by Emily Tilton
“You naughty girl,” Mrs. Wood said, her eyes narrowing. “Turn around and bend over this instant. Mr. Bonner, if Tom were here he would take his belt to that young bottom for the girl’s defiance. I think Renee needs a taste of leather, don’t you?”
Renee looked at Frankie, her eyes still shut as her mommy continued to probe her bare pussy even as the wooden spoon in her other hand threatened Renee. She turned her head a little more and saw that Mary’s eyes were open while her owner explored her private parts. The younger Wood girl had her lower lip between her teeth, and now Renee noticed that Mary’s hips were moving rhythmically on Mr. Bonner’s hand. A thrill of… envy shot through Renee at that, so strong that it made her whimper, and take her hands from behind her so that she could actually clasp them in a plea to the handsome blond man.
“Please, not the belt, Mr. Bonner,” she begged. She turned to Mrs. Wood. “I’ll… I’ll try to be good for my punishment.”
Her friends’ mommy looked back at her with those eyes that seemed so much wiser to Renee’s bratty ways than her own mommy’s did. “Get back over the table, then. Mr. Bonner will spank you as he likes today, and touch you, too. Listen carefully, though, Renee, because I can set your bratty mind at ease on one particular score: my girls’ owner will fuck them today while you watch, but you won’t be fucked for two weeks. Your auction date has been set, and you’ll have special lessons until then, but it will be the man or woman who buys you who decides how you lose your virginity.”
Renee didn’t understand why, but that did it. In fact, she had no idea what did it even meant, in that moment, except that she suddenly felt that she couldn’t push whatever away anymore, and that she didn’t want to push it away, and that she didn’t have to push it away.
She felt that even though she would have no choice in the end but to be spanked not only by Mrs. Wood but also by Mr. Bonner, nor any option but to go in the van and be sold, trained, deflowered by some rich man she had never met, here in this frozen instant when Frankie and Mary’s mommy had just revealed Renee’s awful, terribly arousing fate, a completely different necessity confronted her.
Here and now, Renee Dalton had to brat.
“No,” she said, pulling her head back a little and shaking it, completely conscious and completely in control of the defiant—the nasty, really—expression on her face. “You’re not my mommy and this man isn’t my daddy. Even if you were, I wouldn’t let you spank me now, after telling me that. That’s all…”
She felt unexpectedly at a loss for words, but it only hindered her declaration for a moment: she didn’t have to think about how very many conflicting feelings had emerged in her chest at hearing all the lewd things Mrs. Wood had promised—she just had to keep whatever there at the surface, for the benefit of everyone, bratty Renee Dalton first and foremost.
“…that’s all just wrong, and you can forget about me being part of it.”
She looked into Mrs. Wood’s narrow eyes, and for a moment, to her astonishment, she thought she might have seen amusement and… admiration? Then the expression there changed drastically, and Frankie and Mary’s mommy looked like a cartoon version of a scary mommy ready to teach a disrespectful, disobedient little girl never, ever to repeat that naughtiness.
Renee felt a moment of fear, but for the first time since things had changed, the day before with Daddy saying he would inspect her, her defiance rose up unchecked to meet it. Frankie, and even impish Mary, might greet their mommy’s wrath with timid acquiescence, bottoms up for Mrs. Wood’s spoon and Mr. Wood’s belt. If Mrs. Wood thought that Renee would actually do likewise, now that the girl who had survived the streets understood about all of this sex stuff, about what Oak Street really involved, she should definitely think again.
She noticed—couldn’t help noticing—that she felt differently about her resistance from the way she had ever felt before, rebelling against her own mommy and daddy with the whatever attitude and the scornful faces. That defiance had made her feel out of control: it had seemed the only thing to do in the moment, but a moment later, over Daddy’s knee, she had regretted it and felt grateful in a way she couldn’t admit, had to fight, for his firm hand rising and falling on her little bottom, teaching her to respect his and Mommy’s authority. This defiance, to Mrs. Wood and to Mr. Bonner, to whom she turned a little, now, to face and give him a share of her scorn at the stupid idea he would spank her and she would watch him have sex with her friends, felt in control.
It felt good.
That thought, though, brought to Renee’s attention something a bit more troubling, though this new realization made her much more intent on keeping up the defiance despite knowing the grownups would certainly overcome it and make her do everything they had promised.
Renee had gotten so wet that she felt her private wetness drip from her pussy onto her thigh, unimpeded by the modest panties that Oak Street girls wore all the time, even to bed.
It felt good to defy, and it felt good to know her rebellion would be quelled—it felt good in the funny feeling way that Mary had awakened so thrillingly, so embarrassingly, so wonderfully, with her experienced fingers, standing there in the little bedroom before Mrs. Wood had come in and started laying into Mary’s poor bottom with the terrible wooden spoon, while Renee couldn’t stop burning between her thighs at the sight of her friend’s punishment.
Renee realized that she wanted all of it—but only if she could keep bratting about it, until they overcame her resistance with discipline and with pleasure.
“We’re going to get your mommy and daddy over here before long, Renee Dalton,” said Mrs. Wood, sending another thrill of fear through Renee’s chest, one that now seemed—after Renee had understood about the relationship between the bratting and the wetness between her thighs—to go straight to her pussy. “But I promised them that I would do my best to teach you the kind of lesson they can’t seem to get through to you.”
Renee felt her lips part, as the whatever face wavered a tiny bit. She looked carefully at Mrs. Wood, though, and felt a sudden resolve shoot from her friend’s mommy’s stern look into her own defiant heart.
“What-e-ver,” she said, shaking her head in dismissal of the threat, narrowing her own eyes, giving Mrs. Wood back exactly the firmness of purpose Renee found in the older woman’s own glare.
Mrs. Wood spoke to Frankie and Mary’s master without taking her eyes from Renee’s. “Mr. Bonner, I’d be grateful if you would hold this spoiled brat down over the table. I’ll use my spoon, and then you can use your belt, and we’ll see how bratty she feels after that.”
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Chapter Twelve
Two weeks later, having just purchased Renee Dalton’s contract for just shy of 9.5 million dollars, Steven Yates watched the edited video of that first special lesson at the Woods’ house, sitting in the living room of the honeymoon cottage where Renee herself would soon arrive. Right after the auction, when she took Renee back to her office to meet with the lawyer who would explain to the girl exactly how wealthy she had just become, Miss Charlotte had handed Steven an envelope containing the access code for the specially edited version that only he would see, as Renee’s new daddy.
“This will take at least an hour,” Miss Charlotte had said with a knowing smile. “Lots of papers to sign. Take the limo to the cottage and watch your video, and the time will fly by.”
The envelope had also held the keys to the cottage where five owners had now signed the unique guestbook he found on the hall console table, beginning with Mr. Jacob Weaver, Wendy Kimball’s master. The headings on each spread double page read, in Gothic capitals,
DATE, OWNER, GIRL, PURCHASE PRICE, and NOTES
Underneath, in various hands, Steven had found,
3 April, Mr. Jacob Weaver, Wendy Kimball, $3.2M, such a good girl! Wendy gave me her anus shyly but sweetly this morning.
24 April, Mr. Johann Bonner, Frances and Mary Wood, $10M, I could not be happi
er with my sweet, lovely girls. They’ve already learned to kiss one another’s little pussies so very naughtily.
8 May, Mr. Gavin Hewitt, Virginia Samuels, $7M, Ginnie got spanked, I’m afraid, for playing with herself, but I think she came so loudly in the shower for a reason. What a marvelous night! What a sweet young lady!
29 May, Ms. Aurora Dessin, Heather London, $8.1M, My sweet Heather is everything I wished for in a little girl. Sweet and obedient, and already very well trained to please my greedy cunt.
Steven had smiled. Sweet wasn’t a word he thought he would himself write the next morning in that book.
In the living room he brought up the Institute’s internal video channel and entered the access code. The Assessors’ Cut of the video from Renee’s first special lesson, at the Wood house, captivated him from the beginning—the very sight of his little girl’s face, defying Laura Wood and Johann Bonner, made him hard and filled his mind with ideas of what would happen here in the honeymoon cottage when she arrived.
Steven had seen it unfold live, of course, but this cut included commentary from Miss Charlotte herself, as well as an exclusive look behind the scenes that Steven might have said with only slight exaggeration seemed to him worth the purchase price of his bratty girl, all on its own. Sparse but tantalizing footage of a darkened control room with six video monitors showing different views of Oak Street, along with audio of a woman—one of the Institute’s shadowy assessors, surely—directing the action, fascinated and aroused the financier.
“Harder with the spoon,” said that mysterious voice. On the screen in the cottage, numbers appeared that must represent the data the assessors used to manage the Institute girls’ training. One number, in the upper right of the screen, appeared a little larger. It read 10, and then flashed. “Recalibrator,” the assessor informed whoever was listening—it must be Laura Wood, Steven guessed, because Frankie and Mary’s mommy did indeed apply her wooden spoon harder to Renee’s lovely, reddening bottom.
Recalibrator. Renee cried out, because instead of punishing her, Mr. Bonner had put his left hand between her legs while he thrust his cock in and out of Mary’s pussy.
An alarm sounded on the audio. “Pre-orgasm,” said the assessor. “One more swat with the spoon, Laura.”
Then Miss Charlotte spoke over the scene. “As you can see, the best way to manage a brat like your lovely, naughty Renee is with a mixture of punishment and pleasure. Our assessment teams have confirmed through extensive research that the defiance complex that arouses you so much, as the experienced master of rebellious girls, will grow increasingly under Renee’s control—and thus also your control—as you show her that you can command her body the way you see Mrs. Wood and Mr. Bonner doing here.”
Miss Charlotte’s comments were directed of course at whoever bought Renee. They nevertheless felt personalized to Steven, as if the dean spoke directly to him. His lips quirked into a smile as he realized why: the Institute might as well have set out to sell bratty Renee to Mr. Steven Yates, lover of brats. He had never done more than shake Miss Charlotte’s hand before tonight, but she and her assessors knew him intimately.
Steven turned off the video, not wanting to become so aroused that he would consider jerking off. His thoughts couldn’t help turning, though, to the auction that had cost him, and gained him, so much in the Institute’s grand salon less than an hour before.
Renee had arrived dressed in her modest blue Sunday dress and old-fashioned underwear. A platinum-blonde concubine in a lacy pink nightgown had led the brown-haired girl in, her hands bound before her. Brought to the little stage at the front of the room, Renee had made a brat’s typical fuss when told by Miss Charlotte to remove those clothes in front of the assembled bidders, so as to display the pert breasts, bare pussy, and sweet young bottom one of them would soon own.
An Institute trainer, summoned by Miss Charlotte, had put the protesting girl over the spanking bench on the dais, raised her skirt and lowered the beige panties that all Oak Street girls were told by their mommies to wear over the suspenders that held up their nylons. As Steven and the others watched, enchanted, the big trainer in the black robe that left his huge cock exposed had punished Renee for disobeying Miss Charlotte’s command to strip. The huge man had paddled Renee’s lovely rear end with a sort of leather paddle unknown on Oak Street—the type of implement used at the Institute in daily training, which Steven felt certain Renee’s bottom-cheeks would become very well acquainted as she learned how to please him, her new master and daddy. By the time a sobbing Renee had been allowed to rise, her bottom bright red from a real big-girl punishment, she had been ready to take off her clothes to show the men and women gathered to bid on her virginity what they would get for their money.
“Look at her face,” Miss Charlotte had said as the undressing proceeded. “You all know that penitent look very well, I’m sure, from following her development. It’s different from the kind of expression you’ll see on other Oak Street girls’ faces.”
Steven had made it clear from the beginning of the auction that he meant to have her. He left no bid unmatched, hoping to demoralize the competition. Because she had already needed a spanking, Renee didn’t receive the traditional spank with each new bid, but instead the Institute concubine Judy gave her bare pussy a long kiss instead, until she cried out with need, hands straining at the cuffs that bound her to the spanking bench. It had slowed the auction down deliciously, so that all the bidders had time at least to finish their drinks. At $9.4 million dollars, when the gavel came down, Steven had felt a little sadness that it had ended so soon.
The consolation that the naked, needy brat on stage now belonged to him seemed quite adequate however.
Tires sounded on the gravel drive. Steven rose and went into the hall, thinking he would go outside to help get Renee out of the car, but the bell rang before he could reach the door. He opened it to see Renee standing in front of Miss Charlotte, dressed again in her modest Sunday-on-Oak-Street clothes. The expression on Renee’s face seemed worth all $9.4 million in that moment: Well,it said, do you really think you can handle me? It bore a resemblance to the disinterested look Steven had seen her give her guardians many a time, but just as Miss Charlotte had said, it seemed much more under Renee’s control—as if she could enjoy it now.
The dean herself had a dark look on her face—a scowl almost.
“Mr. Yates,” said Miss Charlotte. “I’m afraid your bed girl needs disciplinary attention immediately. You’re her master, of course, and it’s your decision. But I recommend you teach her a stern lesson before you deflower her, despite the inconvenience to you.”
For an instant Steven wondered whether the little scene represented nothing more than an act meant to show off Renee’s bratty side. He fought a smile, though, as he understood that this episode could only be just as real as everything else on Oak Street. The Institute might well have engineered the emergence of Renee’s defiance, but that didn’t mean the girl’s rebellion was any less real.
“I see,” he said, narrowing his brown eyes and looking intently at his bed girl. Renee’s blue orbs went wide for just a moment, and then matched his own hardened expression. He could almost feel her evaluating him, and it made his heart sing. “What did you do, Renee?”
That startled her: she had clearly supposed he would ask Miss Charlotte. An air of dilemma showed on Renee’s beautiful face as she obviously pondered how to answer.
“Mr. Yates is waiting, Renee,” said Miss Charlotte. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”
Renee turned scornful eyes on the dean, as if she had forgotten entirely how she had been paddled the last time she defied Miss Charlotte. When she turned back to Steven, he saw the genius in what the dean had done: Renee’s expression to him had in it a sort of plea for sympathy that hadn’t been there before.
“I only said I wanted to fasten my own seatbelt,” she said.
“And I told you that it’s not allowed,” Miss Charlotte said. �
��And then you tried to run away, after you had signed your contract. Mr. Yates, two trainers had to bring her back to the van and strap her in. They’re still in the van in case you want them here to keep the girl in line tonight.”
Renee had kept her eyes on Steven’s face, and he had returned her gaze, during this whole exchange. He saw the element of appraisal, of judging, so clearly there now that he spoke his response slowly, wanting to make every word count.
“Renee, sweetheart, do I need to ask Miss Charlotte to send the trainers in? You know I own you now, and I intend to have my way. I am indeed going to punish you for that disobedience, with a big anal plug that will get you ready for my penis back there.”
Her eyes went wide again. “You wouldn’t,” she said in a soft, husky voice.
Steven reached out and did the thing he had been longing to do for months and months—a thing that no one on Oak Street had done to Renee, because a brat on Oak Street could only await the treatment she truly deserved, and not receive it in that respectable suburban subdivision. He put his hand around the back of his bed girl’s head and twined his fingers in her lustrous brown hair. As she gave a startled cry, he pulled—with force but not violently—bringing her inside the honeymoon cottage the way a brat, he thought, should always enter the place where she will lose her virginity.
“Don’t!” Renee cried. “Mr. Yates… please… Ow!”
“I see you have things in hand,” Miss Charlotte said with a smile. “We’ll be watching, as you know. Trainers are always available for backup, but I can’t imagine you’ll need them.”
“Miss Charlotte!” Renee cried, apparently reorienting her ideas about who might give sympathy. “Don’t let him! He can’t!”
For a moment, as he hauled Renee toward the bedroom with his right hand in her hair and his left on her upper arm, Steven wondered. He stopped and moved the left hand down the front of her body under the blue skirt that aroused him so much by its innocence, into the beige nylon panties.