I'd missed the first half of the day, but I was still sent to "classes" in the afternoon. It was rather a blur, like I was on auto pilot, just trying to get through the day. The classes were odd, to put it mildly. How to walk in high heels was one. We had phys ed, of sorts. Then there was dick sucking with Mr Rogers. Well, dildo sucking. The whole class were given realistic dildos and apparently this would teach us to give good blow jobs. By now I knew I'd gotten into some serious shit, but I couldn't even begin to think about it. By the end of the day I tumbled into bed, exhausted enough to fall asleep instantly.
When I awoke the next morning, my head had cleared and I began thinking logically. Obviously they were training us to do some sort of sex work, and my consent in the training seemed not to matter. None of the staff had seemed concerned or surprised that I didn't want to be here. There were guards. Obviously I wasn't the only one here against my will and I wouldn't have been the first one to think of escaping. But this didn't figure with the drug trials. That detail didn't seem to fit. Were we being held here for two purposes? I gingerly fingered my bottom. I was sore everywhere, my legs ached, but my anus itself felt just the same as it had before the assault on it yesterday.
I decided, for now, the best thing I could do was to keep my head down and avoid attention as much as possible, while I learnt more about this place. So I dressed in the uniform and rang the bell to be released from my room. Mrs Duckworth inspected my anus and took a close-up photo of it before she allowed me to leave my room.
Breakfast was held in the meal hall. I'd missed breakfast yesterday, but been present for the other meals which I'd had to eat on my own little table under the guard of James. But today I was allowed to sit with my class. Though teachers and guards patrolled the meal hall and talking was discouraged, we managed to talk a little.
"What did you think this place was before you came?" One girl asked me.
"A hotel," I said. I'd been told that it was a live-in position as a concierge, my ability with languages made me desirable, apparently.
"Who sold you?" she asked.
"My stepmother." The headmaster had mentioned yesterday that they'd paid a lot for me. She was the one who'd recommended the position and set it all up. Unless someone else had deceived her, and I couldn't think who, it must have been her. Despite Daddy's wealth she was always having money issues. Whatever they paid for me, and of course I did wonder how much, would have been a nice boost between the monthly payments she received from Daddy's estate.
"Ouch," the girl commented. It would have been polite to make some conversation about this, what did she think this place was? Who sold her? But we had limited talking time and I needed facts.
"So, what can you tell me about this place?" I asked.
"You mean what the fuck is going on?"
"Yeah, I mean, I've made guesses..."
"Basically, they acquire us and train us to be sex slaves." Pretty much what I'd expected.
"So is this a brothel too, or they send us--"
"Oh no, not brothel work. No, actual sex slaves. As in, when we're ready some rich mother fucker comes and buys us to be his personal slave."
"What!" I hadn't expected that, probably because I hadn't heard of such things and had never imagined them.
"Quiet!" our whispered conversation had caught the attention of one of the guards, so we stopped talking. Despite the million questions zooming round in my head, I didn't ask them; the guard remained close so we continued eating in silence, and didn't get the chance to talk again.
First class of the day was beauty with Mrs Lane. It wasn't so bad now that I wasn't strapped down, naked, being waxed in front of the class. While Mrs Lane believed "you cannot be beautiful and hairy" and insisted on inspecting us-- everywhere-- before class, once the class started we got to play with makeup and learn hair tips.
Second class was French. Mr Mercier, the teacher, was tall and thin and had thick dark hair and a moustache which was almost comical. He pulled me aside as we filed in.
"Have you learnt any French before?" he asked.
"I speak French fluently," I said.
"Oh?" he asked. So, word of my virginity had reached The Academy but
not
the fact that my parents had dumped me in a French convent for most of my life. I gave him a brief outline of my history. In French.
"I see. Well, you must take another language then. You can't waste a whole period on something you already know." Ugh. I'd played that wrong. Should have said I knew only a little and been a miraculous high-achiever.
"What are the choices?" I asked, wondering if any of them would be a language I already knew or at least had some proficiency in.
"You don't get a choice, you'll be assigned a new one. Your classes are chosen to mould you into the most desirable woman you can be."
"Uh-huh." Most desirable woman? More like most desirable slave.
"Well, take a seat, I'll make enquiries. You'll need to sit through this class for today." He took his mobile phone from his pocket and typed out a message on it. Should I tell him the other languages I spoke? I considered it only briefly before deciding no, and made my way to a spare seat. If I got assigned another language I already spoke, then I could have a period to slack off.
As class progressed, I regretted that decision. I was bored, and my mind had the luxury to wander. Thought of what happened yesterday, what might happen today or tomorrow, what life as a sex slave would be like. It was grim. Would my eventual master use me for himself only? Or trot me out at parties as a fuck-toy for entertainment? Would I stay with one master? Or be traded around, bought and sold at the whim of rich men? What happened when I got old? With nothing to distract me from my thoughts, by the end of the class I felt the worst I'd felt since my arrival. A slack off period once a day did not sound the best of ideas now.
Mr Mercier signalled to me as we left the class.
"Did you hear what language I'm to take tomorrow?" I asked.
"Not as such," he had a little frown on his face. "I'm told you already speak a number of other languages, aside from English and French?"
"Well, none so fluently, but I'm conversational in Spanish and Italian, and Ru--"
"Yes, well. I was told to ask you what language you would like to take?" Exactly what he said wouldn't happen.
"Well, what are my choices?" I asked.
"I was just told to ask you, if any language, what one?" Earlier I'd been excited by the thought of an easy ride in language class. Now I craved the opposite. What were the hardest languages? Well, it was a mater of perspective, wasn't it? Some said English was hard but not so when you've grown up speaking it. "Well?" he prompted me.
"Mandarin Chinese," I blurted out.
