The voice is velvet-toned but crisp, the softness of the voice belying the authority of her commands. Even this question becomes a command, carried though it was on the hushed edge of her voice.

She stands in the doorway, illumined by the bright face of the moon as she is you know her to be no guard. The pale white light blends well with the very fine honey blonde hair cascading from beneath a smart-looking military style peak cap, a hip-length waterfall of moonwhitened gold.

Bathed as she is in the moonlight, the officer's thankfully unhidden face seems more a marble image of woman perfected, angular perfection, chiselled features, high cheekbones, and tightly drawn lips adding to the stern power of her gaze as her eyes behold you momentarily, apprising you.

"We found this male in the library, Headmistress," says the second guard, rising quick to her feet.

"It left the door open," the first guard adds.

Now the Headmistress --- the most senior administrator of The Academy, its faculty, students, guards, and male slaves --- strides purposefully into the room, allowing the moonlight to dance upon her body, turning her tanned flesh pale even as it highlights her incredibly firm and toned physique.

The Headmistress has her arms bared, wearing as she is a halter top which reveals her tantazingly full cleavage. A single row of pyramid studs begins at her cleavage, tracing the curve of her left breast by running beneath it, then curving around her body along the halter top before coming into view again tracing the swell of her right breast before ending where it has begun.

A second river of small silver pyramids gilds the bottom edge of the halter top, and so running right above her tight midriff as the halter ends just at her solar plexus.

Around her throat is a thick collar, a huge single button of silver on the left fastening it closed (or is the clasp concealed and the button mere for decoration?), and from the collar hang five leathern straps each with a single row of silver pyramid studs down the center. The middle such strap is the longest, reaching nearly into the breast valley of the Headmistress; the second and fourth straps are shorter, and the first and fifth straps are but half the length of the straps beside them.

A wide belt rides her hips, a double row of rounded studs circling the belt's edges and rounding to a stop just at the points were her thong panties begin, the belt double-buckled over her panties.

Boots, impossibly high and tight boots, stiletto heeled boots reaching halfway up the Headmistress' thighs and holding so closely in place that it is near impossible to tell at what point a boot becomes flesh; they seem poured on, molded on, the boots not worn but a part of the beautiful body that is the goddess-vision of the Headmistress.

And an angry goddess she is. Even the moon is thrown angrily off her clothing --- patent leather, all of it, even her thong composed of this rigid material --- sparks of moonglow dancing all along her as she marches into the library, the drumbeating boots of the Headmistress most especially sparking, and the silver studs flashing white fire.

"How did it get in?" she demands, her voice rising in anger as she speaks to the guards. You are accustomed to this, members of the superior sex talking about you, talking around you, as though you are not present. Even her anger is not directed at you; you are beneath her temper.

"During our routine patrol," the first guard explains, "we found a window had been forced open. Investigating, we tracked the male here."

The Headmistress has come to a stop beside the table, and she stands next to your right hand. Her boots, so close, so cold-looking, you want to reach out and touch them. But to do so would be adding to your troubles.

Resting hands upon hips, the Headmistress, still her voice an angry weapon, demands, "What was it doing?"

"It was over there," the second guard says as she points. "It was looking at books."

The moonslick boots, glowing a pale black in the bath of light coming through the windows, taunt you. You want to touch them, want to feel the coolness against your lips. It is against the law, yes, undemanded physical contact, to touch a superior being without her command or permit is against the law, but you have already violated enough laws to earn a torture termination or castration. Oh!, to touch the boots ...

Then the Headmistress turns her glare back upon you, snatching at the maletag hanging from the collar permanently emplaced around your throat. She studis the tag for a moment, seeing your slave ID number and current owner. "Government rental," she says with obvious disdain, then speaks directly to you. "What are you doing here?"

To hesitate would be to increase the severity of your already-sever punishment, and so you answer immediately. "I came to learn, Headmistress."

"And are you not aware that the decision of the Faulkner Court declared education to be a unisex environment?" The Headmistress waits for your answer, though you can not give one. Mistress Jasmine had educated you a little, but not enough to understand what the Headmistress has just said. Faulkner court? Unisex environment?

"I do not understand, Headmistress," you reply, having to give an immediate answer to any question posed by a superior sex member, unsatisfactory through it might be found.

Speaking slowly now, as though to a child --- you can tell that her anger has not abated, but is now fed on frustration as she has to waste time speaking down to your level. "Do you know that it is bad for a male to look at books? That you can be punished for it?" You nod quickly and vigorously. Maybe by admitting the illegality of your actions, some mercy might be shown.

The Headmistress goes on, "Who taught you how to read?"

"Reed, Headmistress? The reeds in ponds, Headmistress?"

You know the anger has left her, that it has been replaced by the amusement to be found in the actions of a fool, when the Headmistress smiles, her beautiful face parted by the dazzling smile.

You are suddenly uncomfortable with yourself, with your sex exposed and your stupidity for sneaking into the library and for getting caught and for not knowing what the word "read" means.

You feel very uncomfortable as the Headmistress looks down upon you, a smirk of humored disgust on her face as she folds her arms and dispassionately examines you. The velveted tones return to her voice as the Headmistress mutters, "Grabbing a book without knowing how to read."

"A monkey at the zoo grabbed my carkeys once," the second guard says with a laugh. "I wouldn't worry about him stealing cars, though!" Both guards burst into laughter, and the Headmistress smiles.

Turning back to the guards, the Headmistress asks, "What book was it looking at?"

The first guard hands the Headmistress the book you had pulled from the shelf, and as the Headmistress thumbs through it you are able to study her majestic form a small moment longer.

"A very interesting choice," the Headmistress says, again the broad smile upon her yet-stern face. With mockery in her voice she bends down a little and says, as though congratulating a pet, "A very good choice." Straightening up, she is nearly done leafing her way through the pages. "I've actually read this book before, and many others on the same subject."

Then the cold face returns when the bookcovers clap shut, and you wish for the Headmistress to mock you again, or not to speak at you at all. But she instead turns towards you, turns away from the windows so that all you can see is the ghost-like shadow of her body silhouetted against the flows of moonbeams, and studying you with unseen eyes the Headmistress says ominously, "And a very appropriate subject of study for this night."

Still watching you, watching the fear in your eyes, the terror catching in your throat and so strangling the pitifully ineffective pleas for mercy you have considered, the shadow form of the Headmistress says, "Kira, go down to the Male Injury Office and bring a syringe and some morphine."

"Yes, Headmistress," and with that the second guard exits the library.

The Headmistress directs her next comment to the first guard. "Remove its shirt, get it cleaned up, and bring it into the study room."

And with that the Headmistress goes herself into the study room of the library to prepare for your punishment.

You are ushered down the hallway with shoves from the guard walking behind you. The same intellect that you had considered a blessing was now a curse, for unlike the "ordinary" uneducated males you are able and willing to consider fleeing.

And this same awareness, imbued in you by Mistress Jasmine, crushes such hopes. The Headmistress has your identification number, flight will only worsen your punishment, you would not be able to get past the guard who was trained and was equipped specially for such trouble as an unruly male might create, and how far could a male runaway get without pants?

Another runaway caught

So where any other male would have simply obeyed, you obey with fearful anticipation of what will happen next.

You are roughhanded into the bathroom, sobbing whimpers the whole time. When you reach the darkened bathroom, the guard pushes you in front of the half-wall mirror and flicks on the emergency lights. Seeing yourself in the mirror, tears came to your eyes as you contemplate all the potential horrors of your future.

"Silent!" the guard says angrily, and standing behind you (she is a half head taller than you) reaches around to use the small utility knife to shred your shirt as quick and as effortless as she had taken your dignity.

You are still fighting back sobs when the guard balls up what remains of your shirt, turns on the faucet, and then presses the shirt into your hand. "Wash." is the simple command, and you wet the shirt to begin wiping the sticky residue of your release from your stomach and thighs under her watch.

You are humiliated, so humiliated that you refuse to look into the mirror where you would see the hooded guard viewing your embarrassment with great joy. She does indeed relish it, enough that she directs your wiping actions. "Between your legs." "There's more on your stomach." "Stoop over and wipe it off your toe!"

With each command you shrink in stature, even though with each command your manhood grows stiffer. Why? You are being humiliated, the guard directing you to clean parts of your body that you both knew didn't have any climax on them, and with each such order a sick joy shoots through you, joy at being shamed and controlled by the erotic power of a beautiful woman.

Are you as much a rebel as you thought?

Why do you so enjoy the humiliation of cleaning your own come under the direction of the guard, why do you face the very near future discipline with as much anxious anticipation as dread?

Your stomach coils with the thought, the horrible consideration; are you always the rebellious one because you want to be treated this way, because you enjoy being the "male animal"?

For all your learning, are you worse than the other males around you? They obey because they have to, because they don't know enough not to obey. You know better and still submit, perhaps enjoying the surrender to feminine authority that the other males simply accept as the universal order.

Have you broken into The Academy to foment rebellion or to get caught in your crimes and so be tortured by beautiful women??

A hard slap on the side of your head brings your mind from its wanderings and back to the present. The pleasantly horrible reality. "Stop daydreaming!" Pointing to the wastecan, the guard says, "Throw your shirt there." You drop the shirt in. With a push, the guard begins you on the journey back to the library.

When you arrive at the study room, the second guard has already returned from the Male Injury Office (which is supposed to be as much of a torture chamber as the Physical Reprimand Office; male slaves who are injured while slaving are loathe to report it for fear they would be taken to the injury office for treatment!).

The Headmistress is speaking to her. "Put the tray here and return to your patrol. Ah," she says, spying the other guard shoving me into the room, "leave it and return to your patrol with Kira. And when you write up the incident report, mention only that you found a window ajar but no evidence of a break-in or illegal entry."

With a little hesitancy the first guard says, "What about the male, Headmistress?"

"If the government cannot control it, I will," comes the curt response. "Now close the door on your way out."

The second guard places a metal tray with a small bottle, a long syringe, and a long tube of thick latex on a table. The first guard gives you one last push into the center of the study room, and then she and her companion leave and close the door behind them.

Leaving you alone with the Headmistress.

The study room is composed of some tables; Mistress Jasmine had taught you numbers up to 5, and there are 5 tables plus one more. They are smaller than the grand ones in the main library, perhaps no longer than you are tall and as wide across as your outstretched arm, with the same comfortable rolling chairs as in the library. You know this from memory, for on this night you can see only a very small part of the room; the Headmistress has turned on only one of the overhead lighting panels, and with the tint-blackened windows the moonlight from the library does not enter here. The study room is a darkness removed from the rest of the world.

It seems as if all of the tables but one have been crowded against the walls, with the one table visible in the very center of the room just before you. Beneath the sudden glare cast by the light overhead, a glare that quickly dissipates into the gloom filling the corners of the room, you can make out on the table gleaming metal.

Piled atop the table are irons familiar to you, the leg shackles and upper arm chains that all males wear at all times while slaving for The Academy. Added to this set is a pair of short-chained handcuffs.

Working at another table on the edge of shadows, the Headmistress speaks no command, enjoying instead the distress obvious upon your face as you stand helpless, inches from the chains that will soon bind you. You watch the Headmistress plunge the syringe into the small bottle of morphine, then tip it up and expertly draw the proper dosage she wishes through the wickedly thin needle.

After pulling the needle out of the bottle, she places them both back onto the metal tray. The Headmistress sits down in a sturdy chair near the central table. "Bind," says the firm but feminine voice, and you obey the command.

Another way common for the superior sex to enjoy themselves at male expense is in the tradition of ordering you to bind yourselves, even so far as to shackle yourselves into place on whipping posts and bondage racks before punishment was administered. It is impossible to escape the sinking sickness of futility as you lock yourself into your own inescapable bondage before being tortured. If you hurry, the pain will begin that much sooner; if you delay, you merely delay the inevitable.

What insidious torture is done to your psyches by a single one-word command!

You kneel between the table and the chair where sits the Headmistress, careful not to look at her. As you place the cold metal of the shackles around each ankle, the corner of your eye catches a flash of boots as the Headmistress crosses her right leg over her left knee and brings her hands to rest upon the knee of her right boot. Is she taunting you, somehow aware of your attraction to her boots?

Would the Headmistress even give you that much notice, invest in you that much worth, as to taunt you?

Angrily you slap the shackles closed, in your emotioned state tightening them a bit too much. Well, you would live with your fool's mistake now. It is forbidden to ask for your bonds to be loosened or removed.

The arm chains are metal cuffs that snap around your biceps. As wide as your hand, the cuffs ratchet shut in a manner similar to the leg irons. A chain connects them, a chain that runs around behind your back, a chain long enough that you can do your labor but without allowing you freedom of comfortable movement. After closing the left armband you realize that this set must be a punishment model, for the chain is barely long enough to allow your arms to rest at your sides!

And even if you can manage to close the bicep chain, how will you put on the handcuffs afterwards? You kneel there for moments trying to design a complex scheme to place yourself in bondage.

With laughter at your predicament, the Headmistress stands and grabs the handcuffs, clapping them on your wrists so that your hands are in front of you. She tightens them just enough to secure you, just enough to hurt, then pins your arms to your sides by locking the right arm cuff around your right bicep, immobilizing your arms completely.

"Stand." A difficult command to obey, your balance off with your arms fast to your sides and your hands bound across your groin. But you effort yourself to your feet, nearly pitching forward, and at the next command of the Headmistress you sit on the edge of the central table. She takes her lovely, gentle hand and places it to your chest, and with the command, "Lay" pushes you down onto your back, then maneuvers your body so that you are sprawled, naked and bound, in the very center of the table, staring into the overhead light.

You pinch your eyes shut from the light above, but even so your torment continues. The brightness filters into your eyes no matter how tightly you close them, and when you moved your head to one side to avoid the light the Headmistress grabs your ear and pulls your head back into place where you are again bombarded by the white glare.

"Still," she commands softly, with a sharp but painless slap on your cheek, and you remain fixed in place by the power of the single word spoken by her.

Next the Headmistress commands, "Legs wider", and you spread your legs as far apart as they can go without leaving the table. "Wider", and your ankles and calves slip from the table edge, the legchains draped across the table catching their fall and causing them to dangle painfully from the tabletop, leaving you in an uncomfortable and exposed position.

And your manhood is still swollen as waves of excited nausea sweep over you. You are terrified, you tremble, you are eager and afraid to be tortured by the beautiful Headmistress.

The syringe is placed between your legs, the needle tip jabbing your testicles without piercing them. Yet.

Then the Headmistress you hear flipping pages, and know she is yet in possession of the book that you had failed so miserably, was paying such a high price for attempting, to steal.

Reading To A Male

"I will read to you from this book so that you might learn something, male," the Headmistress says. This will be some small victory after all, learning more from a book. And so you listen, intent on every word, as the Headmistress tells you words from the book.

"The hypnotic state is a temporary condition of altered attention in the male which may be induced by a woman and in which a variety of phenomena may appear in response to verbal and visual stimuli. These phenomena include significant lapses in consciousness and memory, increased susceptibility to suggestion, and the production in the male of responses, ideas, and urges unfamiliar to it in its natural state of mind."

The horror of the half-understood words do not strike you fully until the Headmistress grips your right hand and balls it into a fist, then wrapped the latex tube just above your right elbow and ties it off painfully tight.

The Headmistress begins to trail the finely-manicured nails of her slender right hand up and down your forearm, through this action drawing the veins to the surface, and with eyes teared mostly from the light and somewhat by fear you watch as she picks up and holds the cruel needle ready in her left hand.

"Use of drugs make it easier to induce the proper state in you," the Headmistress says, still stroking my arm. "You will go under quicker."

"Under what, Headmistress?" you ask, but as answer receive only a maternal shushing and the command for you to "Be Silent".

The Headmistress continues her tender fingernail caress of your fast-numbing arm, patient in her brief vigil. Having suffered through one morphine injection a few years before, for an operation, you know that the powerful drug will work quickly upon your senses, and so you drink in the profile view of the supreme domina standing beside you, knowing that this would be your last lucid thought for a while.

A vein begins to swell, or so you should imagine since the Headmistress stops her erotic fingerplay and proceeds to more vigorously rub up and down on a small section of your arm with her thumb, just above the crook of your elbow. The stabbing pain, the interminable seconds as the syringe plunger is slowly lowered, and then the Headmistress removes the latex tourniquet as she withdraws the needle from your vein, placing the latex tie and the syringe on another table beyond your view, somewhere in the dark around you.

The dark that is getting darker.

The overhead light, your burning eyes are slow to discern, is dimming, dying out.

Then the Headmistress leans down, she leans over you, placing her hands on either side of your head she brings her lovely face to within inches of your own and your whole world is filled of nothing but the magnificent beauty of the Academy Headmistress. The middle strip of leather hanging from her collar brushes stiffly against your throat.

Softly, maternally, with her quiet authority Headmistress says to you, "You found an instructional text on hypnosis, a most efficient method of behavior modification."

Then the velveted voice becomes resolute, a hoarse whisper. "Once I have entered you into the hypnotic state, you will obey me without thought. You will become my personal slave, and with daily hypnotic sessions like this as reinforcement, I should say that within the year you will be lacking any consciousness or will of your own."

You strain but find yourself held to the table, not by the chains as by a sudden warming weakness. The morphine is taking its effect. An inaudible "please", you lick your dry lips, and slam your eyes closed to shut out the sensation that the darkening room is swaying.

"The light will be out in a minute," the sweet dictator assures you. "To be hypnotized, you must focus on one object, and you will better concentrate in the dark."

A tingling heat settles in your ankles and dances along your calves, the morphine striking your body and depriving you of its use. Unable to beg for another punishment, even castration would be preferable, rather than to be turned into a mental eunuch, stripped of the only things you ever had and ever wanted, your mind and your memories and your consciousness.

"Now just relax," the Headmistress whispers, her breath striking your lips in an unphysical kiss, with her soft hands she begins to stroke your face, brushing the hair from your forehead and hallowing your cheek with her touch. "Just relax," she says, she kept saying it, says it so softly that she breathes it, keeps breathing it over and over and over while her hands work along your chest and neck, never taking her hazel light eyes from your rapidly blurring ones.

Her words become monotonous, the Headmistress never changing the pitch of her voice. "Breathe deeply now, through your nose. Just relax. Deep breaths now. Relax. Relax."

The rush of cool air dizzies you, traveling direct to your brain each time you inhale deeply through your nose. And still the words, the caress, the eyes, the words. "Just relax. Deeper. Deeper. Breathe slowly. Deep breaths. Take your time. Relax. Deeper."

         "Deeper. 
                          Deeper.  

Your consciousness swirls. Your body flushes. The room begins to yaw back and forth. You hold on long enough to study the details of the Headmistress' loveliness, oddly enough find yourself studying the brightly polished golden eagle upon her military style cap, counting its feathers ...

"Relax. Remain with my voice," the Headmistress commands, and you are drawn again to her. Another rush of warmth floods the back of your skull, you are calmer now, and in your calm your mind's eye recalls her gorgeous physique, her sharp eyes, her magnificence of face and form, her sharp eyes, her soft voice, the soft voice that seems to carry you away while pushing you down at the same time.

"Just relax and remain with my voice."

You recall the boots, dark and shiny, and the halter and the collar and the love you feel for the Headmistress and how you want so to clean carefully each individual stud of her clothing as her personal slave.

"Remain with my voice." And her voice, the even soft tones, still commanding, resonate through your morphined thoughts as the dim becomes dark, and the last thing you see before she shuts out the light is the eclipse of her face hovering above you.

"Relax."

"Deeper."

"Remain with my voice."

The light above you fades completely. Nothing to see. No sounds to hear, for the Headmistress speaks no further words. Sensational waves of warmth roll through your body, especially your limbs, waves that send your head bobbing and spinning into the centerless void you find myself falling into.

Your body, your physical form, follows your mind into the void. Floating / spinning / twisting you go, each spasm of relaxation propelling you further into a deep deep deeper emptiness. You grow queasy at this journey, a sense of finality welling in you.

"Remain with my voice."

"Listen and obey."

"Remain with my voice. Obey me."

"Obey."

The feathered words echo through the emptiness, this voice of a nearby Goddess providing you a direction to head to in your floating journey, and in your half-slumbering mind you conjure again the image of the Headmistress.

"Listen and obey. Remain with my voice. Obey my voice."

Then the image of the Headmistress turns bright red, a pulsing bright red. A pulsing bright red moon bathes the Headmistress, her patent leather glowing red with flashes of black. Pulsing bright red.

Are your eyes open? Seizing up what little self-awareness that has not been washed away by the morphine and the hypnotic monotone of the Headmistress, her repeated intonings of "Remain with my voice. Listen and obey. Remain with my voice. Listen and obey.", you realize that she is still standing above you, that you yet lay atop the table and she stands above you holding her pager right in front of your face. Her pager light is flashing on, off, on in steady red angry rhythms.

And if you look hard enough, you can make out the Headmistress behind the light, see her face behind each flash.

"Remain with my voice. Do not blink. You are tired, your eyes are heavy, so tired you cannot blink. Listen and obey. Do not blink. Remain with the light. Remain with my voice. You are tired."

On, off, on, off, on.

And somewhere in your red-bathed mind, some last fleeting thought warns of danger. There is danger in the constantly repeated commands, danger in the steadily flashing light, there is danger in your unblinking drowsiness.

"Listen and obey."

Your mind is melting. You would be without will, the perfect male, a slaving body without consciousness.

You would belong to the Headmistress.

You would be hers forever.

"Remain with the light. Remain with my voice. Listen and obey."

You remain with the light, remain with her voice, and the Headmistress leads you deeper into the black pit of pre-conscious obedience. How many hours does it take this first night? How many times does she repeat the same commands, the same brainwashing commands, over and over again?

You would never know. You would never care to know.

That awkward moment between asleep and awake, that period of heightened unconsciousness, is your fate.

Happily, you are able to appreciate the beauty of the Headmistress. You will live in a haze with no concept of time or place, without either short-term or long-term memories, but thankfully your universe is centered upon the Headmistress. Focused upon her magnificence. You live for her. You possess no thought beyond her last command.

You are her slave.

And you will grow to appreciate the daily doses of hypnotic oblivion she dispatches you into.

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