environment of stimulation, a system designed to rewire her brain. The wild garden outside, as a symbol of untamed nature. Inside, everything was structured, programmed, engineered. She rested her head in her hands, the silent images from the television painting her skin in shifting, lewd colours. She avoided the screen, but then stole fragmented glances, noticing the diversity of women, of positions, of cocks' shapes and colours.

She could feel the exhaustion of the day. Her body ached, her mind still caught between confusion and curiosity. She lay down on the mattress, pulling the pillow under her head. And despite herself, her eyes began to drift closed. But she could not stop seeing bodies even when trying not to.

She dozed, falling into a fragmented sleep filled with images from the day: the doctor's cold hands, Awut's body, her experience and commands, the endless parade of penetrating bodies on the walls and the screen.

She woke with a start, uncertain how many hours she slept. The room was darker now, the fading sunset painting the sky outside the window in deep shades of orange. She had no idea what time it was. There was no clock. But it was late spring, and the light suggested evening. She instinctively looked at the screen, a black haired white skinned woman was being taken from behind and looked Sarah right into the eyes. Sarah wondered if she would one day, while being taken, look as happy as that woman.

Her eyes then fell on the Moleskine notebook on the table. An urge to write, to process, to make sense of what was in her head, grew inside her, just as it had often done at home, when alone in her room at night. She looked at the screen, a small woman wearing nothing but a ball gag had her pointy tits slapped by three men, her chest marked a dark pink.

She sat at the table, and switched on the lamp. It cast a small pool of cold light, a tiny bubble of solace in the overwhelming room. She opened the notebook to the first page, the crisp, clean paper contrasting with the depraved wallpaper along her shoulder. She uncapped the pen.

She began to write. At first in fragments: her fear of being inadequate, her desire to be perfect, the remnants of her initial shame. Then, gradually, the writing shifted, as if she were observing rather than reliving. She wrote about how she had begun to change since arriving here, how even her new reactions no longer felt entirely unfamiliar. How she would like more explanation, and order, and someone to tell her what the coming days would bring.

But she also wrote about the unexpected flashes of arousal, the way her body had responded. She wrote about the Master, about the confusing mix of fear and fascination he inspired.

She closed the notebook, capped the pen, and went back to the bed. The television was still flickering, its constant stream of images continuing into the night. A very small young woman was surrounded by many men, all of them old, fat, with huge bellies, the men jerking off as she smiled adoringly, looking up at them. Sarah found that she looked cute, kept watching, and felt heat rise in her belly, the moment the men started to coat the young girl with cum. She opened her thighs, but didn't touch herself. She just wanted air, coolness, the heat to dissipate. But it stayed. For so long.

She lay down, the images from the screen and the walls blurring together in her tired mind. As very slowly her body calmed, she drifted off to sleep again, her mind a little quieter, ready for whatever the next day would bring.

Sarah was woken by a gentle touch on her shoulder. She stirred from a deep sleep, her body moving slowly. Standing over her was a nude, tall black woman, her skin deep brown, her body perfectly curved, looking beautiful and powerful, her head framed by a dense afro of tight curls. Around her neck was a white collar, marking her as an assistant. She said nothing, simply gestured for Sarah to get up as she attached the familiar leather leash to her collar. Sarah complied, her movements stiff as she followed the calm, efficiently moving woman out of the room and down the corridor to the same bathroom from the previous day.

The grooming ritual was repeated with identical efficiency as the day before. The asian grey-collared servant guided Sarah through the process, her hands firm, at times rough. Sarah's armpits were lathered and shaved smooth, then once more her pubis, now with a razor gliding over the sensitive skin until it was as bare as the day she was born. She was then directed into the shower. The water was lukewarm this time, a soothing cascade that seemed to wash away the lingering cobwebs of sleep and the residue of the day before. She stood under the spray, letting it pound on her shoulders and back, a moment of simple, physical pleasure that was entirely her own. When she was done, the servant was waiting with a large, harsh towel, drying her with the same methodical care as the day before, just as she combed her hair many, many times. Sarah felt oddly comforted by the repetition of the ritual, and felt increasingly detached from her own nudity.

Breakfast was in the same refectory. The buffet was again one of controlled nutrition: scrambled egg whites, fresh fruit, plain oatmeal, green tea. Sarah took her plate and sat at a small table. The silence of the room was even more absolute in the morning light. A few other girls were there, their naked forms moving with the same ease as the day before. But this time, Sarah noticed something more. As two girls passed each other, one of them made a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture with her fingers: a flick of the wrist, a subtle tap on her own arm. The other girl responded with an equally small nod. It was a discreet communication, which to Sarah seemed like the Institute allowed it, within in the spaces between its rigid rules.

The atmosphere was monastery-like, a community of women living under shared discipline. Sarah found, as she had the evening before, that she did not mind the serenity. She had slept more deeply than in months, and her mind felt quieter, as if the usual background noise in her mind was slowly but surely being reduced.

After the meal, the ritual continued. She was brought to brush her teeth. Then, instead of being led back to her sparse room, the black assistant guided her down a different corridor, one that opened up into a couple of interconnected, expansive rooms. The space was flooded with natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the wild garden.

Other girls were scattered throughout the space, draped over plush daybeds, curled up on deep sofas, or reclining on colourful piles of cushions on the floor. Some were reading, others were playing chess on an ornate board, and many were simply doing nothing, lost in thought. It was a scene of enforced idleness.

Sarah's gaze was instantly drawn to the larger room, which was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It was a library, but unlike any she had ever seen. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, reading the titles. There were no classics, no histories, no science. The entire collection was dedicated to one subject.

The fiction section was a cornucopia of erotic literature, from well-known classics of the genre to obscure, leather-bound volumes.

The non-fiction was even more specific. It was a curated collection of art books, all focused on the nude form. There were volumes of classical sculpture, Renaissance paintings, vintage erotic photography, and even anthropological studies of ancient fertility rituals and tribal rites of passage.

It was a library dedicated entirely to the aesthetic and cultural history of sex and the naked human body. The sheer, overwhelming focus of it was both intimidating and strangely comforting. Here, in this place, she understood that her own desires—which had once felt like a shameful secret—were the sole subject. She felt a desire to immerse herself in this world, to understand it better. Oh, how did Sarah crave to absorb at once all these letters, all these words and their meaning from all these books.

She scanned the shelves, considering her options. A few titles caught her eye:The Story of Oby Pauline Réage, Anaïs Nin'sDelta of Venus. She found Egon Schiele art books, books on temple prostitution or sacred sexuality, victorian erotic illustrations, ...

Ultimately, she decided on something that felt both beautiful and detached. She pulled out a slim volume titled "Forms of Grace: A Photographic Study of the Female Body in Movement." It was a collection of black and white photographs of women: dancers, athletes, ordinary women. They were captured in moments of physical exertion. The images were artistic, not pornographic, focusing on the lines of muscle, the curve of a spine, the stretch of a limb. It felt like a safe choice. And it made her recall how Awut's body looked.

She took the book and found a quiet corner, tucking herself into a plush armchair that was partially hidden by a large potted fern. She was still timid, still feeling like an outsider, and the corner offered a sense of security. She opened the book and began to read, or rather, to look. The pages were filled with stunning, evocative images. She was captivated, her mind absorbing the beauty of the photography, the power and grace of the female form on display. The silence of the room, broken only by the soft rustle of a turning page or the clink of a chess piece, was soothing.

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, then two, an uneasy feeling began to creep in. She was bored. The constant stimulation of her old life, that torrent of notifications on her phone, the endless chatter of friends, the mindless scrolling through social media, the constant demands of school,... They had conditioned her brain to expect a perpetual stream of input. This forced, uninterrupted quiet was a shock to her system. She found her eyes drifting from the page, her mind wandering. She looked around the room, at the other girls. Some were engrossed in a book, but others were simply staring into space.

And then, a strange thing happened. Sarah began to revel in the boredom. It was a novel sensation. There was no pressure to be entertained, no anxiety about what she was missing. There was only silence, the book, and the slow beating of her own heart. Sarah came to understand that this was a form of meditation, a forced slowing down that her frantic, modern life had never allowed. She let the feeling of calm wash over her.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Outside, in the wild garden, she saw a scene that seemed like a painting. Two older men, dressed like gardeners, were strolling along a gravel path, weeding a flowerbed, cutting bouquets of flowers.

They were being attended by two women, beautiful, naked creatures, who moved about them like graceful shadows. One of them was kneeling while helping with the weeding with meticulous care, her bare bottom resting on her heels. Another was holding and pushing a wheelbarrow.