Jane Renford smiled in triumph as she sat across the desk from the woman who looked for all the world like a lawyer or an accountant. Jane had done it: the Institute had accepted her as a pick-up. It had not been a simple task to persuade the girl she had met at the ultra-high class party in Dubai to recommend Jane for pick-up. She didn’t like to think about the conflicting feelings it had awakened in her to lie to sweet, intelligent Hannah about her sexuality.
“I want to submit to a man, like you do,” Jane had said over coffee the morning after she had watched Hannah being fucked by two men on a little stage at the party—neither of them the man who called himself her “owner.”
Hannah nodded, smiling.
“But… every time I find a guy I think is, you know, dominant… I get really scared of him. I push him away.” Truly, she didn’t get scared. Or at least, she didn’t get scared of dominant guys.
No, she hadn’t liked lying to Hannah. But Jane had flown halfway around the world on the money she had gotten from the tabloid newspaper. Now the editor was salivating for the juicy details. More, Jane also had a world-famous psychiatrist on call to reverse the Institute’s post-hypnotic suggestion—to let her be conscious of her real mission through the whole lascivious training regime she knew must await her. Twenty-year-old Jane Renford wasn’t going to back out of it now.
The psychiatrist had helped her also with developing answers to the questions on the apparently endless questionnaires the Institute used to evaluate prospective concubines. The fact that most of those answers actually did describe the truth with regard to Jane’s psychological make-up didn’t bother her at all, because it would make it much easier to tell the necessary lies. The idea upon which the sick fucks who ran the Institute had founded the place, that they could use science to give submissive women what they needed, and then somehow sell those women—never mind the million-dollar payments to the women or the legal arrangements—was obviously just a cover for sex-trafficking, and Jane meant to blow that cover off and become a world-famous investigative journalist in the process.
“What does that smile mean, Jane?” asked Mary Lourcy, who referred to herself as Jane’s case-agent, whatever that meant, from across the walnut desk in her office high above Seattle. Jane saw on Mary’s face an irritating fake kindness that only strengthened her resolve to take this evil organization down.
“Oh,” Jane said, “I’m just so happy you’re accepting me.”
“Well, congratulations,” said Mary. “We’re all sure you’re going to end up very happy, though of course the capture and training won’t seem like happy experiences at the time.”
“Oh, but…” Jane said, almost giving an indication she didn’t want to give, of her true, rather troubled mental state—the one she had covered over with the triumphant smile.
“As we discussed,” Mary said patiently, “you will be pleasured as well, both during the pick-up and at the Institute, but that pleasure will be part of the training designed to bring you to terms with your submissive desires. When it happens, you won’t be happy about it. Looking back, though—on what was done to you, and what your trainers, and your owner, made you do—will give you a great deal of satisfaction when your memory is restored at the end of the year.”
Jane sat silent, conflicted. The smile, she knew, had gone from her face.
“Let me put it very graphically,” Mary said. “In all probability, within the first few hours of your capture, your new training master will force you to orgasm. Let’s say he’ll do it while he’s got his cock in your mouth.”
Jane swallowed very hard.
“Let’s say he’ll have to whip you with his belt to get you to open your mouth sweetly to his hardened manhood, which I can assure you will be bigger than any cock you’ve ever seen in the flesh, and possibly even in pictures. I’m sure you can imagine that at the time, that experience will not be a happy one.”
Jane nodded, swallowing again. Dammit, the fact that she had become damp in her sensible beige panties didn’t mean anything. Anything.
“But there are forces that run much deeper in us than anything the word happiness can describe. While your new master fucks your face and holds the magic wand to your clit so that you come, and come, and come again, your psyche will be experiencing what it has needed for several years now, Jane.”
Jane couldn’t help it: she swallowed again. Her hands had balled into tight fists, as if to keep themselves from drifting downward. “Okay,” she squeaked.
Mary smiled again. “Alright, Jane,” she said, “are you prepared to sign?” She pushed the contract over to Jane’s side of the desk. The terrible contract, which Jane knew should have given her much more pause than it did.
But she would be a rich, world-famous investigative journalist after this was all over. She already had the chip implanted behind her ear that would lead the authorities straight to the secret location of the Institute, and she was ready for the hypnosis. Nothing would go wrong.
“Yes,” she said and signed her name.
“Alright,” said Mary with a nod. “Jane, what’s about to happen isn’t what you were expecting, but I can assure you it’s covered in the contract. The chip behind your ear is going to be removed, and you’re going to be transferred immediately to a special wing of the Institute—”
“What?” Jane said. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. “What? What do you mean? What… chip?”
Mary sighed and gave her a patient smile. “We know who you are, Jane. It’s a little hard to believe that you could spend so much time patiently researching us without understanding that we’re good at what we do. As far as we’ve been able to tell, you don’t believe that what we do helps the girls we train, despite having met several of them and seeing how happy they are with their masters and mistresses.”
“Stockholm Syndrome,” Jane whispered, somehow managing to hold onto that conviction through the incredible fear that had swelled up in her, coming very close to enveloping her mind entirely.
“No,” Mary said, shaking her head. “Submissive orientation. Which you also have, Jane, and are now going to learn much, much more about.”
The door behind Jane opened, and she twisted around in her chair to see two big men in the uniform of hospital orderlies enter Mary’s office.
“One chance, Jane,” Mary said. “Stand up and go quietly, or earn your first punishment right away.”
But Jane’s muscles wouldn’t obey her at all. She thought she was trying to get up, but whether through fear or through something else she refused even to think about, she stayed frozen in the chair.
“Over the chair, please, Ramon,” Mary said quietly to one of the orderlies.
“What?” Jane asked, but Ramon had already hauled her out of the chair to a standing position, though her knees would not hold her and the big man had to support her. He moved her around to the back of the chair, and, though at that point Jane started to try to get up and away, he draped her over it and held her there as she struggled.
Mary opened a drawer on the right side of the desk and took something out of it that Jane couldn’t see. Then the black-haired woman stood up, and Jane did see and said, “No… please… It was a mistake. It’s all a mistake.”
Mary held a punishment strap: two feet long and black as night, a doubled piece of leather half an inch thick and perhaps two inches wide.
“There’s no mistake, Jane,” Mary said softly. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, and now you’re going to start learning a very important lesson.”
“Oh, God… no, please… I’m not… I lied on the questionnaires. I’m not like that. I don’t want this.”
“Did you sign the contract, or didn’t you?” Mary came around the desk now, slowly, her voice sounding amused but also developing a hard edge.
“You may think you lied on the questionnaires, Jane, but you didn’t do a good enough job to deceive us. Your pen may lie, but your body doesn’t.”
Jane felt her breath coming faster and faster. Her eyes didn’t seem able to perceive anything but the strap in Mary’s right hand, which the woman now began to tap gently against her left palm.
“What does that mean?” she whispered.
“I feel sure you didn’t know that the chairs here have humidistats that tell us what makes you wet, Jane.”
“You may be an investigative journalist who wants to expose the Institute, but I can assure you that by the time you leave the Institute in the company of your new owner, you will also be a submissive concubine.”
“No! I… I can’t! I’m not like that!”
Mary strode swiftly around her, until Jane lost sight of her. Then she felt her short black skirt being raised.
“Oh my God, don’t you dare!”
“The contract you signed says I definitely may dare, girl,” Mary said. Her hand was in the waistband of Jane’s panties. Yes, she had known this kind of thing would be part of what happened, but it would be different if she knew she were on assignment—that it was all acting. Now Mary Lourcy was taking down Jane’s panties for a real punishment: they knew, and they were going to punish her for trying to deceive them.
Oh, God. She heard the strap whistling through the air, hardly believing that you actually did hear that sound when you were being whipped, and then the crack and the agonizing pain arrived simultaneously. Jane Renford, investigative journalist, was being punished for the first time in her adult life. She heard herself cry out in pain, but the voice didn’t sound like her own.
“Really,” Mary said, her voice still soft but now with its steely edge entirely audible, “you would have been a very good pick-up. If you hadn’t found us, we might have found you.”
Jane heard the strap cut through the air and she yelped even before it hit her bottom and tried in vain to move her backside out of its path. But Ramon held her tightly, and the second stroke fell just below where the first one had. Jane wailed, “Please…”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for now, Jane,” Mary said, and Jane found it was true.
Another lash of the strap. Jane’s whole body was trembling and she kicked out with her right foot, and then her left, in agony, finding only empty air.
“Hold her legs, please, Ramon,” Mary said.
Ramon, on her right side, reached down with his other arm and gripped Jane across the backs of both her knees so that she lay now completely immobile over the back of the chair, which was thankfully a little padded under its blue twill upholstery.
Mary gave her two more lashes, in quick succession, and now Jane sobbed out her pain and her shame.
“Let me tell you what you’re asking for. You’re asking for thorough training, to serve a master who wants a brat.”
“Yes.” Another lash.
Jane’s bottom contracted helplessly as she tried to buck her hips but could only clench her poor punished cheeks a little. Conscious of the lewd display she made, she felt her face growing as hot as her bottom felt. She knew that Mary and Ramon and the other orderly must be able to see the cleft of her pussy, with its blonde curls peeping out between her thighs.
“You didn’t let me finish telling you what will happen to you now, Jane,” Mary said. “After I’m through whipping you…” she brought the strap down again, and Jane screamed in out-and-out pain now, so hard did the woman strike “…you’ll be immediately transferred to a special wing of the Institute called the medical wing.”
“You heard me, Jane. You need a very thorough lesson in obedience before we allow you to begin training. We find that in such cases what we call an instructional examination best serves the purpose.”
“Wh-what does that mean?”
To Jane’s startlement, Mary put her hand on the bottom she had been punishing and began to rub it tenderly. Jane gave a long, low involuntary moan.
“You can call it a punishment examination, if you like. Most of the girls at the Institute do. It means that medical professionals will teach you to be a good girl, using your body as they see fit in the lesson. They will examine you very thoroughly and demonstrate to you with the tools at their disposal just how much you need training at the Institute.”
“T-tools?” Jane whispered.
Mary continued to rub for a little while without speaking. Jane couldn’t help whimpering at the touch. Yes, she was warm and wet, dammit, but that didn’t mean anything. She would never give Mary Lourcy, or anyone else at the Institute, the satisfaction of making her admit that arousal—let alone make some insane false admission that she thought they weren’t a bunch of sick fucks. Or that she wanted—still less that she needed—anything the Institute had to offer.
“You’ll see,” Mary finally said. Then to the orderlies, “Carry her out now. You can strip her in the van.”