Endurance Academy for Wayward Girls

This is a fictional story and all characters are over the age of 18. The story follows Abby Collins, a college junior, until she was sent to the academy by her boyfriend, where she will learn her place. I am at work on making the chapters longer and including notes from readers. Thanks for the feedback. Now on with the story...

Chapter 3

I tried to look up behind me at the men filing into the room, but felt a hand firmly pushing me down and then holding me there, face down on the padded bench.

"Spread her legs a little more, Morgan." The professor's voice right behind me.

Then gloved hands on my legs, gripping each thigh, repositioning me so i lay spread. "Do you want her hands tied, professor?"

"No, she's not going anywhere, are you girl?"

I listened, barely able to tell if the sound was my heart thumping or more feet marching into the room. Who knew how many were standing, watching. 10, 20, more? Finally I heard the door close. Feet fell still and there was absolute silence in the room. Miss Morgan spoke, her tone cold and crisp.

"Faculty, meet Abby Collins. A new intake. She'll be with us for the remainder of the year. I'm afraid to report she's a type three, according to her file. We won't know more until she's gone through orientation, but all of you will have a full report and a copy of her file. In the meantime, let's get on with the proceedings."

The rest of the year? What? It was early October. My favorite time of year. Usually. A bustle on campus with people getting back into the swing of school life. Parties and bands at the Gravestone bar, and sometimes going back to Matt's place. Matt. I hadn't had time to think about that but he was done. He'd see.

Then Miss Morgan's hands raised the hem of my dress. "Lift up a little Collins" she said, and as I did, the dress came up and was left bunched above my waist, the air now cold on my skin. "Right here I think, professor," she said with her finger, I think, on my lower back. "Above the waist line naturally so it can be seen as often as possible by anyone who cares to look, but especially men."

There was an electric hum to my side, an unfamiliar sound, but a device and then I felt it. The piercing burn of a needle and the searing first moments of my first ever, unwanted, tattoo. "Noooo... I don't.."

"Hold her still Morgan, and shut her up."

Miss Morgan swiftly came around to the front of the bench and lifted my head by my hair. "Open" I opened my mouth more to gasp, and a heavy rubber ball immediately filled it. Moving quickly she snapped the buckle into place behind my head and lowered my head back to the bench before leaning over me pin my arms, clenched fists and all, firmly by my side. "Continue..."

I tried to put it out of my mind as I lay there, but the pain was intense. And the sound of the ink gun horrified me. What was going on me? What would it say? How would it look? I've got no problem with them on other girls. But they're not my thing at all.

"Completed. We can proceed."

Then the professor spoke again.

"Each of you, faculty members, will assess our new student. Make note of any requirements for the report later and if you have a comment now, of course, please feel free to share that with our staff. It will make the entire process easier. Let's begin."

Footsteps. I could sense someone behind me, between my spread legs. Then the sound of a leather belt I thought. Please no! Not that. The heavy sound of pants hitting the floor, and I knew now it was, in fact, much worse than a belting. Cold hands spread my thighs further and then something cold and metallic against my inner thigh. A snip and I realized he'd cut my panties from me. A murmur went through the room.

Then he was on me. His hands spreading me thighs, my butt cheeks and a finger roughly inside my ass. "She's way too tight."

"We can fix that," Morgan's voice. Quick and defensive. As if I had disappointed her gravely. "Next."

There followed I don't know how many, five, six, seven? One gropedat my breasts with heavy hands. Others just their fingers inside me blankly, leaning over me to look me in the eyes while they did it, their heavy bellies hanging over me. The last was different, reluctant somehow. Gentle. I looked back at him to see a younger man, slim, quiet. "Do it to her, Anderson. It's required." Morgan, led him forward and put his hands on me with her own.

"Turn over Collins, let him see you."

I rolled dutifully onto my back, too stunned, too worried, too panicked to do anyhting but comply. My back burned. My mind raced. The young man dutifully inserted a finger into me.My thighs trembled uncontrollably.

"Next."

I glanced up to see the next in line step forward. Dressed like the others in black pants, white shirt, white tie. Like an overweight, balding, insurance salesman. He came closer, right to the edge of the bench, his crotch an inch from mine.

"May I, Morgan?"

"If you must. It's not why we're here. This is an assessment of her qualities only. But go ahead."

His pants and belt hit the floor heavily and I was yanked by each leg to the very edge of the bench, my recently inked, sore back rubbing across the fabric of the bench. And with that, quickly, his disgusting old man dick was inside me. "Mmmphhhh...." I shook my head, eyes wide and he started. A couple of slow, deep and then deeper strokes. As he did, a ripple of clapping spread through the line.

"She's not wet at all... she's going to be sore in the morning," continuing to grind in and out of me slowly, deliberately, making a point.

"That's enough. There will be other times," the professor suddenly said, irritated.

Other times. No! There would be no other times. This was insane. I started to writhe and pull myself back from him, raising my leg quickly and kicking at his crotch, easily exposed thanks to his legs wide, self-congratulatory, conquering stance. He doubled over but stood instantly and came at me, face pumped with raging, angry blood, his dick still out but fading fast. He grabbed my thigh painfully. As he did, a hard, piercing slap to my face from someone else. Gloved. It was Miss Morgan, who then got between me to block the man, now reaching to the floor for his belt.

"Mr. Raker, stop now." The professor's voice, firm and loud. "Morgan take him out of here." I lay gasping, legs pulled up tight to me and wrapped by my arms. I made an attempt to get off the bench, but the professor's hand, calm and steady rested on my shoulder. "Stay. Rest." Rest?! I wanted to burn the room down with just my will. Blow a hole through the wood paneling and burst through it into the cool, fall evening and beyond. Instead, I simply watched in silence as the heavy, slow moving Mr. Raker was led away and the door closed behind him.

I could see now in the dim light maybe a dozen more faces. Mostly men, but a few women, dressed in the same high necked gray dress that Morgan wore. The men looked expectant but confused, like an event was just cancelled right when they were about to get inside.

"Gentleman and ladies," the professor said. "We will not be proceeding with the intake inspection at this time. I ask you to make your observations of Miss Collins on your own time, in your own classes and in your own ways. Do as you must, but I will expect her file completed by the end of next week. This is very regrettable but we cannot break protocol. Now, I need a volunteer to take Miss Collins to her room in the intake wing."

My room? Wasn't this my room? No one stepped forward. Too worried about getting my other foot between their legs I bet. But then from the back of the line, a voice. "I can do it professor, I am heading that way for my next class." The younger man stepped into the light from the lamp.

....

We walked from the room down a long hallway of stone walls and old electric wall sconces that flickered as we passed. Through heavy wooden doors, an empty cafeteria of sorts with long metal tables and seating. I tried to keep up but the heels made it difficult. "Can we slow down?" But the young man in the tweed suit ignored me, turning the next corner and flinging open a door to the outside. We were in a courtyard between tall, stone walled buildings. The same high, barred windows from the video. "Where are we? Who are those women?"

As we crossed the courtyard, he steered clear of a group of young women. "Don't look at them." He said almost nervously. But I couldn't help it. They all seemed to be, perhaps, in their early 20s. Dressed in tight, high-waisted white dresses with open necks that all plunged identically and revealingly. Alarmingly, scarily, each also wore a pink muzzle, the kind that might silence an unruly dog in a veterinarian's office. They stood together as if in conversation, but silent.

"Who are they?" I asked, staring.

"They're the wives. This is the corrections area," he said quietly and marched ahead, head down towards a far building. I followed, heels clicking on the flagstones, back burning still and in an almost trance like state from what had just been done to me.

We turned a corner and a large metal door faced us. Tall, imposing.

A small hatch opened as we approached. "New intake," the man said to whoever was beyond the grilled viewing hatch. "Type three." With that the door swung open, creaking on heavy, old hinges, groaning with its own weight. And then there was a room. A single 3 on the door.

"This will be your home for a while," he said, as we stepped inside. Four blank white walls, a high, barred window with a sheer lace curtain. A single white framed bed, with white sheets and a think pink blanket. And something else, chains, cuffed at the end attached to the frame at the head and the foot.

"No," I said automatically without thinking.

"You must," he whispered, pushing me by my shoulders but gently onto the bed.

"I can't, I can't stay here. I won't..."

Then he did something. As I sat on the edge of the bed, fists clenched, jaw tight, and ready to fight. He leaned close, his face against mine, almost pleasantly. And then whispered in my ear: "Please do it for me. It will be for the best just for a little while. I can help you, I am going to get you..."

But then the door hurled open and Morgan stepped in again, carrying something. The man stood up abruptly, brushed his suit pants, glanced at me with an odd, out of place almost sympathetic look and left.

"Remove your underwear Collins. These were just ordered for you. You will wear them until further notice."

"What?"

"Address me as Miss Morgan at all times."

I looked at what she held with one outstretched hand. A pair of thick, heavy old lady panties but something was unusual as well as ugly about them. I took them in my hand and immediately saw sewn into the fabric two shapes, one long and ribbed, the other wider and conical.

"I, I, no, what...?"

"Put them on. I'll help get them inserted. You'll get used to them. It will be all weekend to begin, then perhaps more," Miss Morgan told me. "You simply need to getting used to being filled, young lady, that's all. You have a purpose to serve and we're here to help. Think of it that way."

As I slowly pulled down my own panties, hopelessly, and took the new ones in my shaking hands, the shape felt weirdly familiar. I paused with it in my hand."

"Yes young lady, that's an exact replica of Matt's penis. We didn't want you to miss him too much. Now lie down, I have to get you comfortable and chained for the night..."

... to be continued.