Evaluation

My companion in the white overall led me by the arm through the maze of the holding center. We came through a hallway, a corridor, crossed a large room full of dining tables, another corridor and finally came to a heavy wooden door. I still felt feeble and numb, and when he released my arm, I sank to the floor of the corridor on my knees. The man didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care; he just turned around and walked away.

The corridor stretched in both directions for a long way, dimly lit, passing several closed doors on either side. There was no one in sight, not even a sound could be heard. I managed to stagger to my feet. I was tempted to explore the corridor, see where it went, if there was an escape somewhere… then I realized that if there was, it was hardly likely that I would be left here on my own. I had been brought to this door for a very specific reason… was it a test? If I wandered off into the corridors, started opening doors, would it be an excuse to punish me? And why had I been released from the bunk in the hangar in the first place, exempted from the cropping which all girls had to endure? I hadn’t been taken to this particular door for nothing… and good or bad, the answers to my questions would be behind it. There was little point poking around in an unknown place, strolling through kitchens or empty conference rooms or whatever I would find, if the gate to all my queries was right here.

I knocked. The dry rap sounded through the corridor. There was a few seconds pause, then the door slid open.

I was completely baffled when the door was opened by Mr. Jenkins! He was wearing what I thought of as the “executive” outfit: suit and tie, but with the large hole in his pants so his dick stood out freely. I had last seen him when he was escorted to the police car, cuffed, a suspect of abusing his young pupils… but of course, the world had changed since then. It made perfect sense that he was a man of some position in this place now.

He smiled at me in recognition, then quickly put his finger to his lips in the universal silence gesture, glancing over his shoulder. I saw that there were more people in the room, and he obviously didn’t want them to know that we already knew each other. Then a mask slid over his face, and he instantly changed into one of the anonymous controlling guards this place was populated with.

When he led me into the room, all the men looked at me. There must have been a dozen of them, some in the white overalls, some in executive outfit. Few bothered to watch my face before sending down their glances to follow the curves of my body.

Instinctively, I tried to hide myself in the age-old posture of an exposed naked woman: one arm horizontal across the chest, the other arm’s hand spread to cover the crotch. One of the executives snapped at me, and the command in his voice was such that my arms fell to the side of my body immediately.

They started an extensive discussion amongst themselves, commenting on the various parts of my body: my calves were “bland and unremarkable”, my thighs “chubby and jelly-like”, my hips “pearish”, my bosom “peaky and very modest indeed”, my shoulders were “sagging” and my face was “pasty”. My locomotion was judged to be “crass and wooden” while my posturing “lacked invitation”.

None of them showed any sign of embarrassment towards me; they spoke their mind about my body like I was not even there, as if they were commenting on an object. Yet it made my cheeks flare up red in shame, and I wanted to sink through the ground as they slaughtered my physical attributes with skillfully designed reproaches, none of which were completely untrue. All through my youth people had told me I had a pretty and charming appearance; but of course I had had worries about my body just like any teenager has. Hearing them disparage each of my attributes with a few sharp words felt worse than being stabbed with a thousand knives, it confirmed all my fears and insecurities. One of the white overalls scribbling all those horrible ratings onto a tablet didn’t help much either. All this would be on file, a devastating critique for any man to stumble across my profile for years to come.

Then I was told to turn around and bend over, and the discussion continued about my ass. They were much more positive about it, and agreed that it was “properly rounded, firm and appetizing” allowing for “easy access underneath to either hole”, though they couldn’t decide on peach- or melon-shape to describe my buttocks. Still it felt ominous that exactly my ass was lauded by these men, as I was standing bent over for their inspection, especially when they started discussing how it could be “decorated”. I didn’t understand what they meant at first, until they started arguing about the merits of canes, whips, and floggers, and how these would produce different kinds of weals and bruises to “embellish” my ass. The advocates of a riding whip won the argument, for the simple reason that a cane’s results would be too unpredictable on an untested buttock; it might easily be overdone and just produce a big, ugly stain of purple and black bruises. The whip was guaranteed to deliver long, thin stripes; and they could be woven into an artistic motif which would adorn my buttocks for days.

It goes beyond saying that the pain associated with receiving these “decorations” was not an argument in their discussion; they were only interested in the aesthetic aspects and if anything, it was clear that they would enjoy the “artistic process” as well.

Finally, one of the men addressed me: “You, slut. Do you think you can keep posture to take a proper whipping like a good slut should? Or do we need to restrain you?”

I managed a nod. Even though it wasn’t really a yes-or-no question, they understood what I meant. It would be even more degrading to be bound as they vandalized my ass. It wouldn’t be easy to keep my posture, but at least it would allow me to maintain some kind of pride.

One of the white overalls applied a bit to me. It would keep me from biting my tongue, I realized. He fastened it with a strap around my head before stepping away. There was a sudden chill in the air, and a rush of goosebumps ran across my entire body as one of the executives stepped up, the whip in his hand. He positioned himself carefully to have the optimal striking angle, and lay the whip across both buttocks, taking aim. The leather felt baleful and imperative. Then it was gone, as he raised his arm for the first stroke. When it returned to hit my ass again, I screamed, and I kept screaming and screaming as a torrent of lashes started landing on my poor bottom.