(im)Perfect

• t w o •

The Punishment Room was in the basement beside the boilers and a large dormitory styled break room for Trainers who worked over night.

The walk down was always the worse. Normally if began with the Dom that had a bruising hold on your arm while telling you each punishment they would inflict. There were rules, supposedly. Before we turned eighteen we couldn't be completely naked and the Trainers couldn't expose themselves. But I recalled being sixteen and stripped down and flogged some a Trainer who was clearly jerking himself to it. I had caught sight of his member several time during it, each time fearing it coming near me.

But now I had aged up things were vastly different. They couldn't leave scars or burns and there was no penetration allowed. That one was a gray area with a handful of exceptions and only one absolute. By 'no penetration' all they meant was they couldn't fuck me themselves. Artificial toys didn't count, digits didn't count, tongues didn't count. And there was only one hole that mattered. Since the month before my eighteen birthday I had grown used to have at least one cock in my mouth during each punishment. They took turns in shifts because apparently it was exhausting to coat a troublemaking sub in semen while also 'teaching them a lesson'.

The whole system was flawed and manipulated by the Doms who worked for it but no one cared. A virgin seal simply met no cock had gone in my ass and for the girls their ass and their cunts. Female anatomy was a mystery to me though. I had overheard a Trainer once refer their sex organs as a vagina but it was said so sparsely that I assumed it was a derogatory term for it.

The walls were all metal and stone down here so each step echoed eerily around the dimly lit passage way. It was also important to know that the 'rules' were never strictly enforced. I had scars from canings all over my thighs and the bottom of my feet. I had burn marks that left behind shiny skin forever on several spots on my inner thighs and one large one on my scrotum. These were all marked in my file during the bi-annual physician visits.

The file included a basic human male outline where the doctor marked any imperfections down before it was stowed back in the file until they came back to add to it or until you given to your Dom. The Trading Post also only carried internal certification which was a sneaky way of saying 'we think' rather than an actual assurance. They didn't have any outside sources checking our health or verifying that we were virgins.

One of the older boys, now long gone, had told me he lost his virginity when he was seventeen as a punishment. He wouldn't tell me which Trainer did it however and that still gave me anxiety each time was I was pulled down here.

Usually they doubled up--less chances of one getting too worked up and spoiling a product. Sometimes at night they'd do walk through and comment who the thought was worth it to 'spoil'. But it looked like it was only Dobbs heading down at this point which mostly likely meant once I was strapped or tied to something he'd indulge in a hasty blow job. Some where so shy about performing beside their co workers and I thought that was amusing.

The door was sound proofed made of a heavy wood with a metal trim. It required a key card to open, like the doors to the court yard or out of the housing wing. I wrung my hands together as the door swung opened. Automated lights came on and I let all the tools and equipment on the walls blur together as I focused on the beige tiled floor. There could be up to four subs in here at once but only a handful of times had I been here and had another brought in. It always felt like I had an audience and it awful. There were four platform tables bolted to the floors with adjustable heights and metal cuffs. The tables were always unbearably cold as I missed my younger days were I'd have a thin pair of briefs to at least try and buffer the frigid surface from my skin.