The thing about the Institute is this: it’s no secret, what we do here. It’s common knowledge, both locally and online, and while the details of patient files and therapeutic methods are of course confidential, you’d be hard pressed to find a girl who knows where our complex is but not what happens inside. No one who enters emerges the same person. Many don’t emerge at all, as a person or otherwise.

Yet nearly all of them come to us of their own accord.

Why is that? Why would you, in possession of full knowledge or at least wild rumors about the treatment we plan to inflict on you, walk through our doors and sign away your life to our tender mercies? It seems counter to every instinct of self-preservation. Most of our clients are financially stable, and all arrive in good physical health. Your complaints are little things: bad habits, flaws of character, shames, mistakes and regrets. What drives you all to surrender voluntarily to the slow, thoughtful cruelty of men, women and machinery bent on breaking you?

It’s likely you couldn’t articulate the answer if you tried. But we can. We’ve seen you before, you and every girl like you. We know you’ve spent your whole life alone inside, frustrated, aching and empty, trying to smother the roaring fire of needs you do not and cannot understand. You have been hiding it so long that everything in you hurts. You are already suffering.

You want to believe that your pain can be fucked away.

Whether that’s true is something you’ll have to see for yourself—but only we can show you. You know that. So you’ll take a deep breath, step into our parlor, and hand over your body in the hopes that we’ll break it open to fix your soul.

That’s the thing about behavior correction, you see. It only works if you really want to change.


“It’s a lovely little thing,” he murmurs in your ear as you rest yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. “Warm to the touch, and yielding. Find it for me.”

Shyly at first, then with some enthusiasm, you reach down into the pretty sparkly band of fabric and brush your fingers over yourself: smooth where he shaved you, velvet-soft where you can feel the beginnings of just a little swell.

“Don’t be shy,” he grins, and then both his hands are there, pressing to rock you back against him and pull you up a little bit under his fingertips. He doesn’t go underneath the panties, not quite, but the pressure is perfectly clear. You inhale.

“There. Try it like that. Like Daddy showed you.” You follow his movement, hand on the outside and pressing against your mound, then deeper under to rub the seam against your clit. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, not exactly, but it’s different somehow–like you’re acting as his hands, even as his other pair roams up and down your tingling back.

“A good girl knows how to play with the toys her Daddy got her.” He’s settling into the rhythm of his words, calm and low, his voice rumbling a little through his chest against your back. “You wouldn’t want me to think it’s not being put to good use, would you? I might have to take it away…”

Spurred on, fumbling a little with excitement, you slide your hand underneath again and spread yourself, wet your fingertips. It’s a lot easier than it was a moment ago. His hands move down to rub your thighs, encouraging you to spread a little wider. You feel yourself contract, pulse, hunger, and the sudden heat in your belly makes you lean your other hand on his knee for support.

“There we go,” he says, and the pleased tone in his voice is as effective as a vibrator. You’re rubbing yourself in earnest now, humping his leg and your hand–no, his hand–as your wetness begins to seep downward into the sparkly, lacy, glittery pretties he got to decorate his toy.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he whispers. “Beautiful little puzzle, little heat pump, the place I enter to bring you home.” You can’t quite stay quiet at that, all shyness gone now, rocking your throbbing clit like a clumsy teenager flooded with need. “You’re shiny and new every time I touch you, my present. And as long as we both want to play together, I’ll never need any new toys.”


“Do you want to fool around later?” he asked you when he got home, casually, as he pulled off his tie. You grinned at him a little and raised your eyebrows, playing saucy. He gave you a steady look and let it wait.

“Do you want to be touched now?” he said that evening, and something in his tone and the shift in language made things contract deep in your belly. He stood behind you and began to unbutton your dress, and you felt yourself go still, his hands tracing the curve of your spine as he carefully parted the sides and let it fall.

“Do you want to be touched?” he murmured, holding his hands so close to the skin of your bare flanks that it prickled. As you drew breath to answer, he grabbed you by the hair and lifted you, throwing you over the counter to yank your panties down your thighs. He got you crouched up on top of it, making you present yourself from behind, and started to grind against your pussy with clear and firm intent.

“Do you want to touch?” he chuckled after he’d worked you up to the point of stuttering gasps, your hands clenching helplessly where he held them at the small of your back. You were already desperate, but he’d barely even begun. He smacked you and made you yelp, he pushed two and then three fingers inside to fill you, he got you slick with your own sopping wetness and rubbed your aching clit in little circles until you were dizzy.

“Do you want?” You’re on the floor now, somehow, your ass squeaking as he makes you fuck his hand, sliding on the hardwood where you’ve dripped all over it. He presses against your breast while you struggle to keep your legs apart where he wants them. All you can do is try to fuck his strong, controlling hand, your whole being reduced to a very specific motion of your hips, the movement a girl-cunt makes when it wants, when it is want–no, when it’s a hungry little wet hole of need.

“Do you ever want me to stop?” he whispers in your ear, holding you close, but as with all his questions, he already knows the answer.


“You do understand what we’re doing here, don’t you, Stacy?” he said, cupping her breast in one hand as her body shook slightly from the motor working away behind her. “I mean–breaking you, certainly, that much is obvious. Breaking you systematically, down into a collection of screaming nerve bundles and drooling holes. But beyond that?”

Stacy lolled her head back and tried to focus her eyes on him, panting through the ring. The double pump shifted its angle slightly, and a little whine escaped her throat, her aching back stiffening a little as the rods found a new place they hadn’t pummeled as thoroughly yet.

“We’re making you a part of something more.” He laced his fingers through her cotton-candy-fine hair and helped her meet his gaze, grip tight and sure. “We’re making your body understand that it’s a machine too. An uncomplicated machine, beautiful in its elegant simplicity. A machine that serves.”

A few days ago she would have glared at him; a week ago she would have fought like a wild animal. Now, after enough time trapped, helpless, fucked and used by the tireless device, she could barely manage to keep herself from sobbing–for mercy or for more, she wasn’t sure anymore.

“Machines have controls, Stacy.” He released her breast, just long enough to slap it sharply with one hand, then again, then again. She jerked reflexively with each blow, but in truth she could barely distinguish pleasure from pain, and he knew it. “Machines can be turned on. Or turned off.” His hand found her throat and squeezed just a little. “Machines do what they’re built to do. And we will build you back up again… starting very soon.”

He let go of her throat, and she sagged, shuddering. He toyed with her hair again, undoing the snaps on his fly and freeing his cock. “Would you like me to show you what the next piece of your construction is, what’s-left-of-Stacy?”

As he began to fuck her open mouth, all she could think through her own moaning was that she finally felt complete.


“But it’s just four days. And two of them are the weekend!”

“Not all of us get a summer break, college girl,” he said, smiling a little. “There are disadvantages to pursuing older men.”

She hated that, hated knowing it. It had been hard enough being away from him at school; their time together in these few months was precious, and thinking about spending it without him made her anxious, needy and fretful. Some part of her needed more than just his body, it needed the sense of trust they’d built, the certainty of his guiding hand. Without it, she could feel the old patterns creeping up: bad habits, sleepless nights, the dark fog and the worry of being unable to trust herself…

“But Andrea and Charlotte are going to be there!” She poked his leg with her toe. “Come on. All three of us in a beach house, running around in our bathing suits, drinking margaritas…” She worked her toe a little farther up his leg. “And you know how, um, flexible Andi gets when she’s drunk. That doesn’t tempt you?”

“You’re trying to persuade me to neglect my job by promising your friends’ impaired consent,” he said dryly.

“And tits,” she said.

“Go put on the bathing suit,” he said. “See if that affects my judgment.”

She came prancing back into the room in the stripy black and orange bikini, grinning, quite certain he wouldn’t be able to say no much longer. He leaned back on the couch and made a little stirring gesture with one finger, and she twirled for him, indulging herself in the thrill of it, the sure power her body could give her.

“Convincing,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d bought a halter top.”

She turned again and lifted the mass of her hair to show him the knot. “I saved up my allowance,” she teased him, just before she felt his hand grip the cord behind her neck.

“Do you know what a halter is?” he said quietly, his lips close to her ear.

Her body had gone still but trembling, responding to his shift in tone, the feel of his starched cotton shirt on her bare back. “It’s–it’s for horses.”

“It’s for animals. Animals who need to be led. Animals who need to be controlled.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what I’m wearing,” she said, squirming a little impatiently as she let her hair drop.

It worked. He took the back of her bikini bottoms in his other fist and swung her easily to one side, making her yelp as the fabric cinched up against her crotch. She stumbled and caught herself with her hands against the top of the couch back, knees half-bent just at the edge of the cushion, her hair falling around her face.

“Stay,” he said.

She froze.

“Was it expensive?” he asked, running his thumb slowly down her spine and watching her skin prickle.

“They always are,” she said. “Sir.”

“So you wouldn’t want it to get stretched out–much less absolutely torn apart–by having me rip it off, wrap it around your head like a real halter, and use it to hold you in place while I fuck you out of your mind,” he said. “Would you.”

She bit her lip. There was absolutely no right answer.

He fished in his pocket and pulled something out. “I suppose it would be reparable, on a temporary basis.” The tiny sound of metal being pinched, then released. He slid his hand familiarly inside the left cup, pushing it out of the way and letting her soft breast spill out. “Do you think–if I tore it–we could fix it with this?”

The point of the safety pin dragged a little circle around her areola, and she gasped as she felt her skin contract against it–then held her breath, barely daring to breathe. He didn’t break her skin at all. He was far too careful. But she could feel the little scraping sharpness of it tracing around her, angled to make her prickle but not bleed.

Two circles, and then over the inner slope of her breast before he started drawing a thin line down her trembling skin to her belly. “You’re a sensitive beast,” he murmured, as goosebumps followed his hand. “Not one used to burdens. A soft one, and one prone to arching and mewling. A kitten? But kittens don’t take so well to the halter… and they certainly don’t take orders.” He brought his knee between her legs and pushed up, putting a little of her weight onto the shifting muscle of his thigh. “For instance, if I said: grind.”

“Y-yes,” she managed, and tried to move her hips without flexing her abdomen against the warning point of the pin. It was fucking hard. He was teaching her a lesson, she realized: she’d forced him to react with her body, and now he was forcing her body to react to the smallest possible point of pressure. She was swollen and throbbing, wet against the pressure as she started to soak through the flimsy scrap of fabric.

“This is what my good girl does,” he whispered to her, and the catch in his voice made it clear that he wasn’t as self-possessed as he wanted to sound. “Do you want to be my good girl even while you’re away?”


He pulled his knee away and tugged the fabric aside to expose her, and then the sharp little pin was there, pressing its flat against her trembling clit. She couldn’t contain a cry of something, fear and lust and sheer pounding abandon–

He took it away. “Don’t,” he said, “move.”

She didn’t.

When he returned he had something in his hand, a soft silver cord that he fastened around her neck; she felt a small metal shape bump against her throat. “There are eight cards in here,” he said as he clasped it, “and each morning and each night you’re away, you’ll find a moment to yourself and draw one out. You’ll obey it, and you’ll think of me, and that’s how I’ll be with you: my hand will be your hand on your body, your mirror will be my eyes. You’ll like that, won’t you, my little animal, my little girl?”

Something in her relaxed, finally, and she sagged back against him. His hand. His eyes. His sharpness, keeping her aware of every nerve in her skin.

“Of course,” she said.

He let her keep the pin too.



“What happens when I do this, hm?”

She lets out a whimper, her mouth opening wide, faltering along the way. 

“I want an answer, pet. Now.”

She bites down on her lip, pausing to try and take a deep breath. “I feel it down there, Sir. I… I know I’m getting wet.”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling at her predicament. “And if I twist a little bit, what then?”

She moans, her back arching from the bed. “Please, please touch my pussy, Sir!”

“Oh, not a chance, little one. I’m having fun with this. I love when you squirm for me, so I’ll enjoy it for as long as I see fit.”

He tugs until she’s tight, stiff and trembling, then runs the backs of his nails down the sides of her breasts. The skin prickles all the way from her ribs to her collarbone: she jerks and gasps when he finds her nipple again and flicks.

All five fingertips circle the peak and slowly spread apart: stroking her, soothing her, letting the skin slowly start to relax. She feels a tiny bit of relief, thinking maybe he’s about to move on, but disappointment too. All that focus and attention on one place is powerful: she never thought she could be controlled so effectively with just one hand, and nowhere near her pussy.

Then his hand slides up to her throat.

“S-sir,” the word comes frantically, but he’s not gripping tight, just… holding. His palm molds to her and his thumb and finger rest just behind the corners of her jaw, soft but undeniable.

“Tell me again what’s happening to your pussy, girl,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

It’s fucking gushing, that’s what’s happening. “Uh. Sir. It’s wet because y-y-youOH!” He’s finally taken his mouth to her breast, rolling her nipple between lip and tongue, pulling back to puff a little air and watch it tighten up again so fast it aches.

“It’s wet because I’m playing with my property,” he finishes for her, his lips brushing again and again against her as he speaks. “Just one tiny piece of my property, albeit a flawless one. Do you like it when I play with the things I own, pet?”

“YES, Sir,” she says, arching to try to get her breast into his warm mouth again, but he chuckles as he pulls back and gives her another flick.

“What did you want me to do with that pussy again?”

It’s a trap, of course it’s a trap, but what is she going to do? “Please touch it. Please!”

“What will you do for me if I agree to touch your wet, warm, needy, throbbing pussy right now, girl?”

It pours out of her: promises, bargains, pleading and cajoling. She won’t touch for a week. She’ll touch every hour for a week. He can fuck her in any hole, use her, punish her, rent her out and watch. She’ll use her body in any way he pleases, go naked, go belted, go collared, go anywhere he orders her if he’ll please just touch…

The tiniest fraction of tightness on her throat, and she understands. Her mouth clicks shut.

“I’m going to touch you now–because I choose to, not because you are particularly convincing–but rest assured I will hold you to each and every one of those, pet. One at a time, thoroughly, and at length. Understand?”

“Always, Sir,” she whispers.

When his hand finally slides up each side of her velvety, bare lips, touching her pussy without a hint of penetration or pressure on her clit, the noises that come from her throat are kittenish and desperate. He takes his fingers up and down, again and again, drawing closer and closer to her inner lips, and then withdraws–

Only to land flat with a sharp, wet smack.

Convulsing, clenching, edging, crying out from the shock more than the pain, she wonders if he was taking notes or what.