Back to school

It's now descended on the school when I hear footsteps on the driveway. I don't raise my head quickly—I don't need to. I know that step now. Uncertain, light, the step of someone walking as if apologizing for taking up space.

Lorenzo emerges from the darkness of the avenue, and for a moment he's nothing more than a silhouette against the streetlight illuminating the doorway. Then he steps into the light and I see him completely: his wrinkled clothes, his disheveled dark hair, the way he holds his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. The smell reaches him first. Sweat, lube, smoke. The smell of Karim's place.

The master big m. And there.

“Welcome back,” I say.

He stops a couple of meters away from me. His hands are shaking, held tightly at his sides, his knuckles white. The cage presses against the fabric of his pants, a hump visible even in the dark. I look him up and down, slowly, making him wait.

“Karim’s place has you a bit disheveled, I see.” He smiles.

Lorenzo lowers his eyes. "Yes, master."

His voice is hoarse. Used. There's a tone that wasn't there a week ago, a submissiveness that's stuck to his throat like a second skin.

Madame Vivienne stands in the doorway, her black suit impeccable even at this hour. She holds the file open in her hands, her silver pen tapping a slow rhythm on the paper. Knock. Knock. Knock. She's in no hurry. She never is.

"Lorenzo," he says, without looking up from the file. "Come closer."

He obeys. He passes in front of me, and the smell of Karim's place wafts around him like a halo. When he reaches Madame, he holds his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed, his neck exposed, his red collar reflecting the streetlight.

"Karim is pleased," he says. "He said you were... diligent." He pronounces the word as if savoring it. "That you counted well. That you didn't close your eyes."

Lorenzo doesn't answer. His gaze is fixed on the tips of his shoes.

“Lift your head when I speak to you,” Madame orders, and her voice is as sharp as glass.

Lorenzo raises his head. His blue eyes are red, with deep dark circles. The scar on his lower lip is more visible than usual, the white skin around it stretched.

"You've finished the first stage," Madame continues. "Now the most important part begins."

«The evaluation.»

"The assessment has already been done," says Big M. His voice breaks the silence like a stone in water. "I've seen her. The whole week. What she's done this week.

"Karim recorded everything." "And I've seen enough. The boy has learned."

"Evaluations aren't made with words," Madame says, her voice icy. "They're made with facts. And the facts are in the file."

He opens the file again, holding it open before him like a courtroom. The silver pen points to one page, then another. I can't see what's written, but I see my photo, the one from the first day—the longer hair, the more frightened look, the cage. Brand new.

“Starting photo,” Madame says, pointing. “Mid-internship photo. Final photo.” She turns the pages slowly, showing each one to Lorenzo as if it were a test. “Measurements. Scores. Aptitudes.”

Lorenzo looks at the pages, but doesn't see them. His eyes are lost somewhere, in the void between one photo and the next.

"Your score is high," Madame continues. "Higher than average. Karim noticed your... dedication.

“Now,” he says, closing the file with a fluid motion, “there’s one last thing to do.”

“Put yourself in the catalogue,” says Madame.

.

«The catalogue» asks big m.

"Of course," Madame says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's the next step. All the sissies who finish the first stage enter the catalog. That's how it works."

Lorenzo looks at big m. then looks at Madame. "What's the catalog?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"The catalog is where sissies are shown," he says. "Photos. Physical description. Aptitudes. Level of obedience and submission. Sexual and practical skills. Everything."

"It's how the owners find you. The way they apply."

Lorenzo swallows. I see it, the movement of his throat rising and falling under the collar. "Request?"

"For placement," says Madame. "When you finish the course, you'll be placed with a master. One who will have seen your page in the catalog and decided you're the one they're looking for.

"By tomorrow," Madame says, "your page will be ready. The photos have already been taken. The measurements have already been taken. All that remains is to write the description."

"And I'll write the description," he says, and there's something in his voice that I don't like. "With the utmost precision."