I woke up again in my small, white pod, feeling disoriented and hazy. The last clear memory I had was being restrained by a contraption that resembled a pillory, my body positioned in a kneeling posture with my head at groin height. My mind conjured up blurred images of various cocks before me, but no specific detail stood out. Yet, amidst the confusion, one memory remained vivid – the piercing dark eyes that had captivated me. I closed my eyes, summoning the image of those eyes, and felt a warm, fuzzy sensation course through me, a peculiar blend of longing and comfort.
Just as I was losing myself in the memory, the lights flickered on, harsh and bright, pulling me back to reality. The Helpers, faceless and efficient, began their routine of getting everyone out of the pods and ready for the day ahead. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the next cycle.
The day always starts in the same way. The lights snap on, sudden and unyielding, pulling me from whatever fragmented dreams or lingering memories occupy my mind. The Helpers are already moving through the rows of pods, faceless and efficient, pulling us out whether we are ready or not. There"s no room for hesitation or delay in this routine.
A group of us is herded towards the wet rooms, the sound of shuffling feet and the faint murmur of morning greetings filling the air. The Helpers block the doorway, ensuring we stay with our group, their presence a constant reminder of our place. I head straight to the toilet, the first necessary task of the day, before moving under the showerhead.
The showers are communal, a shared space where privacy is a luxury we can"t afford. We"re not supposed to talk to each other, the silence an enforced rule meant to maintain order. But the Helpers, indifferent to our whispered exchanges, allow us to communicate as long as we stick to trivialities – passing the soap, brief comments about the water temperature, or a simple "good morning". These small acts of normalcy are the threads that bind us, fleeting moments of humanity in an otherwise sterile existence.
Once we"ve finished in the wet rooms, the Helpers guide us to the dressing area. The white coveralls hang in neat rows, a uniform that strips us of individuality but provides the comfort of routine. I pull one on, the fabric stiff and familiar against my skin. It"s only after we"re dressed that we"re led to the dining hall for breakfast.
In the dining hall, the atmosphere is slightly more relaxed. We are allowed to talk, though we keep our conversations light and inconsequential. The clang of utensils and the hum of soft chatter fill the space. Discussions are limited to the mundane – comments about the food, the schedule for the day, or an occasional joke that elicits a quiet laugh. The weight of more profound thoughts and feelings is kept at bay.
I sit down with my tray, the routine motions of eating grounding me in the present. The memory of those dark eyes flickers in my mind, a secret I keep close to my chest. As I glance around at my fellow slaves, I wonder if they, too, hold on to fragments of the past or glimmers of hope for the future.
And then the day begins. The Helpers split us up into groups, each group directed towards different training rooms designed to mold us into perfect instruments of pleasure. Today, they take me to the room focused on penetration training. I don"t have time to process how I should feel about it; there"s no room for hesitation in the schedule.
The room is stark, clinical, with soft lighting that contrasts sharply with the nature of the training. A few of us are already present, standing in a line, eyes downcast. The Helpers are always around, their presence a constant reminder. The lead Helper tells us to kneel.
The session begins with instructions, delivered in a detached tone by the lead Helper. He explains the mechanics, the expectations, the techniques we must master. It"s clinical and methodical. Next, there"s a mannequin to help him show us what must be done. We are taught how to move, how to position ourselves, how to respond.
And then he starts to select the slaves one by one to some of the men. It is only then that I realize that there are only female slaves. The men are nothing like the masters in the evenings, but they are no slaves. All of them are naked, and assuming different positions. The female slaves are then penetrated by the men and expected to put the training in to practice.
I"m still kneeling, joined by a few others, watching the other female slaves being penetrated. I observe them closely, studying their movements and their expressions, trying to discern which motions elicit the most pleasure from the men. Any slight change in the men"s noises or reactions is noted, a guide for what might be expected of me.
"Slaves," the lead Helper"s voice cuts through the room, authoritative and devoid of any warmth. "Since His Great Enjoyment ordered you to not be penetrated by a man in training, I need you to watch carefully." The words are a reminder of our purpose, a directive that leaves no room for personal feelings or interpretations.
"At any point during penetration, you need to remember it is always for your master"s enjoyment, never yours. If you feel pain, you need to continue to bring your master pleasure and the release he is seeking.", the lead Helper instructs us. His tone is clinical, as if discussing a simple procedure rather than an act of intimacy. The emphasis on our role is clear: our bodies are tools for their pleasure, nothing more.
The lead Helper orders the female being penetrated to stop. "W38 and W24, bend over the bench.", he commands. A wave of apprehension washes over me. I know what this means. Being singled out in this manner only leads to punishment. The anticipation and the shame are almost worse than the punishment itself.
Sure enough, the lead Helper takes a paddle and begins to smack their asses until they are burning red. The sound of the paddle striking flesh echoes in the room, a harsh reminder of the consequences of failing to meet expectations. The women take their punishment stoically, their faces betraying only a flicker of pain.
Once the punishment is over, they move back to the line, their movements stiff and careful. As they kneel again, I see the discomfort in their eyes, hear the faint hisses of pain escaping their lips. Their red, swollen ass cheeks a visual warning to the rest of us.
He orders the female slaves to resume their training, their movements becoming more precise and deliberate as they follow his instructions. The room fills with the rhythmic sounds of bodies moving, soft gasps, and moans, each slave focused on performing perfectly for the watching eyes.
The next thing I know, the lead Helper is standing in front of me, his pants dropped, and I am met with the sight of his hard dick. "Suck it, slave!", he commands, his voice brooking no hesitation or refusal. The abruptness of his order catches me off guard, but my training kicks in instantly. Obedience is paramount.
I lean forward, my lips parting as I take him into my mouth. The familiar weight and warmth of his cock fills me, and I start sucking with purpose. There"s no room for hesitation or mistakes. My sole focus is to give him the release he demands.
I suck him hard, my cheeks hollowing as I create a tight, wet seal around him. My tongue works diligently, swirling around the sensitive tip and tracing the veins along his length. There"s no teasing, no playing around. I apply every bit of skill I"ve been taught, my mouth moving with a determined rhythm. Each movement is deliberate, aimed at driving him to the edge of his pleasure.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that tells me I"m doing well. His hand tangles in my hair, gripping tightly as he begins to thrust into my mouth. I adjust my position slightly, accommodating his rhythm, letting him take control. His cock slides in and out, the movements becoming more urgent and demanding.
His moans grow louder, more frequent. I can feel his body tensing, the muscles tightening as he nears his climax. I intensify my efforts, sucking harder, faster, my tongue flicking over the most sensitive spots. My goal is clear, bring him to release as efficiently as possible.
Finally, with a shuddering groan, he reaches his peak. Hot spurts of his cum fill my mouth, and I swallow it all, eager to show my submission and eagerness to please. The salty taste lingers on my tongue as I continue to suck, milking every last drop from him until he"s spent.
He pulls back, his breathing heave, and I sit back on my heels, waiting for his next command. "Class dismissed.", he says as he zips his pants up again and I move to go back to the dining hall.