The Secret Garden Academy Chapter Five.
In which Doctor Varela Autopoiesis--the university professor turned undercover agent and abducted to a sex-slave training resort--discovers her transgressive attitude and exhibitionist talent at Sex-slave Dresscode 101--and we learn that a naked Princess is still a Princess.
NOON. CROSSING THE SECRET GARDEN CAMPUS.
Good girl forever, I feel embarrassed and ashamed when I am paraded around the campus, bottomless. But my slutty self is pleased. Hurrying up in high heels on uneven terrain can be managed only by exaggerated sashaying, swinging hips, and bouncing tits. The latter being explicitly requested by the casual audience, "Show your tits, honey!" a dirty youngster calls out. I stupidly covered my small breasts under the corset half-cups, so Sarge makes me stop and Lad whispers in my ears "Small curtsy to the cheering audience, s'ils vous plait, Docteur." Sluttyself obliges, and as I stand up Sarge theatrically bares my tits again. The small group of young men applauds, and one of them gingerly touches them, as if he risks triggering an armed bomb. Instead, he triggers the interference camera hidden in the beauty mole by my right nipple, and a portrait of the leering men is sent to the Agency.
BRUNCH TIME. CAFETERIA.
En route to the classroom, we step into the cafeteria. My guards are more relaxed now: I guess Sarge's whip marks are suitably concealed under the spanking hotness. "Let me offer you a brunch, Docteur. You face a challenging afternoon." I expected the usual dull tables and boring food of academic cafeterias. Instead, I am hit by a wave of delicious smells--freshly baked bread and something rich and buttery that gives me a gastronomic orgasm of sorts. There are even flowers on each table. A charming ladybug lands on a rose in front of me. And I discover I can sit on the leather armchair without too much pain. Lad looks pleased by his magic ointment effect. He must have some medical training, because he makes me spread more and again checks my pussy for wetness. He has long manicured fingers. He finds my clit, circles it twice, and I can't avoid sighing. Blushing, I have a look around. I can't shake the feeling of being watched, like Harry Potter at Diagon Alley. Around me, the room hums with quiet conversations, but I feel eyes on me. Two well-dressed, stern-looking men sipping their coffee are engaged in deep discussion. They should be Masters. One of them, a man with silver hair and round glasses, looks my way. I have automatically crossed my legs, again. The good girl mistake. And the amateur undercover agent mistake. Under the men's gaze, I spread them, hoping one of them comes closer for a photo-oppotunity.
But he doesn't. The Master whispers something to his colleague, who nods. A few tables over, a woman with a tray stops swaying her broad hips, and glances in my direction. She has a fair round face, thick pink lips, long black hair, and black eyes. Like me, she is bottomless. She has not been spanked--not yet at least--but there are three whip marks evenly spaced decorating her creamy big butt. One of the Masters beckons her, and he smiles shyly at me as she turns around by their table and bends over, letting them check the whipwork. Sex-slaves training.
Lad returns with a tray piled with food and looks pleased at my indecent pose, "Oh, you are learning, Docteu..." He stops mid-sentence when the doors swing open, and a tall man walks in. Instantly, the air shifts. Even the Masters' conversation falters, their voices drop. His tailored suit moves with him, effortlessly showing off his broad frame. He wears a sleek ponytail that makes him look powerful and intriguing. His eyes sweep the room and land on me. My breath catches. A sex slave should never look a Master straight in the eye, I guess. Instead, for a reason I can't understand, I hold his gaze. And for a split second, it feels like we're the only two people in the room. Something flickers in his eyes. My heart pounds in my chest, but I don't look away. Neither does he. There's a challenge between us. I realize I have crossed my legs. By sheer inspiration, I uncross them and spread them, but not too much, sharonstoning him. When I start crossing them again, he looks down for a last glimpse at my disappearing pussy. He is clearly the alpha dog here, so I wonder what the punishment for such arrogant behavior would be, and I brace for his rage. But he doesn't look disappointed. He seems pleased, almost admired. He nods at me, smiles, and reaches the Master' table.
He gives them quick instructions and they take notes, looking at me from time to time. In front of me, the ladybug climbs the rose stem, reaching the top of a soft petal, as ladybugs do. The elytra open, and the wings slowly unfurl. For a brief second, the ladybug lingers, as if feeling the wind. But she is not feeling the wind. When the man with the sleek ponytail hurries toward the exit, with a sudden burst of motion, the tiny insect lifts off, her wings fluttering rapidly, carrying her upward and away in the wake of the alpha criminal. Is it a real insect or is it CHARM--the Composite Heuristic Autonomous Robotic Monitor, the surveillence drone created at the Agency's labs? I can't tell.
Behind the glass door, I believe he keeps looking at me for a while, but it could be the reflection. Just then, I notice a man standing by the same door. A blond, square-jawed, athletically built type. He is clearly out of place here, his badly cut suit stretched by his powerful pecs, the bulge of an ill-concealed weapon obvious under the strained jacket. A bodyguard of sorts. He is a big man, but I didn't notice him because he is perfectly still, immobile, solemn like an ancient Kouros. When we exit the cafeteria passing by him I can feel a faint smell of black tea. A small tattoo on his wrist shows the head of a dragon.
RUNWAY CLASSROOM. SEX SLAVE DRESSCODE 101.
The lesson is about to begin when we get to Sex Slave Dresscode 101. As I step into the room, I'm instantly struck by its posh elegance. The criminal ring running the place invested some money in this. The polished floor gleams under soft, bright lights, and a real runway stretches out ahead, looking just like the ones from fashion shows. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting a gorgeous brunette in a classy outfit waiting at the top of the runway. She looks vaguely familiar but I can't investigate because my guards make me hurry toward the backstage, where they sit me in a sleek black chair, facing a mirror framed with bright lights. A professional makeup station, cluttered with brushes, eyeshadow palettes, and lipsticks.
The makeup artist is a busty woman in a sleek pencil skirt. He is topless, her big breasts moving softly from side to side as she goes about her work. She smiles a sisterly smile at me, leaning in close, gently dabbing foundation along my jawline, her hands steady and precise, her exposed tits brushing my already erect nipples as her fruity perfume gently hits my nostrils.
Beside her, the hairstylist--a tall young man in black, with a sharp jawline enhanced by a short black beard--tweaks a few strands of my geo hairdo. When I stand up, he casually makes me spread slightly my legs and gives me a quick once-over. "Hold still, Ma'am," he mutters. He brushes my hairy bush, then grabs a small can marked Shine Mist and sprays it. "You're set," he says, finally stepping back. I smile at myself through the looking glass. My pussy shines.
Finally, a young dresser hands me the class outfit--a minimalist blouse, soft but structured, and a black pencil skirt. I pull them on quickly. No bra, no panties: the fabric feels cool against my skin as I am escorted toward the main classroom.
PHOTO SHOOT--WITH FABERGE' EMERALD NECKLACE
"Just a moment, please!" A man steps in, moving with practiced ease, a Nikon camera in hand and another hanging at his neck, eyes sharp behind the lens. A professional photographer. An assistant follows him bringing a small leather box. He extracts a gorgeous, antique emerald-and-diamond pendant and sets the necklace about my neck. Emerald! I look at myself through the looking glass, and my heart misses a beat. I never saw this necklace, but I somehow recognise it. "Perfect," the photographer says, crouching low. "Now, topless." The assistant unbuttons my blouse, adjusting the gold necklace, professionally fondling my tits until my nipples are suitably taut by the glinting necklace. Where I have seen such a masterpiece? A few more clicks, the camera flashing. "Hold that smile, Ma'am." Another shot captures both tits and jewelry in a single, elegant frame, the pendant shining emerald green, matching my eyes' color.
