Working Out

Working out and exercising were a big part of our daily activities. It was in itself logical that only the most fit and supple bodies could ever hope to get dispatched to the capital, and physical training took upi at least four hours of every single day: running, weight training, gymnastics, team sports, and more. But of course, hornification couldn’t be allowed to suffer. All exercising was done in a tight rope harness, not just looping around breasts, thighs, and ass, but straining ropes running across labia, clit, cutting deep through the tender cleft where pussy turned to thigh, and ass crack as well. As the body worked out, all those ropes scoured and burned and bit into our most sensitive places. It was a challenge in itself to endure, you didn’t just work out your muscles to the edges of their abilities, but your genitals to the limits of their resilience as well. All girls were used to the sore yet tender sensation of raw flesh in those regions, as the skin was never really damaged or broken, but also never allowed to heal. The sensation reached far beyond the excercise itself; we carried it with us throughout the day. Nevertheless, the scour of the ropes was also a common cause for accidental O for Institute girls.

Something like “enough” didn’t exist. There were goals, like doing 100 push ups or lift 10 kilo 20 times on the bench, but whenever you made one of those goals you’d get a small reward, and then the next, harder assignment was issued. Exercising always meant getting tired, worn out I should say, there was no such thing as a “standard round”; you were supposed to push the limits of your body all the time, and get used to the constant rasp and gnaw at your genitals at the same time. Goals in this department were also constantly expanded. It wasn’t just that the harness itself was constantly tied more taut and tight. A second-year apprentice didn’t do any runs without wearing a clone-sized buttplug anymore, and clit croppings while weight lifting got common even before that. In this department as well, everything was carefully designed for maximum arousal output.

It won’t come as a surprise to you that all training was done naked, and in very public places. The bouncing of tits and buttocks was a common sight everywhere in the institute, as small exercise areas were scattered all around the premises. I’m pretty sure that several of the exercises were specifically designed for this: it wasn’t just about the training of the muscles of the girl, but about presenting a pleasing visual image as well. There can’t be much doubt about the one where you kneeled on all fours, and rode an imaginary dick coming in from behind, or the one where you were lying on your back, legs spread, knees bent, then raised your crotch off the mat and swirled it around.

The “Dropout” exercise took a special place in the physical sessions. I’d say we took one of them every third day or so, and it was an intense experience to say the least. You would basically be positioned on all fours, bound tight on ankles and wrists, but leaving room for movement in your torso. A fucking machine was then inserted from behind. The bang of the machine would be set to a ruthless, demanding rhythm; then you were supposed to ride back to it for as long as you could, basically adding the power of your own exercise to the merciless thumping of the machine. The result was a violent thunderstorm raging in your pussy, providing the natural instinct to give way to the pounding, stop your own ride, and just be a ragged victim of the pounding, like blowing in the wind.

When you did, you failed, and the trainers would reprimand you. It was the point of the exercise that you shouldn’t give up, that you should keep your own ride going, enthusiastically welcoming every single thrust from the machine with a vehement counterstroke of your own hips. Only very few girls were naturally good at this, and could keep riding back up against the machine for an hour or even longer; but for the others, their performance gradually improved with methodical training over the course of months and years.

There were two reasons to keep up your ride back for as long as you could. First of course the obvious one, that it was just another training exercise and that you had to work hard to improve your performance.

The second one was more practical. When you gave up the back ride, that didn’t mean that the exercise ended; instead, the machine just kept banging away into your mangled pussy in the same unrelenting, barely tolerable rhythm. The shorter you had managed to keep up the backride, the longer you would be subjected to this violent torment; up to several hours if you had only done a nominal backride.

None of the other exercises was anything like the experience of getting machined after the backride had failed. There was not a chance in the world that you might find the energy to resume it; after you had been broken and forced to cease the backride, the pounding only took you deeper into powerless lethargy, where only survival mode was an option. You wouldn’t get to the edge typically, the violence and persistence of the ride were too big for that, but your hornification would certainly respond to the intrusion of the clone. Unlike the other exercises, it didn’t stop when your muscles gave in, it just made you pay for that. It made a special effort for expanding your exhaustion, and all you could do was take it, as the building fatigue drew a curtain in your brain, obscuring all other thought and emotion, drowning it in the ruthlessly intense hornification of the ride.

Don’t get me wrong - it wasn’t an unpopular exercise, even though many of us dreaded it. But it was also very prestigious, and the trainers constantly emphasized the importance of it. Girls who did well were respected and envied; at the other end of the scale were contempt and pity. The anticipation of it, when you would prepare your mind to do better than the last time, mentally intentioning yourself to endure longer this time… the menacing buzz, when the clone was led to your vulva… followed by the harrowing, pitiless intensity of the ride; it would flood your mind, submit you to its will, while you were still struggling to keep the backride going, a struggle you would almost certainly lose… just one minute longer… even ten seconds would be great… until you gave in, and you devolved once more into a ragged and broken bumping cushion for an out-of-control machine, just a blot of existance who felt nothing but the submission to this uninhibited power ride, ferociously driving you unopposed and unrestricted into a hornified oblivion… the intensity of it was in a league of its own. No, it wasn’t impopular, even though the effects could be devastating.

“Where is Juliet?”

“She’s machined.”

It was a common conversation in the Institute. Machined - it was mentioned as a standard disease, like the flue had once been, especially amongst novices. It meant being worn out on a fucking machine had taken a girl to a place where normal functioning wasn’t possible anymore. The machine had fucked you so violently, that you could only stay in bed to recover a bit. It was the most common reason why girls were absent from classes, and even though our trainers frowned upon it (after all, it was part of our training to build our resilience to treatment like this), it was always accepted as an excuse for absence. Everyone knew that the intense experience of taking a “Dropout” came with a price.