THE BLUE ROSE

PART 1: ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE

The first sign of something descending toward the Blue Rose is a deep, distant thrum, only barely audible through soundproofed walls, locked doors and reinforced glass, and quickly followed by a gentle three-tone chime and an affectless female voice announcing an assembly.

Whether it’s a helicopter-load of wealthy clients visiting for pleasure, prospective buyers sizing up the facilities and merchandise, or owners checking on their investments’ progress in person, the prospect of VIP guests sparks a frenzy of activity among the residents, who had better be on time, appropriately dressed, and on their absolute best behaviour, lest there be consequences.

For Chloe, who’s spent the morning meticulously polishing every last brass fitting up and down the most heavily-trafficked parts of the building, and consequently enduring a never-ending stream of filthy comments, naked leers and the not-so-occasional squeeze or slap to her artificially pert, round ass, this necessitates a frantic dash halfway across the facility in order to get changed and freshen her makeup. The task was assigned to her as punishment for daydreaming and dropping a plate during her last table-service lesson, and on top of her usual towering stilettos, she’s had to work in a truly ridiculous maid’s outfit made of tight, semi-transparent latex, artfully designed to just about cover either her heaving breasts or the miniscule thong under which her chastity cage is tucked back and twitching in humiliated arousal, but not quite both. This doesn’t exactly make running easy, and neither does the need to maintain the exaggerated gait - arms raised at the elbow, wrists out - that she’s been forced to practise until it’s a shameful second nature. In this inefficient fashion she clicks and clacks through a maze of polished mahogany panelling and portraits of masked buyers with their manufactured girls; she totters by classrooms and roleplay stages, each replete with a variety of inventive props and intensely humiliating memories that make her cage feel all the tighter.

Nevertheless she manages to keep her steady stream of invective - a bad habit she still hasn’t entirely managed to kick despite multiple corrections - safely inside her head where nobody can hear. At least, until the chime announcing thirty minutes til the assembly startles her, and she almost takes a spill on the gleaming hardwood she and her fellow feminised servants-in-training spent the whole previous day waxing to a mirror shine. She just about manages to stay upright, no mean feat considering her centre of gravity, but she doesn’t clamp her overfilled lips shut quite in time to stop a high-pitched “shit!” from squeaking out. And, of course, before she even has the chance to hope nobody heard, there it is - a deep, theatrical clearing of the throat from right behind her, a cue to clack her heels together, straighten her back and stand at attention with her heart pounding in her ears.

“What was that, girl?” asks a deep, mocking voice she recognises all too well. “A little louder, for the cheap seats?” A couple of passing senior-class girls snicker to one another as they walk by; Chloe squirms in embarrassment and frustration and compulsively adjusts the rubber apron of her ridiculous dress, which serves only to expose even more of her voluminous tits. Sure enough, there’s Mr Warner, senior trainer and head of security, who seems to take particular joy in tormenting Chloe, although really that only makes him one among many. It’s doubly unfortunate, then, that Chloe’s thoroughly reconditioned sexuality makes her knees weak and her locked and tucked cock strain at the sight of the taut muscles beneath his suit jacket. He’s maybe mid-forties, supposedly ex-SAS and built appropriately for it, all the better to demonstrate the difference between a man’s body and her own delicate, fragile build. She keeps her eyes meekly lowered and flutters thick, false lashes contritely, some fleeting vestige of her old self hating her for it but the rest by now unable to even imagine disobeying.

“I, I used language unbecoming of a good girl, Sir. I’m very, very sorry, Sir,” she recites with a practiced curtsey, in the high, clear voice the Blue Rose’s surgeons and specialists bestowed on her. To her absolute horror, at the time at least, the conditioning process erased her public-school RP and replaced it with an Essex accent straight out of TOWIE. She knows she only ever felt ashamed of it because of classist prejudices held by the man she used to be, and in fact that this is precisely why it was inflicted on her, but the embarrassment remains, and sends a hot blush blossoming up her neck and across her powdered cheeks, which only makes it worse; her lips part involuntarily with naked lust at her predicament.

“That should earn you a demerit, shouldn’t it, girl?”, Warner asks, moving to stand uncomfortably close and taking her delicate, sculpted jaw in his hand, forcefully tilting her head to look up at him. The smell of his body and his cologne, his heavy, powerfully masculine features, his shaved head and the bulge in his pants Chloe can distinctly feel pressing just below her tits; all mingle with and multiply the shivery thrill of erotic fear she feels.

“Y… yes, sir,” she murmurs. He checks something on the little tablet all the staff and guards carry, and tuts at Chloe, shaking his head in a patronising display of disapproval.

“Seems to me you’ve been fucking up a lot lately, you hopeless little slut; I don’t think you can afford too many more, can you?” he murmurs back. “At least not before some real correction is in order.”

“Please, Sir, I’m sorry I’m such a useless little cocksleeve, Sir,” Chloe stammers, half panicking at the thought of what might be done to her, half trembling with excitement at the idea, and entirely aching with arousal at the shame. She falls back on a well-practiced script, one that’s worked at getting her both out of and into a near-constant parade of predicaments in the past. “I could… I could come to your office, Sir, after hours, and I could… clean it, top to bottom, if you’d like, Sir. Or… or if there’s anything else you need, Sir, I could do that too. I want to show I can be a good girl. I’ll do anything to show you. Anything at all.”

“Well, aren’t we an enterprising whore?” Warner says, savouring that last word, infuriatingly pleased with himself. The tent in his pants feels enormous, and it takes all of Chloe’s self-control not to fall to her knees and pleasure him right there, even though the breach of hallway etiquette would earn her a much worse punishment than a single swearword. As if he’s reading her mind, he shoves a hand into his pants, then forces musky fingers past Chloe’s painted lips and into her eager mouth. Automatically she begins to lick and suck at them, caresses them with her pierced tongue, savours the taste and the hot wash of humiliation as passersby stop to laugh at the helpless maid and the wanton display she’s putting on. To some extent she’s performing for the cameras, which she’s well aware are present, if not exactly where; the Blue Rose’s private-school facade conceals a high-tech surveillance system, including hidden spy cams placed to capture almost every indiscretion, and it’s common knowledge among the girls that the edited highlights are routinely sold to a discreet and wealthy audience of voyeurs.

“My office, then,” he eventually says, “After lights out. We’ll have ourselves a little remedial lesson, and we’ll see whether you can convince me you’re not a complete waste of space.”

“Mghthnk you thr,” Chloe manages, even as Warner continues to face-fuck her with his fingers. After a little more of this, during which time a few more uniformed girls from one of the higher-status classes make uncharitable comments in passing, the trainer relents, thoughtlessly wipes his fingers in her hair and gives her a ringing smack on the butt for good measure.

“You’re dismissed, slut. Better hurry if you don’t want to be late for the reception,” Warner tells her, mockingly, as the twenty-five-minute warning sounds. “That’s a demerit for sure.”

Chloe bobs a crisp curtsey and, arms bent, wrists out, hurries away as fast as she can manage.

 

-

 

Lottie and Nicci have beaten Chloe to their dorm, but not by much, having been on their own assignments elsewhere in the building. As a result, their extravagantly pink beds are already strewn with bits of their discarded outfits, and the girls are struggling into their full uniforms with some difficulty, exacerbated significantly by Lottie’s ridiculous proportions and Nicci’s counterproductive attempts to help. All three are in the service class, destined to cater to their fabulously wealthy owners in whatever capacity they might desire, alongside seven more captives who share their dorm, most of whom are also wrestling with their formal outfits. Chloe, gregarious chatterbox she’s been remade into, would happily call six of them friends, and Jessie knows what she did. Nevertheless the trio of Lottie, Nicci and Chloe share a special bond that’s managed to survive through countless forcible changes to all three girls’ bodies and identities alike since their arrival. They were among the most defiant of their intake group, when they still thought of themselves as the men they were before the Blue Rose’s specialists did their work, and as a result they ended up spending almost all their time together, enduring a variety of cruelly imaginative punishments. Chloe still remembers those days, and something of the person she was before, but the memories feel as if they happened to someone else; for the life of her she can’t imagine thinking or acting the way she used to, or ever wanting to. She’s aware that the numerous lengthy, tortuous sessions with the facility’s proprietary conditioning technology are responsible, and are certainly to blame for the insatiable, all-consuming sex drive whoever is paying for her transformation requested she be burdened with, which has her struggling to think about anything but cocks and cum and getting pounded in every hole basically every minute of every day. But part of being mentally refashioned into a servile nymphomaniac with a fetish for humiliation is that she just doesn’t worry about things like that any more.

Nicci’s a more extreme case, and Chloe’s torn between relief that her owner didn’t order her mind quite so completely rewired, and jealousy at the sheer empty-headed ease with which the pretty little idiot navigates life, free from troubling memories or forbidden thoughts ever making it through the thick pink clouds. Occasionally Chloe wonders whether the sarcastic, rude, needlessly oppositional Nicci she once knew is still in there somewhere, banging on the walls of her mind and screaming, but honestly the giggly, bubble-brained, hyper-feminine Barbie doll the staff brought back from conditioning is a lot more fun. Lottie’s the opposite, in a sense: her owner requested her personality and memory be kept mostly intact so he can enjoy seeing the backstabbing young corporate climber staring out from his new toy’s doelike eyes while she bobs and curtseys, sucks and moans, so her compliance is mostly the product of good old-fashioned carrot and stick, emphasis on the stick. Her brain certainly hasn’t been left free from violation, however; like all the Blue Rose girls she’s received the basic rewiring package, and thus regularly finds herself aching to be fucked, to be pretty, to become painfully uncomfortable if she ever isn’t wearing heels, and to have extreme difficulty in saying no to anything an authority figure orders her to do. On the other hand, retaining most of her original personality means her desire to escape has survived much longer than either of the others’, and Chloe wonders sometimes if Lottie’s gradual acquiescence to her life at the Rose isn’t just a part she’s playing until the opportunity to make another bid for freedom presents itself. If that’s true, it’s backfired terribly; during the girls’ initial breaking in the dreaded White Room it was made repeatedly, abundantly clear to all of them that escaping a multi-billion-dollar secret prison on a tiny, unlisted island, with guards and cameras everywhere, is literally impossible. Nonetheless Lottie keeps trying, and the last time actually knocked out a guard and made it as far as the dock before being tranquilised and hauled back. Even though she had no chance of actually leaving the island - there was no boat present, there wouldn’t be for weeks, and even if there had been, the supply vessels’ cargo and crew are checked meticulously - the staff’s tolerance for escape attempts makes their stance on routine disobedience seem libertine. Once it became apparent that physical pain and sexual humiliation weren’t going to dissuade her, the penalties advanced to the surgical at breakneck speed.

When Chloe regards herself in one of the many, many full-length mirrors in the enormous wardrobe and dressing area the girls share, twice the size of the actual bedroom to accommodate the sheer quantity of uniforms, costumes and fetishwear each girl requires, she sees someone who could still just about blend in. Her tits are implausibly round double-Ds, her ass obviously the product of a Brazilian lift and her sculpted hips make an exaggerated hourglass of her toned waist; her lips have been repeatedly filled til she has a permanent pout, and her cheeks, nose, jaw and brow moulded into an identikit vision of plastic beauty. She’s sprayed a richly artificial tan, her hair falls in huge waves of dramatic blonde balayage over a dark brown base, her fingers are tipped with a full inch of white-pink ombre acrylic. Still, she could pass for a shamelessly overdone beauty influencer, or a Love Islander mercilessly mocked by the gutter press, and in fact has slightly illicit fantasies about being exactly that; or maybe the poster girl for a scandalous fast-fashion brand, a Premier League WAG, a Billboard star’s bit on the side. In short, she could walk down the street in her towering heels and she’d get wolf-whistled, propositioned in the filthiest ways imaginable and called a slut both behind her back and to her face (and all these images make her go weak at the knees), but at least she’d have some sort of a place in the world. Lottie, on the other hand, she’d literally stop traffic. The multiple rounds of punishment surgery she’s endured have made her into a veritable blow-up doll, a walking wet dream with a face and body built to scream ‘sex’ to an absurd degree. Her face has been completely reworked, bone sanded down here, built up there, making for proportions better suited to a plastic toy; her eyes are wide, her jaw tiny, and her nose is a petite, retroussé little thing atop a perfect Cupid’s bow leading the eye down to her cocksucking lips. Those are so sculpted and packed with filler they don’t quite meet in the middle, giving her a constant ‘O’ of brainless surprise. After the ribs they removed and all the subcutaneous fat they redistributed, her ass and hips and cartoonishly tiny waist genuinely make Chloe’s look modest, but the true punishment is Lottie’s tits. They’re a titanic J-cup, and in the week before they were fitted, the staff took great pleasure in informing her over and over that they’d ordered in 1800cc implants specially. The gigantic, bouncing weights make every single task Lottie has to perform incredibly difficult, from dressing to cleaning to simply balancing on her skyscraper heels, particularly considering how much the trainees have to bend and reach, fetch and carry and crawl around on hands and knees as they work. As a final insult, Lottie’s nail extensions have gotten longer and longer with her continued accumulation of demerits, and now she’s forced to fumble around with a set of three-inch talons festooned with gaudy fake jewels and dangling charms, to the immense amusement of the staff, guards and many of the other girls alike.

Despite the amount of work she’s had forced on her, Lottie just about falls on the sexy side of the line rather than the grotesque; the world-class cosmetic surgeons the Blue Rose employs did their jobs admirably. Chloe regularly feels like her cramped chastity cage is going to burst when she stares at the other girl too long, which she does a lot, let alone when they work out their frustrated urges together after lights out. But whatever happens in her future, there will not be a moment in this girl’s life when she isn’t stared at, lusted over, laughed at and masturbated to, when everyone who glimpses her doesn’t assume she’s a shameless slut so desperately thirsty for cock and attention that she’s turned herself into the walking embodiment of porn. That’s the biggest torture, and the thing Chloe thinks might finally have broken Lottie’s will; she’s always been kind of shy, even having apparently resigned herself to her feminisation, and has been nervous and embarrassed when called on to demonstrate sexual technique in front of the class despite being conditioned to crave it. Now she can’t begin to hide, as she totters and jiggles and flashes the breathtakingly trashy tattoos they added for good measure, and in Chloe’s opinion it seems to have worked, because Lottie hasn’t talked about a new escape plan for weeks.

The difficulty in getting Lottie into her uniform is about fifty per cent her spectacular body and fifty per cent Nicci, who thinks she’s helping tighten the heavy-duty corset that the formal uniform’s cut necessitates even for the most wasp-waisted of the girls, but is actually fumbling and giggling and forgetting what she’s doing while keeping up a bubbly monologue about which male staff members she has a crush on this week, what the girls’ lives might be like when their owners claim them, which friends and enemies in the other classes are fighting and why, and who’s been spreading rumours about whom. As far as Chloe’s understanding goes, which she’d be the first to admit isn’t very far, it’s not possible to actually make somebody stupid via the facility’s proprietary neurological resurfacing, but it’s certainly possible to make her act like she is, and Nicci might as well be the demonstration model in that regard.

Nicci’s original self was a narcissistic rich boy, a cocksure early-twenties finance bro with a sharp wit and an ego sized to match his expensive tastes. Chloe dimly remembers the man she was befriending the man Nicci was in those early days, probably because they weren’t all that different. She recalls them waking each morning in shared horror at what had been done to their bodies, arrogantly demanding to speak to the head of the facility because there’d obviously been a terrible mistake. Battering uselessly at the guards with their newly slender arms and svelte builds, sobbing at the constant, horrific violations, hidden in the bathroom where the other freshly-feminised men couldn’t see. Screaming pointlessly for help at the window, in voices they barely recognised as their own. Then the girls’ conditioning began, seeming even more like something from a horror film: forced into electrode-laced bodysuits, strapped to modified examination chairs, pumped with a personalised cocktail of mind-altering drugs so potent they no longer knew who or where they were; sealed into headsets that bombarded them with a bruising cascade of lurid sounds and images while heavy magnetic coils pulsed and hummed and fundamentally rewired their brains. The electrostim system connected to the suits would bring the writhing victims right to the edge of release for what seemed like hours, before wracking them suddenly with pleasure so intense it quickly became unbearable, and pain so pristine they tried to beg for more. This would go on for whole days, eternities spent writhing in ecstatic hell while bored conditioning technicians monitored the pharmaceutical mix and adjusted the emitters to more effectively core out their old selves. Then, eventually, waking, sometimes days later, to relentless mockery; Chloe and Nicci were the first of their class to be taken, made an example for the others, and those others laughed at how willingly submissive and feminine the most defiant among them had become, to mask their terror at being next.

There’s rarely a need to put any of them in the chairs these days, and there won’t be until it’s time for them to be imprinted on their masters immediately prior to graduation. When Chloe’s been assigned to clean the conditioning room while there are girls bucking and moaning in the machines’ unyielding grip, she finds herself achingly jealous of the total submission in knowing their thoughts, their sense of self, their entire identities are being remade to suit someone else’s desires. Then again, her desperate lust for submission is itself a product of the chair, and when she was actually strapped down for conditioning she bit and screamed and fought to get free, an attitude she now finds incomprehensible. So it’s kind of a paradox. And that’s as far as she usually gets before she starts thinking about dicks again.

“Chlolo!” Nicci exclaims in her Californian cheerleader’s tones, high-pitched and rising at the end of every statement as if she’s asking a question. Everybody gets a cutesy nickname: Lottie is Lottie-loo, Jessie is Jezziebell, Felicia is Flicky and so on, and even the guards, who aren’t supposed to give their names, have ended up christened things like Sugardick and Mister Daddy. Chloe gives her co-bestie a quick hug and a kiss on each cheek; Nicci’s similar to Chloe in her proportions, with tits a cup size or two smaller and an ass a little less pronounced, if still high and round. She’s a couple of inches shorter, too, and the overall impression is a cuter kind of sexy. It’s one that isn’t wasted on Chloe, breathing in Nicci’s heavy vanilla perfume as she brushes a powdered cheek with her exaggerated lips, and she has to struggle against her urge to shove her tongue into Nicci’s impossibly glossy pink mouth and start sloppily Frenching her right then and there.

“Let me do that, will you, Nics? We’re well late,” she says instead. Nicci sticks her bottom lip out like a brat, but she lets herself be gently manoeuvred away before she can mess up Lottie’s stays any further, allowing Chloe to make quick, if not especially gentle, work of them.

Everything Nicci has a choice in is invariably some shade of pink; her overlong gel nails are a confection of pink glitter and sparkles, her huge hoop earrings are shiny rose gold, her perfectly overdone eyeshadow is in at least three different shades, and she’s wearing heavy blush over thick bronzer, with a light dusting of shimmer powder making her skin look dewy and fresh. Her eyes are artfully made up to seem as big and innocent as she can make them, her fake lashes are exaggeratedly long and curled, and her masses of perfectly straight, platinum blonde hair are pulled into a super-high Ariana Grande pony which, with the help of some truly extravagant extensions, reaches all the way down to her pert little butt. She has on her most prized possession, a rose-gold necklace that spells out her name in florid cursive; a gift sent by her owner to celebrate the transformation of the arrogant Ivy League fuckboy she was into the giggly airhead currently mindlessly twirling her hair and thinking absolutely nothing at all. To Nicci, it’s cast-iron proof that upon her completion her dashing master is going to sweep her away to a life of Barbie-doll bliss; walk-in shoe closets stretching as far as the eye can see, a pink plastic dream house with a hot pink convertible in the driveway, and Daddy Ken’s big, thick cock whenever he feels the urge. Chloe doesn’t have the heart to remind her that if her owner intended to spoil her, she’d have been spending her days in a schoolgirl uniform with the rest of the trophy-wives-in-training; learning to throw garden parties, get bent over the breakfast table and generally act like an entitled, snobby mean girl, rather than cooking, entertaining and scrubbing floors with the rest of the property.

That’s not to say Chloe knows what awaits the girls when they’re packed up and shipped out to their waiting owners. For all that the girls are frequently dressed and treated as classic French maids during training, that isn’t necessarily a position many billionaires are looking to fill in the twenty-first century. From the evidence of the curriculum, Chloe expects to be a sort of all-purpose assistant and sex toy; dressed in outfits only just barely acceptable in company, summoned day and night to serve, entertain, fetch and facilitate, and to get used and abused in every way imaginable whenever the man of the house might feel like it. To be punished and degraded mercilessly by his jealous wife, to follow silently at her heel in and out of boutiques full of the giggling super-rich, laden with bags and boxes, totally objectified and humiliated. At least, that’s what she pictures when she’s sating her urges at night, moaning softly under pink silk sheets while she brings herself off with the biggest rubber dick in the well-stocked toy cabinet. There are other options for a graduate of the Rose, of course, and Chloe’s mind all too regularly wanders into erotic daydreams about those, often during class: she could be the stewardess and in-flight entertainment on a private jet, or an obviously unqualified PA, trotting along behind her boss in a tight little skirt-suit and kneeling to take dictation beneath his desk. She could end up a hostess in a private club, or making high-end porn for his production company. The girls are property, and their masters can do literally anything they like, although a guard Chloe was blowing did once tell her the place takes a very dim view indeed of anyone who wastes all the effort that goes into creating a girl.

Regardless, there’s certainly nothing to stop an owner falling for the merchandise, so Chloe admits maybe there’s hope for Nicci’s dreams yet. As for herself, she’s absolutely yearning to begin whatever demeaning role life has in store for her, and for the hundredth time she silently resolves to stop being such a clumsy, distracted, selfish little cumdump and start doing better in her lessons, whatever the fading screams of revulsion in the back of her mind might have to say.

“Ahh! Oooh. Thanks, Chlo. I think,” Lottie murmurs breathily, gargantuan chest heaving from the struggle and from her waist being nipped in so harshly. With a sigh, working exaggeratedly carefully around her absurd nails, she attaches her garters and begins struggling to pull on the actual dress. The formal uniform is an especially extravagant creation, even among the rows upon rows of outfits tailored for each girl’s body in leather, latex and lace, catering to every preference but modesty; a murderously wasp-waisted confection in heavy silk, totally unsuited for anything but standing still and looking pretty, with tight full-length sleeves, a scandalous neckline, and a tiny skirt that sticks out at a forty-five-degree angle, fully exposing the girls’ underwear. Chloe has peeled herself out of the hot, sticky latex and is in her shoes and stockings, pulling her laces extra tight with little moans of exertion-slash-arousal, when the fifteen-minute chime sounds, forcing her to frantically double her pace as she wriggles and shimmies herself into the ridiculous uniform, fastens the row of tiny buttons and awkwardly closes the long, stiff sleeves around her dainty wrists. There are lacy little fingerless gloves and a silk apron tied with a giant bow at the girls’ backs still to come, but first she needs to fix her makeup, which is a production in itself.

She’s been daydreaming about hard dicks pounding in and out of her while she cleaned off her previous heavy coat, her own tiny member straining uselessly against its prison, but the need to get the task right brings Chloe back down to Earth, if only temporarily. The girls all have access to a huge selection of cosmetics and accessories, as well as regular, mandatory visits to the in-house salon and manicurist; each has a target look, chosen both to express the particular hyper-feminine persona selected for her and, of course, to humiliate, which must be applied flawlessly and kept sufficiently varied to pass morning inspection each day, always a heart-in-mouth moment. Chloe’s look is every bit the shamelessly artificial, attention-hungry cock addict the conditioning has made her, and in theory should be second nature, but in practice she has to pile so much product onto her face every day; a perfectly put-together mask of base, concealer, foundation, contour, blend, highlight, blend again, bronzer, powder, blush and setting spray, not to mention the twelve-step dramatic eyes, the huge, heavy false lashes, the multiple thick coats of volumising lipstick, and the pencil and gel that thicken and define her bold, crisply threaded brows. By contrast Nicci just gets to slap on bronzer and apply as much glitter and pink as she likes, which is all of it, and is generally considered to be embodying bimbo brainlessness adequately, although Chloe has to admit the little ditz’s liner and shadow game is on point; a lot of work goes into creating those vacant Barbie-doll eyes. Lottie has it barely any easier - her hyper-sexual porn-star look isn’t supposed to be subtle, and the trainers have actually given her demerits for looking too polished before, but managing lashes and liner and all the rest with those talons is a feat in itself. While the other two finish working on their own faces, Chloe slips in the gold studs that go with the uniform, and with great care fastens the decorative collar around her slender neck.

Makeup finally done, and anticipating the next chime over the PA any moment, Chloe gets the other two girls into their aprons before tying her own and twisting it for Lottie to pull tight around her miniscule, harshly constricted waist, leaving her with an enormous, exaggeratedly feminine white bow sticking out like a bustle. The cap, at least, is simple, and is pinned to her tightly knotted bun in the same place the latex one recently sat.

“Gosh, we’ve really gotta hurry, girls,” she tells them, a little thrill of submissive shame twitching her cage from controlling her language even when no trainers are around. She checks her hems, straightens a lacy glove, and - corseted tits wobbling like jelly, heels making sharp clacks on the wood, holding her arms in appropriately feminine fashion - she leads the other two in the direction of the reception hall.

 

-

 

“Where the hell have you three been?” snaps Ms Fields. She’s one of the younger members of staff, barely thirty in Chloe’s estimation, and quite spectacularly nasty to her charges. She’s incredibly attractive, with straight, severe bangs framing a face that might seem innocent under other circumstances, and she’s dressed in her customary style, best described as business dominatrix; a beautifully-cut skirt suit, long latex gloves, and gleaming, spike-heeled thigh boots that Chloe’s had to lick clean in front of the class on more than one occasion. She’s even snapping a wicked-looking riding crop against her gloved hand. She’s only five-two or thereabouts in height, and even in the boots that Chloe can’t entirely tear her eyes away from, or stop thinking about the taste of, most of her submissive charges tower over her. Not that it diminishes her authority over the girls in the slightest; she has a hair-trigger temper and a real vindictive streak when it comes to punishments. The thought has occurred to Chloe that Ms Fields is maybe working out some personal issues, with the girls as a stand-in for someone or multiple someones from her past, but she values her present measurements too much to dare say it even in the privacy of their dorm.

“Sorry, Miss, we was getting ready, Miss,” says Chloe, taking the lead as usual.

“It takes you half an hour to put on a dress, you vain little twat?” Ms Fields laughs.

Chloe opens her mouth to explain she was working on the opposite side of the facility, but for once she actually thinks better before she shoves a stiletto in there. “Yes, Miss. I’m sorry I’m a vain little twat, Miss. I’ll try to do better, Miss.”

Ms Fields lets out a harsh laugh and swats Chloe across the back of the thighs with the crop. “Jiggle those arses over to the line with the others, then, sluts,” she says, addressing all three. “And be on your best behaviour, girls: I’ve got my eye on you three.”

“Yes, Ms Fields,” all three maids chorus - Lottie slightly out of time with the other two - then bob identical curtseys and trot inside before she changes her mind.

The reception hall is a familiar sight to the girls, since its sweeping staircases, polished wood floors and beautifully inlaid wall panels need a lot of cleaning, but they rarely get to see it so full of people. The rest of their class - Sasha, Cecily, Jessie, Marcie, Felicia, Tamara, Lily - are standing in a neat line, backs straight, eyes forward, channelling any number of hours in deportment training. The other classes are present, too, arranged in prim, motionless rows; in total just under forty former men, transformed and reprogrammed, split between four classes: wives-to-be and servants-in-training in both senior and junior groups, the former having begun their training some time before Chloe’s set, although exactly how long is one of the many things the girls aren’t allowed to know. A further, lucky three are in the rarefied lineal track, where disappointing, scandalous or delinquent sons are made into obedient daughters, who unlike the others can hope for some amount of self-determination in their futures, even if their new personalities might have quite different ideas about how to use it.

“I’m so excited!! Who do you think it’s gonna be, girls!?” gushes Nicci, after managing to stand quietly for exactly four seconds.

“I’m thinking it’s going to be some billionaires, Nics,” replies Lottie flatly.

“No, I mean I know that, duh!?” she protests. “But like, is it gonna be all, y’know, boring ones, all asking us questions and wearing suits and eating little nibbly thingies, or is it gonna be the fun sort that are here to, like…”

“Fuck us?” Lottie finishes for her, flatly.

Chloe feels her cage tighten around her growing excitement. “Oh yeah. Fuck us senseless, if we’re lucky. Remember the four guys on the bachelor thing the other time; that was mint, right Lots?”

“I think you remember that night differently to me, Chlo,” replies Lottie.

“Dunno, I’m pretty sure I heard some proper screams of ecstasy when the big guy started going to town on you, babes,” Chloe replies, grinning at the scandalised expression on Lottie’s sculpted face.

“I think you were just listening to yourself, as usual,” she mutters back. Nicci seems to have lost interest and is playing with her nails, looking wide-eyed around the room at anything and nothing.

“Can’t have been, I had my mouth full the whole time, innit. Sometimes I had two,” Chloe says smugly, almost forgetting to be embarrassed by the innit. “No fooling me, Lottie-loo - you like a bit when you stop over-thinking it.”

“Easier to do when every thought just comes from the conditioning!” Lottie snaps, clearly tired of this line of conversation. Chloe makes a perfect ‘O’ of performative shock.

“Listen, just ‘cause you’re determined to be fuckin’ miserable, it don’t mean you gotta be such a-“ she begins, snapping instantly into high drama mode, but is interrupted by a vicious smack to the back of her legs.

“Mouths are for sucking, not speaking, dolls!” snaps Mr Goodwin, who’s snuck up behind the girls and delivers a quick whack to Lottie and Nicci too, which elicits a sharp breath from the former and a squeak from the latter. They all chorus “Sorry, sir!” and return to their blank, forward stares, although Lottie and Chloe do exchange a quick, venomous glance to remind each other this isn’t over.

“Actually, if you stupid cunts are so restless you’re gabbing about boys or hair or whatever, I’ve got a little job for you, and the two of you, as well,” Mr Goodwin says, indicating Cecily and Jessie. He’s another musclebound MMA type squeezed into a sharp suit, although in this case significantly shorter than Mr Warner and balding, with a reputation for liking very rough sex with the girls. Chloe, obviously, is already weak at the knees at the thought of what the ‘job’ might be, so she’s a little disappointed to be handed a silver serving tray. “Circulate, smile, don’t say a fucking word unless you’re spoken to, come back to this table if you run out, and do not drop anything or I’ll give you something to remember it by, you hear me?”

All five girls nod and take their trays; despite their tiff, Chloe feels a pang of sympathy for Lottie, who between nails and tits she’ll be amazed to see make it through the event without catastrophe. One of the tuxedoed waiters standing by an immaculately-laid table, who Chloe assumes must work somewhere the girls don’t normally see, like the kitchens, arranges glasses on one platter, canapés on the next, and so on until they’re perilously heavy and hard to balance and Chloe’s starting to get nervous. The girls have had intensive training in serving at formal events, of course, but this will be their first real test, and out of Lottie, Nicci and Chloe, none can say they exactly have a flawless track record in practice sessions. Mr Goodwin gives each of them taps on the ass until they’re positioned in a line in front of the other girls, and they’re left standing there at attention, arms quickly starting to ache from holding the trays level, waiting for the guests to arrive.

The girls’ muscles are on fire and Cecily’s tray is visibly starting to tremble by the time the doors open, immediately revealing a sight that makes every single surgically-enhanced butt in the room clench in trepidation. Ma’am founded the Blue Rose, and she rules it with an iron cane, quite literally; the girls see her very infrequently, and even more rarely under desirable circumstances. She’s a dignified, positively aristocratic-looking lady perhaps in her mid-seventies; her palpable air of reserved menace contrasts starkly with her creations’ largely unsubtle style and the staff’s overtly dangerous appearances alike. She doesn’t usually bother receiving VIPs personally, and Chloe’s extensively rhinoplastied nose for gossip is twitching at her having made an appearance.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the Blue Rose!” she announces with a flourish. Following her through the big double doors are a full helicopter-load of eight VIPs. Five are men, three women, and none look familiar to Chloe at first glance. In theory the girls’ owners may visit to inspect their progress in person, but those arrivals are kept separate, observing from the other side of mirrored glass while their property is ordered to strip, pose and perform for the satisfaction of their unseen audience. The girls aren’t allowed to know who from their old lives paid to have them kidnapped, tortured and remade until they graduate; Ms Fields says the surprise is half the fun.

The visitors today aren’t existing owners, then; they’re most likely prospective clients touring the facility before they commit to having their own target taken and feminised, or they’re paying guests at the most exclusive brothel in the world, or - if one of the guards Chloe’s pumped for information is to be believed - they’re plants from a wide range of governments and corporations, trying to steal the facility’s proprietary conditioning technology. That last fact does go some way to explaining why some parties depart smaller than they arrived.

At a light swat with the cane, all five tray-bearers sashay forward, faces carefully neutral, eyes level, heavy underskirts rustling. The gaggle of staff, Ms Fields and Mr Goodwin among them, sweep up the visitors and separate into groups in order to start expounding on the facility’s services and pedigree. Chloe acts as instructed and circulates, summoning up every ounce of willpower in order to keep her tray of champagne glasses level. Most of the guests and all the staff treat her like a piece of furniture, taking a glass or depositing an empty without meeting her eye, which sends a little submissive thrill down Chloe’s spine. Here and there she catches snips of conversation as she passes, although she doesn’t dare linger.

“-CIA spent decades trying to crack it; we started from first principles and managed it in ten-“

“-pioneering surgical techniques, performed entirely on-site-“

“-nable to instil skills or knowledge via the apparatus, so intensive training is req-“

“-ve substantial military experience, meaning escape is utterly im-“

As Chloe walks by, Ma’am turns to look directly at her and imperiously snaps her fingers, causing a lancet of icy fear to stab the girl straight through the heart.

“You. Over here,” she commands, her crisp vowels hitting Chloe’s compulsion to obey like lead weights. Chloe stands even straighter, if that’s possible, and manoeuvres herself over with her best, most sensual sway. The facility’s head is talking with a pair of VIPs who Chloe assumes are a married couple, both on the older side and dressed in unshowy but probably staggeringly expensive attire.

“So, do you, ah, do you like it here?” the red-faced little man asks her, in response to Ma’am’s nod of encouragement. His wife doesn’t waste words, just takes one of Chloe’s voluminous, corseted tits in one hand and gives it a hard jiggle, then moves on to squeezing her ass as if she’s evaluating a cut of meat.

Chloe bobs a little curtsey, mindful of the tray. “Yes, Sir, I like it here very much, thankyou Sir,” she trills, perfectly on-script.

“And do you know what’s been done to you? Do you remember who you were before?” the VIP continues, with a sweaty sort of curiosity. One of Ma’am’s eyebrows quirks, but she doesn’t intervene, which Chloe takes as a prompt that she be honest.

“I do remember, Sir, but it’s all a bit hazy,” she says, trying for sincerity but suspecting she’s coming across dumb and horny, which is a kind of sincerity in itself. “I don’t remember what my name was, but I’m not bothered ‘cause my new one’s so pretty, Sir. And the surgeons, they give me these lovely boobs and bum and they done my face up and sorted my head so I’m a good girl, and I love serving, and I love c… er, lots of things, Sir. So I’m dead happy this all happened, Sir, thankyou for asking.”

“And what are these other things you like, I wonder?” asks his wife, with a definite edge of malice. Chloe’s heart takes a leap; her mouth was running away on its own by the end there, as it always does when she’s nervous; almost certainly another cruel little gift from the conditioning technicians. Ma’am gives her captive a long, cool stare.

“Go on, girl. Illuminate us. What were you about to say? Don’t hold back,” she says frostily. Chloe, internally a writhing, contradictory mess of horrified embarrassment, unbearable arousal and genuine fear, doesn’t have a tenth the spare brainpower to do anything but unthinkingly obey.

“I was gonna say I love cock, Ma’am, Sir. I love big, thick cocks in both ends, I love cum in my mouth and dripping out my bum and all over my face. I love being a brainless doll who’s only good for taking orders and taking cocks, Ma’am, Sir. Thankyou for asking, Ma’am.”

The heaving plateau of Chloe’s chest is trembling, both from her desperate, frustrated urges and the hot shame of voicing any part of them in polite company, but she stands there straight-backed and blank-faced, arms screaming from the weight of the tray.

“And this one was entirely heterosexual before the procedures began. Something of a ‘player’, apparently,” Ma’am says proudly, surprising the panting Chloe, who’d been expecting discipline the moment the first three words left her mouth.

“Astonishing,” says the wife, taking Chloe’s delicate jaw between manicured fingers and twisting it this way and that.

“That accent’s quite something, isn’t it?” says the husband. “Did she arrive with it, or…?”

“Indeed not,” replies Ma’am, looking smug. “Prior to the work she was quite the, ah, posh boy. It was felt the accent made for a nice complement to the image we crafted for her, and contrasted with her former self in a way her owner found amusing. We offer bespoke accent replacement and foreign language training as part of our services, of course. If you’d like another demonstration, I believe the French girl is… ah, yes, there she is. You! Over here, now,” she snaps, in Cecily’s direction.

“Oui, Madame,” Cecily replies, daintily strutting over. She’s tall, elegant, probably the most beautiful girl in their dorm by conventional standards, and very, very French; that she didn’t actually speak the language until she was put on a crash course for verisimilitude doesn’t diminish the effect.

“Now, when you hear this one, do bear in mind she came to us from Milwaukee,” Ma’am adds, with pride. “Girl, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” she says, all faux-sweetness. “You, the other one, back to your task at once.”

“Oui, Madame,” “Yes, Ma’am,” say Cecily and Chloe, each executing a crisp curtsey despite her tray. As ever, standing next to Ceci is making Chloe feel extremely cheap and fake by comparison, which means she worries she’s at risk of lifting her skirt and trying to impale herself on the fittings before she explodes from desperate frustration. Cecily’s accent is not helping. “Well, I am a, what is the word, une servant domestique, which means I am ‘ere to cater to whatevair mon master might desire, and in, umm, addicion, I am-“

Chloe manages to circulate away before pre-cum starts dripping from her underwear, a faux pas that would inevitably lead to bad outcomes. She dispenses some more champagne flutes, receives a couple of empties in return, gets groped no fewer than six times, and finds herself hovering around near where a single VIP is talking to Dr. McAvoy, head surgeon at the Blue Rose and ultimate arbiter of all the girls’ bodily modifications.

“But he’s here, right? You’ve got him and it’s… done? It’s irreversible?” the man is asking, sweating profusely and oddly agitated compared to the usual smooth confidence of the client classes.

“We prefer to refer to them as ‘she’ once the initial procedures are complete,” the doctor replies calmly, craggy face giving the impression he’s sizing the man up for a straitjacket. “But yes, your subject was delivered safely into our hands, the first round of surgeries was completed on schedule and are, I assure you, quite irreversible. I confess to being confused, though; aren’t you here to observe the final orientation? The subject is due to begin her training tomorrow, after all.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” stammers the nervous man, and Chloe finds herself shuffling a couple of steps closer, trying and failing to look like she’s doing anything but listening in. Thankfully nobody seems to notice, at least for the moment. “I’m just, that is, I just wanted to double-confirm that everything was, yes, was finished, as… this really is very important. More important than, well, than you can possibly know.”

“What’s that? Please may you have twenty-four hours in the Box? Why yes, my darling, all you need to do is keep standing there like a lazy fucking cunt for just one more second and it’s yours! I’ll even make it forty-eight, just for you, because you know you’re my favourite,” hisses a voice - Ms Fields - from right behind Chloe. She feels the crop caressing the inside of her thigh, and this gets her moving about as fast as she reasonably can in her heels. A glutton for punishment she may be, but she does not want forty-eight hours in the Box.

 

-

 

Once the reception is finally over, and the girls have been fed and consigned to their dorm for the evening, they have a couple of free hours before lights out. Cecily and Felicia were requested by one of the visiting VIPs, and thus have been whisked away for some professional attention on their hair, makeup and costumes, but the remaining eight have gotten changed into their nightwear - a skimpy pink teddy and barely-there thong, a floor-length, semi-transparent nightgown trimmed with fake fur, and towering, fluffy heels. A couple of the girls are drifting miles away under headphones, listening to the blissful hypnotic loops that are the only entertainment they’re allowed, and serve the secondary purpose of reinforcing their conditioning. The others are variously practicing their deep-throating with the row of huge dildos mounted to the wall below screens playing instructional pornography, gossiping together in a little knot of sculpted bodies and giggling voices, and discussing what Chloe overheard at the reception.,

“I don’t know, it sounds like he just really cares about his new girl?!” Nicci says. “I actually think that’s super-duper sweet!! Like he’s all worried about her and stuff!?”

“I dunno, it just sounded weird,” Chloe replies slightly sullenly, unwilling to let something potentially juicy go, even if it is imaginary.

“Okay but, like, real talk, what would they even be up to?! Like, they’re already kibmapping dumb stinky boys and making them pretty girly girls, what’s… I mean, like, what else is there to do?”

“No, you’re right, Nics, that is all the crimes there are,” says Lottie flatly.

Nicci bursts out in high-pitched giggles. “No, silly!! I mean like, what even is the thingy, the inca… no, haha, I don’t mean that, duh, I mean the inte… I mean, like, what, the money thingy, the inv…?” she says, tip of one nail in her mouth in her customary expression of exaggerated airheadedness.

“You mean you don’t know what you mean, like usual, Nic,” laughs Chloe, which sends Nicci into another fit of tongue-tied giggling, and that sets Chloe off too, as Lottie watches them bemusedly from her bed, still in the early stages of the mammoth task that is brushing her masses of chocolate-brown extensions.

“But for realsies, babe, maybe don’t think so much!?” Nicci manages, eventually, flapping her hands to her face to calm down. “That’s like the best thing about being dumb lil’ bimbo girlies: we don’t have to!! If we think something seems weird, it’s just ‘cause we don’t umberstand it, and if something is weird, we are no way smart enough to figure out why!! So don’t give yourself wrinkles trying!!”

“You know, that’s actually really good advice, Nic,” Chloe says, and for all that Lottie’s looking at her like I want to think you’re being sarcastic but I know you’re not, she’s so touched her eyes are actually welling up, although not in such a way that it spoils her makeup, which is a hard-won skill all three girls have been forced to acquire. She theatrically dabs at them and leans in to give the smaller girl a hug, which she enthusiastically returns. “Love ya, babes. I’m just gonna forget about anything that ain’t classes, training and being a good little cocksleeve.” Nicci bursts out laughing again, which sets Chloe off again, and Lottie just stares at the pair of them as if they’re aliens. Chloe admits it has to be weird for the girl, seeing two people she’d gotten to know eagerly embracing the new selves that have been imposed upon them, especially when she’s fought her own training at every step. But without going through identity replacement herself, Lottie’s never really going to get it, and all this is getting a bit close to the kind of overthinking Chloe’s just pledged to give up. Plus, thoughts of Lottie have reminded her that there’s something much more satisfying she can be doing with her time: namely, starting shit for no reason.

“I got a bone to pick with you, actually, missy,” she says to Lottie, who halts her brushing and raises an exquisitely threaded brow as far as it’ll go, which isn’t very after all the Botox. “I don’t really like hearing I’m just a load of programming or whatever, especially from the girl who’s supposed to be my best friend, innit. What d’you got to say for yourself?”

“…sorry, Chlo,” Lottie says, after a loaded pause. Chloe finds herself a bit disappointed; she was quite looking forward to a proper knock-down row, and is left feeling unaccustomedly blue-balled. “I was just really nervous before the whole reception thing, and I was kind of… scared they’d pick us for sex again, but also I really wanted them to, and then I was angry at myself, because I know they put that desire in my head, and then when you brought it up I got angry with you, and…”

Lottie’s sniffling and crying, her immense bosom heaving with every sob, and dabbing at her eyes with what Chloe thinks is an admirably delicate motion. Her reaction is probably down to the cocktail of hormones, blockers and more exotic pharmaceuticals the girls are constantly dosed to the gills on, which makes them all incredibly emotional at the best of times; Chloe can relate, since she bursts into tears approximately eight times a day and has an equal number of theatrical meltdowns, so almost as soon as Lottie’s waterworks start up she flounces over and throws her arms around the girl.

“It’s alright, babes, I know it’s hard, I know,” she murmurs, speaking very much as someone who’d be hard herself that moment if it weren’t for the chastity cage.

“It’s just… I know I’m not getting out of here now. I… I want to not… not get punished any more, but it’s so, so difficult, Chlo, and I’m just so scared and I…” she takes a scented tissue from her bedside table and daintily blows her tiny, reconstructed nose, then rearranges her ridiculously skimpy negligee. “I wish they’d just put me in the chair, you know. Get rid of the rest of me. I used to be so terrified of that, but I just… I don’t care any more. If this really is going to… be my life, what I am now, I want to be like you and Nicci and just enjoy it. Why’d it have to be me they left like this, Chlo?”

Chloe moves a few strands of Lottie’s dark locks out of her face and turns herself around on the silk sheets til she’s facing her properly. “It ain’t fair, Lots,” she says. “But babes, let me tell you, I really do think you are amazing, you know that? I proper can’t imagine what it’s like, dealing with everything the way you have to, but you’re so strong, girl, and I’m dead proud of you. For real.”

Chloe’s been being good and resisting the impulse to pounce on Lottie despite the smell of her perfume and the way her huge tits are pressed against her own, but before she knows it the other girl’s artificially plump lips are sucking hungrily at her not-inconsiderable pair, one hand is pulling down the gauzy material barely covering her breasts, and their chastity cages are clinking together in agonising mutual frustration. They go at it like this for a little while, Chloe eventually pressed beneath Lottie’s spectacular curves, hands pinned above her head while the taller girl licks and teases her desperately erect nipples, before Nicci launches herself onto the bed alongside them, arms full of a variety of the biggest, pinkest toys she’s been able to gather. From there, in full view of all the other girls and any number of hidden cameras, it gets extremely explicit extremely quickly, although it’s certainly nothing they haven’t seen before.

 

-

 

Chloe remembers mornings being awful, early on in her residency, when every waking was a cacophony of sobbing, screaming and futile rage from the newly-made girls in the dorm. Then, after she and Nicci were taken to the chair a few times, mornings became filled with excitement and tingly anticipation of the day, marred only by everybody else making it such a downer with all the aforementioned drama and woe. Now waking up is entirely pleasurable, a time to revel in her body and the deep satisfaction in existing for others’ pleasure, especially after falling asleep in a blissful post-orgasmic haze with her two besties, having thoroughly exercised every part of their anatomies that isn’t locked inside a constricting steel cage.

The wake-up chimes are still sounding and the sun is barely peeking over the bright blue ocean outside the window as Chloe quietly rises, stretches, sweeps the saturated pile of makeup-remover wipes on the bedside table into a nearby waste bin, and compulsively starts cleaning and tidying away the collection of vibrators, beads, plugs and double-enders the three of them enjoyed. Sex between the girls is one of the few things neither restricted nor punished at the Blue Rose, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their duties or deportment; it’s generally held that extensive sexual experience adds value to the products, that the mutual bonding it fosters aids with attitude and breaks down resistance, and that the neurochemical release reinforces their conditioning. Plus, Chloe gets a dirty little thrill every time she notices the glint of light on a hidden lens. She swears there’ve been a couple of times when she’s gotten away with lighter punishments or received more of a reward than she’d have expected after providing the cameras with some really juicy footage, so now she makes a point of playing up to the hidden observers who may or may not be present; bucking and screaming like a porn star while riding some guard’s dick for favours, opening her legs just enough for the upskirt cams she suspects are fitted beneath the desks in the classrooms, smuggling a dildo into Etiquette class in the only available repository.

The first hour is morning exercise, ablutions and breakfast, then the girls are issued the day’s assignments via the wall screens; they then have sixty minutes to get their makeup and outfits in perfect order for whatever task or lesson they’ve been allotted, which Chloe suspects is intentionally never quite enough. Nicci, Lottie and Chloe’s entries on the board read only ‘special duties’ today, with no number referring to a uniform, which arouses excitement in Nicci, trepidation in Lottie and just plain arouses Chloe, but leaves them a little confused as to what look to pick. After some discussion, and dispatching an exhausted Felicia to persuade Chloe to come out of the bathroom when the discussion doesn’t go her way, they settle on a lacy, lingerie-adjacent version of their maids’ uniforms paired with extra-high heels and their hair pinned up neatly, as something they can scrub in if they have to but will be appropriate for sexual service or entertaining, and hope for the best.

Ms Malynovskaya’s inspection is one of the tensest moments in the service trainees’ day; she’s house mistress to the juniors as a whole, and it’s her job to evaluate how well they’ve met their target looks as well as dispense punishment to those who fall short. She’s a statuesque woman in early middle age, intimidatingly beautiful despite her severe, side-swept hair and disapproving scowl, and stands at a suitably intimidating height that she can look down on many of the girls even teetering on their heels.

“Acceptable,” she tells Jessie, Marcie, Felicia and Sasha, all wearing the scandalous take on a school uniform that is the girls’ standard attire for classroom sessions; pleated grey skirts barely cover asses, shirts and blazers are eye-poppingly tight, and the colour of the tie carefully arranged atop each girl’s formidable chest is the only thing differentiating them from the higher-ranking matrimonial subjects. All four girls trot away to whatever the day holds, which could be anything from pleasing a man to making a soufflé, leaving Cecily and Lily standing at attention in fairly typical maids’ outfits, Tamara squirming uncomfortably in a latex nurse’s uniform for her assignment assisting in the medical wing, and the three girls waiting to see what their ‘special duties’ might involve.

The others are dealt with fairly quickly, Tamara earning a swat on the butt and some colourful language for her lipstick being a shade too dark and the pair of maids being dispatched to polish the brass in the staff lounge, which is likely to turn out to be a euphemism in practice if not by intent.

“Now, Chloe, let us have a look at what you have made of yourself,” says Ms Malynovskaya, clicking over to where the trio have been standing straight-backed and motionless, every sound from her stiletto heels making Chloe’s cage twitch a little. The house mistress is almost unique among the staff in that she actually seems to like Chloe, perhaps because the love of her own appearance that’s been burned into her brain drives her to work hard at her makeup, meaning this is the one part of the girls’ education where Chloe is least often punished. “Very pretty little attention whore. Well done,” she tells her, each clipped Eastern European vowel exciting Chloe further. The other thing about Ms Malynovskaya is that she’s the one woman in the facility with a cock that isn’t triple-locked into a stainless steel cage, which means her approval often brings its own rewards. “You and you, good also, well done,” she tells the other two. “Chloe did not help you?”

“No, Ms Malynovskaya,” Lottie and Nicci chorus; days spent walking around with bright-red asses, embarrassingly unable to sit still, have taught all three of them their lesson on that subject.

“Very well. Today you three have very special duty,” she tells them, with a thin smile. “Girl! Present yourself!”

The staff-only door to the girls’ dorm beeps and clicks open, and the sight that presents itself conjures a trio of genuinely shocked gasps limned in lipstick and hyaluronic acid.

“Wow, Tam-Tam looks so different, and we only saw her like a second ago - how’d she get all the way around there so fast!?” squeaks Nicci, as Chloe and Lottie turn their looks of disbelief on her.

You are reading story The Blue Rose at novel35.com

“It’s somebody new, you beautiful idiot,” says Chloe, swatting her on the butt. Lottie just rolls her eyes, and even Ms Malynovskaya can’t entirely keep her face straight.

“Girls, this is Violet,” says the housemistress. The new girl steps forward hesitantly, clearly terrified in a way all three maids remember being. She looks like she’s barely in her twenties, a couple of years younger than Chloe, Lottie or Nicci, and is small by Blue Rose standards, both in proportions and in height; her master clearly requested a relatively natural look, and she’s made up to match, although Chloe thinks she can see the telltale signs of significant surgical work that have probably rendered the girl unrecognisable to anyone who knew her before. She’s dressed in a basic maid’s uniform, which would be scandalous by most workplace standards but looks positively chaste compared to the girls’ gauzy lace confections, and is visibly wobbling on heels that can’t be more than four inches.

“Uh, h… hello, I’m, er, it, it’s… very nice to meet you,” she stammers, stumbling over a script the girls all remember being forced to memorise. She has a cut-glass English accent, very upper-class, and the medical staff must have done a real number on her vocal cords to raise her pitch that high. The hesitancy will be conditioned or whipped out of her in short order, if Chloe’s any judge, along with the way she’s looking around at everything in horrified curiosity rather than keeping her eyes obediently forward or down.

“As you may have guessed, Violet is a new addition to our little family,” says Ms Malynovskaya. “She has come out of isolation only yesterday and is now to begin lessons. She is joining now rather than waiting for next intake at special request of her owner, so will require assistance. That is the task you three have been assigned, and her progress will reflect upon yours. So do not fuck it up.”

“Yes, Ms Malynovskaya,” all three girls chorus. Poor, confused Violet tries to mouth the words, way behind and unsure whether she’s supposed to be joining in. The housemistress lets it go, to Chloe’s mild surprise; it makes sense to give the new girl some leeway, but it’s been a long time since she saw a member of staff turn a complete blind eye without sexual favours and a lot of begging being involved.

“Your morning duties are to familiarise Violet with the dorm and facilities, and collect laundry from other girls and staff,” says Ms Malynovskaya. “After midday meal, report here for afternoon assignment. Answer any questions, demonstrate proper behaviour, impress upon her consequences for disobedience. Understand?”

The trio answer in the affirmative, all slightly astonished at the lightness of their tasks. A laundry run is the sort of thing they’re usually ordered to do inbetween classes, so that being all that’s expected of them feels almost like a holiday, even if they have to chivvy a recent victim of kidnapping and unnecessary surgery around with them.

“Good,” Ms Malynovskaya says, then turns on one immaculate stiletto, and marches away through the staff door, which swings closed and locks automatically behind her.

“Well,” says Lottie. “I don’t think any of us was expecting that.”

“New girl!! New girl new girl new girl!!!” shrieks Nicci, grabbing Violet around the waist and pulling her into a twirling hug. “Oh, I know we’re gonna be bestest friends!! We’re gonna have so much fun!!”

Violet not-so-gently disentangles herself from the storm of lace, blonde extensions and acrylic nails, looking absolutely thunderstruck.

“Just what the fuck is going on here?” she demands, still in that perfectly high, clear voice. “I wake up in this white place, and someone’s done all… this to my body, and my voice, and my, my, my… my bollocks are gone, and then…”

“They keep you locked in the room for a week and give you electric shocks through the floor when you don’t do what they say? They’ll only feed you or let you sleep when you suck a dildo what comes out of the wall, wear high heels and a dress, put on makeup and all the rest? We’ve all been there, babes,” says Chloe, not entirely the picture of compassion. “And don’t swear unless you’re talking dirty or demeaning yourself to a superior, got it? You’ll get us all in trouble.”

“But what the… what’s it all for? Why is this happening to me?” Violet wails, very much on the verge of tears.

“Wait, you have had your orientation, haven’t you?” asks Lottie, rearranging her barely-there maid’s outfit, which mostly results in different bits of her being exposed rather than any less skin showing outright. “That should have given you the basic idea.”

Violet nods, strawberry-blonde hair bouncing in its loose pile on top of her head. “I mean, an old woman came on the screen and said a lot of things to me, but it was just nonsense… it was all this stuff about being property, not a person, how someone had paid for me to be brought here and changed, how they were eventually going to sell me to them to… serve… for life? And how I was going to want it? And it’s just… that’s fucking insane, right?”

“Language! Naughty girl!” says Nicci, lightly spanking Violet’s pert little ass with a flourish.

“Okay, fine: that is completely mad, yes?” she demands. “And now I’m in some sort of pink, fluffy dorm room with three, I don’t know, sexy maids, and I’m waiting to hear this is some sort of absurd joke, only I…,” she drops open hands to her sides in despair, inadvertently emphasising her new curves. “I don’t see how it could be.”

“Nope, that sounds about right,” says Chloe. “It’s like Ma’am explained; someone very, very rich hired the Blue Rose to take you. Same as happened to all of us. Maybe we upset ‘em somehow, maybe we caught their eye, who knows. They brought us here to modify to their liking and train us to serve however they want, yeah? And when we graduate, we’re gonna go off to do absolutely anything they tell us, for the rest of our lives, ‘cause that’s what we’re for.”

“But that’s, I mean, for a start, that’s massively illegal, surely! I’m not just anyone, I’m someone, my name is-“

“Ah-ah, old names are a big no-no, I’m afraid,” says Lottie, a taloned hand appearing over the new girl’s mouth. “That’ll get you a day on display in the staff lounge with a ‘free use’ sign around your neck. Speaking from experience. So if that sounds like something you’d rather avoid, your name is Violet, and that’s that.”

“What I mean is, there’ll be people looking for me. My family has money, and I was… am… the sole heir! They’ll send people! They’ll find me!”

“Aw, she’s cute, in’t she?” grins Chloe, who feels an instinctive prickliness around the new girl that’s manifesting as a desire to be unhelpful, and she can’t say exactly why. “Listen: this place is funded by like, ten out of the fifty richest people on Earth,” she says. “The cash and power the people at the top are playing with makes your family’s kitty look like it come out of a Monopoly box. Far as they know, you’ve had a tragic accident or offed yourself or something, and I hear the fake bodies are very convincing. Like, fitting up a real corpse to pass an autopsy kind of convincing. Nobody’s coming, and the sooner you accept that and give in like a good girl, the better for everyone. Submitting ain’t so bad: no decisions to make, no responsibilities, no need to think. We know what we’re for; a fuckdoll don’t worry about nothing. And neither will you, soon enough.”

“Jesus,” breathes Violet. “Wait, did you say fu… are we sex slaves? Oh god, they’re going to rape us, aren’t they?”

“No!” exclaims Chloe, aghast. “It ain’t like that! Yeah, we get fucked basically all the time in every way you can think of, but there ain’t a single girl here who don’t give enthusiastic consent every single time.”

“But I’m not going to, am I? I mean, I obviously don’t want that! So what happens then?”

“Oh, I think you’ll have a change of heart, girl. Just you wait and see. We all sounded like that, once upon a time,” Chloe replies enigmatically.

“Jesus Christ, what did they do to you? How long have you even been here?”

Lottie shrugs, which emphasises the sheer size of the boobs beneath her wholly inadequate dress. “See a lot of calendars in here, do you?” she asks, quietly ignoring the first question for now. “We’re not even allowed to know what time it is; there are chimes before lunch or lights out, but that’s it. Wherever in the world this island is, there aren’t really seasons, and believe me, trying to make marks on anything to count the days is a bad idea. My best guess is the three of us have been here maybe eighteen months, two years at the most. But don’t quote me on that.”

“Jesus,” Violet repeats. “And you just go along with it? You don’t, I don’t know, fight back?”

“Why would we?!” Nicci asks, genuinely confused. “We want to be good girls so our big hunky masters give us pats on the head and let us suck their tasty cocks, duh!!”

“Lottie fought back a bit, didn’t you, Lots?” says Chloe. Lottie just looks away, face unreadable. “You can see on her chest and bum how that went for her. And she was lucky - no, Lots, don’t look at me like that, you was - they can do whatever they want to you, as long as your owner okays it. I’ve heard some really nasty stories about the classes what came before us.”

“But you don’t need to worry about any of that, because they’ll put you in the chair and make all those naughty thoughts go away, and then you won’t want to be bad!!” Nicci adds, which doesn’t have the reassuring effect she seems to think it will.

“The… chair?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, babe,” says Chloe. “Come on, let’s show you all the clothes you’re gonna be wearing, and where you do your makeup, and where you can practice giving blowjobs, which is a skill you’re really gonna want to get a headstart on…”

The laundry round goes well enough, if slowly due to Violet’s halting, tottering progress in her unaccustomedly high heels. Chloe and Nicci try to encourage her to imitate their own hip-swaying runway gaits, but all this results in is Violet falling on her hands and knees in front of half a dozen trophy wives in training, who waste no time in bursting into peals of mean-girl laughter that almost reduce the disoriented new trainee to tears. The girls don’t actually have to do the laundry themselves, which is a relief, because the Blue Rose generates gigantic quantities of stained clothing in a hundred unconventional styles and materials, and Chloe imagines the actual cleaning process is a nightmare. Instead they deliver their dainty little trolley, piled with mesh bags full of uniforms and costumes crusted with chocolate, custard, whipped cream and, primarily, semen, into a utility room down by the staff wing, flanked by a number of locked doors leading to places the girls don’t need to go. Presumably from there the backroom staff take it to wherever the real work is done; for all Chloe knows they incinerate the old clothes and replace them with new, given the budget they’re working with, or maybe there’s a whole laundry wing she’s never seen. She can’t bring herself to summon up much curiosity before daydreams of dick overtake her Just as the four girls turn to leave, a familiar two-tone chime sounds over the PA system.

“Yay, lunchtime!!” says Nicci, clapping her hands together in earnest excitement for something that happens exactly the same every day.

“Can’t wait to see what’s on the menu,” says Violet, despondent after a morning spent witnessing exactly how serious the Blue Rose is about keeping its inmates in, which Chloe figures was probably part of the point. As the girls trot off in the direction of the cafeteria, pausing regularly to let the wobbling Violet catch up, Chloe finds herself slightly robbed of the little burst of arousal she expects to feel upon seeing herself in one of the facility’s many mirrors. There’s something wrong with the glass; her reflection looks distorted and smeary, as if the surface has been sprayed too heavily with cleaner then left unpolished. She figures one of the domestic trainees must be slacking, and unsuccessfully wracks her brain trying to remember whether it was her.

In the cafeteria, where girls are gathered in small cliquey knots around tables that wouldn’t look out of place in a public school’s dining hall, what’s on the menu surprises nobody but Violet.

“This seems unnecessarily similar to… you know,” she says, perfect nose wrinkled in disgust.

“It’s a fortified protein shake, with vitamins and minerals and everything we need to stay healthy, without weight gain or bloating,” Chloe recites. “Cum tastes better. And the texture’s all different, it’s like, globby and sticky. This is too runny. Nothing like as good.”

“The connoisseuse has spoken,” murmurs Lottie.

“And this container is unnecessarily phallic,” Violet adds, giving it an experimental suck.

“I think you’re seeing what you want to see there, babes,” says Chloe, between placing her own bottle between her lips and sliding it back and forth, squeezing until the thick, creamy liquid fills her mouth, forcing her to swallow again and again with a wet gluck-gluck sound to prevent it spilling all over her face. “Sometimes a drink bottle is just a drink bottle, yeah?”

“So, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know much about, you know, trans people…” Violet says, hesitantly. Chloe’s about to inform her that neither do they, none of the girls having in all likelihood actually been trans before their kidnap and forcible reassignment, but it turns out she isn’t done. “How am I not crawling out of my skin with what-do-you-call-it, that sense of wrongness people have, dis-something-or-other?”

“Dyspepsia,” Chloe states with confidence, because Nicci doesn’t have a monopoly on being wrong about things.

“Oh, they’ve already given your brain a bit of a zap,” Lottie says, looking mildly pained but visibly forcing herself to let it go. “They can’t do much while you’re in the medically-induced coma for your surgeries, but they can stick needles in and mess with your body’s map of itself, or something like that, so dysphoria-“ she looks pointedly at Chloe, who pretends to inspect her nails, “-isn’t a problem. It’s also why you haven’t considered suicide a single time, despite finding out you’re going to spend the rest of your life as someone’s living sex doll.”

“No, I’ve… I mean, I’d never, but… oh god, that’s true!” Violet breathes. “They’ve already messed around inside my head? That’s… I just… I can’t! I just can’t!”

“You will,” Lottie says gloomily, although not unsympathetically, and then it’s time to head back to the dorm for their afternoon assignments.

 

-

 

“Acceptable work this morning, girls,” says Ms Malynovskaya; high praise, by her standards. “Now, this afternoon you will be thoroughly cleaning an area I believe will be educational for Violet: the trophy corridor. Spotless top to bottom, girls; I will be checking. Get moving!” she snaps, snapping the crop she’s carrying against a gloved palm for effect. The maids jump to obey, half-pulling a still-slightly-nauseous Violet behind them as they withdraw in a cloud of perfume. With an efficiency born of frequent discipline, they show her where the well-stocked cleaning cupboard can be found, and load up another little cart with glass cleaner, floor wax and a variety of dusters, cloths and brushes. The trophy corridor is one of the most prominent areas of the Blue Rose facility, by design; located just behind the main atrium, it’s impossible to avoid passing through it at least once or twice on the average day. All the better to repeatedly present the girls with a view of its contents: rows of shelves stacked with heavy glass jars, each filled with a clear fluid and a pair of ragged, reddish scraps of something. Each labelled with a name.

“Holy f… I mean, good gr… I mean, oh god, are those our testicles?” exclaims Violet, literally dropping the feather duster she’s been handed. Nicci bursts out in fits of laughter at the word.

“Sure are!!” she giggles. “There’s mine, and there’s Chlolo’s, and look, Lottie-loo, there’s yours, and… ooh, here we are, Vivi’s cute lil’ meatballs, all nice and safe in their jar. Hello!!” she coos at the sad little excised organs, tapping on the jar. “Hi in there! How’s life, lil’ ballies!? You good!? Yay!!”

“This is sick,” says Violet, gingerly reaching out to wipe a mystery smear from one of the jars. “How many are there?”

“Two hundred and thirty-five pairs,” replies Lottie instantly. “Well, two-thirty-six now, with yours. What? I was curious,” she says, defensively, as the others stare at her. “We have to clean down here a lot.”

“This place has kidnapped that many people? And done… all this to them?” breathes Violet, appalled. Lottie shrugs. “Well, where are they now?”

“Off serving their Sirs, the lucky things!!” replies Nicci happily, wafting ineffectually at the jars with a duster. “Dressing sexy!! Serving drinks!! Pleasing Daddy!! And his friends!! And properly lots of other people too!!” She dances from jar to jar as she sings, flapping her duster at each, achieving nothing but making Lottie and Chloe repeatedly tense up as she almost destroys the facility’s most prized mementos.

The remainder of the cleaning passes easily enough, which is to say Nicci knocks jars off their shelves on three separate occasions, but Lottie and Chloe have by this point achieved a transcendent state of readiness whenever she’s near anything breakable, and between them manage to intercept all three before anything disastrous happens. The floor gets waxed, the shelves are dusted, and if Violet’s incessant, horrified questioning gets a little wearing, it’s made up for by the extra pair of hands. By the end, Chloe’s starting to think having a fourth member in their little gang might not be so bad; the girl’s a bit of a wet blanket now, but they only have to put up with that til her first appointment with the chair, which can’t be too long off if they really are trying to catch her up with the others. When the end-of-day chimes sound she’s feeling almost well-disposed to the newcomer, and she puts the powerful discomfort she’s been feeling whenever they brush against one another out of her mind. She figures they probably conditioned her to get irrationally jealous of posh, skinny bitches or something; she’s forever encountering little impulses nobody told her are in there, and she’s long since learned to go with it.

After another round of pharmaceutically-enhanced protein shakes and a change of outfit, the girls are consigned to the dorm for the evening; a limited selection of clothes tailored to Violet have been added to the dressing room while they were gone, and she’s appropriately attired in the same ridiculously skimpy nightwear as the others. She’s been properly introduced to the rest of the dorm, which, as it mainly consisted of seven more hyper-feminine girly-girls competing as to who could fuss over the new arrival the most, means her makeup and hair are salon-perfect (if rather unsubtle) and she’s been quick-changed through all her new outfits like a dress-up doll. She’s presently sitting on her freshly-delivered pink silk sheets, looking shellshocked and absolutely miserable.

“This is a nightmare,” she says, in a tone that implies she’s still hoping to wake at any moment. “All these people, their futures, their… their friends and families thinking they’re dead, their whole lives just destroyed, and for what? Some kind of sick revenge? To make a sex doll who can’t say no? It just seems so incredibly sad, you know? And I’m… my life’s over, and all I am now is… is…” she sniffs a couple of times and suddenly erupts with the tears she’s clearly been building to all day, which flood down her delicate features and begin to make a sodden, snotty mess of her nightgown until Lottie comes hurrying over offering tissues and a literal shoulder to cry on.

“Okay,” Lottie says once the initial flood has dried up a little, trying and almost succeeding at frowning. She gesticulates with her absurd acrylics as she talks, making complex patterns in frosted pink in the air. “Chloe’s not here, and I can’t do the accent, but I’m going to tell you what she told me once, when I felt like you do now. Almost nobody gets to be as beautiful as you are. Almost nobody gets to be desired like you will. People long to be free of worries about money, housing, their futures, the world, right? They long to have hot sex whenever they want it - don’t look at me like that, you will, I promise. They’re desperate to figure out their purpose, or their reason for living or whatever. You have all those things; you know what you’re for, and you can just give in and be the doll they want to make you. There can be pleasure, happiness, even peace in that. Then I think she said ‘innit’.”

“You can’t seriously believe that!” Violet wails, looking up at Lottie’s oversculpted face with wide, desperate eyes.

“No, I think it’s a load of shit, honestly,” Lottie admits. “But I thought maybe it’d make you feel better. ”

Violet sits with that for a while, staring into the dorm, where the girls are going about their various evening pursuits, saying nothing. “Everyone really is beautiful, I’ll give you that,” she says eventually, voice flat and desolate.

“They really do employ the best surgeons,” says Lottie, sounding bitter.

“I mean, this could be backstage at a Victoria’s Secret show or something,” Violet says, clearly talking to distract herself from her misery. “If they still had those. It’s incredible to think you all used to be… well. You know. Surely you’d expect some people would be built like brick sh… erm, toilets, right?”

“Some people probably were,” Lottie replies with a shrug. “The medical staff are always bragging about how half the procedures they do were pioneered here. You’d be amazed how much you can change about a body when you’ve got an unlimited budget and no ethical restrictions.” She looks down at her own absurd proportions and smiles sadly. “I’m a walking testament to that.”

“Plus, duh, have you looked at yourself lately, girly!?” asks Nicci, reacting to Lottie’s melancholy with a counterbalancing burst of manic cheer. She eagerly pulls Violet to her feet and manoeuvres her over to one of the many floor-length mirrors in which the captives are expected to appraise and admire themselves. “You’re just as beautiful as any of the girlies here, and don’t you forget it!! You’re one of us now, Vivi, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever, and I’m so happy!!”

Violet looks at her reflected image as if she’s seeing it for the first time, lightly running manicured fingers over her daintily reconstructed nose, soft, high cheekbones, perfect cupid’s-bow lips, delicate jaw. Her mouth opens slightly in surprise or wonder at the unfamiliar face staring back from beneath its runway-ready coat of cosmetics, and apparently without conscious effort she moves closer, to peer at her new reflection from a distance of only an inch or two.

Suddenly she’s reeling as if she’s been slapped; she almost falls as one of her heels slews sideways, and she’s lucky Lottie is there to catch her before she twists an ankle. She’s breathing hard as the two girls guide her back to her bed, where she sits heavily and wraps her arms around her tiny waist as if she’s in pain.

“I… I don’t feel well,” Violet moans, in response to Lottie’s obvious concern. “I feel… ugh, I really don’t feel good.” She swallows hard, and looks for a moment as if she might throw up. “I think I might need to see a doctor.”

“Ah-ah, no getting out of lessons that way, naughty girl!!” says Nicci, bending to address her face-to-face with her hands on her hips. “You can’t be sick!! Our implants have got boy-o-matics,” she declares, squeezing one of her own generous tits, with the absolute certainty of the terminally misinformed, “So the doctors know if we’re sick before we even do!! It works with like, wi-fi or something teckolodrigal like that!?!”

“Biometrics, Nics. And not implants like the ones in our boobs,” Lottie corrects her, patting her on the head with a sort of weary fondness. “She’s basically right, though, astonishingly: if you were actually ill, you’d already be in the medical wing. I think maybe this is just the shock sinking in?”

“No, something’s… I don’t know, I just don’t feel right, like… something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it. Something’s happening inside me, and if I stay here, it’s… I… I can’t be here! I CAN’T STAY HERE! I HAVE TO GO! LET ME OUT!” Violet shrieks, her high, clear voice cracking, thrashing and twisting, eyes focused on nothing but her own unfamiliar image in the glass.

“Hey. Hey,” Lottie says, sitting down and wrapping an arm around her as far as her own gigantic chest allows. “I think you’re having a panic attack, babe. We all went through this at the start. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe, okay? Breathe with me. In and out, in and… out. In… and…”

Violet’s heaving sobs subside a little as she copies the rhythm of Lottie’s breathing. Nicci comes and flounces down on her other side and throws her arms around the girl, although it isn’t clear whether she’s actually kept up with what’s happening or whether she’s just feeling affectionate; nevertheless the close contact seems to gradually calm Violet down, until eventually she falls silent and just sits there staring, with an unsettling intensity, at her unmoving reflection in the mirror across the room.

While this is going on, Chloe’s been agonising over exactly what she should wear for her hot-date-slash-out-of-hours-punishment-session with Mr Warner. The taste of his musky fingers and the humiliation of having them forced into her mouth in front of everyone are at the forefront of her memory alongside the word ‘lesson’, so she eventually settles on the full school uniform. It’s probably her favourite outfit, on balance; the skirt exposes the entirety of her enhanced ass when she walks, the tie positively invites light choking, and the shirt’s been known to pop open from the pressure of her tits, which is so embarrassing she could just climax on the spot, and has. She’s removed her day makeup and reapplied a full face calibrated to maximum sex appeal, minimum subtlety, and she’s wearing her biggest hoop earrings, a gold heart necklace and a cute little Alice band to keep her long, glossy two-tone waves out of her face; she decided pigtails were a bit of a cliché. Her tiny, caged cock is vibrating with anticipation as she emerges, greeted by exaggerated wolf-whistles from a couple of the other girls, pointedly ignores whatever Violet’s making a fuss about, and makes for the dorm door.

“And where do you think you’re going?” demands Jessie, self-appointed alpha bitch of the dorm, on account of having been made louder and more bolshy even than Chloe. Hearing her accusatory tone and seeing her exaggerated curves wrapped in a barely-there nightgown reminds Chloe of their battle for dominance; who could bring a male guard to climax first with only their tits, who could deepthroat more of a truly enormous double-ended dildo while they aggressively made out in the middle to try and push the other back and thus claim a greater share of it, and so on. While Chloe never really cared about being queen bee, she refused to see her ability to carry an ass full of cum from the dorm to the cafeteria and back besmirched. They only stopped because it started to interfere with their lessons, and a day spent strapped together - wired so that either of them struggling would trigger the other’s plug and give her a painful forced orgasm - may have necessitated a truce, it certainly didn’t make them like each other any better. Chloe still feels like the final scoring did her dirty, and if she wasn’t busy she’d have a mind to reopen hostilities then and there, but she’s got bigger things to pursue.

“Oi, boss babe, the new girl’s having a full-on meltdown and you’re worried about what I’m up to? For shame,” says Chloe, dripping insincerity along with pre-cum. Jessie’s visibly torn between interrogating Chloe and sticking her oar in where it’s not wanted, but the latter wins out, as it was always going to, and she struts off toward the knot of girls trying to comfort Violet in a sweep of fiery red hair and fluffy lace. Then Chloe’s out the door and into the darkened corridors, the click-clack of her high-heeled Mary Janes echoing so loud she’s amazed she doesn’t bring the whole guard corps down on herself (a fantasy she’s entertained on more than one occasion).

Chloe remembers being astonished that the dorm doors didn’t lock after lights out, at first, considering how fortress-like the construction of the rest of the building is. She knows better now; the Blue Rose is an intricate machine, and proscribed behaviours and punishments alike serve a multitude of purposes, from educating the other girls to letting the staff blow off steam and more. If everyone was a good little Cecily and did exactly as they were told, never snuck off for secret trysts after hours and didn’t trade sex with the security staff for favours, she thinks the place wouldn’t be half as effective as it is; providing opportunities for the girls to misbehave in specific ways is a crucial part of their education. Seen from that angle, the ideal product of the system isn’t a girl who never causes trouble, but one who fully engages with and drives every part. One exactly like Chloe herself, she thinks with no small measure of pride. And it’s with this thesis in mind that she finally reaches Mr Warner’s office door, raises a hand to the dark wood and knocks, secure in her newfound belief that fucking the staff to get out of punishment is actually the most good it’s possible for a girl to be.

“Enter!” calls a familiar, resonant voice from within. She tentatively pushes the door open and walks inside, to a dim-lit office full of dark leather upholstery, neatly stacked papers and a lingering smell of tobacco smoke. One wall is dominated by a chalkboard, another by a rack with an extensive selection of crops, paddles, gags and restraints. Warner is sitting behind a formidable desk in another expensive suit, looking like a prizefighter on a press tour. The sight of him makes Chloe shiver with arousal: his heavy, masculine features and shaved head, the breadth and bulk of his shoulders and torso, the contrast with her own delicate, feminine frame. She longs to press her soft curves against his acres of hard muscle, to be a tiny, breakable thing held in those massive hands.

“Ah, the little whore with the filthy mouth,” he says, by way of a greeting. “I see you’ve come dressed for a lesson.” Chloe bobs a curtsey and compulsively straightens her too-short skirt, her heart hammering a fever beat in her ears.

“Y… yes, Sir, I’m reporting for correction, Sir,” she says, playing up the nervousness a bit, but drawing from a deep and very real well.

“Stand here,” Warner commands, indicating a spot between the chairs facing his desk; Chloe hastens to obey. He leaves her there, back straight, eyes forward, as he deliberately takes his time walking over to his implements of correction. She tries her best not to, but she can’t help tracking the growing tent in his tight suit trousers as he stands; thankfully, if he notices, he doesn’t consider it worthy of note.

“Jacket off, cunt,” he says over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought. Chloe slips out of the tight cream blazer and carefully folds it over the back of one of the chairs, leaving her feeling oddly vulnerable in her short skirt, shirt and tie. She doesn’t dare turn around, although she can hear clinking buckles and the rustle of leather, and she braces herself for some kind of smack. Instead she feels the cold leather of an armbinder sliding up the outside of her shirtsleeves, and her knees turn to jelly with anticipation and lust.

“This should keep you from fucking around,” Warner says with a laugh in his voice, pulling the laces brutally tight and tying them off, leaving Chloe’s arms pinioned helplessly behind her, hands balled in the leather mitt beneath.

“Now, let’s sort out that dirty little mouth,” he continues, bringing something long and dangling past Chloe’s obediently blank gaze to wrap around her head. Although she’s expecting it, the sheer length and girth of the rubber cock that’s pushed forcefully past her lips makes Chloe struggle for a second, but her head is firmly held while the gag is buckled securely into place and she soon settles into the all-too-familiar rhythm of breathing while trying not to choke on a huge dick.

“There, now I don’t have to listen to your stupid shit, slut,” says Mr Warner. Chloe attempts a ‘thank you, Sir’ through the gag but really she could be saying anything. Warner leans in and attaches something to the mouthpiece, and for a moment she thinks it’s a pump and genuinely wonders how big the oral intruder can get before she can no longer handle it, but mercifully it’s a long, thin sticklike attachment, and on the end is a piece of chalk.

Oh, thinks Chloe, so that’s where this is going, and the prospect of a game excites her all the more. In response to a stinging swat on the butt from one of Warner’s collection of paddles, she dutifully moves over by the blackboard, her bound arms pinioned awkwardly behind her, her jaw already starting to ache from the enormous gag.

“Now, you will write ‘MY MOUTH IS FOR FUCKING, NOT FILTHY LANGUAGE’ on the board, you dirty little bitch. Let’s say, oh, twenty times for starters. Go on, get on with it, I’ve not got all night,” he says, punctuating his words with further smacks from the paddle. Chloe stretches up to the first of the pre-drawn lines and wobblingly, clumsily scrawls what is just about identifiable as an ‘M’, drool leaking from beneath the gag to run down her chin and drip on to her school tie.

“What the fuck is that?” demands Mr Warner, voice thick with contained rage.

“Mgh whgh tyh tgh-“ Chloe tries to respond, which earns her another hard smack.

“Don’t you even know how to write? All that silicone got into your brain, has it?” he snaps. She can see the formidable bulge in his pants getting bigger with every failure and every chastisement, and it’s driving her into a frenzy of frustration even as his excitement grows. “Try again, and do it properly this time, you thick little plastic cunt.”

Again the wobbling chalk makes halting contact with the board, Chloe straining to reach and to manoeuvre the clumsy implement by tonguing the massive dildo filling her mouth. This time she makes it to the ‘Y’, and even starts in on the ‘M’ of the next word before she’s spanked so hard she almost falls, leaving a long chalk line leading down the board from her pitiful handiwork.

“Useless!” Warner snarls. “Absolutely useless! Are you even trying?”

Chloe nods emphatically, eyes wide behind her thick, fake lashes, humiliated and afraid and so, so turned on. “Again!” he snaps, and again she tries, and again she produces something that a toddler’s parent would be ashamed to put on the fridge. “Come on, you useless bitch!” he snarls. Chloe blinks back tears at the sheer impossibility of the task and attempts another ‘M’, this one barely even recognisable as a letter, before Warner forcibly spins her around to face him. To her surprise, he unbuckles the gag and frees her gasping, lipstick-smeared mouth as she looks up at his furious expression.

“I’m very sorry, Sir,” she manages, drool dripping from her chin. “I’m a pointless slut who’s no good at anything, and I- oh!”

The exclamation is in response to Warner unbuckling his pants and freeing the growing bulge she’s been eyeing all evening. His penis is a monster of the sort she most often sees in the porn the girls are obliged to study; astonishingly, intimidatingly long and with girth to match. She wonders momentarily if the surgeons have given him some help in that department, or if he’s just naturally incredibly well-endowed, and if that factored into his hiring. Then all thoughts are banished as Chloe drops to her knees and leans in, intending to deep-throat it to the hilt if she can, but she finds herself stopped short by a sudden grabbing of her hair, jerking her painfully to a halt a maddening couple of inches away.

“Ah-ah-ah, greedy bitch,” Warner admonishes her. “If you want to show me that mouth’s good for something after all, you’re going to have to beg for it, aren’t you?”

“Please, Sir, please may I service your big, hard cock?” Chloe pleads, aching with desire and driven to new depths of frustration, drawing on all the lessons in self-degradation the girls have been given in order to please their future owners. “Please, Sir, I need it in my worthless slut mouth, Sir. I’m a desperate, shameless hole and all I’m good for is sucking dick, so please, please give it to me hard, Sir.”

“That’ll have to do,” says Warner, mockingly. With a single, violent movement that makes Chloe jump despite her overpowering arousal, he tears open her shirt and yanks her bra down, exposing her artificially round double-Ds, which jiggle and sway with every yank of her hair. He takes the back of Chloe’s head in his hands; in the armbinder she’s helpless and unable to balance herself, so he’s free to ram her eager mouth onto his cock as far as it’ll go, and proceed to face-fuck her hard and fast, sending her naked tits jiggling with every powerful thrust. Chloe’s lost in submissive bliss, flooded with the taste of his dick, just about managing to snatch enough breath as the huge, rock-hard cock pounds her throat down to its base, spattering her chest with frothy drool and making a wet slurping that drives her even crazier as she kneels there and lets him use her like a sex toy. He talks dirty to her while she caresses his shaft with her tongue stud; he calls her a brainless object, a stupid fuckdoll, a Fleshlight, fake, fake, fake, and every insult just makes her hornier. Chloe’s mind blanks out completely for a while from pleasure overload, but before long she’s pulled back by the unmistakable spasms that tell her she’s about to get what she’s craving. With a grunt Warner pulls out the second before he erupts, aiming squarely at Chloe’s face, and the man cums like a firehose; he absolutely douses her in more hot jizz than she thought a single pair of balls could contain. For Chloe it’s like Christmas has come early, and it’s definitely white. Long, sticky ropes splatter in her hair, her eyes, across her lips and cheeks, drip in thick gobs from her nose and chin and onto her tits. With her arms still painfully laced into the binder she’s unable to get the cum out of her eyes, and she feels a fake lash detach, but she just kneels there like a good girl, overloaded with arousal and painfully straining against her cage, while Warner wipes his cock clean on her forehead.

“There you go, you’re not totally useless; you’re a great little cumrag, aren’t you?” laughs Warner. Chloe stays put, panting, until she’s recovered enough to gasp, “Yes, Sir. I’m a good little cumrag, Sir.”

Without preamble, Mr Warner grabs the armbinder and hauls Chloe to a standing position, giving her an unambiguous demonstration that he’s hard again, then turns her around on unsteady feet so she’s facing his heavy antique desk. The violence of the motion sends a couple of globs of cum flying from her dripping face to land on the wood. He shoves her forward, making her bend at the waist as her tits hit the desk, and snaps “lick that up right now, cumrag.” Chloe doesn’t have to be told twice; she eagerly laps the surface clean, ass tingling in anticipation at the unmistakable sound of lube being applied behind her. She stays bent over the desk, arms forcibly raised behind her back, as her skirt and thong are roughly yanked down and then that monster cock is inside her to the hilt. Mr Warner pounds her ass mercilessly; every thrust makes her tits rebound against the wood and her cum-drenched hair slap her in the face, and every time he hits the hypersensitive pleasure-point of her prostate she moans like a porn star. She grinds her hips back into every stroke; she’s panting ‘Please, Sir, yes, Sir, harder, Sir’ as he calls her whore, calls her gutter-slut, calls her cheap. Chloe cums before he does; she’s seized by waves of pleasure as her own tiny girldick convulses in its cage and leaks a stream of thin liquid into the skirt bunched around her ankles. She can feel Warner is about to blow, and she clenches the muscles in her ass and desperately tries to draw out her own orgasm until, with a grunt that becomes almost a guttural roar, he shoots another enormous load deep inside her, grinding and thrusting over and over until she feels so full of hot cum that she might burst. Warner withdraws abruptly, leaving his seed dribbling down Chloe’s legs, just as there’s a heavy, rapid knock on his door that makes her jump in surprise.

“Mr Warner! Mr Warner, are you there? We’ve got a problem, sir!”

Chloe thinks the voice belongs to the guard Nicci christened Chaddy, and it sounds like he isn’t alone. She half-turns, expecting a thwack of correction, but Warner is too busy pulling up his pants and trying to straighten his jacket and shirt. “Get in the corner and don’t make a fucking sound,” he hisses at her; she straightens up and, unable to pull up her panties and skirt while she’s still in the armbinder, shuffles awkwardly over to stand where the bookshelves meet the floor-length drapes and she’ll be out of sight from the door. She can feel cum continuing to dribble down her legs and into her shoes, and she’s getting dangerously horny again from being put in the corner like a piece of furniture, but there isn’t much she can do about either, so she settles for sating her curiosity instead.

“-new subject for initial conditioning, Sir,” she hears Chaddy say, straining to listen but only able to make out half of the words.

“That’s not the usual timeline. Who authorised this?” says Warner.

“-straight from Ma’am, Sir. The subject’s owner wanted her conditioned ASAP, and- -know why, Sir, but apparently th- -additional payment. But Sir, I-“

Chloe’s already focusing intently as she stands there and drips, especially since the conversation concerns Violet, but the next word almost makes her yelp with shock.

“DEAD?” exclaims Warner, apparently heedless of being overheard. Chloe’s heart leaps, desperately hoping they weren’t talking about Violet herself, and she risks shuffling a few steps closer in order to catch every word.

“Exactly how in the fuck,” Warner is growling, in a threatening tone that’s become extremely familiar to Chloe in the recent past, “Does one scrawny posh bint overpower two guards and a trained conditioning tech?”

“That’s what I’m saying; she didn’t, Sir. She was still strapped down securely. There were no signs of violence; all three of them killed themselves. Bashed their heads against the wall til they died, Sir. Subject swears she has no idea what happened; all the conditioning gear was burned out and she was unconscious on the table. I’m… what are your orders, Sir? Should we wake up Ma’am and the senior staff?”

“Fuck!” exclaims Warner, sublimating any concern into anger. “Fuck fucking fuck! No. Wait here. Don’t fucking call anyone until I say so. Give me a minute to get my shit, and we’ll sort this out, quietly.”

Chloe shuffles quickly back to her appointed spot in the corner before Warner sees her; he strides over and unlaces the armbinder, then wrenches her stiff arms out and shoves her blazer into them. “Wait til we’re gone then get your stupid slut arse straight back to your dorm,” he whispers. “And if you breathe a word of anything that’s happened here, I will beat you so fucking hard even you won’t enjoy it. You hear me?”

Chloe swallows and nods, mind racing even in her cock-drunk state. “Yes, Sir,” she breathes, delicately wiping the cum out of her left eye with a fingernail. Warner ignores her completely as he hurriedly gathers a few items from his desk drawers - including, she notes, a handgun - and stamps out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls. Chloe’s left alone in his office, which might normally be an invitation to snoop, but things seem to have gotten so serious so quickly that she’s feeling uncharacteristically timid, and instead spends the time wiping the cum off her legs as best she can, in the hopes of avoiding another incriminating snail trail in the halls; she licks it from her hands, savouring the taste, and pulls her skirt up and her blazer back on. It won’t help if she runs into anyone, with her shirt torn open, her bra snapped and her face and tits thoroughly glazed, but she figures the faster she can get back to the dorm, the faster she can spill everything she’s heard to the other two girls.

The corridors of the Blue Rose after hours have never felt as empty or as menacing as they do to Chloe that night. She hurries along halls that seem even darker than usual as fast as her shortened steps can carry her, heels echoing against the wood, uncontained breasts bouncing, jumping at every shadow and stopping regularly to listen, breathing hard, at every distant groan and bang she desperately hopes are coming from the pipes. She trots past the entrance to Medical, sneaks by the turnoff leading to the wives’ dorms, almost falls on her face outside the staff room, then all she has to do is cross the trophy corridor and she’s home. As she rounds the corner and the rows and rows of jars come into view, her jaw drops in confusion and horror.

In every single jar, the formalin preserving the girls’ severed testicles is boiling.

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