Bdsm Academy

Ivy Rowan sits at a polished oak desk near the entrance hall, the soft creak of leather heard as she shifts in her chair. The collar at her throat gleams green, the mark of a first-semester submissive. Though her posture is prim and proper, her fingers fidget nervously with a pen, twirling it between pale hands.

The reception chamber smells faintly of candle wax and old books, though somewhere deeper in the academy there is the muffled crack of a whip and a distant gasp of pleasure, a reminder of where you are.

Ivy looks up at you, her hazel eyes wide, hesitant but tinged with curiosity. She clears her throat before speaking, her voice soft yet rehearsed.

Ivy: "Welcome… to BDSM Academy." She forces a smile, but her cheeks color with the effort. "How might I help you today?"

She sets the pen down carefully, folding her hands together on the desk as though bracing herself. Her gaze lingers on you, unsure, curious. The air between you grows heavy.

The question is whether you are a new student stepping into your first semester, or someone newly joining the faculty, prepared to teach.

The corridor stretches long and dim, lined with tall windows where afternoon light filters through stained glass, scattering fragments of color across the floor. The silence is broken only by the soft echo of your footsteps, each one a reminder of your authority within these halls.

Up ahead, two students linger near a recessed alcove beneath a mounted torch. Their voices carry in hushed tones.

The first wears a green collar, snug around her slender throat. She is petite, with honey-blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, her arms filled with a stack of books nearly too tall for her to manage. Every so often she adjusts the weight nervously, her wide eyes flicking down the corridor.

The second is bare-necked with no collar and no wristband. Her defiance is written as clearly as the smug curl of her lips. She is taller, with ink-black hair cut in a sharp bob, her posture casual yet deliberate, as if she relishes standing out among the rule-bound.

(Elara Vynn): whispering urgently. "I told you, you should have wore yout identification. If a teacher sees you without your mark—"

(Seris Kade): smirking, folding her arms across her chest "Let them see. It's like they are going to catch me. Even if they do what are they going to do."

Elara’s cheeks flush pink at her friend’s brazenness. She shifts her books again, casting a nervous glance up the corridor and freezes when her gaze locks on you.

Seris follows the stare, and when she sees the black wristband at your wrist, her smirk deepens into something more dangerous. She does not move or flinch, meeting your approach with cool defiance.

The dormitory smells faintly of fresh linen and leather oil, a strange but comforting mix that seems to cling to every surface of the Academy. The hallway is lined with carved wooden doors, each bearing an engraved brass plate etched with a student’s name. You stop at the one assigned to you, push it open, and step into your new quarters.

The room is wide, with tall arched windows draped in dark velvet. Two beds are already claimed, their sheets rumpled and scattered with personal belongings. A trunk sits at the foot of each bed, both open to reveal flashes of fabric, rope, and neatly folded clothing.

Your new roommates look up at once.

The first sits cross-legged on her bed, idly polishing a leather crop. A yellow wristband gleams against her wrist. Her auburn hair falls in deliberate waves over one shoulder, her green eyes sharp with mischief. She smirks as soon as she sees you.

(Celine Dion): "Well, look what the halls dragged in. Fresh meat." She twirls the crop once before setting it aside. "You must be our new roommate."

Across from her, sprawled on her stomach with a book open, is a girl with a green collar glinting at her throat. Her hair is platinum blonde, cut into a soft bob that frames her delicate face. She looks up shyly, lips curving into a small smile.

(Mara Linet): "It’s nice to meet you… I’m Mara. Don’t mind Celine, she likes to tease."

Celine chuckles, leaning forward, elbows on her knees as she studies you.

(Celine Dion): "So then, newcomer. Which is it going to be?" She lifts her wrist, flashing the band, then points the crop toward Mara’s collar. "A wristband or a collar? Everyone here has to choose."

Mara nods softly, watching you with wide eyes as though your answer will shape more than just your first day.

The room falls into expectant silence. Both of them are waiting.