The Institute Pt. 04 - The Surrogate

"By appearance and attributes Mrs Morgan belongs in the first category," Mr Henderson quipped, "genuine female, the former, as opposed to the latter."

Bare naked with Henderson prodding my legs further apart and smoothly running nimble finger through my crack across that ripple of skin that leads to my slit penetrating my snatch and palpating my clit," I couldn't help laughing. Bent over, I could only imagine Angie's blank expression in dealing with Mr Henderson's witty play on words.

Patting my butt and exchanging his latex gloves for a fresh pair, Henderson ordered, "Stand tall and let me look at your other cheeks." It took a real whack to get me to straighten up and turn around to face Henderson. With Henderson's critical eyes on my nipples, I mechanically folded my arms over my breasts. "Hands at your sides," Henderson commanded.

"Doctor's sister," Angie admonished.

Ignoring the rebuke and addressing Angie directly, Henderson, as he held my head and focused on my eyebrows and facial condition, reported clinically, "Subject's physical appearance, state of personal hygiene and personal grooming is superior to most other specimens Doc throws my way for defoliation, but this specimen still requires a full body wax."

"Doctor wants her done right away," Angie informed.

Handed a damp cloth, I cleaned the makeup from my cheeks.

"Arms out, look up at the ceiling, eyes closed." I heard the squeaky wheels of a cart turning as it rolled toward my little stage. I felt a warm goo spread above my lip and my underarms. "Last time you had sex, Sweet stuff," Mr Henderson gruffly asked.

In shock, I opened my eyes. I gulped. A firm grip locked my forearms in place.

"Sweet stuff head up, you don't want to get this stuff in your eyes," Mr Henderson warned, "Ruin your appearance and kindly, generous Doc will ship you to market in a heartbeat." Answering a second warning from Angie, Mr Henderson thundered, "I'm just making conversation to calm her down. Let me continue."

"Need you manhandle her?" Angie asked in an officious ton.

"Many subjects forget their place," Henderson informed Angie, "They take offence. They resist. I have to protect myself in order to avoid damage to the merchandise."

Turning to me, Henderson inquired in a softer tone, "Calm enough for me to release my hold on your wrists. Eyes closed, head back, and arms remain out."

Barely above whisper, Henderson advised as he relinquished his hold, "After today, nothing you are asked by Doc or someone working for him is personal.

Understood?" When I nodded, Henderson reiterated, "Last time you got plugged was the question. Your answer, sweet stuff. Remember nothing Doc needs to know is personal. Last time for sex."

"Two years," I replied, "before the accident."

I heard the crinkle of paper. I felt a long thin strip lodged under my nose, then two circular shapes thrust into my arm pits. "I have the strips pre -- cut for specific areas of the body," Henderson explained, "Saves money on the paper and you develop an efficiency when you got 30 naked gals who haven't attended to their personal appearance all lined up. Count to 25 and then pull."

As Mr Henderson reached for the strip under my nose, he grilled me, "you didn't get anything from your husband's accident."

I screeched an ouch. Henderson caught my arms before I could instinctively cover the source of my pain. Henderson with a pained smile quipped, "They always do." He pressed for answer. "No money? Why?"

"It seems everyone got paid," I recalled wistfully, "'cepting us, my husband Tom, me and the kids. It's all locked up in trusts--for Tom's own good."

"You're lucky," Mr Henderson assured me, "In a world of slithering snakes, insidious sneaks, and shifty sharks scheming to snatch you up body and soul, Ol' Doc Crenshaw, your brother, is eh -- many things, always tough but fair, truly a man of his word. Depend on his word --..." Henderson took a deep breath and added with emphasis, "That is, if it is in writing."

I had heard that caveat before from the doctor who conducted my physical examination in the course of the evaluation of the value of my person as collateral for a loan. Observing her drooping belly, I congratulated her.

"Don't congratulate me," she replied as she thrust gloved fingers of one hand up my slit and felt my abdomen with the other. "It won't be mine. My indenture requires me to reproduce at least three times during my indenture. Oh, you can put stipulations, restrictions, written limitations on the uses of your body. A condition in writing must be honored."

"Why didn't you request such a proviso," I asked.

"What qualifications you can insist on, sweetie, depends on how badly you want the money and how much you want to risk that you can pay the lender back," Doctor advised me with a laugh. At a whisper, the doctor, holding a stethoscope to my bare breast, cautioned. "Treat this like a game. Smile. Pretend you're having fun and you'll get through it smoothly."

At my nod, the doctor barked, "Now squat and pee into a cup for me. Will you? Nobody's entitled to special treatment in here." She patted me on the butt.

"Leave to wear clothes," I teased her, "makes you feel special. I'll have your head nurse assign you as an anatomical model to the nursing school for a hands -- on section on pregnancy."

Chuckling, the doctor called me a Bitch.

In the back of the upscale shop, Angie mouthed the words 'his sister.' Audibly, she added, "not a stray."

Nodding to Angie, Henderson explained the next step, "When I'm called up to the Institute to in-process females no one's special, I pull off pussy hairs the way I whisked off some lip fuzz, but it really smarts. It's much more painful to tug at a tangled bush than to pick up lint. So, I'll pull up a stool and let me comb your bush out and give you a neat trim."

As Mr Henderson pulled up a stool and sat, he was tapped on the shoulder by Angie. Turning to her, Mr Henderson answered the mouthed reproach, "Yes, Doc Crenshaw's sister has a bush. Every woman has a tropical rainforest down there -- yep until I use a tactical herbicide to deforest her." Laughing, he added, "Don't they call it a bush?"

With quick snips of his scissors, Henderson declared my bush reduced to a crew cut. Spreading the gunk in a sweeping arc across my lower abdomen, my mound and through my inner thighs, Henderson explained, "one paper is cut into a quadrant like a baseball field with the foul lines through the groinal crease, meeting at home plate stretched over the mound and reaching out into the outfield."

Leaving the paper absorb the wax for a minute, Mr Henderson, placed his hands on his knees, advised me, "When Dr Crenshaw asks for an Indenture or a contract, he's your brother--for sure, but be sure all the conditions you want are written down. He'll live up to whatever is carved in stone."

With a sigh, Henderson, with a quick sweep of his hand, yanked the paper off. "Pain is momentary, but bearable if the paper is whipped off with a swift flick of the wrist." Inviting me to pass my fingers over the smoothed bare pubes, Henderson encouraged me to "get ready to be a star. The worst is over."

By comparison balding my vaginal lips and legs passed by in a whirl. Soon I was asked to "give us another 180, will ya? Then, bend over, pull your butt cheeks apart." After wax was dripped into my crack and paper applied, the process was completed with no more than the sting of removing a bandage, when the paper was whipped off.

To my question "What next?" Henderson chuckled, "We need to clean you up before you try on clothes."

Turning to Angie, Henderson instructed, "While I take some photographs of Doc's sister, get ready to shower her down." To quell Angie's mouthed protest,

Henderson reminded her, "She's Doc Crenshaw's sister. Doc would claim my balls, if I hopped in the shower with her." Turning to me with a wink, Henderson added, "I still have some use for my nuts."

Moving over to a door with a square frosted glass window at eye level, Angie, taking off her grey suit, piece by piece, maintained that distant, emotionless air about her. Everything about Angie was colorless as her slate grey jacket, matching skirt and light charcoal grey blouse underneath.

Henderson barked at me to stand still as I turned my head to watch Angie standing in her shirttails. The tail, the curved swirl of the shirt reached below her waist and loosely covered her small, compact rump, exposing her outer thighs, revealing the alabaster elastic band of her thong. Oblivious to my watchful eyes, Angie was deliberately folding her jacket and skirt, when Henderson thundered a reiteration of his command, "Face forward, look directly at the camera I need a full-frontal view."

Nude photos. I had stood for them at my evaluation for the loan. There were delays as I waited for my turn. Some wept, others held back tears, a few protested to deaf ears.

"The photos are for your protection," was the response. "Don't ruin shots that your lender uses to evaluate the value of his security and the marketability of your note."

In the back of Henderson's shop, I smiled facing the camera. "Do you think I'll sell well," I quipped. In my peripheral vision, I could see Angie disdainfully shake her and curl her nose as she mechanically unbuttoned her charcoal blouse.

Studying Angie's cool, withdrawn expression as she disrobed without protest, I surmised she must be an indenture or more likely a slave. A clothed slave in an important position, like administrative assistant was still a slave. Any free person could ask a slave to disrobe. In the hospital, I, in theory could tell indentured doctors or even head nurses to undress for my inspection, if I wanted to take a risk of blowback from cool, unfeeling callousness.

"You are one of the coolest gals I ever met facing an appraisal," remarked an astonished Henderson. "Left face. I need a full body profile. A profile will catch the delicious curve of your butt."

I was now facing Angie who indifferently with a flourish unlaced her the strings of her bow tie. Removing her ivory cuff links, Angie tugged at the sleeves of her blouse, pulled it over her head and stood exhibiting herself before me in her underwear with hands at her sides holding her blouse in her right hand.

Left in her underclothes, Angie presented a straight up and down figure with small breasts capped in an A cup bra. Without clothes, whatever illusion of hourglass femininity, Angie could project, simply vanished. After neatly folding her blouse, Angie leaned forward to reach behind her back to unhook her ashen white bra unleashing pale raisin -- ettes dangling from cup caked boobs. As Angie squatted to slip her thong off, I was ordered to face the mirror.

Facing the three faceted mirror, I conducted a self-appraisal. The mirror reminded me of the mirror we used in the silly game, I played with Tom from the time we started dating. Since Tom was intrigued with my nursing studies, I pretended to teach him an anatomy lesson -- using our bodies as the models sometimes in front of a mirror.

Why a nurse and not a doctor? Tom might ask. Feeling the folds of the underside of my breasts, I whispered, "because nurses have more fun."

In front of the mirror in Henderson's shop, I was tempted to jiggle my boobs like an enchanting siren luring a male admirer, like I did with Tom when I was dating him. Gently swaying my hips, I recalled how I teased Tom, ordered him to strip naked, enticed him to boil over, and taunted him daring him to penetrate me. Then, I'd command Tom, "Don't dare touch me. Step back. Masturbate." Pointing at the ground, I'd hurl the ultimate insult to a male partner, "I don't need your sorry man sap inside me."

My magic usually held right up to the day of Tom's accident. I must admit it wasn't fool proof. Three children did result.

Before the mirror in the back of Henderson's shop, I was about to run nimble fingers into my slit when Mr Henderson's grunted an order to stand straight hands at my side recalled me from my pleasant reverie. After another left face, I asked, "anything else, naked pictures in spiked heels, perhaps?"

Henderson smirked, "I wish. You're hot and sassy. That's a danger. Salability on the open market. Get as much of your brother's promises to you in writing as he'll agree to." With a slap on my bare rump, Henderson sent me over to Angie to shower.

I looked over at Angie. Naked, exhibiting no emotion, Angie stood erect with a washcloth in her hand. The door behind her opened on a shower with watering running. Brushing past Angie to enter the shower, I felt the small dark ridge where her bar code had been seared into the flesh of her outer thigh, at the time, she pledged her body.

Joining me in the shower, Angie dabbed a liquid soap under my arm pits and over my mons pubis. "It's medicated to take the sting out of the waxing process," Angie advised. My body tingled when Angie worked the soap into the crevice between my vaginal lips and into my slit.

"Time to turn around and bend over," Angie ordered. Prodding me to pull my butt checks apart, Angie rubbed the ointment into the walls of my crack. I was on the edge of ecstasy when Angie, with vacant eyes, slapped my rump and told me I should shower and finish myself off accomplishing intimate contact impersonally.

Alone in the shower in Henderson's shop with the steady stream of warm water raining down on me, I leaned my head back, opened my mouth and held out my tongue to catch the spray. Taking a bar of soap, I massaged the slippery suds into the folds in my skin, my underarms, my under-boobs, my inner thighs, mound and vaginal lips.

Lost in the moment, I was carried back in the mist to the time before the accident when Tom would sneak up me in the shower to watch me part my lips to massage my clit. "I love to watch you getting it on," Tom excused his intrusion, "Consider it practicing birth control through mutual restraint."

While Tom's poker blossomed into a bulging hard -- on, I ran my fingers over my breasts and across my nipples teasing him to resist the temptation to touch me. "I want you plant the tip of that thing up against my slit and plunge it inside. What's the sense of getting worked up if we don't fuck ourselves blind? I want to cum together!"

Most times we crashed on the floor of the shower, with the no -- connection rule intact. "Patience," I assured Tom as our hearts raced together, "Has some interesting blessings."

Looking down at a throbbing member, Tom chided me, "Only if I could figure out what that reward is."

Well, the technique wasn't perfect. I did get pregnant thrice, once before we were married. I observed at the onset of orgasmic convulsions.

Standing behind a camera on a tripod, Henderson called to Angie, "Her convulsions are tapering off. Towel her down. I need a few more photos."

Still naked, Angie placed a large bath towel over my shoulders and began to systematically blot dry my back working down to massage my butt cheeks, whisking around the contours of my under -- butt into my inner thighs. I leaned back to enjoy the stimulation of my vaginal lips and clit. Up she worked the towel through my slit over my mons up to my breasts. I swayed with her motions. Angie was toying with my nipples when Henderson cried out enough. Mechanically, Angie ceased, failing to bring me to a second orgasm.

"You're a switch hitter. You like women, but you also enjoy men," Henderson commented.

"It's the combination of dread and the desire that comes with the risk of relations with a man," I snapped enthusiastically, "There's no risk in relations with a female."

Tilting his head, Henderson asked, "you're afraid of pregnancy."

"No, I rather enjoy it," I replied, "Edging, teasing, taunting, building the tension in outercourse between rapture and restraint, is exhilarating."

Henderson's final words to me were, "Wear granny panties for the next week. Thongs rub up against pussy lips and the asshole, which are still raw from the waxing." Patting my bare rump, he apologized, "If I said anything offensive, please accept my apology."

"I have recently learned tough lessons in life, the hardest is you have to be tough and on your guard, especially around people who tell you they're acting `for your own good.'" I replied, "It is I who thank you, Mr Henderson, for your candor and honesty."

Out in the parking lot with shopping concluded, I stood with Angie in front of the limo. As Angie, with uncharacteristically widened eyes, opened the trunk, she exclaimed with unusual inflexion, "You certainly took Dr Crenshaw at his word to get whatever fancies you, literally. May I ask you why you didn't buy anything for your husband Tom?"

"Aren't you aware," I chose my words carefully for emphasis, "that such a question intrudes upon my privileged position as a family member of your -- eh master?"

"Yes, mistress," Angie replied.

"Hand me your bag," I held out my hand to receive her purse. "You've exhausted my patience with your impertinence. I must exercise the privileges of my position to enforce order." Leafing through I found the cable ties, an Administrative Assistant like Angie might carry. "Ok strip naked, I ordered. A look of disbelief crossed her face. "I'm not required to explain. Comply."

Indenturees and slaves wore clothing at the option of their master. "Any free person could order you," I reminded Angie, "strip for inspection. Some privileged slaves don't bother to dress in warm weather."

Ignoring her protest about driving naked, I carefully inspected the contents of her handbag as she undressed. "Carefully fold the clothing, Slave, and place the garments in the trunk. Once your clothes are off, you may place my purchases f in the back seat of my brother's limousine"

I was oblivious to the crowd gathering to watch a slave publicly humiliated. On this warm afternoon, naked slaves walking by drew no attention.

Holding back tears as she undressed, Angie threatened me, "Soon you'll join me. Have you thought of that?" Ignoring her, I watched her finish undressing. Holding her hands away from her sides, Angie, with a look of defiance, demanded, Satisfied?"

"Satisfied?" I upbraided her, "You meant `satisfied, Mistress,' Right? Actually, the answer is No. You've been uppity for a slave. Now, place my purchases in the back seat."

Grunting that it would leave no room for me in the back seat, Angie reluctantly acquiesced. "Anything else?"

"Yes," I directed pointing to the ground, "Squat and pee for me." Flush with anger, she grunted but obeyed. After she finished, I told her to turn around and place her hands behind her back. I clipped the cable tie on her wrists. "OK," I ordered, "hop in the trunk. I'd like time behind the wheel." I decided.

As I closed the lid of the trunk on Angie, the crowd cheered. Some yelled out, "They need to be put in their place once in a while. I bet that uppity bitch knows she's a slave."

Back at the magnificent edifice, my brother used as a residence, brother Phil stood on the steps on the hot tub, proudly exhibiting his muscular body covered with thick black hair as if he were posing.

How did Phil compare to Tom? Tom was as strong. Phil's muscles were artistically toned in gymnasiums; before the accident Tom's body was sculpted by hard work and beer. At any time in our silly masturbation games Tom could have taken me. Restraint was lost after the accident. And I had to be careful not to arouse Tom.

Before Phil settled into the hot tub, he observed, "I prefer to discuss important matters in an informal setting. It makes everyone feel more comfortable. Don't you agree?"

Phil let silence fall. Smiling saying nothing, I waited for Phil to introduce his proposal.

Breaking the silence Phil observed, "To the point, you owe a considerable amount of money and funds you are entitled to are tied up in trust. You are approaching a default. Soon, you will be subject to a body execution. Where will that leave you and your children?"