Deep in the heart of the Fuckdoll Finishing School for Wayward Girls is a room; a secret place known only by a few and enterable by even less. Entering without permission courts certain death as the room is locked behind layers of protection, each worst than the last. To that exclusive club granted access, they will find nothing short than the very brains of the Fuckdoll Finishing School. A bustling nerve center where every aspect of the school is controlled planned and monitored to the finest detail.
The room is shaped like an empty missile silo, but twice as large and split into three separate levels. The smallest of the three levels was the second or middle section and it was also the most mysterious. The only thing openly known about the second level was that it contained the processes by which the Fuckdoll Finishing School was able to search for and claim students from through out the whole of the multiverse. The bottom or first level is the largest and is where the darkest sciences had been joined with the blackest of magic. Both of which were culled from different dimensions; super computers shared space with bubbling cauldrons. The entire floor looked like NASA’s mission control quashed together with Merlin’s apothecary. The bottom level is the busiest of the three sections, a number of mad scientists and evil wizards under the schools employ scurry about completing daily tasks. There were also a small number of Fuckdolls, specially educated to work in the room as Sexretery’s. A single-man elevator on the Northern side connected this bottom section to the top; the most important of the three levels, for it was main office of the Dean, and from there he had command over all:
“My Master, the Dean, especially, looks forward to seeing your progress! I have faith that none of you will disappoint him by acting out or misbehaving in any way.”
The Dean chuckled darkly at the words of his loyal Fuckdoll Ms.Jenni. “Where would be the fun in that?” He said to himself, chuckling a second time. There were always troublemakers, every class, impetuous rabble rousers who wrongfully thought that they had the will and power to escape and bring down the Fuckdoll Finishing School for Wayward Girls. It happened every time and every time it never failed to amuse the Dean as piece by piece these would be heroines succumbed to his design.
From the very moment Buffy, Willow, Cordelia and the rest of the women comprising the newest class had arrived they’ve been carefully observed by the Dean. He always did this, for every new class, not out of any concern---at this point the Fuckdoll Finishing School was too well oiled a machine for such worries. It was an act of pride, for the Dean in many ways viewed himself as an artist, a sculpture, and these new students were lumps of clay. Blank and without shape,waiting to be remolded into something beautiful by his own two hands. The Dean enjoyed the process, from beginning to end; that it also allowed him to spot potential “rabble rousers” was only an added benefit.
The Dean watched everything from a bank of LED monitors suspended from the ceiling of his office, just in front and above his desk. The desk was set back in an alcove, raised slightly on a two step platform, like a small stage. Other monitors and filing drawers were built into the Alcoves surrounding walls; it was all very sleek and modern. On the desk its self there was a wireless keyboard, a small lamp on one side and a candle on the other. The desk was the exact same desk the Dean could be seen sitting behind during the introduction video that first greeted Buffy and her friends, but the Dean wasn’t exactly the same.
The Dean was the same man from the video, red eyes and horns and all, but he looked a good fifty years younger. He was powerfully built, possessed a neatly trimmed beard and thick headof black hair that reached down to his shoulders. The biggest physical difference from his grandpa avatar was the long ugly scar that ran down the right side of his face. The Dean did possess the power to smooth the damage away, but he liked it, for it was a reminder of a grim lesson he learned, long ago in his youth. A lesson of tempering ones pride and arrogance delivered by the blood stained sword of a great Warrior who the Dean could only refer to as that ‘damn Cimmerian’. (The Dean had never been able to refer to that warrior by name; even thousands of years later the events of that day were still too raw in his mind.) The purpose for the subterfuge was a simple one: underestimation. He wanted his fresh, new students to see him as a feeble old man, because they would automatically assume, even is subconsciously, that he wasn’t much of a threat. As the old saying goes ‘Pride goes before the fall’.
‘Damn Cimmerian.’
Just as Ms. Jenni was lining up the new class to get their personal info packets the Dean heard the buzz of the elevator, someone was coming up from the first level. The Dean got up from his desk and stepped out of the alcove into the main part of the third level. While the Dean had long since embraced modernity, he was still a man of his time, and kept his personal space a reflection of that. The floor was ancient stone work stolen from an old Palace dedicated to worship of Mitra; great tapestries commentating battles long forgotten hung from the ceiling. The Western side was dominated by a great ancient throne that had at one time been lined with gold and precious jewels, but was now a weathered grey ruin. Behind the throne, hung dozens of weapons—swords, axes and daggers—some the Dean had once used, others he had taken from his enemies. Opposite the throne on Eastern side was the opening to the Dean’s private bath and Bedchambers. The entrance was blocked by a simple, silk red curtain.
Two Fuckdolls were waiting patiently for the Dean, both were dressed the same: A pair of open toe brownish, gold high heels and a small light blue loin cloth held by a thin gold chain, that hung low around their hips. Both were topless, though they were decorated with necklaces, bracelets and earrings and they both wore their hair loose and free. The first fuckdoll had flawless pale, nearly porcelain like skin and a mane of fiery red hair. She was the Dean’s favorite, a glorious slut who’d been with him from the beginning. Her name was Sonja, in his youth she had been a famed warrior, known as the She-Devil with a sword; to this day his conquest and transformation of her has been one of his proudest achievements (even if that had been what had brought the wrath of that damn Cimmerian down on him). The second Fuckdoll had full, bleached blond hair and smooth tanned skin. She was a recent graduate, who in her former life in her home dimension had been a busy body snoop named Veronica Mars. The two Fuckdolls greeted the Dean with looks of absolute love and adoration; their eyes were twin infinite pools of lust. Veronica held in her hands a black binder; as the Dean drew near, she gracefully dropped to her knees holding the binder out in front of her.
“For you my master” she said her voice swimming in honey and want.
The Dean took the binder and opened it: acquisition forms. While the Dean normally personally spearheaded the recruitment drive across the different dimensions of the multiverse searching for the best candidates—there have been times when he’s been approached by outside parties for specific targets. Targets like the one profiled in the binder: her name was Cordelia Chase, a pretty little brunette who had somehow come to possess an ancient power of clairvoyance known as ‘the Visions.’ The pan-dimensional Hell based law firm of Wolfram and Hart coveted this power and commissioned the Dean to make it happen. The Dean signed off on the necessary forms and handed it back to Veronica; he gladly had accepted the job—he always did. It satisfied him greatly to help his fellow compatriots.
Veronica took the binder back from the Dean, thanking him with all her heart. She rose quickly to her feet and returned to elevator. Sonja stayed behind. The red headed Fuckdoll tilted her head slightly and smiled with seductive invitation. The Dean grinned, he’d have to address the faculty soon, but there was time. With a wave of his hand he motioned Sonja to ancient throne. Her hips swayed beautifully with each step; with a flick of her fingers she unclasped the chain holding up the loincloth. The slip of blue fabric fluttered quickly to the stone floor. Reaching the throne Sonja bent forward, laying both hands flat on its seat; she presented her sex, which was burning wet with desire.
Sonja looked back at the Dean over her shoulder. “Master” she purred, “savage this Fuckdoll with your manhood, let her know the glory of your blessed cock deep inside her cunt!”
‘There was always time’ thought the Dean as he unzipped his trousers and freed his ‘manhood’;rock hard and throbbing to answer Sonja’s pleading.
As the Dean entered Sonja, the red headed Fuckdoll squealing in religious delight, he felt a slight pain from his scar. It wasn’t bad or unusual, a slight twitchy sensation he got time to time from the old wound. And while it did nothing to break his rhythm, a single thought did reflexively pop in his head.
‘Damn Cimmerian.’