I am a strong woman. I have always known that. I was a tomboy and grew up playing sports in high school. But I've also had an interest in writing. And that naturally brought me to journalism. And my personal fortitude made me a strong advocate and seeker of justice, particularly for women who were powerless. To that end, I've gone undercover to write stories about trafficking and exploitation. I'm proud of my work and I'm proud that I've brought justice to those who otherwise had no recourse.

So when I heard about "the institute," I had a natural preconception of what it was. What I had heard was that there was a sort of underground S&M... school I guess, where abusive husbands sent their wives to be "trained." The whole concept brought images of wartime "comfort women" and filled me with outrage. I was determined to expose them for what I thought they were.

I first found out about it via an anonymous tip that led me to a sub-forum on a kink site. That sub-forum was almost entirely filled with dominants sort of trading tips and techniques for keeping their submissives in check. It all sounded abusive and reinforced my priors. There were a couple of references to something that was only called "the institute." In registering for the forum, I had made up a male profile, of course. I DMed a couple of different other men to make subtle inquiries and made my way through to a contact with someone who purported to be connected with it. They made an appointment with me at an office to discuss things with "my girlfriend." I gave the name "Monica Jones" rather than my own.

The appointment was at a rather nondescript office building downtown. I dressed in a smart pantsuit for the appointment. The other suites on the directory were a mixture of lawyers, accountants and a couple of import/export expediters. Strangely, the suite number I was given was absent from the directory, but was easy enough to find. It was simply a door, just like all the others, but simply labeled with just the suite number - no firm name or anything.

I opened the door to find a fairly stark antechamber. There was a small couch and an empty coffee table. Opposite the entry door was another door. On the wall opposite the couch was a clock. That was all there was. I was only a minute or two early, so I didn't sit down.

As the clock hit the top of the hour the door opened and a woman emerged. She was tall, dressed in a striking black form-hugging pencil skirt, blouse, jacket and heels. The effect was almost incongruous. Who is she trying to impress?

"Won't you come in, Miss Jones?"

She turned back into the office within and I followed her. The room inside was almost as stark as the waiting room. There was a desk and an office rolling chair in front of it. She walked to the other side of the desk and invited me to sit as she did.

"I suspect you have an idea of what the institute is, but I will tell you right now that you are probably wrong. It will help if I give you a little insight into our philosophy first. Society today messages to us women that we are equal to men - that equality is paramount. We believe that message is an error. Men and women are not equal, they are different. That does not imply at all that one is superior to the other - far from it. We simply are different in a number of ways that span from the obvious to the more subtle.

"We here at the institute believe that rather than attempt to overcome those differences that we women should celebrate, cherish and lean into them. That means perfecting feminine beauty and sexuality. Because a woman who is at the pinnacle of femininity will be cherished by a good man and, well, that's why all the fairy tales end that same way, isn't it?"

She paused to let that sink in. My first reaction to her world-view was to scoff at it as paternalistic. How could any modern woman not roll her eyes at the very suggestion?

She smirked. "I know what you're thinking - I thought the same thing once myself. But let me assure you, we are not trying to tell you that barefoot, pregnant and chained to a stove is the desired state for women. We don't want to give up our rights. But the highest of those rights is to live the life of your choice, is it not? We just want to offer you a choice you may not have considered... and that you may find you prefer.

"I can't really show you from here what the program looks like. What I can do is tell you that we do not use drugs, brainwashing, or coercion. From the moment you start your stay with us, you are always free to leave. We are not a cult. The program is immersive - you will be living with us 24/7 for the duration of your residency. You will have unrestricted and unsupervised access to your phone for an hour a day to keep in contact with whoever you like. The rest of the time you will be immersed in the program. We charge a nominal weekly fee for your living expenses that will be charged on a card you register with us at the start."

She paused again. "I know this seems like we're asking you to take a leap of faith, but I promise you - for whatever my word is worth - that you will be a better person - no, a better woman for joining us."

Normally, of course, I would have walked away from this laughing at the entire pitch. But this was my job as an investigative journalist. I had to admit that I had no reports that this outfit was abusing women, but how could this sort of thing be taken seriously unless it was some sort of cult? That's what I had to find out.

What was interesting was the contradictions they set out. I'd be locked up 24/7... but able to freely use my phone an hour a day and leave any time I wanted? I couldn't wrap my brain around it.

In the end, she gave me a form to fill out. "Monica Jones" lived with her boyfriend and it was his card (which really belonged to my editor) that I used for payment. They said that they'd send a ride-share car to pick me up Saturday morning and that I was to dress casually and bring a change of clothing in a backpack or suitcase and my phone, but nothing else.

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I met with my editor after that and we talked through the plan. I had no idea what to expect, but shared my phone location with him so he'd know where I was (or at least where my phone was). I told him I would text him whenever they allowed me and we agreed on a couple of code phrases I could use if I was under duress. There was nothing else to do but pack a bag like they asked Saturday morning.

The car was a nondescript sedan. I walked out of my apartment building with my rucksack and the driver greeted me with "Monica?" and I nodded. The car pulled away and drove for about a half hour out of town and into the foothills off to the east. The neighborhood was sparsely populated with large, stately homes. The car eventually pulled into a gated driveway of a large, Gothic-looking house. The driver stopped and I got out and he pulled away.

Not knowing what else to do, I walked up to the front door. There was no doorbell button, but there was a large knocker in the center of the door, so I gave it a swing and it made a deep clank. A moment later the door opened and a woman about my age answered. She was wearing a sort of knee-length, thin white robe wrapped around her with a tie. Around her neck was a wide black cloth choker. The wrap, or robe, or whatever it was had a plunging neckline and it was pretty obvious she didn't have a bra on underneath it. She smiled and took a step back away from the door. I followed her in. She walked a short way down the hall and turned into a door on the left and stopped. I followed her in and found myself in a bare room with another woman standing there. She was dressed far more formally - not very differently than the intake lady did. She had on a similar, snug black pencil dress and heels and held her hands behind her back. Against one wall was a series of cubbies, most of which had a bag or backpack and a nametag.

The austere woman addressed the other girl first, "Thank you, Tracy."

Tracy smiled and dipped her head and left without a word. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like she was shrugging her robe, or whatever it was, off her shoulder as she went. Before I could consider that further the woman in charge spoke.

"Good morning, Miss Jones. You may call me Mrs. Smith. We have been expecting you. As you know, this is a training program. We are going to introduce you to... well... a new way of thinking about yourself. All we ask of you is that you keep an open mind and that as long as you remain in the program you follow our instructions. Those instructions are not always going to be easy, and some of them you may regard initially as... less than pleasant. But I want you to know that many, many women before you have gone through this and the lessons they have learned have made every single one of them the best versions of themselves that they could be."

She brought her hands out from behind her back and held her right hand open. In it was a clump of black fabric.

"This is a symbol of your continued consent to this program. As long as you wear it, it indicates your willingness to continue. At any moment you may remove it and stop your participation. If you're unable to remove it yourself - if your hands are unavailable - you may demand its removal. We are not kidnappers and have no intention of keeping anyone here unwillingly."

She held her hand out and I as I took ahold of the fabric I could see it was a velvet choker just like the one Tracy was wearing. I wrapped it around my neck and worked the clasp behind my head.

"You will find that it's more comfortable with a snug fit rather than loose."

I tightened the adjustment until the fabric felt snug, but not tight. I brought my hands away and felt the choker remain, a new, constant presence.

"Now, please find the cubby with your name on it and place your backpack inside. If you reach around to the back you'll find a cable you can plug into your phone that will keep it charged."

I couldn't help but realize the unstated part - that I was going to be leaving my phone here. I walked over and found "Monica's" name and stuffed my backpack in, then pulled my phone out of my pants pocket, reached into the back to find the cord and plugged it into the bottom of the phone, set it down, and took a step back. I couldn't help but feel a slight bit of unease. That phone was my potential lifeline and I was going to leave it behind, even if not very far away.

"Come with me," she said and turned to walk out the door. I stepped behind and followed her down the hall to another room. This one was another rather small room, but brightly lit and with one side of the room an entire wall-sized mirror. The woman stepped behind me and put her hands on my shoulders and turned me towards the mirror and took a step back while I looked at the backward image of myself before me. I was the most ordinary girl I knew. I was 24 years old, 5'5" and had shoulder-length straight brown hair that I barely paid any attention to. I was wearing flair legged jeans, tennis shoes and a brown T shirt and a sports bra.

Mrs. Smith spoke again, "This is the beginning of your journey. The first step is accepting yourself and the beauty and wonder of your body. Please undress."

I blinked. There was no one in the room but the two of us. This was certainly unusual, but I'd undressed before in a woman's locker room. There was no one else to see. What could be the harm?

I peeled the T-shirt up and over my head, turned it back right-side out, folded it and let it fall down to the floor. I kicked my tennis shoes off and reached for my waist and unsnapped and unzipped my jeans and peeled them down and off, folded them up and put them on top of the shirt. I tugged the bra over my head and my tits flopped out and I dropped the bra down on the pile. Lastly, I stuck my thumbs in my panties and pushed them down my hips until they were loose enough to fall to my ankles. I kicked them over to the pile.

All of that done, I looked back to my image in front of me. I couldn't help but hold my hands in front of my crotch.

"Don't hide yourself, Monica. Look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are. Put your hands at your sides and stand up straight. Shoulders back."

I did as I was told. I could see the difference better posture made immediately. My crotch had a wispy dusting of brown hair that I kept trimmed into a triangle. With my shoulders back my breasts perked up and I could see the nipples sticking proudly out from my pink areolas. My breasts were C cups - I was never quite sure whether I wanted them larger or smaller - just that I always wanted something... else.

"You're stunning, Monica. You just need to see it properly. Close your eyes, please."

I closed my eyes and my ears perked up to fill in the world. I heard the door open and a couple of sets of soft footsteps. And then I felt a single soft hand rest on my shoulder and sucked in a breath in surprise.

"It's ok. Keep your eyes shut and relax, Monica."

The hand on my shoulder moved down my arm and another hand came to rest on my other arm and then a third on my back and a fourth on my tummy. The hands started just moving over my body, gently roaming and caressing me. The touch was gentle... not a massage, not a tickle, and the hands conspicuously avoided my private places, but the hands came very close to my breasts and ran up my thighs before moving away from my crotch. Something deep in my brain almost wished the hands had lingered. All of it made my heart beat faster and louder and my face felt impossibly hot.

"Now open your eyes, Monica." As she said that the hands instantly withdrew. My eyes opened and I looked on my image in the mirror with new eyes. I felt like I could see a glow come off my skin. I was breathing hard and I could see my breasts move with my chest. Behind me near the back wall were the two women who had been caressing me. They were naked like I was except for their black velvet chokers and heels, smiling and standing completely at ease, but I scarcely noticed them at the time, enthralled as I was with the new view of myself.

Mrs. Smith approached and spoke quietly in my ear, "Do you like what you see, Monica?"

The woman in the mirror looked back at me and I saw her say, "Yes."

Mrs. Smith smiled. "I think we can take it up a little, though. Come with me."

She took a few steps towards the door and I watched her, still rooted in place. Did she expect me to follow her naked? She turned back with an expectant look on her face. I looked down at my pile of clothes and back at her. She smirked and said, "No, you won't be needing those. Don't worry - it's just us girls here." And she turned and continued walking. I started walking after her.

As we walked down the hall, I passed a couple of other naked, collared women passing by on their way to or from other rooms in the mansion. My trip with Mrs. Smith was to another door down the hall. When I entered this new room, what greeted me was essentially a complete hair and nail salon. Inside was another woman wearing a smart white work outfit. She smiled when the two of us entered.

"Kathy, this is Monica. Monica, I'm going to leave you with Kathy." With that, Mrs. Smith walked out the door.

Kathy rose up and walked in front of me with an easy smile. "Let's see what we have to work with. Tell me about your routine, Monica."

"Routine? I dunno. I take a shower every other morning or so and wash my hair, I dunno, every week and then blow it dry?" I was a bit flummoxed by the question. I didn't have much of a social life, so it had been years since I really had any reason to care much other than dressing sort of office-professional. Kathy took my hands and held them to look at my nails, which were, well, ordinary, really.

"Well, you're very pretty just as you are, but I think if we make just a couple of little tweaks you'd be an absolute knock-out. What do you say?"

The next couple of hours were a flurry of activity. Kathy gave me a mani-pedi, applying pretty red polish to my nails - hands and feet. She shampooed and dried my hair, giving it a little curl at the bottom and using just a little bit of hairspray to give it some shape. I had to admit, the way it framed my face made a big difference.

"There's just one more thing," Kathy said and picked up a shoe box from the floor. She opened the box and inside was a strappy pair of medium heels. She handed them to me and I put them on and stood up. I had worn heels before, but really only on very special occasions, so it took me a minute to get used to them. Kathy directed me over to a full-length mirror on the wall and stood back while I took in the whole picture in awe. I couldn't believe the result of just that little bit of care. I was still naked, of course, but the way my face was framed by my hair now and the way the vibrant red color made my nails pop... And most of all the extra curve in my ass from the heels. It was a remarkable transformation.

"You're beautiful. You should be proud of yourself, Monica. Any man would kill or die for you."

Looking at myself I had to admit I sort of believed her. As I looked in the mirror Mrs. Smith returned.

"I think you could use a little bit of sun, Monica. A little bit of a tan would be a good thing. Come with me."

I tore my gaze away from the mirror and turned to follow her. She led me outside to a patio with a bunch of lounge chairs arranged around a small pool. A couple of women were in the pool, and a couple more were laying on the lounge chairs. As was becoming an obvious pattern, all of them were nude except for the de rigueur black choker.

Mrs. Smith spoke again. "You can leave your shoes over there." She gestured to a table off to the side that had several similar pairs of heels, a few bottles of sunscreen and a couple piles of folded towels. She continued, "Be sure to use the sunscreen. You don't want to get sunburned." With that, she turned and went back inside.

As I walked over to pick up a bottle of sunscreen another girl came up to me. I recognized her as Tracy - the girl who let me in earlier.

"Hi. I didn't get your name when you came in. Welcome to the program."

"Hi, Tracy, right? I'm Monica."

"Nice to meet you." She looked down at the bottle of sunscreen in my hand. "Want me to do your back?"

"Sure."

I squirted some lotion into my hand and handed her the bottle. While I started to rub the lotion on my arms and shoulders she stepped behind me and started rubbing some into my back.

"So, Tracy, I have to ask... we're all... naked... like... all the time?"

"Basically, yeah. I put on a robe to answer the door for you, and there are some times when men are present. We wear them for that. But we're beautiful women, and the whole idea is that we're all inspiring each other to be the best women we can be."

My anti-patriarchial sense flared up a bit, "'Best' at what, though? Is being pretty and sexy... enough?"

Tracy came back in front of me and gave me an easy smile. "I mean... it is and it isn't. I know where you're coming from. I was a 'girl boss' when I came here. And I thought the same things I suspect you're thinking right now too. But it's all trade-offs, isn't it? I can't decide for you, but for me...?" She smiled and paused. "Well, you'll see for yourself."

She took my hand, handed me a big floppy sun hat and led me over to a lounge chair. I sat down and put my feet up. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. It wasn't hot, but the sun felt luxuriously warm on my skin. As I lounged in the sun, I took in the sights around me. An Asian-looking girl with long, jet-black hair looked to be doing laps in the pool. Tracy had taken up a yoga mat and was doing various stretches. A blonde was on the other side of the pool, sunning herself like I was.

As I noticed the blonde, she started to stir. I watched as she brought one hand up to her breast and started to caress it. As she did, she snaked her other hand down to rest between her legs. Her hands moved slowly over herself and she brought one foot up towards herself, bending her knee and I could see her begin to run a finger around her sex while her other hand began to tweak at her nipple.

No one else seemed to take any particular notice as she began to masturbate in earnest, her movements slowly picking up speed.

I've never been particularly drawn to women, but somehow watching this woman lost in her own pleasure was hypnotizing. I could feel a distinct flutter deep in my own belly as I watched her fingers begin to pick up speed. And then, suddenly, I could see her seemingly seize up for just a moment and then relax, her hands moving over her entire body as she lay panting.

I felt my own body reacting seemingly on its own to the spectacle I had just witnessed. I squeezed my thighs together and tried my best to ignore it and instead try to dispassionately ponder the mindset - still so foreign to me - that would allow someone to pleasure themselves so openly.

As the sun started to get lower someone rang a bell inside and everyone started to file in. I gave myself a quick spritz with the pool-side shower, toweled off and reclaimed my heels.

I fell in line with everyone else and followed them to a large dining space. There were three round tables with chairs around them and a couple of tables with small plates with portions of food on them. I walked over to see what was on offer. There were plates of what looked like a caesar salad, some small bowls of a couple kinds of soup, some small crustless sandwiches and mousse and small tarts for dessert. What struck me immediately was that every dish was quite petite. The other women were picking plates and silverware and taking them back to the tables to sit and eat. There didn't seem to be any sort of quota on how much you could have... but the fact that the servings were definitely smaller was clearly intentional. That said, it did make sense. None of us were athletes or anything, so it was sensible that we wouldn't be gorging ourselves.

I sat at a table with five others of us, and they all introduced themselves to me and welcomed me. We all of us were, of course, dressed (or rather, undressed) the same way. What struck me immediately was how different it was to see everyone's naked breasts. The variety was novel for me. The areolas and nipples ran the gamut - large, small, pink, brown... The breasts themselves were also quite varied. One girl was pretty flat, but all of us were fairly perky. Everyone's hair evinced a sort of practiced casual look - the sort of thing that took effort to achieve without showing it.

The conversation stayed light, talking about TV shows - asking me (as a new arrival) about shows they followed and were missing during their stay there. I asked them about themselves and what brought them. Most of them were doing it for the sake of a man in their life - either doing it for their man explicitly at his direction or because they wanted to make themselves better for their man's sake. I had had casual boyfriends, of course, in high school and college, but had eschewed dating for the sake of my career. Listening to them talk about willingly changing themselves for the sake of someone else was something I just couldn't quite process. And yet, that's why they - we? - were all here. Listening to them, none of them gave off the warning signs I had come to know from my work with trafficked girls, so I didn't have any reason to fear for them. And yet. And yet.

The last girl at our table was different - she said she was there to make herself more "marketable." She felt that by learning how to be sexier that she'd attract more men to pick from. It struck me as being an amazingly cynical viewpoint.

After we ate, everyone bussed their own dishes and the food tables and dishes were removed by staff (all women, of course, and by this point I surmised that anyone wearing clothes was an employee). Then from somewhere some games were produced - cards, checker/chess boards and pieces... Some of the women wandered off, but a lot of them stayed. I played a couple of games of Gin Rummy - won one, lost another.

After the second game, Mrs. Smith appeared and said, "If you'll come with me, I'll show you where your room is. Your phone is there and you can use it until you go to bed." I turned and followed her.

She led me up the stairs to a hall with a bunch of doors, not unlike a hotel hallway. She came upon one with a "Monica" label and opened it. Inside there was a full size bed with a luxurious looking, thick, pillowed comforter and three enormous pillows. Next to it was a small bedside table with my phone sitting on it, a lamp and a box of tissues. Next to the bed was a comfortable looking easy chair. On the opposite wall was an alcove that had a sink with a mirror above it and a shelf full of all sorts of toiletries and beauty products - hair spray, a comb and brush, feminine razors, an electric toothbrush, floss, soap, tampons... they had clearly thought of everything. Next to the alcove was a full length mirror. My immediate thought was how omnipresent mirrors were here. It was clearly an intentional part of the institutional mindset that we should have every opportunity to gaze upon ourselves.

"There is a shared shower and toilet at the end of the hall. For now, I'll leave you to your own devices. We will talk more soon. Good night, Monica." She turned and left, closing the door behind her.

I grabbed my phone and sat down in the easy chair. I sent a quick text to my editor telling him that I was in, that everything was fine, and that so far there was nothing remarkable to report on. He replied that he was glad to hear from me and that he was able to get a location from my phone and that if anything untoward happened or if he didn't hear from me he'd call the cops. I reassured him that, at least at the moment, there was no indication of any foul play.

With that done... I realized I had nothing else to do. I could stream something with my phone, I suppose, but I just didn't feel like it. Instead, I thought back on everything that had happened throughout the day so far. As I did, I caught sight of myself in the mirror across from me and my eyes stayed there, looking at my own self. Somehow my own image mesmerized me. I stood up and held my shoulders back, presenting my body to the mirror. I slowly turned around so I could see as much of myself as I could. I marveled at the transformation the heels made to my ass. I struck a couple of poses in the mirror for myself. And out of nowhere those same feelings made their presence known and my hand drifted down to my crotch.

There's no one here.

I laid down on the bed and spread my legs apart. My mind conjured up an image of a muscled man holding me in his arms and kissing me and my fingers began to dance across my sex. As I played with myself, the man in my mind's eye took me for his own, holding my wrists immobile and fucking me with his hard cock. And that image drove me over the edge of my orgasm and I cried out and shuddered my way through it, able to do nothing but pant when the earthquake died down.

And then my energy left. I yawned and turned over and drifted off to sleep.