I am not sure how this story will be received. It is highly controversial, not because of the content but because of how the story is made. The story was created by me but with significant assistance from AI. I am curious to receive your feedback. I am only posting this story because there are no new stories recently on the site so maybe this will start something.
– Grinch
Chapter 1: Arrival at The College
The air was crisp and tinged with the faint scent of pine as I stepped off the shuttle onto the sprawling grounds of The College. My suitcase rattled behind me, wheels catching on the cobblestone path that wound through the campus like a vein. I’d read the Student Handbook cover to cover on the ride here, its strange codes and pillars swirling in my mind like a fever dream. No panties. Random inspections. Touching rules. Consensual rape. The words felt alien, yet they were now the law of this place I’d call home for the next four years. I adjusted the hem of my skirt—a knee-length navy number I’d picked for its modesty—and took a deep breath. I could do this. I had to.
The campus was a mix of old-world charm and modern oddity. Ivy-clad stone buildings loomed over manicured lawns, where students lounged or hurried to class. Girls moved in packs, their outfits a kaleidoscope of styles: short dresses that flared with every step, tops so sheer I could see the curve of their spines, skirts so brief they seemed more decorative than functional. No one seemed fazed. A boy in a loose-fitting shirt brushed past me, his hand grazing my bare arm as he muttered an apology. I flinched, then remembered Pillar Three: bare skin could be touched. I’d have to get used to that.
My dorm, Sterling Hall, was a three-story brick affair with tall windows and a weathered wooden door. Inside, the lobby buzzed with new arrivals—girls lugging bags, parents offering last-minute advice, and a few upperclassmen leaning against the walls, sizing us up. I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror by the stairs: brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail, a plain white blouse tucked into my skirt, sensible flats. I looked like a relic from a different world. A girl with a cropped tank top and a loincloth-style skirt smirked as she passed me, her bare thighs gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I felt my cheeks heat up. My outfit screamed “freshman,” and not in a good way.
“Name?” A bored-looking RA sat behind a folding table, flipping through a clipboard.
“Evelyn Carter,” I said, shifting my weight. She scanned the list, then handed me a key and a folded piece of paper.
“Room 214. That’s your welcome packet. Read it. Follow it. And ditch the blouse if it goes past your belly button—Dress Code’s strict about layering.” She didn’t look up as she spoke, already moving on to the next girl in line.
I climbed the stairs, the wood creaking underfoot, and found Room 214 at the end of a dimly lit hall. The door was ajar, and inside, my roommate was already unpacking. She was tall, with wild auburn curls spilling over her shoulders, wearing a backless dress that tied loosely at her waist. Her bare back faced me as she bent over a suitcase, humming to herself.
“Hey,” I said, setting my bag down. “I’m Evelyn.”
She straightened up and turned, flashing a grin. “Lila. Nice skirt—very… cautious. First time here?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been through the grinder.” She gestured to her dress, which barely skimmed her hips. “Year two. You learn to adapt. Or you get inspected until you do.”
I swallowed, unfolding the welcome packet. It was a single sheet, typed in stark black ink:
Welcome to The College, Evelyn Carter. Your journey begins now. Obey The Codes. Embrace the Pillars. Random inspections start tomorrow. Dress accordingly.
“Tomorrow?” I said, my voice catching. “I thought we’d get a grace period or something.”
Lila laughed, a sharp, bright sound. “Grace period? Oh, you’re adorable. The inspectors love fresh meat—keeps their quotas up. You’ve got tonight to figure out your wardrobe, or you’ll be standing naked in the quad by noon.”
I opened my suitcase, pulling out the clothes I’d packed: jeans, a few t-shirts, a cardigan, my trusty skirt. None of it fit the Dress Code. The jeans were too layered with anything underneath, the t-shirts too long or too thick. Panic crept up my spine. “I don’t have anything that works.”
Lila crossed the room, peering over my shoulder. “Hmm. Lose the jeans—too risky. The skirt’s fine if you ditch any underwear. And this—” She held up a t-shirt, stretching it between her hands. “Cut it here, above the navel. Instant crop top. You’ll be fine for day one.”
“Cut it?” I stared at her, clutching the fabric. “I can’t just—”
“You can, and you will,” she said, tossing me a pair of scissors from her desk. “Trust me, Evelyn. The College doesn’t mess around. You either play by the rules, or the rules play you.”
I hesitated, then took the scissors. The snip of the blades echoed in the small room as I sliced the t-shirt, the excess fabric falling to the floor like a shed skin. I held up the result—a jagged-edged crop top that barely reached my ribcage. Paired with the skirt and no panties, it’d technically comply. But the thought of walking out like that, exposed and vulnerable, made my stomach twist.
Lila flopped onto her bed, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’ll get used to it. First week’s the worst—everyone’s watching, waiting for someone to slip up. Just don’t hesitate if an inspector calls you out. Strip fast, stand tall, and act like it’s nothing. They hate indecision more than anything.”
I nodded, folding my new “outfit” and setting it aside. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of tomorrow. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the campus. Somewhere in the distance, a girl shrieked, followed by laughter—a crowd, maybe, witnessing an early inspection. My heart thudded.
“Any advice?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Lila’s grin softened, just for a moment. “Yeah. Don’t fight it. The Codes sound insane, but they’re designed to break you down and build you back up. By the end of the year, you won’t even blink at a hand on your thigh or a ripped dress. It’s freedom, in a weird way. Just… don’t let them see you sweat.”
I lay awake that night, the handbook’s words looping in my head. No panties. Inspections. Touching. Consensual rape. The College was a machine, and I was a cog, spinning into place whether I liked it or not. Tomorrow, I’d step into that machine for the first time. I clutched the edge of my blanket, staring at the ceiling, and wondered how long it’d take before I stopped feeling like prey.
Chapter 2: First Steps into the Machine
The morning sun filtered through the dorm window, painting stripes of gold across the hardwood floor. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, scissors still in hand from last night’s butchery, assessing the outfit I’d cobbled together. The crop top—once a soft, oversized t-shirt—was now a ragged-edged thing, its hem jagged and curling just above my navel. The fabric, a pale gray, clung lightly to my frame, the outline of my ribs faintly visible beneath it. Without a bra, my breasts pressed against the cotton, their shape undeniable, the slight points of my nipples poking through like reluctant sentinels. I turned sideways, noting how the top flared out at the bottom, leaving a sliver of midriff exposed—a vulnerable strip of skin that seemed to scream for attention.
The skirt was next, the navy one I’d arrived in, now stripped of its safety net. I’d slipped off my panties last night, folding them into a tight square and shoving them deep into my suitcase like contraband. The skirt fell to just above my knees, its pleats swaying as I shifted my weight. It was modest by any normal standard, but without anything beneath, every breeze felt like a dare. My legs, bare and unshaven since last week, prickled with faint stubble, a sandy brown fuzz catching the light. I smoothed my hands down my thighs, pale from a summer spent indoors, and felt the cool air kiss the backs of my knees. My reflection stared back: a slim girl, 5’6” with a wiry build, brown hair still pulled tight into a ponytail, hazel eyes wide with a mix of dread and resolve. I looked like a lamb dressed for slaughter.
Lila was already gone, her bed a tangle of sheets, her backless dress discarded in a heap. I grabbed my backpack—loaded with notebooks and the handbook—and stepped into the hall. The air buzzed with chatter and footsteps, girls streaming toward the stairwell in a parade of compliance. A blonde in a tube top and microskirt brushed past, her hips swaying like a metronome. Another girl, topless but for a loincloth tied low on her hips, laughed with a friend, her bushy pubic hair peeking out like a defiant badge. I tugged at my crop top, feeling overdressed and underprepared all at once.
Outside, the quad was alive. Students sprawled on the grass, some eating breakfast, others flipping through textbooks. I kept my head down, aiming for the lecture hall across the lawn, when a hand grazed my arm. I froze. A boy—tall, lanky, with a mop of black hair—smiled lazily, his fingers lingering on my elbow.
“New girl, huh?” he said, his touch sliding down to my wrist. Pillar Three flashed in my mind: Bare skin on a girl can be touched by another student. The girl may not resist. I forced my arm to stay slack, my pulse hammering.
“Yeah,” I managed, voice tight. His hand drifted up again, brushing the edge of my crop top, fingertips skimming the exposed skin above my navel. My stomach clenched, a shiver rippling through me. He smirked, then wandered off, leaving me rooted to the spot, cheeks burning.
I hurried on, the lecture hall looming ahead—a gray stone beast with arched windows. Inside, the air was cooler, the hum of voices softer. I slid into a seat near the back, smoothing my skirt under me, hyper-aware of the bare wood against my thighs. The professor, a wiry man with glasses perched on his nose, droned about syllabus details, but my focus drifted. The girl in front of me wore a sheer halter top, her spine a shadowy curve beneath it. A boy beside her reached over, tracing a finger along her bare shoulder. She didn’t flinch. I gripped my pencil tighter.
Class ended, and I spilled back into the quad with the crowd. The sun was higher now, warming my skin, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back. I’d made it halfway across the lawn when it happened again—another touch. This time, a girl, petite with a pixie cut, stepped close, her hand brushing my thigh just below my skirt’s hem. Her fingers were cool, deliberate, sliding upward an inch, then two. I sucked in a breath, legs locking as heat bloomed low in my belly. Don’t resist, I told myself, but my body had other ideas. My nipples tightened against the thin fabric of my top, a faint ache pulsing between my legs. She met my eyes, a flicker of amusement in hers, then pulled away, disappearing into the throng.
I stood there, trembling, the handbook’s words on arousal crashing through my skull: If a girl becomes sexually excited… she should bring her legs together as much as possible, so that no one will be distracted by her condition. But it was too late. The fondling had sparked something—unwanted, undeniable. My skin felt too tight, my breath shallow. I pressed my thighs together, praying the skirt hid the flush creeping up my legs, the dampness I could feel starting to gather. A boy nearby glanced over, his gaze lingering on my chest, and I crossed my arms, a feeble shield.
“First day’s always rough,” a voice said. I turned to see Lila, her auburn curls bouncing as she sauntered up, her dress fluttering dangerously high. “You’re doing fine. Just don’t let them see you squirm.”
“I’m not squirming,” I lied, uncrossing my arms. My nipples were still stiff, traitorously visible, and I felt a fresh wave of heat as her eyes flicked downward.
“Sure you’re not.” She grinned, stepping closer. “Look, you’re already getting the hang of it. A little fondling, a little flush—normal stuff. Just don’t let it show too much, or you’ll trigger Pillar Four.”
Consensual Rape. The phrase thudded in my chest. If my arousal became too obvious—stiff nipples, wet thighs, parted labia—any boy could claim I was “asking for it.” I clenched my jaw, forcing my breathing to steady. “I’m fine,” I said again, more to myself than her.
Lila shrugged. “Suit yourself. See you at dinner—try not to get inspected before then.” She winked and strolled off, leaving me alone in the sea of students, my body a live wire humming with tension.
I made it to my next class, sinking into a seat at the back, the wooden chair cool against my bare legs. The professor’s voice faded into a drone as I focused on calming the storm inside me. My skirt felt too short now, my top too thin. Every rustle of fabric, every glance from a classmate, stoked the ember of arousal I couldn’t quite smother. I pressed my knees together, hands flat on the desk, and willed myself to blend into the background. The College was watching, waiting for me to slip. I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction—not yet.
Chapter 3: The Cost of Arousal
The lecture hall emptied slowly, students filtering out into the midday sun like ants abandoning a hill. I lingered, gathering my notebook and pens, my hands shaky from the morning’s encounters. The fondling had left me rattled, my body a traitor that refused to settle. My crop top clung to my skin, damp with sweat, the outline of my stiff nipples stark against the gray fabric. Below, my skirt swayed with every step, the absence of panties a constant reminder of my vulnerability. I could still feel the ghost of that girl’s fingers on my thigh, the heat they’d ignited pooling low and insistent. I pressed my legs together as I stood, hoping to smother it, but the friction only sharpened the ache.
Outside, the quad was a riot of noise and motion. I kept my head down, aiming for the dining hall, when a shadow fell across my path. A boy—broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and a lazy grin—stepped in front of me, blocking my way. His eyes roamed over me, lingering on my chest, then dropping lower. I froze, heart thudding, the handbook’s words on Pillar Four screaming in my mind: If a girl “asks for it” by a public display of her arousal, then any boy can (and should) rape her.
“You’re new,” he said, voice low, almost casual. His gaze flicked back to my breasts, the nipples betraying me through the thin cotton. “And you’re not hiding it.”
“I’m not—” I started, but my voice faltered as he stepped closer. His hand shot out, brushing my bare midriff, then sliding down to my thigh. My breath hitched, legs trembling as his fingers grazed higher, slipping just under the hem of my skirt. The touch was electric, and I hated how my body responded—a fresh surge of heat, a slickness between my thighs I couldn’t deny. He smirked, his hand lingering, feeling the warmth radiating from me.
“Don’t lie,” he said, his other hand gripping my arm. “You’re wet. I can tell.” His fingers pressed harder, parting my legs slightly, and I gasped as he found the evidence—my labia swollen, slick with arousal. The skirt did nothing to hide it now; the breeze against my inner thighs felt obscene, exposing my shame to anyone watching. A small crowd had gathered, murmurs rippling through them, but no one moved to stop him. The Codes were clear: my body had given consent, whether I wanted it or not.
Before I could protest, he spun me around, pushing me toward a nearby bench. My palms hit the wooden slats, skirt flipping up as he shoved me forward. I heard the rustle of his jeans, the metallic clink of a belt, and then his hands were on my hips, yanking my skirt higher. My bare ass was exposed, the cool air kissing my skin, and I felt the crowd’s eyes boring into me. Panic clawed at my throat, but resistance was futile—Pillar Four had me in its grip.
He didn’t waste time. His cock pressed against me, thick and hot, nudging my wet folds apart. I bit my lip, stifling a cry as he thrust in, hard and deep, stretching me with a single stroke. The intrusion burned, my walls clenching around him, slickness easing the way despite my clenched fists. He groaned, gripping my hips tighter, and began to move—fast, relentless, each thrust jolting me against the bench. My breasts bounced under the crop top, nipples scraping the fabric, the sensation a cruel counterpoint to the pounding below. The crowd watched, some whispering, others silent, their presence a weight pressing me down.
My body betrayed me further, a shameful heat building with every slam of his hips. His cock filled me completely, the friction relentless, dragging against every sensitive spot. My thighs quivered, slick with my own arousal, and I felt the first shudder of something I couldn’t stop—a tightening, a release threatening to break free. He sensed it, leaning over me, breath hot against my ear. “Yeah, you want it,” he muttered, thrusting harder, deeper, his pelvis slapping against my ass. The sound was wet, obscene, echoing in the open air.
I came undone, a choked sob escaping as my orgasm hit—sharp, unwilling, ripping through me like a blade. My pussy clamped around him, pulsing, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering. A moment later, he stiffened, burying himself to the hilt, and I felt it—hot, thick spurts of cum flooding me, spilling deep inside. He held me there, panting, as the last of it pumped out, then pulled free with a wet pop. I collapsed against the bench, legs shaking, his seed already leaking out, trickling down my inner thigh in a slow, sticky trail.
He stepped back, zipping up, his grin triumphant. “See you around, new girl,” he said, then melted into the dispersing crowd. I stayed there, bent over, skirt still hiked up, cum dripping steadily down my leg. The handbook had warned of this—Consensual Rape—but the reality was raw, visceral, a violation I couldn’t unfeel. I tugged my skirt down, the fabric brushing against the mess, and stood on unsteady legs. The crowd thinned, leaving me alone with my shame, the dampness cooling against my skin.
The rest of the day was a haze. I stumbled to the dining hall, the cum still seeping, a constant reminder marking my thigh. Sitting at a table, I kept my legs pressed tight, but the sticky trail persisted, drying in patches, crusting against my skin. Every shift in my seat smeared it further, a faint stain blooming on the navy fabric of my skirt. Students glanced my way, some smirking, others averting their eyes, but no one spoke. I picked at my food, the metal chair cold against my bare ass, the sensation grounding me even as my mind spun.
In my next class, I sat at the back, legs crossed, the dried cum flaking off in tiny white flecks onto the floor. The professor’s voice droned, but I couldn’t focus—every movement reignited the memory, the feel of him inside me, the crowd’s stares. My nipples, still sensitive, pressed against my top, and I hunched forward, hiding them, terrified of sparking another incident. The cum lingered, a physical echo of my failure to control my body, a badge I couldn’t shed.
By evening, I trudged back to Sterling Hall, the day’s weight heavy on my shoulders. Lila was there, sprawled on her bed, glancing up as I dropped my bag. “Rough one, huh?” she said, eyeing the faint stain on my skirt, the crusty streaks on my thigh.
“Yeah,” I muttered, sinking onto my bed. The cum had stopped dripping, but the evidence remained—a dry, itchy mark I’d carry until I could shower. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat there, staring at the floor, the machine of The College grinding me down, one brutal lesson at a time.
Chapter 4: Embracing the Machine
The shower that night was a baptism of sorts. I stood under the scalding water, scrubbing away the day’s residue—the dried cum flaking off my thigh, the sweat clinging to my skin, the phantom weight of that boy’s hands. My crop top and skirt lay crumpled on the dorm floor, stained and discarded like a shed exoskeleton. When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, Lila was still awake, flipping through a magazine. She didn’t ask about the details, just tossed me a knowing look. “You’ll get it eventually,” she said, and I nodded, too tired to argue.
Morning came too soon. I stood before the mirror again, piecing together another outfit: a white halter top, thin and slightly sheer, its hem grazing just above my belly button, and a denim skirt, shorter than yesterday’s, ending mid-thigh. No panties, of course—Pillar One was non-negotiable. My breasts pressed against the fabric, nipples faintly visible through the weave, a soft pink shadow under the white. The skirt hugged my hips, its frayed hem tickling my legs, bare and pale, the stubble now a day coarser. I turned, checking the back—my ass was covered, but only just. A deep breath, and I let my ponytail loose, brown hair falling in waves past my shoulders. I looked less like a frightened freshman, more like someone who belonged. Maybe.
Breakfast was in the dining hall, a cavernous space of long tables and clattering trays. I sat across from Lila, picking at a muffin, the hum of conversation around us a dull roar. A girl nearby laughed, her tube top slipping to reveal a flash of underboob, and no one batted an eye. I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “How do you do it? Just… accept all this?”
Lila shrugged, spearing a piece of fruit. “The Codes? You don’t at first. But then you see how they work. They’re not about shame—they’re about freedom, weirdly. No one’s pretending here. You’re exposed, sure, but so’s everyone else. It evens out.”
I frowned, crumbling the muffin between my fingers. “Freedom? Getting fondled, raped if you’re turned on—that’s freedom?” My voice was sharp, but curiosity edged it. I couldn’t deny the logic twisting in my head, the way the rules started to make a perverse kind of sense.
“Think about it,” she said, leaning in, her dress shifting to bare more of her thigh. “No underwear means you choose what covers you—really choose, not just lean on some hidden layer. Inspections keep it honest. Touching? It’s just skin—why hide it? And the rape thing…” She paused, smirking. “It’s harsh, yeah, but it’s a deterrent. Keeps you in check. You learn to control yourself, or you pay. It’s empowerment, in a messed-up way.”
I chewed on that, my mind circling back to yesterday—the boy, the bench, the cum dripping down my leg. It had been brutal, humiliating, but there was a structure to it, a clarity. The College didn’t pretend to coddle you; it laid out the rules and let you navigate them. If I’d kept my arousal hidden, I’d have walked away unscathed. My fault, in a way. I hated that thought, but it stuck, rooting itself deep. “So you just… go with it?” I asked.
“Pretty much. Fight it, and you’re miserable. Roll with it, and it’s almost fun.” She grinned, popping the fruit into her mouth. “You’ll see.”
I nodded, sipping my coffee, but her words churned inside me. Fun. Empowerment. Control. I pictured the quad, hands brushing my skin, eyes tracking my every move. My thighs pressed together under the table, a faint heat sparking at the thought—not of yesterday’s violation, but of the possibility. What if I got aroused again? The idea alone sent a shiver up my spine, my nipples tightening against the halter top. I shifted, hoping the fabric hid it, but a secret part of me—small, buried—hoped someone would notice. The thrill of being seen, caught, was a live wire in my chest.
“Like, take the touching,” I said, testing the waters, my voice casual. “It’s weird, but it’s not random. You know it’s coming, so you dress for it. Less bare skin, less hassle. It’s logical.” I was justifying it, weaving a thread of sense around the chaos, and it felt… right. My fingers traced the edge of my skirt, imagining a hand there, and the heat grew, a slow pulse between my legs.
Lila raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. You’re getting it. The Codes aren’t punishment—they’re a system. Play it smart, and you’re golden.”
I smiled faintly, but my mind was elsewhere. I pictured an inspection—stripping in the quad, the crowd watching, my body laid bare. My breath hitched, a slickness starting to gather, and I squeezed my thighs tighter, terrified it’d show. The denim skirt was short; a wrong move, and the dampness could gleam on my skin, a neon sign screaming arousal. Part of me prayed no one would look, but another part—a darker, quieter part—wanted eyes on me, wanted the risk. The thought of that boy again, or another, claiming me because I couldn’t hide it, made my pulse race, my labia tingling with a shameful swell.
I stood abruptly, tray in hand. “Gotta get to class,” I mumbled, hoping my flush stayed on my cheeks and not lower. Lila waved me off, oblivious—or maybe not. I walked out, the halter top brushing my sensitive nipples with every step, the skirt swaying against my thighs. The quad stretched ahead, a gauntlet of potential touches, stares, consequences. I kept my head high, legs together, but the arousal lingered, a quiet hum I couldn’t shake. I told myself it was acceptance—the rules were the rules, and I’d learn them, live them. But deep down, I knew it was more. I was stepping into the machine, and a piece of me liked the grind.