I'm just going to dump all my stories as quickly as possible. Life changes are under way, and I don't anticipate I'll post for a while. All of these stories are fictional/fantasy. Any resemblance to any persons, real or fictional, are coincidental. I do not condone any harm to anybody. If you plan on hurting yourself or others, please do not, and seek help. I enjoy feedback, so if you enjoyed the story, please leave a comment below!
-- The one and only chapter, Chapter 1 --
Today was my first day at John Drake's School for Educational Rehabilitation.
I'll be honest with you. I was pretty damn desperate. Times were tough in the New Confederate States of America. And my parents paid a fortune for me to go to college. Unfortunately I couldn't really get a job anywhere else. I didn't make the best grades. I didn't have a great degree. I tried. But everybody said I needed to get some experience first. Some real-world training. So it was either get a job at the corner coffee shop or apply for this program called "Teach for the Confederacy."
Ever since we won the civil war, we've really been the last bastion for slavery. Wad a few revolts since then. The Great Revolt of 1903, led by the plucky Ted McKnowlty. I'll clue you in on a secret. He wasn't Irish. The Great Rebellion of 1951. Each led to hundreds of thousands of lives lost. End slavery, the people cried! And some certainly tried. They were, how do you put it, mildly successful. Our government was filled with beauracracy and corruption. Half truths, and half measures. We did something in the middle. We didn't end slavery as a society. We desegregated it. Right around the time the our neighbors to the North was celebrating their Civil Rights Movement, we celerated our universal Civil Unrights Movement.
But I didn't complain. How could I? You see, the government had spies everywhere. Any sign of dissention and you would whisked away, never to be seen again. Run away to the North? Good luck with that. If you were caught, your balls would be on display at the border, along with the thousands of other severed genitals that the government harvested and skewered for display on border fences.
So yeah. Here I was. First day of my job. Assigned here. I gotta admit, though, I was assigned to the all-girls' division. In some ways, I was bummed out I needed to work, especially for the government. But in other ways, I gotta admit. All girls. Not bad.
I looked around as I entered the school. Class was beginning. Students were hustling to get to 1st period. Everything looked, normal? The girls wore plaid blue skirts. Collared white blouses. And a tie? Do I see ties? And knee high socks with clunky shoes.
Jim was my guide. Actually I'd be with several people today. I guess he was an administrator of sorts. He handed me my schedule. It was full day indeed. Every hour or so I had to pluck myself up and move to another location. I looked at it closely. Looked like a normal schedule.
1st period: Algebra, Mr. Walsh
2nd period: Biology, Ms. Cunningham
3rd period: Chemistry, Mr. Gupta
4th period: Confederate History, Mr. Rodriguez
5th period: Physical Education, Ms. Park
6th period: Dance, Mr. Johnson
7th period: Detention, Mr. Marsh
"You'll go first to Mr. Walsh's class," Jim said, "Right down the hall there, to your right. Room 119. There's still a few minutes left before class starts, so I hope he gets a chance to explain some things to you."
And then Jim walked away. Huh. So I guess I'd be fending for myself a bit today.
I walked into the classroom. Twenty curious sets of eyes looked up to study me. Wow. This was jarring. I had never seen so many girls in one place in my life. It was, actually, pretty damn intimidating. Some looked briefly, others seemed to stare. I looked away as fast as I could. I was starting to feel hot.
"Hey there," I heard a voice from the desk across the room. It was Mr. Walsh.
"Have a seat," he said, as he pulled up a chair for me, right next to his desk. Man, I felt uncomfortable. I felt like I was some fool at the front of class. I could feel everyone watching me.
I shook his hand.
"John Morris," I replied.
"Class will start in a few minutes," he said, "But I wanted to go over a few things with you first. Is this the first time you've been here?"
I nodded my head.
"Ok, and have you ever visited a Educational Rehab facility before?"
I shook my head.
"Very good. What have you heard?"
"Really, nothing, Mr. Marsh. The govern-." I stopped myself. "People really are pretty tight lipped about what happens in these facilities. I guess I'm just here to watch and learn."
"That's good. An open mind, I always tell my students. An open mind will take you places. Well, Mr. Morris, class is about to begin, so if you'll excuse me."
A few more students trickled in. And then the bell rang.
And then the strangest thing happened.
Most of the students began to undress.
And then there were some that just, sat there.
Some of the ones who undressed, were. Um, pierced? I could hardly believe my eyes. I stared in utter disbelief. Any feeling of awkwardness actually, washed away from me. I was now fascinated. And horrified.
"Mr. Morris," Mr. Walsh said to me, as he placed his hand on my shoulder, "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
"Every quarter the students are given their final evaluations, and ranked. Some of has to to do with overall conduct, with their grades, and of course, teacher evaluations. The top one third performers get to keep their clothes. See that girl in the corner over there? Her name is Jenny. The red head."
I looked at Jenny. She was just looking down at her shoes.
"She's really a top-performer." Mr. Walsh winked at me, and very conspicuously elbowed my ribs. Ouch.
"The middle one-third does not get the priviledge of wearing their clothes. These girls are in the group called 'under observation,' but really the girls who need to the most rehabiliation are the bottom one-third. These girls are 'under remediation.' They have some special, accoutrements, if you will, added on to them."
Those must have been the girls with the nipple rings. I allowed myself to look a little close too. It was simultaneoulsy a very awkward and painful image to look at, but also highly erotic. I was too scared to develop an erection, though it was clear to me that Mr. Walsh had an enormous one going on. I could feel the precum oozing out of my dick, though. Shit. I only had on one layer of boxers. I hope the precum didn't stain my pants. At least they were dark grey.
The girls with nipple rings, man. I could see it now too. They had on clit rings too. Holy hell. What the fuck was this place?
And out of their backpacks I noticed that they pulled out some long furry object.
"Hurry up, girls! We don't have all day!" Mr. Walsh shouted. "You have two more minutes before the second bell rings and you're out of time!"
I noticed that the girls were naked unpierced sat back down in their chairs. I guess they were ready. The bottom-third, 'performers,' I guess, really started to hustle. A few of them moved so quickly I could hardly tell what was happening. I focused on one of them. She was actually really cute. A brunette.
She reached down into her backpack and pulled out a white tube, flipped open the cap quickly, and likely toothpaste, squeezed out some of the stuff onto the tip of the furry object. And then with one finger, dabbed some of that (Oh, ok. It was lube.) stuff from her finger on her anus. And then fairly quickly, wriggled and twisted that thing in.
When she was done, I could see that most of the girls had finished as well. Maybe one girl was struggling. The rest of the girls had already put headbands on (Oh, I get it, they're supposed to look like bunnies) and lined up at the front of the classroom. Very quickly, all but one of the them squatted, and placed both palms neatly down in front of them, and looked up at the board. Like dogs, commanded to sit. Then the bell rang.
"Samantha Pierce," Mr. Walsh yelled, "You incompetent, clumsy little fuck-slut!"
I was taken aback by this sudden change in behavior. I had thought on first impression this gentleman to be a nice guy. All of the sudden, he was now a drill sargent.
"You get your skinny little ass up here right fucking now!"
Samantha started to cry, and skulked her way up to the front.
"On all fours, you little bitch!" the teacher yelled, "Spread those legs out a little. Push that ass out. No, not like that, you cunt!"
Mr. Walsh pushed down on the girl's back, so that her butt pushed out a little bit, but not before he gave her a couple of spanks. He then walked over to the backpack, and grabbed the white tube of lube. Squeezed out, maybe a pea size of lube onto his finger (that's it?) and with little hesistation pushed his finger into Samantha's tiny asshole.
Samantha groaned loudly.
You could tell all of the other girls were getting pretty uncomfortable watching this. Some definitely watched. Others looked away. I could see that some who watched had a pained look on their face. Maybe they had gone through this before, and maybe they pitied her. Others looked on with blank faces. Thousand yard stares. Still others had on tiny, imperceptible grin. Interesting.
Mr. Walsh forcefully and fairly mercilessly pushed in the butt plug into the girl. Samantha grunted, and continued crying, this time louder.
"Every fucking time this happens," Mr. Walsh screamed at his class, "My class gets delayed. When the second fucking bell rings, I expect everybody to be in position! Everybody else put their tails, in Ms. Pierce! Everybody else got in line at the front and assumed the position! What makes you so special? Huh? And now we're going to lose at least ten minutes of class time, ten minutes of precious learning time for all of these other girls, for what, for you? Because you can't even do a fucking simple task?"
I watched, in horror, actually, as Mr. Walsh screamed his face off. I watched, in disbelief as he grabbed a cane (where the fuck did that cane come from?), and started to test-whack it in the air, making zipping noises as it cut through the silence.
Um. That was a big fucking cane. It had to be at least an inch thick, and several feet long.
"Twenty strokes on the ass! Ten strokes on the tits! And five strokes on the pussy!"
No. Fucking. Way.
No fucking way was I about to watch this.
Holy shit. I mean, the girl just didn't put in a butt plug fast enough (why the fuck were there butt plugs anyways? This place was far more fucked up that I had ever imagined! Nobody prepared me for this). And now she was going to caned? The ass, I could understand, but on the tits as well? And the pussy? This was a little extreme, maybe. Of all the thoughts that went on in my mind, I guess I wondered how he came up with that punishment.
And then I smelled something. Oh no. No she didn't .This couldn't get any worse for her. She peed herself.
And just like that.
"No missy, you did not just piss yourself all over my beautiful fucking class floor! You have just earned yourself double the amount of punishment for that!"
Mr. Walsh was pissed.
"Assume the position!"
I guess she was already doggy-stye on all fours. But I guess he meant for her to turn around, so that she was side-ways in the front of the classroom. With his foot, he nudged her to also get in the center of the front of the classroom.
"Turn your head towards the class! Don't look down! And don't close your eyes! If you do any of these things, I will add on more strikes! And I want you to count. LOUDLY. And if any of you cunts sitting down thinks that this can't happen to you, well it can. I want you to remember that. Look into her eyes. If I see any of you look away, you'll get the same that Ms. Pierce is getting."
And so it began. I was sitting next to the teacher's desk. I couldn't see shit. But I could see the rest of the class.
"Count, bitch, count!"
"Two!" She screamed.
"No, that's one, you whore. You missed the first. Count, again!"
"Two!" She screamed.
"One, you bitch, I said that's one. You can't move to two without counting one!"
"One!" Samantha cried.
"No, you stupid little girl, I haven't hit you yet. You can't say one yet. If you don't learn this quick, we'll be here for fucking ever."
Samantha was sobbing. She was so terrifed I could see from my vantage point that her ass was shaking violently. I felt very sorry for her. Mr. Walsh was kind of an asshole.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
I could hear the screech of the cane through the air. I could hear its tremendous pop on flesh. The girl screamed after every hit, but valiantly counted. A few were barely audible. So she had to repeat them. In between screams, she sobbed. And when forty official strokes had been counted, you'd think that the girl would be tired. But still she sobbed. Fresh, energetic sobs. And her cries of pain and torment were still unbearably forceful.
"Get up, on your feet! Hands above the air!" Mr. Walsh commanded, no longer screaming. It seemed as if much of his anger had dissipated over the beating he had just given her ass.
When Samantha got up, I could her ass. Streaked with dark red and purple. She was already bleeding. And then he went to town on her breasts. Samantha had some nice breasts. They were firm, small, and perky. Young breasts, budding beautifully. I was actually starting to get a little upset. I'd hate to see those beauties ruined.
I watched as more urine dripped down her legs. I sincerely hoped Mr. Wash did not notice. He didn't.
He struck, and she counted. I could tell from the screams that these hurt more than the strokes on her butt.
Once again, I could not see much, since I was sitting laterally to the girl. But I could see that a few of the students were pretty upset. Some of the girls were crying as well. Others wore a distinctive frown. And even the ones who had grinned to start, well, at least they weren't smiling anymore.
I don't know how Samantha was able to stay standing. Her knees were knocking. Her arms were shaking. She looked so unstable a stiff wind could blow this slender girl over. Maybe it was fear.
Twenty strokes to the breasts later, and I could see that Samantha was getting pretty tired. I wondered if it was getting easier, if she started to develop a tolerance to the pain. But now I understood why we started with the butt. And then the breasts. And then the genitals. If she was developing a tolerance to the pain, progressively changing the locations to more and more sensitive spots would prevent her from getting used to the punishment. No, it was designed to hell through and through. Fresh, constant, full-throttle torture, from start to finish.
"On your back!"
Mr. Walsh pulled the girl up so that her upper back and head were resting against the front wall of the classroom. He did make it fairly clear that he wanted her to face the class, and that he wanted to class to look into her eyes. Actually at this angle, I could see her face. It was covered in tears and snot, and she was as red as a beet. She was also covered in perspiration, from head to toe.
I watched as Mr. Walsh straddled the girl, as he faced classroom himself. I saw what he was going to do. He was going to bring the cane over his head, and strike down on the poor girl's sex.
"Hold your ankles with your hands. Keep your legs wide apart. If at any time you bring them together, I will not count the previous stroke. You will count, LOUD. And you will not close your eyes!"
Mr. Walsh's crotch just barely fit over poor Samantha's head. It was as if he was sitting on her head. And then he brought the cane down with increasing ferocity.
"Oh god!" Samantha cried, as she quickly shut her legs, and fell to her side in the fetal position.
I was shaking myself. That was a thick cane. That was a heavy blow. And on her crotch? Holy shit, I thought to mysef. There was no way we were going to see him do this ten times. And I'll bet that one didn't count.
"Please, Mr. Walsh," Samantha sobbed, grabbing her crotch, "Please, I'm sorry! Please I'm so sorry, I'll never disobey you ever again. I'm so sorry I didn't put that thing in me fast enough!"
"Get the fuck up, you piece of worthless shit." Mr. Walsh barked. "If you don't get back into position, I'm doubling the strokes on your pussy. You think I want to do this? Already we've lost ten minutes of class time. Holy shit, if this keeps going, we'll lose an entire day. I spent all of last evening preparing this damn lesson! Ten strokes on the pussy is already fucking outrageous. There's a good chance you'll have permanent scarring there. I'm going to have to send you to the fucking school nurse after this. If you don't get your act together, I'm going to have to double it to twenty. What the fuck do you think is going to happen then? Get the fuck off that floor, suck it up, and get back into fucking position!"
"But please, sir," Samantha cried, "Please, I'm so sorry. It won't happen again. I'll be a good girl. I'll suck your dick. I'll let you fuck me in the ass. I'm sorry I didn't let you last time. Please, I'm so sorry!"
"You fucking, ignorant, shit-mouth of a slut! You shut the fuck up right now! That never happened! You shut the fuck up, or I bust your teeth out. That's twenty strokes on your pussy. That's it. Twenty strokes. You better start counting now, or we'll cane you on your pussy until you bleed to death from it!"
Mr. Walsh grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her back into position.
"Hold your damn legs apart, girl!"
Samantha sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. She screamed in agony as the blows landed harshly on her soft sex.
Seeing no other end to her predicament, I'm sure, the girl started to count around the fifth strike.
It was like watching an animal getting gutted. The cries of terror and pain were primal. Whatever semblance of humanity was left in this poor girl was left to attempt to remember how to count. And it did look like it took all of her strength to keep track. She lost count a few times. Mr. Walsh didn't skip a beat. We'll start at the last number, then, he barked. She closed her legs a few times in response to a strike that was particularly centered, likely crushing her clit. No bother. We'll start at the last number then. Samantha must have received at least forty strikes on her pussy, and towards the end, it looked like she was nearly about to pass out. But she didn't.
When he was finished, Mr. Walsh called the school paramedics in. (There were school paramedics?).
The grabbed her by her arms and dragged her out into the hallways, where she was placed on a stretcher, and presuably taken to the school nurse. But not before I stole a glance at her battered body. Purple streaks all over her buttocks and breasts. Her genitals were a dark purple. They were oozing blood. Her inner thighs were splashed with sprays of blood from the cane striking her bleeding crotch. I was light headed. This was beyond comprehension, what was happening.
With Samantha gone, I looked over at the floor. A small puddle of blood. A trail of droplets towards the door where they had dragged her out. A large puddle of urine.
"Alright, you useless cunts," he shouted to the girls still sitting like little dogs at attention in the front, "I want you to lick up every drop of urine, every drop of blood from my beautiful floor. And if there is any significant delay, I will cane you all until you end up like little Samantha this morning. I will hold you back until after school, I will do whatever it takes. If any of you think to cross me, you will be PUNISHED!"
And without any hesitation, all of the girls (but only the ones with cat ears and tails) got down on all fours and started lapping up liquid that was once inside Samantha, now getting ready to be inside them. Mr. Walsh looked pretty upset, but he wasn't fuming anymore. He sat down calmly at his desk. I did NOT make eye contact. And then he spoke to me. Softly. Dude, I was pretty fucking scared of this guy.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Morris. This. This usually doesn't happen. Very rare. Ahem," he cleared his throat, "What you saw today. What you heard. Everything happened by the books."
Sure. Mm hm. I nodded politely. I don't know why I was so scared. I just was.
Mr. Walsh made little eye contact. His demeanor had changed from a raging tyrant to a shy, polite little man. Maybe he was different because he knew he was being watched. Or maybe he that guy who was super nice, and occasionally would blow up. I wondered if maybe tomorrow he was going to bring an AK-47 in here and shoot us all up. Maybe. This was definitely the type.
Within a minute, the floor was, pretty fucking clean. I could see where the blood was, I think those stains were going to need some more powerful cleaner than girl-tongues. But the urine was all gone. Slurped up, like they were in the desert, and had just discovered water.
And, well. Class started. Really? Algebra? After what had just happened? It was surreal. It was like nothing had happened. Five minutes into the lesson, and I was still playing what had just happened in the back of my mind. I looked at the girls. Some of them I'm sure were barely paying attention, thinking about what had just happened, like me, but many of them were actually pretty fucking engaged in the lesson. I was puzzled. What the fuck was happening?
And then I knew how this was happening. I had seen this in a movie before. Stand and Deliver, I think.
Mr. Walsh started asking questions. About what he had just taught. It was random, I think. He called on girls who were clothed, he called on the naked ones, and he called on the ones at front. Right answers were recorded. Wrong answers were recorded. But the strangest thing happened when the girls up front got an answer wrong. They would shout in pain and double over, as if something were hurting them from deep inside.
"Batteries," Mr. Walsh said to me.
I looked puzzled.
"They have batteries inside their pussies. It stays there for as long as they are in remediation status. The batteries are changed out weekly, of course. Cleaned. We don't want any accidents, of course. Occasionally we'll get a leak every now and then, and as you can imagine, battery acid inside a pussy is not just painful for the girl, it can be permanently damaging. Without wrong-doing, we do like to avoid hurting our girls. Oh yes, and so the batteries power electrodes that line the rims of the vaginal introitus, and connect to leads attached to their clits and urethral openings. All of the most sensitive and special places on a girl, you see. It packs a ton of pain, really the worst pain, without causing any damage at all to the tissue. It's a brilliant design, actually. If they answer something wrong, they get a one-second zap. Searing pain, I'm told. But just one second. That way, they have to pay attention and learn. You see now why they're in remediation? They don't pay attention. This will help them learn that. We're doing good work here, actually."
Unbelievable. No wonder they put what happened this morning past them so quickly. This was brainwashing to the max. This felt like military bootcamp on steroids. I really had to get out of here. But that was one part of me. The other part. I dont know. As I watched the girls up front double over in pain as electricity zapped her feminine core, yowl in agony, and then almost immediately apologize. Sorry, sir, I'll get that one right the next time! And then, actually get it right the next time. I'll have to admit. It did work. And I was getting strangely turned on too. I looked down at my pants. Shit, my precum was starting to stain the outside. I was fucked.
And so class ended. Rather unceremoniously. Rather than getting a chance to debrief with me (which I really did not want, with Mr. Walsh), he led me briskly to the next classroom. This time, the hallways looked very different. It wasn't schoolgirls in schoolgirl uniform. It was chaos. Most of the girls were naked now. Some had on clothes. These must have been the 'high-performers.' But most were nude. And yes, about one-third had on nipple rings, clit rings, butt plugs, and cat ears. Unbelievable. But if you could ignore all that, it was still strangely very loud. Girls talking. Girls chatting. Some laughing. A lot of them were laughing. There was, yes, a somber mood in the hallways. I think there was an air of pervasive sadness to their predicament. But there was a lot of chatter. It guess, it felt like a prison.
The second class was was Biology, with Ms. Cunningham.
"I heard you experienced quite an ordeal in your first period," she said to me, "It does happen from time to time. We do have protocols to execute."
Ms. Cunningham seemed like the very strict type. I didn't like her at all.
"Whatever Mr. Walsh had to do, he had to do," she added, "Though he has quite the reputation for being rather enthusiastic with punitive actions."
And so I watched again, as she taught her class, interspersed with sporadic moments of questions directed towards the class. Most of her questions the students got right. Occasionally one of the students up front gave the wrong answer. Zap! And then a protracted grunt. Sorry, ma'am, I'll get the question right next time! And five minutes later after an enormous load of current in the genitals, when the student was asked the same question, she got it right. Amazing.
The same with Chemistry. It was, I mean, like regular old school. School as I remembered it. But it was darker. More sinister. The degree of humiliation was much higher in this facility. The punishment, far more severe. This was pretty crazy. And then lunch time care. Thank god. I was starving. And occasionally, I could hear the distant sound of wails and screams from girls getting punished from other classrooms. Some were transient noises, and others a protracted session of suffering.
Most of the girls could sit at their tables. The tables were interspersed with naked girls and clothed girls. I noticed that there were in fact more likely to be clusters of girls who were clothed, and then clusters of girls who were naked. I'll bet it helped to sit with others suffering the same predicament.
And then the girls who were remediating. They had to eat in a line in the front of the cafeteria. Down on their knees. Hands behind their backs. In dog bowls. I peered inside. Brown mush. Dog food, too, huh? Brutal. Couldn't use their hands either. Remediation must really suck.
I had a chance to sit down at lunch with some of the faculty. I chose to sit next to Ms. Cunningham. We got to chit chatting. She was pretty cute. Ms. Cunningham. I bet she wasn't married. I didn't want to risk asking if she had a boyfriend yet. She looked burnt out, but she seemed nice. I hated to talk shop, but I had to ask. If evaluations happened every quarter, how many of these girls ended up having to remediate?
She gave a very lengthy response. I probably did not want to listen to her speak for THAT long.
"Well, most of them have had it happen to them at one point in time. Some haven't. I'm sure watching the other girls get punished is motivation enough to study hard and to be obedient. There are consistent top performers, consistent mid-range performers under observation, and consistent bottom feeders, who are always remediating. These girls really have no hope. I'm afraid they are destined after this to be sold as sex-slaves, to some of the most debased individuals in our society."
"We do have some buyers who buy girls just to skin and eat them alive. It's not pretty, but they do spend a lot of money to support us. One buyer likes to drop hot iron balls into his girls' orifices and watch as they slow cook from the bottom up. I hear they don't die immediately. They actually don't die at all. He tried to return one of them because she took an red hot iron ball in both the vagina and rectum, and still lived. Said he wanted a refund. Give me break, right? People don't die that easily. We made him keep her. No refund, of course. The sick bastard even bought another one from us that day. I guess he started becoming more interested in watching them suffer alive than killing them."
"I remember him doing a demontration for some of the faculty. I usually don't like watching this sort of stuff, but I went anyways, out of curiosity. After all, these were my former students! I went over to his place one night, and I watched as a hot iron ball was dropped into one of my pupils, who was tied upside down, into her vagina. She was in a lot of pain, that much I expected, but what I didn't expect was how first it was steam that escaped from her vagina, and then smoke. It was rather bitter smelling. And it wasn't a steady flow. Her vulva had actually swallowed the hot iron ball in its entirety. And so it made sense to me then that as the flesh heated up, it would of course create steam, and then as it burnt, black smoke. But I guess I just wasn't ready for this scene. It wasn't the agony that startled me as I watched my student getting cooked from the inside. I've seen my students in pain before. Some of them will wail like the world is ending, no matter the situation."
"But this smoke, you see, it came out like a train of tiny little farts, consecutive, one right after the other in quick succession. Of course the gas had to escape. But it was the noise, Mr. Morris! It was the noise! Like a machine gun train of farts, escaping from this little girl's sex organ. It was beyond obscene. I was so upset, I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. And it lasted for nearly fifteen minutes! And by the end of it, of course she wasn't dead! The pelvic region doesn't really contain any really that necessary to maintain immediate life. Anyways, I know I'm rambling now. I just, you know. I kind of hate this place. What are we doing to our little girls? I suppose the only consolation is we only reserve our stupidest and our most disobedient girls to that fate."
Yeah, this place was fucked up. I kind of wish I didn't talk to Ms. Cunningham in the first place. She was cute, but after that ramble, I really had lost all my interest in her. Definitely no boyfriend. And definitely kind of fucked up herself. No wonder she worked here. That was definitely not the kind of story that could get me through lunch. I had already lost my appetite. I kind of stared at my food after that.
Lunch ended. OK. Now we're going to PE. When I got to PE, I thought to myself.
C'mon. This isn't PE.
The girls who were once wearing school uniforms were now in shorts and tank tops. The naked ones, well, still naked. They rotated stations. Jumping jacks. Running. Some girly push-ups and sit-up. OK, fine, that was PE.
But then there were the ones who were remediating.
Row after row after row of pink flexible dildos. And that one station. The girls would have to open their mouths, and throat the damn things! Some were total pros. They throated, and gave that fake penis one hell of a blowjob. Others, clearly not as experienced, took some more time. Two hundred repetitions, or tweny minutes. Whichever came first. And if these girls were seen as making an honest effort. They got shocked in their pussies. There was vomit all over the floor in this station. How often did they freakin clean this place? Once a day? That surely was not enough. And after lunch, I imagine a lot of the brown dog food just ended up on the floor in this place. And how did these girls not just get sick all the time? They were clearing sharing lots of saliva.
And then station two. The stationary bike. For this, they had to remove their butt plugs. Because in place of a seat, these stationary bikes had two moving dildos, one up each orifice, that would pump at the pace of their pedaling. And the two dildos alternated too. When one went down, the other went up. So they were getting double fucked constantly. And they had to force themselves down on them. It was required that they rest their weight on a horizontal bar, ensuring that each thrust was deep and fully penetrating. If they didn't pedal fast enough, below a certain speed, their pussies would receive shocks. This was incredible. And it was a one-size fits all sort of bike too. I notice that some of the, shall we say, larger girls had less trouble taking these dildos in, and some of the, smaller girls, really struggled. These dildos were going in deep, and I'm sure their insides had to play some internal gymnastics to make room for these devices, because I'm pretty sure that these dildos were longer than many of the pussies they were fucking. Occasionally, I'd watch a smaller girl, doubled over, and in clear primal agony, just take thirty minutes of electrical torture in her vagina, clearly unable to take the size of these dildos. Pedaling, however, for most of the girls, meant that these monstrosities would fuck them, but whatever the case, it appeared to be preferable to a prolonged shock through the nether region, if, they could tolerate it. I noticed that a few of the girls threw up at this station too.
Some of these girls left this station hobbling, waddling from side to side. Others, actually limping, bleeding from the trauma and the 'one-size fits all' dildos that just tore through their insides. Well, whatever the case, they had to push their butt plugs back in, and make it to the deep-throating station, if they hadn't done that already. Can you imagine? They had to do this. EVERY. DAY. I looked back on the girl who struggled to put a simple butt plug up her ass. I wonder if today had been her first day in remediation. Because PE was brutal. Much more brutal.
The gym teacher, Ms. Park, wasn't a gym teacher at all. This gym session was very clearly and deliberately planned. It was automated. It was a fully functioning machine. She just walked around with a mop and bucket, and made sure everything was in the right order. I don't think I heard her speak at all. She had assistants monitoring the girls to make sure their oral sex activity was sufficiently effortfull.
She literally just picked up and cleaned after the girls. Mopping up blood here and there. Some piss or shit here, mop it up. She didn't touch the vomit area, though. I'm assuming they just cleaned that once at the end of the day.
The place smelled awful.
I couldn't be happier to leave PE. That place smelled like a giant toilet.
And then Dance. Seriously? Mr. Johnson? Teaching dance, to a bunch of girls? But ok, he was gay. Pretty fucking gay. Ok, I kind of get it.
As expected, it wasn't your usual dance class. And it was fairly equitable actually. Everybody had to learn. Today was pole dancing lessons. It was actually pretty legit. Mr. Johnson was pretty fucking flexible.
Last week, he told me, it was belly dancing. And the week before, lap dancing. It always had to be something erotic, he told me. These girls need that kind of training. Occasionally he would even teach ballet.
Ballet, I thought to myself. Nice.
And then came time for detention.
I was kind of both dreading this and looking forward to it.
If everything I had seen was not detention, then I wondered what detention was.
Well. It really wasn't that exciting.
So apparently, girls can get demoted from 'under observation' or even from the top third to 'remediation,' even in between quarterly evaluations. Maybe they rubbed a teacher the wrong way. Maybe they did particularly poorly on an exam. Well, detention was more like 'processing.'
It was where girls would be stripped of their current rights, and transition to a girl under remediation. Ah, so that's what happened to Samantha. She was probably a good girl who just refused to suck Mr. Walsh's dick. And now look at her. I wondered where she was.
Mr. Marsh was in charge of detention. He looked pretty stressed actually. There was a whole line of girls he needed to process.
"I can't talk much, Mr. Morris," he said curtly, "I have a lot of work to do. If you can help me hold some of these girls down, while I work, I would very much appreciate it."
And so I did. Helped. I kind of, enjoyed it?
I watched as many of the girls received their first piercing. I held their arms and legs down. They screamed their lungs off. Ouch, my ears. The nipples weren't the worst. It was the clit piercing that really hit the high notes. Some of the girls looked like they knew what to expect. But they still screamed. I was actually getting pretty tired of hearing girls scream. All day long. Wailing, screaming, moaning, groaning. I could see why Mr. Marsh was stressed out.
And then they had to get down on their backs, and pull their legs apart, while Mr. Marsh quickly pushed a small donut shaped battery into their vaginas. I watched in awe as he quickly connected an electrode to their clitoris ring. I watched him deftly insert a small catheter into their urethras, a special device that was held into place by a small balloon inflated in their bladders, but lined on its outer surface with a coil of copper used to conduct current.
"They're not incontinent with this type of catheter," Mr. Marsh explained to me, "Usually these catheters let the urine flow freely, without any input from the person. These are special catheters. Only a thin hollow wire connects the balloon inside her bladder to the cathether tip. So she still is allowed to control her flow of urine. But of course, as we get closer to her urethral opening-" he pointed it out to me, "you can see that the catheter thickens, and allows full electrical contact with the entire outer urethra."
"It makes for a very painful, shock, I'm sure," he added.
"And of course, there is a tube of copper coil that is located within the first half of the vaginal introitus as well. So really," Mr. March continued,"There are three points of electrical charge that the girls experience. One on the clit, one at the entrance of her urethra, and one at the entrance of her vagina. All very sensitive spots. And their intensity, frequency, and duration of shock can of course be adjusted remotely, and activated remotely. We have wi-fi throughout the facility."
No shit. This was some devious contraption here. I shook my head in disbelief and awe.
After each girl was processed, she was handed a thick tube of lube, and a butt plug shaped like a kitten tail. It was optional for her to put it on today. If I were these girls, I'd start practicing tonight. I'm sure some of them would.
And that was it.
The final bell dismissing the students rang.
The girls started to flood out of the school. Back to their dormitories. Do they get to put on clothes when they go back to their dorms?
"No," Mr. Morris replied.
"How come?" I asked.
"We don't want these girls to return to feeling a sense of normalcy when they get home. Their state of punishment, should resemble their state of mind. They need to always feel a sense of shame, of guilt, and a sense of remorse. If their quartermasters find them disobedient, they will need to keep their devices in for punishment in those instances. Sometimes, we find these girls bloodied, bruised, or whipped in the mornings. We don't question it. They were behaving badly at home. And that's all there is to it."
"What about those tails?" I asked. "Those don't stay in?"
"No, they do not," he replied. "Only at school. They need a chance to recover sphincter tone so they can have bowel movements. A lot of them really struggle with sphincter tone of course. And most of them will require daily enemas to clear them out. But we do want to attempt to give their sphincters a chance to relax. We don't worry about that here though. We leave worrying about their bowel habits to their quartermasters when they return to their dormitories."
"Will there be any more questions, Mr. Morris?" Mr. Marsh asked.
"Actually, no," I politely responded. "That will be all. Thank you."
And so I left. Back to my dorm (I was trapped here too, you know).
But it wasn't all bad. My dorm housed a good number of these girls as well. And guess what? We were short of quartermasters. They were looking to hire more. Teachers at the school were welcomed to apply, even encouraged. And guess what I did? As horrified, and startled as I was at how my first day on the job was, as shocked as I was to learn how life was like at this school, I was actually kind of intrigues. You know what?