The catalog

on Madame's desk, and on the open file is my photo.

I can see it from where I stand. It's the photo from the first day, the one taken before I even took off my shirt. Short brown hair, wide blue eyes, a slightly quivering lip. The boy I was. The boy who didn't know what was waiting for him. The photo is pinned to the corner of the file with a silver paperclip, and underneath are rows and rows of numbers, notes, measurements I've never seen written but have felt on me, on my skin, in the hands that measured me.

Madame holds the silver pen poised. Still. As if waiting for something.

.

«Get up».

Madame's voice cuts through the silence. Dry. Without appeal.

I stand up. My legs are shaking, and for a moment I have to rest a hand on the edge of the desk to keep from falling. She doesn't notice. Or maybe she notices and doesn't care. Her gray eyes scan me like one might scan merchandise, like one might evaluate an object, like one might check that the packaging is intact.

«Straighter».

Madame studies me. The silver pen is still suspended, but her eyes aren't on the paper. They're on me. They rise from my ankles, down my legs, stopping at my crotch where the cage outlines its profile beneath the thin fabric, up my chest, my throat, my red collar, and finally settle on my eyes.

175 cm tall."

The voice is flat. Dictated.

Marcus Big M. stands against the wall, his arms folded. He hasn't said a word since I entered. He's there, against the wall, his bulk filling the space even when he's not moving, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, the gold chain glinting faintly in the low light. His dark eyes are on me. I haven't seen them move. I haven't seen them blink.

«Blue eyes».

Madame's pen glides across the paper. The sound is crisp, precise, like a shot.

«Scar on the lower lip».

My tongue touches the scar without me asking. The small white line, the memory of a childhood accident, the mark the fourth customer touched with his thumb, as if he knew it, as if he knew. "Like everyone," he had said. And I never understood what he meant.

«Dark brown hair».

The pen flows. Marcus doesn't move. His eyes are still on me, and I feel their weight as I feel the weight of the collar, as I feel the weight of the marble under my bare feet.

«Dry, slender body».

Madame looks up from the paper, and for a moment her gray eyes meet mine. There's something there. Not approval. Not contempt. Something colder, more clinical. The satisfaction of seeing a job done.

«Trained to count».

The count. The number I have to say out loud every time I'm used. Thirty-eight, the last time. Thirty-eight, and then one again, because the fourth customer wanted to start over. Marcus's fingers move slightly on his folded arms, an almost imperceptible movement, and I know he's listening. That he's recording every word.

"skilled in double penetration."

The word falls in the air and I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. It's not shame. It's something else. It's the memory of fullness, of two men inside me.

«To total submission».

The silence that follows is different from the others. It's denser. Fuller. Marcus finally moves, a single step that shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and the sound of his shoes on the marble is a distant thunder.

«The red collar».

Madame says this and the pen stops. Her eyes are on my throat, on the leather that encircles it, on the padlock that hangs under my chin. "The red availability collar. Worn, worn, worn. Removed only for showers and changing. Never removed in the presence of an owner."

The pen starts flowing again. The sound is rhythmic, almost hypnotic. I remain standing, hands at my sides, chin high, throat open. I wasn't told to move. I wasn't told to speak. I've learned that silence is a form of obedience, and obedience is what keeps me alive.

«Clear, smooth, hairless skin».

My hand almost moves, almost touches her chest, almost verifies what she's saying. But it doesn't move. It stays at my side, motionless, because no one told me to move.

“Training signs: none visible, except the select ones.”

The chosen ones. The tattoo on his chest, I LOVE BBC, hidden beneath the fabric. The tattoo on his thigh, ONLY BBC, hidden beneath the hem. The seal on his shoulder blade, the black cock in the handcuffs, which I've never seen but which I feel burning beneath my skin every time Madame mentions it.

«Nipples: pierced, with removable bells».

«Scar on the lower lip».

He repeats it. The pen pauses for a moment, then resumes. "From a childhood accident. Doesn't interfere with use."

Use. The word falls into the atrium and I feel it in my belly, where the cage presses against my skin. It doesn't interfere with use. As if I were an object, as if the scar were a manufacturing defect to be pointed out, noted, considered.

"Endurance: High. Recovery: Rapid. Pain tolerance: In training."

Tongue: Trained for oral submission. Ability to swallow extra-large cocks. Depth: Above average. Gag reflex control: Complete.

Complete. The word takes me back to the cafeteria, in the morning, to the five men who lined up in front of me as I opened my mouth and counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. My throat opening, my breath stopping, my eyes staying open because I was taught to, because closing my eyes is a failure.

Anal: Trained for single and double penetration. Tolerance: Increasing. Goal: XXL.

The pen strikes one last stroke. Dry. Definitive.

“Your page will be public tomorrow.”

His voice is flat. Without emotion. As if he were reading a weather report.

“And the masters will know exactly what you are.”

The words fall into the atrium and remain there, suspended, like dust in the dim light. I stand before her, my collar shining, my throat exposed, and I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should say anything. I wasn't told to speak.

Marcus hasn't spoken yet. His eyes are still on me, and I feel their weight on my skin, on my collar, on the spot where the cage presses against my flesh. I don't know what he'll say. I don't know what he'll do. But I know the page will be public, and that the owners will know exactly what I am.

Madame closes the file..

«Marcus».

Marcus's name drops in the hall, and Marcus detaches himself from the wall. Not suddenly. With that familiar feline slowness, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, his arms unfolding and falling to his sides. The gold chain jingles slightly. It's the first sound he's made since I entered.

"The page will be published tomorrow. At Director Karim's request, the final evaluation has been brought forward. There will be no second exam."

Madame's voice is flat, but there's something underneath. A hint of satisfaction she doesn't bother to hide. "The page will be complete. The photos. The measurements. The skills. And immediate availability."

Marcus stops a step away from me. I feel him before I see him: the heat of his body coming like a wave, the smell of smoke and leather clinging to him like a second skin. His dark eyes move slowly down to me, from my collar to my ankles, and then back up. When they reach my eyes, they stop.

"Immediate availability," he repeats. His voice is low, a rumbling sound I can feel in my ribcage. "What does that mean, exactly?"

The question isn't for me. It's for Madame. But I feel it on my skin as if it were addressed to me, as if I were the one who had to answer.

"It means that anyone who requests it can accept it without further verification. The school guarantees the finished product."

The finished product. The word falls in the atrium, and I feel it where the cage presses against my flesh, that familiar weight that never leaves me. Product. Finished. As if I were an object coming off an assembly line, ready for delivery.

.

“Is there anything else?” he asks finally.

Madame's voice is measured, every word carefully considered. "The fourth client has submitted a formal request for priority. He cited the 'first right of option' clause in the intensive training protocol."

The fourth client. The man with the tattoo under his jaw. The man who touched my scar and said, "Like everyone else." The man who whispered, "You're mine," as he held me inside him.

My hands are at my sides. Still. No one told me to move. But I can feel my fingers shaking, a barely perceptible tremor rising from my knuckles and fading into the thin fabric I'm wearing.

"I replied that the request will be evaluated according to protocol. Priority is not a right. It's a privilege you earn."

The silver pen is still resting on the paper. Madame picks it up, twirls it between her fingers for a moment, then puts it down again. "And the final decision rests with the school. Not the customer. Not the merchandise."

The goods. This word also falls into the atrium and stays there. I am the goods. I am the finished product. I am the page that will be public tomorrow, with photos, measurements, capabilities, immediate availability. And the fourth customer has asked to be the first.

"Fourth client," he repeats finally. His voice is low, measured, but there's something underneath, a vibration I don't recognize. "The guy with the tattoo? The one who made you start over with someone else?"

The question isn't for Madame. It's for me.

My breath stops for a moment. His words echo in my head, the memory of the stage, the light blinding me, the fourth customer climbing the stairs with that heavy slowness, the tattoo under his

"What if the fourth customer takes it?"

"Then it will be yours. According to protocol."

Marcus takes another step toward me. Now he's close enough to feel the heat on my skin, to see the pattern of the tattoos on his arms, the gold chain glinting faintly in the low light. "What if I wanted it?"

The question falls in the hall like a stone in water. Madame doesn't answer immediately. The silver pen rotates between her fingers, a slow, measured movement, as if she were considering a possibility she hadn't considered.

"Priorities are governed by protocol," he says finally. "And the protocol doesn't provide exceptions for instructors."

"The protocol," Marcus repeats. The word comes out as if it has a bitter taste. "And who wrote the protocol, Madame?"

"That's it."

"And who can change it?"

The silence that follows is different from the others. It's thicker, more charged, like the air before a storm. I stand among them, the collar around my throat, the cage pressing against my flesh, and I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should say anything. I wasn't told to speak.

"You don't want her," Madame finally says. Her voice is flat, but there's something underneath, a challenge she doesn't bother to hide. "You want to protect her. And protection isn't what she needs."

Marcus doesn't answer. But his silence is different from before. It's heavier, more charged, as if Madame's words had found a weak spot, a place he didn't know existed.

"He needs to be used," Madame continues. "He needs to be possessed. He needs to be filled until he can't remember his own name. And you know it. You've seen him on stage. You've seen him count. You've seen him open up to everyone."

.

"I don't protect him," he says finally. His voice is low, but there's a new hardness, a steely edge I didn't know about him. "I prepare him. There's a difference."

Madame tilts her head a millimeter. The gesture is minimal, but I see it. "And what would this preparation consist of, Marcus?"

“Lift his head up,” he says.

"Tomorrow," he says, but the word is for me, not Madame. "Tomorrow the page will be public. And the owners will know what you are. But I already know."

He doesn't say what he knows. He doesn't say what they are. But the words remain in the atrium like a mark, like a seal that no one can erase, and I feel them on my skin like I feel the tattoo on my shoulder blade, like I feel the collar on my throat.

"The page will be public," she repeats, but her voice is different, less confident, as if she's trying to reassert a control that's slipping away from her. "With photos. Measurements. Aptitude. And immediate availability."

"You didn't submit a request," he says finally. "You didn't fill out the form. You didn't follow the procedure. You just said 'what if I wanted it,' as if it were a question, as if it were a hypothesis."

«It's not a hypothesis.»

Marcus's voice is low, but it cuts the air like a blade. "It's not a hypothesis, Madame. It's a statement. And if protocol dictates that requests be evaluated, then mine is here. Now. Before you."

Madame looks at him. For a long moment, she says nothing. Then she smiles, and that smile is different from the ones I've seen on her. It's smaller, narrower, as if she's found an answer she didn't expect.

"The protocol requires that requests be evaluated," he says. "But it also requires that priority be assigned based on merit, not seniority. And merit, Marcus, is measured in the field. Not in words."

«Then measure it.»

Madame stands. Her gesture is slow, measured, her figure silhouetted against the dim light of the foyer. She walks around the desk, her heels clicking on the marble with a precise rhythm, each step a thump, each thump an unspoken word.

She stops in front of me. A step away. Close enough to see the reflection of the collar in her gray eyes.

"Merit is measured on the field," he repeats. His voice is flat, but there's something underneath, a challenge he doesn't bother to hide. "And the field, tonight, is this hall. The goods are here. The instructor is here. And the director is here."