Carol loved Arthur. She loved him so much she went to a school for him.

It was an obedience school of sorts. Instead of pets they trained married white women. Back then, such places were little more than rumor, spoken of in jest or threat by men to their wives, should they fail to behave.

Very few had actually been to one, and those who had--often women from good families, rich families--were cast like rebel angels from their heaven, for the disgrace they brought upon their names, their breed.

Carol, then, was incredibly brave to leave her comfortable life behind. Incredibly lucky too, one should add, not being burdened with children, free to come and go as she wanted. Arthur was not Carol's husband; the latter's consent or opinion was irrelevant.

White Slut Training Academy. Carol pictured a strange convent, where the nuns went out each day to work as whores, and returned at night to be interrogated by the prioress: how many times did you open your legs today? What names have you been called? Which sin gave you the most pleasure? Repent, child, repent!

It was a place, she imagined, where perversity must be striven for, then apologized for.

The school was three hundred miles away on the other end of the state. Arthur drove Carol there in her own car. Before dropping her off, he let her kiss his hairy chin, let her caress him under his sun-kissed shirt, and promised to pick her up in a year. He also promised to visit from time to time. Neither promise was enforceable, Carol knew. But they were her only hope to live on.

Including Carol there were forty students in her class. They were put in five rooms. Her bed was in the fifth room, on the top bunk of the second bed to the right. A curtain could be drawn around the bed for privacy. A footlocker stored a few things she's allowed to keep to herself. A small window tilted open from the top, so rain wouldn't get in. Still the room smelled of mold, feet, homesickness.

The first few nights, Carol could hardly sleep on her new mattress, and the squeaking noises from the other beds drove her nuts. The others had such a passion for masturbation, as if they all entered a second puberty, even going so far as to help one another, giggling in the dark.

When she finally closed her eyes for good, all she saw was herself and the others in the day's training--gagged and shackled, necks limp, eyes and nostrils clotted with tears and snot. She dreamed this, not with aversion, but with a sense of endless work to be done. She dreamed of Arthur too, his face melting drop by drop like a candle. He forgot to visit her, but by then she had found a greater purpose for her life.

Carol would let no one help her. But she had missed the orientation week, and had fallen behind before even starting. In time the rules and names would made themselves known to her, but not without some cold shoulders, sneers and kickings under the table.

In the first days Grace showed Carol what to do.

Grace slept like a pig on the bed below Carol but followed the schedule with such a discipline that regularly put others to shame. Each morning she brought Carol along to wash and give themselves enema. Like sponges they must be ready to soak up any filth they met.

The only bathroom was down the hallway, and it was as naked as the women during their training. The showers were not divided, nor were the toilets; these were the foreign, squatting types that took some getting use to. There weren't enough of either, so one often had to wait her turn.

Carol was afraid because she'd never done an enema before, and now she had to do it in a roomful of strangers. After she used the toilet first, Grace rubbed some lube on Carol with such an insouciance that stunned her, then handed her the hose.

"Feel the water first," said Grace encouragingly. "It shouldn't be too hot or cold."

"I think it's warm enough."

"Nice. Try pushing it in slowly. Easy does it."

Grace had small, shapely feet; staring at their plain toenails, Carol worked cautiously up, and relaxed more than she'd like before the nozzle was in. A numbness spread as the water began to flow and fill her up.

Some women were showering; others, like Carol, knelt on the wet floor like cars waiting for the pump to click. Whenever two pairs of wandering eyes met, they exchanged a nod and a quick smile. These women had round, athletic buttocks, many of which were inked with welts and patches of bruises, their colors ranging from cranberry to blackcurrant.

After an insufferably long wait, Carol was full, even a little bloated. Grace turned the tab off, sighing, and pulled near what looked like a milk bucket. She had Carol sit on it, but not too firmly, for the bucket was unsteady.

"Trust me, this is the way. Better than splashing all over the toilet."

Shame flooded Carol as she emptied herself, feeling exactly like an upset stomach running loose. Near the end the run turned explosive: gas mixed with liquid, a small nugget struck the side of the bucket. Rarely had a middle-aged woman blushed so thoroughly. By the end of it, her hands were locked around the bucket, horrified by the stench, unable to move.

And yet, despite everything, there was a nameless pleasure in the release--one she would come to appreciate in time.

Grace was thoughtful. In the corner she shielded Carol with her own body as she helped her off the bucket, then carried it away to be emptied. The procedure was repeated twice more, until Carol's discharge ran mostly clear.

"See? It's not bad, like I told you." Grace's hand was cold on Carol's shoulder.

It was devastating. Carol didn't know how she'd gotten through it. Her legs ached and cramped. Was it this bad for others? She would never find out, having missed the orientation's ice-breaking and nicknaming, the story time after lights-out.

By now they must have been used to each other's nether voices, the stormy moments, intimate sighs and growls and pleas and statements. And they were, with some piquant prurience, beginning to learn hers.

Carol waited while Grace finished her own enema, and together they showered.

Grace was a pale and lithe mother of two (this Carol knew later), charming in her nose and brows. She kept bees in her backyard and regularly donated blood. They passed the soap, scrubbed each other's backs. On Grace's back were the same fine, invisible hairs as on her own. Unknowingly she caressed them with nostalgia.

Such joy in discovering the body's little secrets was the first clue of a sea change. While at the academy, Carol would find herself regressing to an earlier existence when her own body, and the bodies of others, formed the entirety of her world, before they were slowly drowned out by the desolate adulting noise of life.

Back in their room the two got dressed. Soon everyone was expected to be ready for their morning session. The clothes came in one size only, and soon Carol saw why.

"Try these on. Should more or less fit."

Grace said, handing her a few small pieces of silk and nylon. A cream-colored leotard to wear over caramel tights, bun nets to tie their hair, and a pair of white socks with frilly lace around the ankles. No shoes, no bras.

Carol had expected something less soft and girlish. It reminded her, not all pleasantly, of the ballet classes she took as a girl. The leotards were cut high on the sides, baring the hipbones. The others had put them on, pretty maids all in a row, unashamed with their camel toes. She searched in the pile.

"It's missing the knickers."

Tactful as ever, Grace leaned in and told her quietly that they didn't wear such things round here. Carol then asked where the tampons were kept. Again, she was told not to worry about it, the bleeding. But what if she made a mess, with these thin, leaky clothes?

Grace smiled. "You won't be able to make such a mess very soon."

Carol didn't need more of a hint to know what that meant, though she wasn't about to picture it in any detail. All that enema had made her hungry. The leotard was tight in the crotch, and her nipples stood out like ant hills.

Waiting in a large, bright room with the others, Carol tried to picture her very first trainer. With a perversity she had worked herself up. What kind of life had he led before this, training sluts for a living--or for fun.

A dog trainer, perhaps. Or a horse-breaker. No, a zookeeper.

It seemed one had to start from animals, before moving on to humans, like the clinical trials for a new drug. Not that she considered herself above a beast; on the contrary, Carol believed a beast was more dignified by its simple, incorruptible nature.

On that she would be proven right.

But a man wouldn't train her that morning. Later, Carol learned that the men appeared only when their presence was absolutely necessary, when their intervention was required as the last resort.

Men like Herr Dürer, as handsome as he was grotesque in his cruel dealings with the girls. Or Mr. Romeo, the gentle giant, endearing, even piteous, once your jaw and rear grew used to his girth. Then there was the Direktor, whom the girls also called Father, whose word was law.

They would be there, rolling up their sleeves, training Carol, breaking her. That was the Academy's promise: one by one, the girls would be broken, bred, and, like wet clay pressed together, remolded into better selves.

No woman could be trusted to hammer in these last, terrifying lessons. But, until then, someone like Frau Zigma was more than sufficient for the job.

The Frau was to be associated by three sounds: the boots tapping, the whip cracking, and her harsh accent lacerating Carol's virgin ear. Du Kacknutte! Little shit-whore. Drecksluts. Behinderte! You retard ass-fiddle. That morning, though, perhaps for Carol's sake, the Frau was in good humor, armed only with a short crop instead of her favorite whip. Carol was wrong, and ought to know she was wrong, in thinking that she could count on that.

"Guten Morgen, my girls." Her tone was musical, skiing and sliding along a foreign axis.

The tall, fine-boned woman turned her sculpted head from right to left, her flaming auburn hair pinned up to reveal the oblong, elegant ears. A leather harness caged her marble torso, and her saggy breasts were heading separate ways. Toys and weapons lined a belt that almost resembled a small corset.

It was a display of force, splendidly done. And yet, from the start, Carol had found it all strangely unconvincing, like a child playing dress-up.

The girls knelt in dead silence. The Frau moved among them with a swaying gait, as if walking on a small boat. Between her fishnet-clad legs, strong as a miner's, she delivered punishment, dispensed favors.

Some girls she kissed on the mouth. Others were fit only to kiss her shiny boots, their backs arched like prawns. The less fortunate ones held their palms flat to be struck with the crop; with each blow they counted aloud themselves until reaching the agreed number.

When it was Carol's turn, her stomach bellowed hard from its austerity, and a wave of weakness swept through her. She almost thought she imagined it when the crop tapped her chin. But no. She looked up and met the Frau's narrowing green eyes.

"New face. I don't know you. Name?"

Carol said it, and said it again, having to repeat it louder.

"Karo? No. I don't think so. You're red like a rose. Your name is Rose."

Was Carol blushing? She must have been embarrassed, even indignant. To her, submission belonged in private, and must be earnest, voluntary--the happy fall, the way she'd given herself to Arthur. What unfolded here was the very opposite. A staged surrender, lapdogs rolling over on command to show their soft underbellies.

Hinted by Grace, Carol hurried to kiss the boots, already warm from all the previous worships. The Frau was not about to let her off the hook yet. Later Carol learned that she wouldn't tease every girl this way; it was reserved only for her favorite pet, no more than one each year.

"You look like a nice girl. Tell us more, Rose. Who sent you here? A man, a woman?"

The Frau's humoring voice took a genial turn and was full of false humility.

"A man, then. So you don't like women? You will like me. You see these other girls? They all like me."

Her eyes pinned Carol in place.

"So you came here for your husband? No. A lover. How cute! Give us a name."

Not waiting for an answer, the Frau asked what she will do for him, this man, this sweetheart? Carol said she loved him. What will Carol do for her love?

Carol said, gravely, everything. She'd do everything for her love.

As if smelling defiance in such an absolute answer, the Frau began to circle closer, baiting, testing relentlessly, until she learned Carol's soft spots. Then the viper sank her teeth in, deeper and deeper, not letting go until she scraped against the heart.

"Oh, but he's a fag. It's a fag's name. You know what names fags like? Big names, hero names. Kings' names. Does your king have a big Schwanz and tiny balls? He won't tell you, but he probably fucks you right after sucking ten other men. When he fucks you, he's thinking you're him, and he's some other man, and your cunt is his Arschloch. That's the only way he gets hard. No, Rose? You don't think so?"

Frau Zigma shook her head mockingly at Carol, then turned to the others, smirked.

"Poor Rose. She had no clue. She'll do everything for Arthur, but she doesn't know he's a fag. Tell me, is he in your house now, sleeping in your bed, sucking your husband's balls?"

The image made the Frau chuckle, and the others were compelled to join. She glanced at her pet, inclining her head to make a face: thoughtful, tantalizing, warning.

For a while, Carol said nothing and held back her tears. The floor was paved in an intricate pattern of linoleum, and for a moment she tried to make meanings out of the random, sprinkling shapes, but failed.

Then, she said quietly:

"Go to hell, skank."

There it was. The filth. Fine, exquisitely fine, like the first breath taken by someone nearly drowned. Even if she knew it's a mistake.

All sound in the room vanished. Carol could hear not only her own heartbeat, but Grace's too. The Frau turned back, feigning surprise and a flicker of livid horror, though the rebellion which she'd goaded into being was unfolding exactly as planned.

She stepped up to Carol, groping the crop tight in her fist.

"What did you just say?"

Carol looked up defiantly, wouldn't remind her.

"Twenty strokes! Give me your hands."

There was anticipation in the Frau's face when she announced the punishment. Swearing was strictly forbidden at the Academy and must be corrected on the spot. Ten for the "hell," ten for the 'skank." The punished was responsible for keeping her own score.

"No." Carol's voice was small but firm.

The Frau's face was hard at work to keep its features from erupting. The green gaze, caked in eyeshadow, had stopped blinking since some time ago.

Grace, brave and gentle Grace, tried to butt in, pleading on Carol's behalf, but the Frau raised her crop, sent the woman tumbling with one blow, and said, "One last chance, Rose girl. Out with your hands!"

Carol would return to this moment again and again--months later, when she'd settled into her new school, and years later, when she finally graduated, freed of her privilege, a humble servant of Eros toiling in the world's most destitute corners. She would wonder why she had grinned at Frau Zigma that morning, why she couldn't wipe that look off her face.

The truth was, Carol longed to sabotage herself; but more than that, it was a lamb's sympathy for the wolf, a rare quality so few had, to see beyond herself and play her tormentor's game. The mark of a truly perverted creature. Only Carol saw how lonely the Frau was; together they shall dredge pleasure from this stinking bog of pain.

"That's it," the Frau dropped her crop. "That's it. Take her clothes off."

Two--or three women, it was impossible to tell--caught Carol's arms. Their touch coerced and apologetic, they stripped her clean--unbuttoning the leotard, rolling down the tights. The clothes were tossed into a small pile, like dead animals.

Carol knelt again, this time with a reckless abandon. So, she said to herself, this is how it feels like to be singled out.

From the Frau's belt the whip was coming out, not hastily; now emerged a new voice from her, no more flirty and musical, but plaintive, wounded, dark. As if she had tried every other way to prevent the damage she's about to inflict on Carol.

Others had, with her silent consent, moved out of the way, clearing space for the two.

"Down on your elbows. Raise your hips."

The Frau could hardly conceal the disgust and excitement on her face, which, like a badly made mask, seemed to be slipping off, turning grotesque. Palms wouldn't do now. Only the thicker parts of the body could take what was coming.

She stepped behind Carol and disappeared from view. Now Carol had only the others' faces as a mirror, to see how shameful and terrible this was, being whipped on her first day.

The first one was hardly felt, the way a soldier often wouldn't feel the bullet that had just torn through a kidney. On the second hit, Carol broke into a crawl, scrambling on all fours towards the door. The Frau's fast boots cut her off. Not an ounce of courage after all!

They chased around the room. Each strike landed with such precision only a trained hand could dealt. Cracks of pain bloomed in rapid succession, until Carol's body was whipped up, soft and trembling, like a bowl of cream.

"You stupid shit-slut, who do you think you are?"

Like a crazed bear the Frau panted and frothed. How hard she struck! The whip cracked like gunshots in a valley. Her arm must be roped with veins and starting to cramp.

The whip was discarded. Now she loomed over Carol with her hands.

Bang over the ear, then bang over the other ear. Back and forth, sending the head ringing. Bang in the face. The nose started bleeding. The girl rolled over and was kicked in the leg by the sharp boot.

Forgive me! O please forgive me!

This was what Carol should've said. But instead her empty stomach whimpered. She was incoherent, insane, shrieking.

Not quite. She hadn't really been injured yet, though she prayed that she would. For a moment there's a lull, a strange pause. The Frau got down on Carol, biting her nipples, biting at her lips, licking the wriggling blood as it ran from her nose. The others watched.

They would continue, couldn't help continuing, couldn't leave each other alone. When they seemed stalled, they really were just waiting and building up steam.

"I'll show you, I'll show you."

A small train of curses on shit and genitals passed into Carol's ear. Then a boot pressed her face to the floor. Her hips were hoisted so high it became new her face. with a violence her cheeks were spread apart. Like a star-nosed mole the Frau's knuckles burrowed and drilled at the small knot.

Cold sweat ran down Carol's forehead; she shut her eyes against it. She felt like splitting in two. Words had given up on her, just some noise squeezed from her lungs, the last-ditch sound of humiliation and defeat.

The Frau was wrist-deep in Carol's ass. With her free hand, she grabbed Carol's hair and fiddled her like a hand puppet.

As if peering through dark glass, Carol saw the scene and was secretly pleased with her place in it. Between the master's muscular arms, the slave was learning quickly, already rehearsing for some future spectacle. She moaned her guts out, trying to arouse in her conqueror a final, sickened contempt.

When the hand pulled out behind her, Carol thought of the cases she used to peel off Arthur's sausage after he used her good. Stretched thin and leaking. A small, raw tail dragged out from her ass. The Frau's frantic voice called the others.

"Girls! Look what I found you. Taste it! While it's still warm."

They lined up for Carol's prolapse.

She fought down her noisy sobbing, so as to listen to their slurp and slosh, and when she lost interest in listening, and wanted to sob some more, she found she couldn't work herself up to it. The licking and sucking sent such tingles through her body that she almost started laughing.

Grace was in the line too. Later she told Carol, who insisted on knowing, that it tasted slightly briny (likely from the others' saliva) and was turning out in tight rings like a budding rose. That, as far as they were concerned, was how her new name stuck.

This was what they did until the morning training was officially over.

Off they went to their breakfast, each spooning a mouthful of the simple hearty meal, country-style, to fatten the cows. Now it's just Carol and Frau Zigma, swamped in their bittersweet lassitude.

The Frau sat with legs folded, admiring her work. Her eyes, now tender, asked: you aren't so bad off, are you? She was bluffing. What she wanted to know was, why didn't you obey? Why did it have to come to this? Be gentle. Love me and be gentle.

As for Carol, she was floating in a curious comfort as if kindly drugged, floating beyond herself, beyond responsibility. The pain in her rear had faded, displaced by a strange pleasure: her knowledge that the humiliation was now a memory she could return to, again and again.

In this state her existence took on a lovely simplicity: born to be trained, bred, and become the whore she'd spent her life denying she was.

Carol felt the Frau's lips press against her forehead, then move down to meet her own lips. She was in character, and an easy reconciliation would ruin the tension. But she'd have to stir from the corpse she was. So she scuffled, resisted, lost dignity.

The Frau saw there was not really much the matter.

"Oh, what do I do with a bad girl like you..."

Lamely Carol let herself be pulled into the Frau's lap, her legs parted like the wings of a moth. The tall woman rested her chin on Carol's shoulder and whispered into her ear. Come, come. I'll help you. Their hair, fire and gold, tangled as one. She bit her pale shoulder, sucked her earlobe. Carol, too, moved to stimulate the Frau where she needed it.

Some time passed; then, as if reaching the end of a long tunnel, their eyes narrowed. Out of both mouths sweet serenade of orgasm flowed like honey.

Thus began a secret affair, one that would cost the Frau dearly.

A trainer was not meant to fall in love with the trained. She should have known better. Unless, of course, she too wished to become one of them.

The academy was strict about its disciplines: only those who had proven themselves with three successful breeding were allowed to graduate. But the Frau, as it was discovered, was cursed with infertility.

Down to the very day of her disgrace, the Frau remained an enigma.

Others had tried and failed to guess her age. She clearly acted older than she was; perhaps after all she and Carol were of the same age: 33. One liked to imagine that, outside of school, the Frau lived a quiet life, far from her own family. But no, this was her home, this was her life: training wives of other men, herself a fellow prisoner.

Some theorized that Frau Zigma started out training men, which explained how hard her whip hit, as they were meant for denser bones. Carol knew more than anyone, but she wouldn't let none slip, not even the Frau's real name, which was Lena.

The humiliation would continue, to single Carol out from the rest, to break her again and again. Carol would have supplied plenty of incentives, but it was Lena's jealousy that drove it on: jealous of Carol's unconditional love for an unworthy man.

Lena tried, desperately, to make Carol love her. For a time she thought she'd gained the unfettered access to her soul. She'd made an escape plan for two.

Then came the betrayal--the day Lena was caught in her own classroom and, in front of all the girls, stripped bare and humbled by five men. When they were done, she was worse than the floor of a public latrine, but still had to open her mouth for the sparkling wine, nice and warm, just how a well-trained bitch liked.

As they dragged the Frau out, her eyes, full of disbelief, tried to meet Carol's; she denied her this last parting gift.

Disbelief, yes. How could anyone be so cruel and sell her out, knowing what terrible fate awaited an infidel, at the very moment when she was ready to lay it all bare, confess her sins, and elope with her favorite to the end of the world?

Oh, Carol could. Carol could.