The Comstock Institute Ch 01

June 1

st

2042

I'd been to the Comstock Institute before; back in the days when my family had money.

The Comstock Institute caters to a very exclusive sort of clientele. It's more than just an expensive brothel. Any brothel can provide their customers with an attractive girl who will strip naked and allow you to impale her on your swollen, erect penis, but the Comstock Institute provides you with attractive girls who are naked and helpless and then provide you with whips and riding crops so that you can punish their naked skin and leave them sobbing in pain.

It's a service that many wealthy men (and women) won't admit to paying for, and yet the Comstock Institute has been making huge profits for the past thirteen years. They have an army of wealthy and loyal clients...even if their client lists are confidential.

I used to be one of their clients, however I know find myself financially embarrassed and can no longer afford to avail myself of the services that the Comstock Institute provides.

I meet with Melissa Mayer in her office. I've been in her office many times before and she's always been a joy to deal with. She's friendly, professional, efficient, energetic and discrete. Her office was large and tastefully appointed. She had a large mahogany desk, comfortable leather chairs and a mahogany bookcase with a concealed wet bar so she could offer drinks to her clients. Of course I was a client on all of my previous visits, however this time; the dynamic was going to be extremely different. I actually felt like I was disappointing Melissa by no longer having the money it took to be a paying client.

"It's good to see you again, Scott," she said, shaking my hand warmly and flashing me a perfect smile.

She sat down behind her desk, her smile never faltering and explained, "Vicky isn't available today. Her last client whipped her rather brutally and we're giving her three days off to recover. However we have some truly gorgeous girls that I think you'll just love. Wait till I show them to you. Two of them used to be fashion models and their bodies are just perfect...long, toned legs, perky breasts, tight abs, firm buttocks."

I let Melissa spend a few more minutes gushing about the charms of the girls she currently had available. I tuned most of the words out after a few seconds. I couldn't afford any of them anyway, so what was the point in hearing detailed descriptions of what I couldn't have?

Finally I just interrupted Melissa in mid-sentence and said, "Mel, I'm broke. I can't afford to be one of your clients anymore."

Well, that wiped the smile off of her face and Melissa just stared at me as if just I'd grown a second head. The Alexander family had been famous for being one of the wealthiest families in Northern California. We owned a hotel chain and we were patrons of the arts. We were millionaires. We were the people that made the working class jealous. Melissa had a hard time wrapping her head around the idea that Scott Alexander could be broke.

"Scott, how can you be broke?" she finally managed.

I took a deep breath and began to tell Melissa everything. My parents had lied to me about everything. Their wealth hadn't come from wise investments, but rather from securities fraud, insider trading and real estate fraud. Also they'd apparently be hiding assets from the IRS. In the end they got caught by the federal government and all of their bank accounts had been frozen and all of their properties confiscated. Fortunately I wasn't involved in any of their criminal activities, so I wasn't in jail; however I didn't have any money of my own. As an Alexander, I had never envisioned the need for earning any of my own money, so I had just lived off of my parent's fortune and never bothered to learn any job skills.

But now my parents were in jail and all of the family money was gone.

"Scott, I'm very, very sorry," Melissa said, "But if you don't have any money, why are you here?"

"I need a job," I replied reluctantly, "And I don't really have any job skills. But Vicky and some of the other girls have hinted at the large amounts of money they make working here. I was hoping that you would take me on as one of your slaves."

"Scott," Melissa began, her sounding full of pity and frustration, "First of all, our people aren't called slaves. They're called R.E.P.s."

"Reps?"

"It's an acronym. It stands for Registered Erotic Prisoner. And being a Registered Erotic Prisoner isn't a nine-to-five job. You'd basically be a prisoner of the Comstock Institute. You'd have to sign away most of your legal rights before we even took you on...most significantly your eighth amendment rights. You do know what that means; don't you?"

I hadn't really done well in history classes and I told her so.

"The eighth amendment protects all American citizens from cruel and unusual punishment," Melissa explained. In an ordinary prison it would be illegal for the warden or the prison guards to deprive you of clothing, to whip you or subject you to nipple torture, but if you sign a contract with the Comstock Institute, you sign away your eighth amendment rights. Once you do that, you can be kept naked, spanked, whipped, cropped, caned and anally raped and it's all perfectly legal. Scott, do you honestly think you could handle that?"

Without even thinking about the consequences, I replied, "I need the money, Mel. I'll do whatever it takes."

Melissa kept giving me that incredulous look and said, "Scott, you're a member of the privileged class-or at least you were. Do you have any idea how traumatic a whipping is? Have you ever even been spanked before?"

"No," I admitted. "I've never been whipped and I've never been spanked, but seriously I don't see as if I have much choice in the matter. I've never worked a day in my life. I have no real job skills. All I've got going for me is my good looks."

Melissa looked me over and shook her head. "You do seem to be in a terrible bind," she admitted. "And we do have some clients who would flip over you. You've got the sort of innocent, slender, boyish good looks that some of our clients really love, but I can't even offer you a contract until you've met with our evaluating committee."

"I don't know what that means," I admitted.

"Every time a person requests a contract to become a Comstock Institute R.E.P., they have to strip naked and present themselves to be evaluated first by senior management. That includes Paula Gantry, Barbara Beaumont, Emily Wedge and Benedict Knightly. If a candidate can impress them, they'll be offered a contract. If a candidate isn't good looking, or has some sort of flaw that the evaluating committee can't abide, then they get rejected."

My heart thudded in my chest and I had a sense of foreboding. I suppose I should have guessed that a place like the Comstock Institute wouldn't have anything like a normal job interview, but the idea of stripping naked in front of a group of clothed strangers and allowing them to assess, judge and criticize my naked body filled me with apprehension, anxiety and dread. I would be naked and totally at their mercy while their eyes roamed over every inch of my naked skin, examining my cock, my buttocks, my anus and everything else; pretty much like examining a slave on the auction block! I never imagined that they would humiliate and debase me like that before I even got the job!

"I'll meet with them," I told Melissa. I was filled with dread at the thought of meeting with them, but I didn't tell Melissa that part. "I need the money."

"Scott, if you need money," Melissa suggested, "You could become a stripper. You're definitely good looking enough and it would be less humiliating and painful. It's not like you'd requite a great deal of training. Mostly strippers just take their clothes off on stage."

Melissa's suggestion was a good one, but I'd already looked into it. I went to every strip club in San Francisco, Oakland and Alameda. Most of them only hired female strippers, and the ones that hired male strippers claimed that they already had a full roster of men working for them. Personally I rather suspected that they were lying. I'm pretty certain that they had heard about my family's legal troubles and didn't want to hire anybody associated with David and Georgia Alexander.

"I already thought of that," I told Melissa. "Nobody's hiring male strippers right now. I checked."

Melissa got a resigned look on her face and her shoulders dropped. "Alright Scott," she said. "I'll arrange a meeting between you and the evaluating committee."

June 2

nd

2042

I wasn't due to arrive at the Comstock Institute until 9:00 am, but I arrived early; partially because I had no place else to go, but also because I wanted to make a good impression. I'd always heard that employers prefer employees who are punctual. I was filled with apprehension, but I just reminded myself that I intended to do this no matter what. My parents had made their fortune by breaking the law, but I wasn't going to go that route. I was going to support myself financially, but in a very law-abiding sort of way. Being a Registered Erotic Prisoner of the Comstock Institute would be a humiliating and humbling way to make money, but at least it wasn't against the law.

Melissa gave me a long questionnaire to fill out that mostly asked questions about my medical, psychological and sexual health. She also gave me a form for me to sign so that would allow them to obtain all of my medical records from my family doctor.

I filled out the forms and Melissa led me to a waiting room where I was told to sit and wait for the evaluating committee to summon me. There were magazines to read and free coffee, bagels and fruit to eat, however I was far too nervous to drink coffee, eat food or read magazines. I had butterflies in my stomach and I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of what I was doing. I was too nervous even to sit. I spend ten minutes just pacing frantically from one end of the room to the other.

I could feel my heart thudding in my chest as I paced up and down the waiting room. I was Scott Alexander! I used to be one of the wealthiest men in San Francisco! How did I end up in this place, waiting to strip naked in front of a group of officious strangers?

After an agonizing long wait of about thirty or forty minutes, two uniformed security guards came to summon me. They were both female, but not the cutesy kind of females like you see figure skating or doing cheers at football games, they were more like the females who do kick boxing or the mythical Valkyries from Norse mythology. They were tall, athletic and humorless looking.

One of the officious, unsmiling women made eye-contact with me and said, "You need to come with us, Mister Alexander."

They looked really serious in their uniforms, with their badges, their handguns, handcuffs, pepper spray, ammunition pouches, latex glove cases and expandable batons. Did they really need to send two fully equipped, armed security guards just to escort me to the evaluating committee?

At any rate, I was marched down the hall and into a large conference room where the evaluation committee was waiting for me. There were four of them, just as Melissa said there would be and they sat behind a large conference table. I wasn't given a chair. I was made to stand in front of them while they evaluated me.

Three of them were female and one of them was male. They were all well-dressed and sophisticated looking. They looked to range in age from early to mid-thirties. None of them smiled, they all just looked me over with serious, analytical interest.

"You're Scott Alexander," the well-dressed man said as he glanced at some papers in a folder he had lying in front of him. "You're twenty-two years of age, no known medical problems and appear to be in good health. You also want to be a Registered Erotic Prisoner of the Comstock Institute. You are applying to us for financial reasons."

I just nodded. He pretty much knew everything I was going to say, so there was no point in my saying anything more.

"You do realize what being a Registered Erotic Prisoner involves," the stylish female with the red hair and refined British accent asked. "Your body will be at the disposal of male and female clients. They will use you for sex acts. You will be made to perform cunnilingus on women and fellatio on men."

To her left was a woman in a tailored, black blazer. "You will also be subject to painful corporal discipline," she explained. "You do understand what that means; don't you?"

I swallowed nervously and replied, "I'll be whipped."

"Have you ever been whipped, Mister Alexander?" asked the third woman. Her accent was also British and sounded even more cultured than the redheaded female. I suspected that she had gone to Oxford.

"No ma'am," I replied.

She gave me an imperious, judgmental look and asked, "What makes you think that you would be able to endure the experience? It's quite painful, you know."

I dreaded being whipped. I feared that it would be just as horrible as this woman was intimating it would be, but I really had no choice. I had already sold everything I owned (except for the clothes on my back) and I needed to find a source of income immediately.

"I need the money," I replied.

"Very well, young man," she said, sounding somewhat annoyed with me, "Let us see what you have to offer."

Her request was so proper; I didn't even understand her meaning at first. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," I said, "When you say I should let you see what I have to offer..."

Sounding agitated, she interrupted me and adamantly replied, "I mean Mister Alexander that you are to strip naked. This committee needs to see what you are offering up to our paying clients."

I knew this moment would eventually come, but I couldn't look her in the eye as I removed my blazer and began to unbutton my shirt.

The security guards who had ushered me into the conference room had never left and I was embarrassed at the fact that I had to undress in front of them as well. It seemed like an unnecessary humiliation to me, but I didn't argue.

When I was standing there barefoot and completely naked it seemed as if the eyes of the evaluating committee were burning holes through me. My clothes were then taken up by one of the security guards and placed in a cardboard box.

The female with the red hair looked my naked body up and down and asked, "Mister Alexander, hasn't anyone told you the Comstock Institute's policy on erotic prisoners and body hair?"

My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Melissa hadn't said anything to me about body hair. Eight accusing eyes stared at my naked body and seemed to be finding fault with it already. "I'm sorry,

I replied humbly, "Nobody said anything to me about that."

The woman with the Oxford accent gave me a look of impatience and then as if she were speaking to an especially slow child she replied, "Registered Erotic Prisoners are not permitted to have body hair of any kind. Before you came here, you should have shaved your legs, your armpits, your cock and your balls. You are totally unpresentable for an evaluation the way you look right now."

"I'm sorry," I said apologetically.

The redhead turned to one of the security guards and said, "Take him to Fabi. Tell her that he's applying to be an erotic prisoner. She'll know what to do with him. Then bring him straight back to us as soon as she's finished."

I was then grabbed forcefully by the arms. One security guard took me by the left arm and the other took my by the right arm and then I was led naked down the hall and past several fully clothed employees and windowed offices and to a room that was appointed with showers, sinks, lockers, barber chairs and what looked like medical examination tables.

I'm certain that I was blushing when I was pushed stark naked in front of a slender brunette woman who was dressed all in white and introduced as an erotic slave applicant.

"Well, he's a pretty boy," the brunette said. "But he'll never pass with all that pubic hair."

Then she looked my naked body up and down and down again. She smirked ever so slightly and said, "Raise his arms up please."

The security guards grabbed me by the wrists and raised my arms above my head. I could easily have raised my arms if she had asked me, but it seemed that she had more fun by have my naked body manipulated by security guards.

"Okay, the hair on his armpits and his legs will have to go too. Oh, and I just noticed some very fine chest hairs just around the areola of his nipples. He could have saved himself a lot of pain if he had just shaved this morning," she said.

"Pain," I asked filled with fear and trepidation. "I thought you were just going to shave me."

"Oh no," Fabi replied. "I'm a big believer in waxing. Shaving has to be done every day, but waxing removes a prisoner's body hair four approximately four weeks. It's far more productive than shaving."

I tried not to panic or resist as the security guards took me by my arms and led me over to a medical examination table. Too much was happening too rapidly for me to suppress the fear response. I desperately wanted to run out of the room, but that wouldn't have been very practical. Also, the security guards would never allow me to get very far. I doubt I'd even make it to the corridor. And if by some miracle I had made it out of the building where would I go? I was naked and penniless!

"Come along," Fabi said with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place. "Let's get him up on the table and positioned for his procedure."

Seemingly without effort, the security guards lifted my naked body up off the ground and slid me onto the cold surface of the medical exam table. I wanted to complain about the sensation of cold table on my naked skin, but the grim faces of the security guards told me that I should keep my mouth shut.

Then, finally speaking to me, Fabi looked me in the eye and said, "What's your name, Pretty boy?"

I knew I must be blushing at that point, but rather than complain about how embarrassed I was, I replied, "Scott."

"Okay, Scott," she said, still sounding cheerful, "I want your little bottom sitting on the end here." And then she tapped the edge of the table.

"There, that's the way," she said encouragingly. "Just shuffle your bottom forward and let your legs hang down over the end."

I was embarrassed at the frank way that Fabi was staring at my naked body and I risked covering up my cock and balls with my hands. I assumed that she was probably going to start with my legs, so I speculated that I could probably get away with a small amount of modesty for a few minutes.

Apparently my speculation was wrong, as the security guards in short order grabbed my wrists and forcefully pulled my hands away from my groin and dragged my arms back.

"Now Scott, let's get you into position," Fabi said brightly and the security guards pulled me backwards so that my entire upper body was lying back on the cold surface of the stainless steel table. The guards of course, maintained a tight grip on my wrists even after I was lying back and in position.

The reason for this was soon made clear, as leather straps were soon produced and buckled tightly around my wrists and used to fasten my wrists down to the examination table, far from my groin.

Then, speaking to the security guards, Fabi said, "Now if you two could help me secure his ankles, I'd really appreciate it."

Much to my shock, medical stirrups (of the kind used by gynecologists) were produced from underneath the table and raised up. Using more leather straps, my ankles were soon secured to the stirrups and then in a move that I found excruciatingly humiliating, Fabi positioned the stirrups carefully so that my legs were spread widely apart and high in the air.