Returning to Northrop as a sophomore, the first thing that struck Robin was how different the freshers all seemed to her. Angie actually put it best, when the two of them were chatting that evening; looking over her coffee mug, she dimpled, her eyes demurely downcast, and said simply “What do you make of the raw material?”

It took Robin a few moments to realise what her friend had meant, but once she did she couldn’t help but laugh. “I know,” she said. “How far we’ve come!”

“Have you met Denise?”

If asked the question a year ago, Robin would have struggled to be sure, to match the name to the face. After all the training of their first year she could be entirely confident; if she didn’t remember the name, she hadn’t met her. “Not yet.”

“I was talking to her for a little at the mixer earlier. She has a lot of potential, I think, but I’m not sure why she’s here. She hates the idea of becoming what Northrop makes.”

“I think some of us are always here because someone else thinks we should be,” Robin said. “If someone else is willing to foot the bill sometimes you can’t say no to them.”

Both women paused for a moment after that utterance. It seemed to them as if they’d heard that phrase before, in someone else’s voice. But neither of them knew this was true for the other, and neither of them could remember the details, and so it went unremarked.

“Mm.” Angie nodded. “It could well be that. I hope the teachers help her see the way forward soon.”

“Me too.” Robin smiled warmly.

“Mostly, I just marvel at how different they all seem. How… innocent?” She blinked thoughtfully. “Not at all the right word.”

“No,” Robin agreed. “But they are different to us, yes. I was thinking about this earlier. Obviously, we both have some way to go. A year and change.”

Angie nodded. Both of them had, by this point, noticed that the number of upperclasswomen on campus had dwindled steadily over the course of the year. None of the staff had ever commented on it - at least not to their intake - and everyone else had seemed positive with each departure.

All the same, the observant among them - and Northrop excelled in training its women to be observant of others’ likes, dislikes, and patterns of behaviour - had picked up quickly that the final year was simply an opportunity for polish, and that some would leave earlier than others in that year.

They had swiftly concluded that actually, all the important lessons could be absorbed inside two years. Robin was, privately, very excited to see how her sophomore year differed from the first. She couldn’t shake the feeling that headmistress Gunderman had said something about that, even though no memory ever emerged to back that up.

“I think we might just change more over this year than we did last time,” Angie said.

Robin nodded and smiled, her eyes alight. “I can’t wait.”

*

Robin hadn’t recognised the word ‘deportment’ when her first deportment class came up, but ‘elocution’ was another matter Once told that there would be weekly elocution lessons, her primary reaction was simply surprise that they hadn’t started these lessons in the first year (if not right at the start of the first semester). In her discussions with the rest of the top flight, she found the same opinion was repeated throughout.

Elocution turned out to be taught in one of the few smaller classrooms which weren’t outfitted with the virtual reality rigs, and it was taught by headmistress Gunderman herself - the first of the classes they’d had which she took direct responsibility for.

“Good morning, ladies,” she said as she took up a stance beside the heavy desk at the front of the room. “Are you ready to expand your horizons and test your limits?”

“Yes, headmistress,” they all answered. It was, Robin thought, an unusual phrasing just for learning to speak more clearly. It had also caught her imagination firmly; she found herself very keen to learn more.

“That’s very good.” She smiled. “Before we begin, we must first properly assess each of you’s current ability. Miss Benjamin, rise and approach.”

Nadine did as she was instructed, walking to the front of the class with the rolling, confident sway they had each been trained into. Robin privately thought that her own was better; on the other hand, Robin was also starting to wonder if she might be able to be valedictorian of Northrop, however that might be measured. It was all a competition, after all; whatever alliance they made for themselves in society, Northrop girls knew they had to be better companions than the women around them, had to help their partners climb the ranks.

“Miss Benjamin,” Gunderman continued, “are you experienced orally?”

Nadine glanced uncertainly back toward the rest of the top flight. “I suppose so?”

Gunderman opened one of the drawers in her desk, took something out, and slapped it onto the table. “Show me,” she said.

Standing upright on the table, its upper tip wobbling somewhat, was a large dildo in transparent silicone. Inches and fractions of inches were marked off on its length in a parody of a ruler. Briefly Robin wondered where such things might be put up for sale; who would need a measurable dildo?

She wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Around her there were gasps, shocked intakes of breath. One quiet mutter of “What the fuck?” But there were no protests, Robin noticed. They all simply sat there and waited to find out what the headmistress had in mind.

Robin was proud of that discipline within the top flight. She couldn’t help but think the lower classes would have at least a few who would protest, even after Northrop had spent a year teaching them that accomplishment comes in different flavours.

Nadine looked from the dildo to the headmistress and back. “Headmistress?” she asked.

“I want to take a measure of your oral experience,” Gunderman said levelly. “Specifically, I need to know how deep you can take a man without gagging.” She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that there seemed no possible objection.

Nadine hesitated for a moment. The corner of Robin’s lip turned up in a smile of satisfaction. She would not, she told herself firmly, have hesitated.

But Nadine also deserved her place in the top flight. After that moment’s hesitation she took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and bent forward at the hip, her mouth slipping invitingly over the dildo. Her descent slowed almost immediately, and halted about halfway down the shaft.

Gunderman rested her thumb at the point where Nadine’s mouth stopped. “Thank you,” she said. “Rise.”

Nadine straightened up immediately; Gunderman inspected the measurement and nodded to herself. “Mm-hm,” she said. Robin waited to hear an announcement of the depth Nadine had achieved, but none was made. She would just have to do the best she could.

“Miss Evans,” Gunderman continued. “Rise and approach. Back to your seat, Miss Benjamin.” She had now also produced a small packet of wipes and briskly cleaned the toy.

Nadine walked back to her seat, and Robin read in her expression the uncertainty she must feel, not knowing what the headmistress had expected or even how she measured up against the rest of the top flight. She was feeling something similar herself in anticipation.

Robin was called third, and had at least some idea. She did not hesitate - although only because she had already steeled herself not to, determined as she was to prove a point - but she couldn’t take it all, as she had hoped to. Once told to lift her head from it, she squinted at Gunderman’s thumb, taking a rough approximation of her capacity.

Once the entire top flight had been measured, Gunderman went on. “Now, class of 2027, your baselines have been recorded. As we continue in elocution, we will school you on capacity; we will also train you on technique.

“For the first few weeks of the semester, you will take turns at this so you can all learn from the frontrunner. Afterwards, you will enter individual training streams.”

Robin nodded.

“Later,” Gunderman continued, “we will test each of your cunnilingual abilities. The majority of our graduates do not need them, but…” She left the refrain deliberately unfinished, raising her eyes in inquiry, looking a question at the class assembled in front of her. Robin raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Kliner?”

“But Northrop girls should never meet a challenge for which they aren’t prepared, headmistress,” she recited promptly. The approving nod that followed sent that strange shivering bliss through her body.

Before Northrop, Robin had never considered herself to be particularly motivated by praise. Now, her own internal validation didn’t seem to matter. It wasn’t enough for her to think she had done well; she needed someone else, someone in authority, to tell her she had done well. It was better to please another than herself, she thought, and wondered why that thought, too, also sounded like something she’d heard in another voice.

“Very good,” Gunderman said. “We will see just how good each of you can be.” She smiled. “Class of 2077, new normal.”

Robin’s eyelids fluttered for a few moments as time seemed to stand still. She was dimly aware of the same hushed pause coming from the rest of the class, until just as suddenly it was gone for all of them.

Her eyes drifted back to the dildo. A second year’s elocution lessons promised to be tremendous fun, she thought. It was a little odd that the headmistress had bothered to explain the process to them; by now they were all seasoned veterans.

*

“How are they taking to it?”

“Looks pretty good to me, sir. Honestly more of my attention is on the new intake at the moment.”

“Understandable. But don’t take your eyes off the sophomores.”

“No, sir.”

“Any that will need more adjustment?”

“Always. But the week one tests suggest that the work we did survived encounters with the outside world.”

“Good.”

“Can I suggest a slight change to the plan?”

“You can suggest.”

“The second tier should go to the new fitness regime first.”

“Explain.”

“They haven’t had enough naked sexytime for my liking yet, sir. I think they could push back. Better that we get some endorphins in them while they’re getting used to it. They need some carrot, they’ve had plenty of stick.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“All I can ask for, sir.”

*

Continuing from the first year, for the top flight, Thursday afternoons were given over to cookery lessons, in the big kitchen out at the lakehouse. From time to time they would be challenged to cater for an event out there, usually one involving the upperclasswomen. For the most part, though, they were challenged with recipe after recipe, technique after technique.

They studied traditional French haute cuisine and modern American comfort food; they cooked elegant, extensive dinners and prepared trays of game-night snacks. And they learned the most commonly preferred ways to brew coffee, prepare tea, and mix cocktails.

They did all of this almost entirely nude; on arrival in the classroom they would each strip, setting their outfits aside in labeled drawers set aside for the purpose. In replacement they donned tiny white aprons, a semi-circle of fabric descending from the waistband, and dipped their hands into flour before clapping them, palm-fist and open, over their breasts, so that throughout the lesson their body was on display but still held the tiniest figleaf, enough that an attracted onlooker could enjoy some quiet speculation.

In the early part of the semester, oil spits and stray knifework meant the top flight picked up tiny scalds and nicks on their fingers from the knives, but they rapidly passed this point; as Nadine remarked during the evening stroll back one night, she’d never realised she could learn skills so fast, with even dedicated cooking schools taking longer.

“They’ve worked out some way to make learning easier,” Elizabeth agreed. “I don’t know what, but there’s definitely something.” The group offered their agreement, but each individually thought that this was something they shouldn’t inquire into any further. The school’s secrets belonged to the school, and a Northrop girl understood fully that some secrets should remain unnoticed by those not in the know.

Robin found that she was smiling warmly as they walked. She glanced to either side, noting that the entire group walked with that same strut Madame Meredith had helped them to master.

It was delightful.

*

When they had been freshers they had barely been aware of the Winter Gala; all they’d really known about it was that in mid-December the sophomores and the remaining upperclasswomen were elsewhere for a day, a morning, and the night between. They’d had plenty of other concerns to deal with at the time.

In late November the sophomores were informed that they would be working as event staff for the Winter Gala, with specific duties to be assigned in the days to come. When Madame Meredith informed the top flight of this, she added, “Most likely you will all be floor staff, acting as waiters and bar staff. We can expect you to keep secret the identities of anyone who attends who might not want it known.” She nodded, a quiet approval at their progress.

“Most likely,” she continued, “you have a question in mind. Go on.”

Given that permission, Robin was the first to speak. “We won’t be carrying out these roles at any function we host,” she said. “How do we benefit by doing it here?” She hoped it was the question Madame Meredith had meant. They had been prompted to ask, which confirmed all on its own that it must be a question they would usually refrain from. That made it a question which could be seen as expressing disrespect.

“There are two reasons,” Madame Meredith told her. “The first is that you will find service roles useful to practice outside of hosting. Perhaps when it is only your man - or woman - and yourself. Just as we make them feel special by bestowing our focus on them, we make them feel special by showing that they are. Focus is one gift. Deference is another. What is a third?””

“Submission,” Elizabeth said, and was rewarded with a pleased nod. Robin found herself jealous; she’d known the answer but had held back in speaking, not wanting to be seen as being too forward. The praise had gone elsewhere.

“The second reason,” Meredith continued, “is that you become a better hostess when you understand the capacities of the staff under you. And, while none of them will be you, having worked in the ways you are asking them to work will be beneficial in this.”

Silence fell among the top flight as they considered this. Women from diverse backgrounds, this made sense more easily to some of them than others.

“Others may also join the serving team,” they were told. “And if one of you has stood out particularly well in cooking, they may be moved to the kitchen, where their performance can shine. But for the most part, I expect this will be the case. Does anyone have any questions?”

The group were silent.

“Very good. Today, we will be adding a heavily loaded tray full of tall glasses to your deportment lessons, so that you are ready. But first, class of 2027, change into the stilettos.”

The top flight obeyed,

Three weeks later came the night of the Winter Gala, and the sophomores went down to the Ballrooms first. Unlike the lakehouse, this building was easily accessible to drivers once they had entered Northrop’s walls; there was a turning from the main path that would take drivers there, one which for the most part they had been either too excited, too nervous, or too tired to see when they first arrived. Some had noticed it on later arrivals or departures and wondered, but some were discovering it for the first time.

As they grew closer to it, they saw that near the gravel, a raised platform had been installed, firmly supported by metal girdering, with steel stairs leading down from it. The windsock nearby allowed Nadine to put the clues together. “That’s a helipad,” she said.

“I bet that’s why the Gala is here,” Robin answered. “Easier for these visitors who need privacy.”

The sophomore class as a whole set about transforming the main ballroom. A corner was set up in which a band would be brought in to play, and the central area was left empty and ready for dancing. Around the rest of the room, fifteen large round tables were brought out. The group set them into place, then brought out eight chairs apiece.

This done, those on kitchen duty left the group and went through into the large kitchens to begin meal prep, while the rest of them, Robin included, brought out tablecloths, cutlery, glasses and table decorations.

Once the room was suitable for guests they went into the back rooms to change. They stripped with businesslike efficiency, heedless to their own nudity and to that of those around him. The front of house team then pulled pairs of dark tights, not quite opaque, on and made sure they were properly in place. After that a pair of black satin hotpants each was added to the ensemble, followed by highly supportive bras that lifted breasts and turned cleavage into canyons.

Looking down at the view she now presented, it occurred to Robin that she didn’t present quite the same spectacle as the upperclasswomen. She’d assumed their figures had been honed by the Northrop exercise program and augmented by engineering triumphs in lingerie form. Now, she wondered if the summer vacation at the end of sophomore year might involve cosmetic augmentation.

She pulled on a white bodice corset and snapped it into place, the sculpted chest cups almost large enough to comfortably contain her, but in fact just small enough that she spilled over slightly. Above this she buttoned up a transparent white sleeveless top, so that her cleavage was still on display but fabric stretched up to her throat. She clipped a black bow tie onto it in the small of her throat, then fastened white shirt cuffs into place on her bare arms.

Finally she checked herself in the mirror, assessing whether or not she’d need to adjust her makeup or her hair, but pronounced herself satisfied. She gave her reflection her best warm Northrop smile, then strapped on the high stiletto heels provided.

With the rest of the top flight she made her way back into the ballroom, where they gathered in a loose semicircle just inside the big double doors at the front, ready to act as a reception.

There were no nameplates on the tables - it would have been terribly gauche - but each of them had fully memorised the seating plan, including the few plus ones being brought along. (Privately, Robin was delighted to learn that Jocelyn Russell would be in attendance, as the plus one to her husband Michael Russell.)

Each table also had two of the upperclasswomen on it. The sophomore top flight had speculated on what that might mean, and the leading theories painted it either as a chance for them to be introduced into society or as advanced classes such as upperclasswomen might need for their final tests. Robin wasn’t sure which she favoured more.

They were in position, the ballroom prepared, a good hour and a half before the Gala was scheduled to begin, which also made it a little under an hour before anyone expected any of the guests to arrive. The lesson was clear; expectations could be useful but your expectations being wrong would be no excuse for embarrassing the people you represented by not being ready.

*

“Our driver just confirmed the LA flight touched down. We’ll have five inbound soon, sir.”

“Excellent. Headmistress?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Go clean yourself up and prepare for public behaviour.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You have the guest list memorised?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You have their faces memorised?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“You know who will feel better if they’re not recognised?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“That’s a good girl. Run along now.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

*

The guests began to arrive with a while before the Gala officially began. Headmistress Gunderman was in place to greet them, but each was then turned over to the top flight’s welcoming semi-circle.

Gunderman made great play of those whose egos required them to be recognised everywhere, and politely and deferentially inquired the names of those who preferred anonymity. This, she had told the top flight before, was one of the other reasons a Northrop girl would always work to know faces, names, and preferences, so that the experience would be exactly what they’d prefer, without them having to specify.

Like the others, Robin was very busy whenever a new arrival was introduced and handed off to her. With the seating plans memorised, she would lead, for example, the engineering magnate Kinoshita Arata to his designated chair, make him known to the person sitting to his right (Marc Tremont, whose teenage breakthroughs in software design had kept him wealthy for thirty years), and left (Lucille Dawn, the music producer whose personal life had been a source of much explosive gossip for a decade), and then ask them what they would like for their first drink.

This done, Robin would straighten up and turn toward the bar, but she would wait a count of one and a half seconds in her head before setting off. After all, she had just presented at least one guest with a clear view of her ass, in very close quarters.

Lucille turned out to be a spanker, and one with a very strong wind-up; Marc Tremont had been more of a fondler, and one who made a deep growling noise in the back of his throat during that hands-on enjoyment.

The first time this had happened, with Marc, Robin had wondered why she had stopped moving. It was the right thing to do, but the reason had not come with that; she simply felt that unpleasant dizziness when she considered moving forward. It was only when Tremont started to grope her ass that she understood how important it was to pause and allow the opportunity. It would not have been polite to provide the temptation but not offer the chance to take advantage.

Once the guest had had their fill, Robin sauntered over to the bar, making sure to roll her hips just as much as she could - she already knew the attention would be on her, so it was worth taking the time and allowing them to enjoy it.

Jeanette and Klara were working at the bar. Robin would pass on the order and mention who it was for, just in case they turned out to be the ‘same again’ type, and one of them would prepare it as quickly as possible while maintaining the standards they’d been taught in the kitchen. It would then be placed on a small silver salver, which Robin would convey back to the table, threading past chatty guests and the other top flight sophomores on their own errands, before lifting it from the platter and bending forward low over the guest’s shoulder to place the glass on the table.

Robin had made a fine art of brushing their shoulder with her chest as she did so, and she lingered long enough that any client who had a reaction could take advantage. So far, that was only Lucille Dawn.

Returning to the doorway to await Headmistress Gunderman’s next assignment, Robin’s eyes widened and her jaw drop, though she was proud afterward that this had only been a momentary response. The shock and excitement remained but she quickly got her expression back under control.

Michael and Jocelyn Russell had arrived.

They both looked impeccable. Michael wore a tuxedo, obviously tailored and immaculate. Jocelyn’s dress was bunched bronze fabric, backless, with a low neckline in spite of the material running up behind her neck to an elaborate knot. The skirt of it was slit up to the hip along the line of both legs, so that if she stood with her feet together, only her silhouette was offered for consideration, but if she widened her stance or even began to walk, her thighs would be almost completely exposed.

What was unusual was that her hair wasn’t elaborately styled, as it was in most of her public appearances; it was simply kinked, as if it was curled regularly but hadn’t been for some time.

Headmistress Gunderman half-turned so she wasn’t facing away from her guests while she looked at the student staff waiting and assessed. For the first time, it occurred to Robin that the headmistress had a similar figure to the upperclasswomen; it was just less visibly displayed most of the time. With a smile, the headmistress beckoned Robin forward.

Smiling and aware her cheeks were flushed, Robin made her way forward.

“Mr Russell, Mrs Russell,” Gunderman said, “may I present Miss Kliner.”

Robin gave a little half-bow from the waist, keeping her eyes lowered deferentially. “It’s an honour,” she said. “May I escort you to your seats?”

“Of course,” Jocelyn said, smiling. Robin recognised the Northrop warm smile, but even knowing they’d been taught the same techniques for it, Jocelyn’s looked utterly genuine. Robin wasn’t sure her own was on that level.

She turned and led them into the ballroom, and got more than thirty yards through the trip before the need to blurt out what she was thinking became irresistible. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so,” she told Michael Russell, “but I saw your wife’s video advertising this place and it’s why I came. I well, I’ve been really glad to receive the support and education we get here, so… I just wanted to say thank you to her.” Feeling like more needed to be said but unsure of what, she added “I want to be just like her!”

It didn’t occur to Robin that this could have been directed to Jocelyn herself. Robin’s own gratification came in praise from those above her. Therefore, she felt on an almost instinctive level, it was Mr Russell who should know how she felt. Jocelyn was the inferior.

It also did not occur to Robin to question why she felt that way.

“Thank you,” he said, his smile lopsided. She paused by the two chairs set aside for them, and Jocelyn pulled his out deferentially, dutifully holding it for him to sit in. Robin quashed the moment’s uncertainty she felt at seeing a familiar act inverted. “Just like her, huh?”

Robin nodded enthusiastically as Jocelyn sat. “And what can I get you both to drink?” she asked. “We have a well-stocked bar, so I encourage you to put us to the test.”

Michael smiled. “I’ll have a beer.” he said. “Nothing fancy, just good and drinkable. I might test you more later.” His eyes were roaming up and down Robin’s body, and the only reason Robin wasn’t basking in the attention was knowing that Jocelyn was sat right beside them both and it seemed somehow impolite.

Even then, the side of her that liked to compete still found plenty to enjoy. Jocelyn Russell was such a perfect example of a Northrop alumna that she literally presented the video prospectus. For her husband to take an interest in Robin was, selfishly, an experience she was already cherishing.

“And for you?” she asked Jocelyn.

“She’ll have a sparkling water,” Michael said. Jocelyn’s smile didn’t change. “Of course,” she said. “Now, may I make you known to Eberado Garza?”

The seat beside Michael was still empty and would, in fact, be filled by one of the upperclasswomen, so Robin introduced the chef straightaway. In his native Spain, Garza owned a dozen different restaurants, fronted a TV cooking show, and had partial ownership of a number of farms, bakers, and more.

Compared to the Russells his wealth and influence was small, but that said more about their own success than it did about him, Michael reached across Jocelyn to shake Garza’s hand.

Robin turned to face the bar and waited. She was rewarded swiftly by Michael’s hand on her ass, squeezing as firmly as Garza might test a melon when checking a supplier. Gauging the way he was acting, she decided he’d like his action acknowledged and encouraged, so she let out a well-practiced giggle. (Once headmistress Gunderman had been satisfied that their oral skills were developing appropriately, she had started also teaching the class a variety of encouragements). Once he released his hold she set off for the bar, head held high, feeling absurdly proud of herself.

By the time she returned, bearing a platter with a beer bottle, glass, and a tall glass of sparkling water, someone had undone the knot of Jocelyn’s dress from behind her neck and the fabric had spilled forward onto the temple, showing off a pair of tits that - yes, Robin was pleased to realise she was right - had been surgically enhanced, though by a surgeon with enough skill and taste that you could only tell when their perkiness was on fully and clear display. Her arms hung limp by her sides and the Northrop smile was gone from her face, replaced by an eerie glassiness. Garza was hefting the tit nearest him in one hand experimentally, rolling her nipple with his thumb.

If Madame Meredith hadn’t been such a thorough teacher, she might have wavered in her stride from the surprise or - worse - dropped the tray. At first she read distress in the other woman’s stillness, but as she drew nearer the table, Russell leaned in closer and whispered something in her ear.

Jocelyn blinked, the unnatural stillness disappearing from her frame as she did, and her eyes widened, a doe-eyed delighted sweetheart. She looked down at Garza’s hand groping her and flashed him a warm smile before turning her attention back to her husband, where she giggled.

Robin swallowed and stepped in closer to deliver her trayful of drinks.

“What do you think, babe?” Russell asked. “She wants to be just like you. Think she has what it takes to step into your place?”

“I’m sure she’ll make someone a very happy husband one day,” Jocelyn said. “Or an owner, or philanderer.”

“Whatever’s most appropriate, huh?” Garza asked. He threw back his head and laughed.

“It’s the same with cars,” Russell answered. “We all love those beautiful classics and you certainly never forget your first, but you still look at each year’s new models and think about an upgrade.

Robin tittered politely, as did Jocelyn, but as she walked away, Robin couldn’t shift her first impression - that the men were laughing at a joke the women didn’t fully understand.