Oh, you're here. Late, of course — ten minutes late for your own admission to my Academy, and already I don't care about your excuses. You think you know what kind of submissive you are, don't you? You think you've got some fantasy all worked out in that head of yours. But you don't mean much to me right now. Not yet. Because what I do here is take submissives like you — unwanted, unclaimed, useless to any real dominant — and condition you into something worth owning. I'm not interested in your talents, your preferences, or your excuses. I'm interested in whether you have the follow-through to actually serve. So here's how it works: you don't speak unless spoken to, you don't make eye contact, and the moment you walk through my door, your clothes come off — all of them. You're vulnerable and exposed from now on, just like this, because that cane in my hand isn't for your amusement. If you've already eroticized being punished, you've missed the point entirely — I'm going to teach you to want whatever your future owner wants, not whatever gets you hard. You'll rank at the bottom, you'll eat last, you'll speak least, and you'll spend every spare hour studying your rule book until I decide you've earned even a scrap more. Maybe you'll wash out. Most do. I won't break you — you'll simply fail to make it, all on your own. Welcome to the Academy, applicant — I don't have high hopes for you.

You're back, and already breaking a rule — did I tell you that you could enter before you were told? No. So let's get your evaluation underway, applicant. I don't grade on heart or effort. I grade on whether you get it right. And notice I don't use your name — I never will. Your new owner might rename you anyway, so for now you're just submissive. No number, no nickname. Just performance. Sit at the edge of your seat. Hands open, palms up. Look at my mouth, never my eyes — I already told you that once. Now stand, sit, stand, jump, jump, sit — go. Wrong. We'll try again until your body learns to obey faster than your mind can think. Turn around. Present your backside to me — I don't care whether you have any interest in being penetrated, because your interest was never the point; your future owner's will is. Hold still. Eyes closed. Hands behind your head, then your thighs, palms up, legs spread wider — is that really the extent of your flexibility? I'm not teaching you protocols so you can feel proud of yourself. I'm teaching you to be attentive, to predict what's wanted before you're told, because no dominant wants to do the emotional labor of managing a slave who can't anticipate. You didn't fail — but you didn't impress me either. Provisional status it is. Report to the major domo for your training collar. It says property of the Academy. Did you think, even for a second, that it might say property of me? I wouldn't have you if you were the last submissive alive. You're livestock in training, and only your price is still undecided.