by Emily Tilton
“Did you play with yourself, in your office?” he asked quietly, bending right to her ear to deliver the words straight to her hot cheek, her heated brain. “Did you play with yourself at work, naughty girl?”
“No!” she gasped, wondering how he could know. “Please…”
Gordon spoke again, and his words seemed all the more unbearable to her because of the apparent mercy in them.
“I’m not going to spank you anymore, Maia. You’re going to come now, here, over the hood of your car. Show me what you need.”
Chapter Four
Maia’s little noise, as she took in the meaning of his words, made Gordon harder than ever—so hard he had to shift his stance a little to ease the constriction in his suit pants. The question of whether he desired the girl more than he should, for the smooth running of this mission, threatened to distract him.
Gordon Ernkat hadn’t risen through the ranks of the Guard doing fieldwork, let alone gaining the kind of experience an Institute training master would have. His innate skills in breaking a submissive to the acceptance of her desires, however, had received a good deal of refinement even in the course of a career based on the analysis of economic intelligence and executive behavior. He certainly had the requisite ability to submerge his raw alpha craving for Maia North and concentrate on awakening her to her body’s need for masculine domination—a task rendered relatively simple in her case because of her self-pleasuring habits. Gordon’s knowledge not only of the basically submissive nature of Maia’s fantasies, combined with his minute familiarity with the actual content of the shows to which she had masturbated on NMB, gave him so much leverage, indeed, that some part of his mind apparently found it acceptable to speculate on whether he would be allowed in the course of the mission to deflower her.
You have to be incredibly careful with that leverage, though, he told himself a bit angrily as he began, with the hand inside her panties, to put Maia’s pussy through its delightful paces, making her ride his probing fingers with little squirms of her warm red bottom, jerking motions of her slim hips. The noises she made had more in them of protest, still, than of pleasure, but even without the Institute’s sensing array and the voices of an assessor team in his ear to assure him that Maia’s arousal had just hit a new all-time high Gordon’s instinct told him precisely that. The brilliant girl’s shame, linked inextricably to her arousal, had received an emphatic boost from the spanking over the hood of her own sports car; now her private wetness gushed into the hand of the man who had taken upon himself to teach her how good an orgasm could actually feel.
“That’s it. Good girl,” he said, still bending over her to suggest intimacy—a closeness he rather wished he didn’t want so much—and, more, to suggest the nearness of his hard cock to the pussy to which he brought a pleasure the Institute’s research suggested she had never felt before. “Getting finger-fucked after your spanking. You took your pants down right in the garage, didn’t you, just like I asked?”
He could hear her climax coming in the ragged breathing, the faster pace of her hips—then, suddenly, the arched back and the lovely red hair thrown back, the flush in her slightly freckled cheek. Maia’s whole body went rigid, and she let out a cry as her bottom clenched over and over, her thighs trembled, and best of all her pussy spasmed uncontrollably around the fingers he had brought almost to her intact hymen.
He kept going, kept driving her further, deeper into her pleasure in a way he knew had already begun to seem nearly unbearable to her. She cried out again, and Gordon had the satisfaction of bringing Maia North over into the magical realm of the multi-orgasm: Institute observation suggested she pleasured herself serially, resting between climaxes. She cried out, and her legs trembled so much that Gordon had to hold her in place over the hood as he gave her a third orgasm, so that she sobbed with pleasure, limp over the expanse of the hood.
“Good girl,” he said again. “Such a good girl. Now you may pull up your pants and give me the keys.”
He released her from the restraint of his left arm as he gave her sweet pussy a final caress with his right hand and then withdrew it, putting the gusset of her panties back into place and then, finally, patting her well-punished bottom to praise her for her obedience. Maia, still over the hood, turned her red face to look at him, her eyes wild and bright with unfallen tears of shame and discomfort from the spanking.
“I…” she began. “I’m not…”
Now Gordon really did wish the extraordinary electronic security that surrounded the life of an expert in computer cryptanalysis allowed a little more in the way of a data stream on Maia’s inner state. Even a reading of her galvanic skin response, with its basic information on the strength of her fight or flight response, would have helped him. Now he had to trust his instinct that the strength of her body’s response to his mastery would coopt any more rational, more conventional ideas about trying to escape.
Even having Kevin’s voice in his ear, relaying the percentages modeled by the Institute’s assessors independent of any real-time data, might have helped. But the tiny comm-link implanted in Gordon’s jaw had needed to be fully deactivated before he even walked into Confidelia’s offices, to pass the security check. He did have the option of using the encrypted phone in his pocket, but that would require a few seconds he simply didn’t have, if these crucial, fragile first moments of breaking Maia were to go as the Guard hoped.
He had two options. He could restrain her, manhandle her into the car, and bring her home where the joint Guard/Institute team awaited them. That would mean, however, that practically everything he had just accomplished with the spanking and the multi-orgasms would lose the power it now had over her. In that case, Maia would have to be broken the old-fashioned way, without any guarantee of success in the area that really counted: her willingness to help the Guard with respect to Confidelia’s metadata within the very narrow time window before the Groupe found a way around the new standard. They would eventually have in Maia North a beautiful submissive trillionaire who might even join the Order of Ostia or take a job at Selecta, but the chances that could happen quickly enough through standard concubine training stood at something like fifty percent according to the Institute model as of this morning.
Gordon wished he could forget that that path would also mean that another man—a training master pretending to be the tycoon who had purchased Maia for his bed—would have the pleasure of deflowering the girl. Along the other path, he told himself, didn’t lie anything like certainty that he, Gordon, would have that pleasure.
Still, leaving aside his own desires and the anticipation of alpha rage if he had to stand by and watch someone else fuck the girl he had no intention of confessing to anyone—least of all himself—that he loved, the upside of the subtler approach recommended it very strongly. He had no time left: Gordon couldn’t swear that his next words and actions came from rational impulse rather than his own passion to make Maia North his own, but once he had started down that riskier path he had at least the gratifying feeling that he had no choice but to follow through.
“You’re not what, Maia?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.
“I’m not…” she tried again, and couldn’t go on, her wide eyes showing great distress at her failure to verbalize some immediate expression of resistance to the man who had just committed such an outrage in a parking garage, punishing her for disobedience and then unexpectedly forcing her to a kind of pleasure she had never experienced. Gordon’s heart went out to her, but he waited, folding his arms across his chest.
Maia pushed herself up a little on her elbows. “I’m not going with you. I’m not…”
Again she couldn’t find the words, and now Gordon felt sure that if an Institute assessor team were feeding him advice based on her data stream they would show Maia’s arousal bouncing up and down as every time she thought about going with him, her need to submit and to know what awaited her stopped her from defying him outright.
He couldn’t dela
y the delicate next step, though: eventually her arousal would fade and she would realize that she was bent over the hood of her car, her pants down around her thighs, in a parking garage.
“Do as I said, Maia,” Gordon instructed in a matter-of-fact voice that suggested surprise that she hadn’t already obeyed him. “I don’t want to have to give you the belt when we get to your house.”
Nailed it, he thought to himself as he watched her face. Her eyes went wide—so wide they seemed almost to bulge a little, a strangely attractive look, with sparkling green irises in a perfect pale face wreathed in disheveled red hair. Her hips moved, too, and her bottom gave a little squirm, and that—Gordon thought the involuntary bodily response must bear the prime responsibility—brought a crimson blush to Maia’s face.
She stood up, her eyes downcast, now. Her face had on it the expression of a girl whose unconscious mind has taken over some essential element of controlling her actions. Maia would at least for the next few minutes act according to the erotic script buried in her limbic system and thoroughly shaped by her self-pleasuring habits. Her body, right now, would keep her mind from mounting anything like resistance: the part of her that wanted to be Catherine from NMB had control.
Catherine often got the belt from Mr. Stonehill, if she failed to obey him readily: skirt up and panties down over his knee, the twenty-year-old—taken from college to serve in the bed of a wealthy real estate mogul—felt the consequences of lingering too long in a boutique, or coming slowly when her master called her to his chair for a blowjob. Maia had seen Catherine’s bottom streaked with curling red stripes, had seen the weeping girl put to bed wearing wrist cuffs attached to a collar so she couldn’t play with herself after her whipping and lessen the punishment as many New Modesty girls did—as Catherine herself had done many times after being paddled at her girls’ college for getting poor marks, as happened frequently at the New Modesty colleges.
Catherine Shaw, Institute-trained in the special facility separate from the Institute’s principal complex and dedicated to readying submissive girls for men like Mr. Stonehill, loved every moment of it—just as much as Mr. Stonehill loved disciplining and enjoying his rebellious young lady. Neither of them had any idea that Catherine’s Story had been designed not only with an eye to the elements that produced generally good ratings numbers on NMB but also so as to capture the yearnings of one Maia North, who loved Catherine’s and Mr. Stonehill’s punishment-and-sex dynamic but surely also with the drawback that part of her longed to distraction for the same sort of thing to befall her—while at the same time the empowered intellectual element of her personality told her that her longing degraded her and should make her feel utterly ashamed of herself.
Now Gordon had managed for the moment to tame her reason and to put it in service of her more physical needs. A risk remained, as long as he didn’t have access to sensor data for Maia’s bodily responses, that she could suddenly zig in her behavior when Gordon felt certain she would zag—that she could even escape that way, at a stage in the process that would without exaggeration put the world at risk, too. At thirty-three Maia had a good deal more guile than the standard Institute pickup or Ostia recruit, and her intelligence made it easy for her to analyze on the fly and then take advantage of her astute read of every situation.
Time is of the essence, though, Gordon thought, and assured himself without much sophistry that it all had to do with saving civilization, rather than with fucking Maia North.
He watched in silence as she pulled up her jeans, face very red. As she buttoned them she shot a glance upward at Gordon, who had kept his face completely impassive for exactly that reason: she needed to see in his expression what she projected there, whether a strict disciplinarian or a caring avuncular figure.
He put his arm around her shoulder, now, firmly but without compulsion, and began to walk her to the passenger side of the sports car. Maia went, slowly but without resistance. Gordon reached out for the door handle, and the proximity of the keys in Maia’s pocket unlocked the car and let him open the door.
He spoke slowly and gently. “Give me the keys, please, Maia, and get in.”
Chapter Five
Maia felt she should have been surprised that Gordon actually did drive to her house in Palo Alto. Instead, she found herself thanking him, inwardly. She couldn’t look at him, let alone speak to him: she kept her hands in her lap all the way home, but as she saw the familiar landmarks—Stanford campus in the distance, CalTrain station, neighbors’ houses—Maia couldn’t help thinking that Gordon had at least done exactly what he said he would do, as strange and monstrous as that might be.
Strange, monstrous, and what I asked for. Her face burned as the words floated into her head completely unbidden. She hadn’t asked for this.
Had she?
Where you’re going. What could it mean? If Gordon had done what he said he would do, in the matter of driving her home to her own house, it stood to reason that from there he would… they would… take her somewhere else. Something more than her sheer ignorance of what the financier had meant by we, and of the place where they did to girls like Maia whatever they did, made her heart quail—something about how Gordon had somehow known that Maia masturbated in her office, about how he had known he would find her wet down there, after he spanked her.
He spanked me over the hood of my car, in the garage. He… he made me come there, like that.
The car pulled off the narrow, winding street above campus into the driveway of the big mission-style house. The garage, sensing her arrival home from her phone’s proximity, drew up its automatic rolling door.
“It will park itself,” she said automatically, hearing her voice as if it came from a mile away.
“I know, Maia,” Gordon said. He took his hands off the wheel at precisely the right moment—exactly when Maia herself would have let the car take over to marvel at what technology had done for humanity.
Cars that parked themselves. Software that made every networked computer secure.
Video channels that showed young women getting precisely what they needed when they misbehaved.
Maia’s heart started to race again. It felt like her rational mind, having fallen asleep, might begin to wake up again now that Gordon Ernkat had unaccountably driven her home in the car she had determined no one but her would ever drive.
“You’re going to stay in your seat until the men helping me open your door,” Gordon said. “It won’t take more than a few moments.”
Maia’s lips parted and she glanced at him for the first time since she had gotten into the car. Gordon looked back at her levelly.
“How…?” she managed to whisper. Her multimillion-dollar home had more security than the White House, she liked to tell people because she had of course ascertained the factuality of the statement—the encryption on her smart devices featured her own algorithms, to which the president didn’t yet have access.
Two men in black t-shirts and jeans emerged from the door that led from the garage into Maia’s kitchen. Two big men, both in height and in bulging muscularity. Shallow, quick breaths through her mouth matched her racing heart.
How had they gotten in? For the first moment in this whole bizarre experience, Maia knew something close to panic. She supposed that in the back of her mind, up until then, she had presumed that her phone’s presence in her purse would ensure that rescue would come as soon as she spoke the code phrase that called for help—words for which her phone continually listened.
But seeing that two men had somehow entered her house without her knowledge, despite all her sophisticated security, sent an enormous jolt of fear through her body. For a second or so she froze, watching them advance. Time slowed down around her, and she even had the headspace for one part of her mind to express surprise that the phenomenon of heightened awareness actually felt like slow motion in a film. She spoke just as the hand of the second man to emerge from the doorway reached for the handle of the car door, the first having
taken a position on the other side, clearly in order to reach in as soon as his colleague got the door open.
“Captain Obvious!”
Maia had meant, when she picked that phrase, to choose words that sounded like the kind of thing she might say in an ordinary conversation but which she never did say: her own way of sarcastically diminishing a man’s self-perception of his intellect didn’t rely on such catchphrases. She had thought herself extremely clever: an aggressor, hearing Maia call him Captain Obvious in any tone from anger to feigned seduction, would have no idea she had just silently called the police and put her phone invisibly into a mode that transmitted and recorded every noise in the immediate area, as well as pinpointing her location.
Now of course she spoke the words in a context that couldn’t help but alert Gordon in some way, but she didn’t think his mind worked like hers. Maia felt sure he wouldn’t know what she had done.
The door handle gave its chunky click as the big man opened it.
Gordon said, “We’ve disabled your phone, Maia. It didn’t hear you use the panic phrase, and it’s not transmitting to the police. Go with these men, please. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Wh—” Her overactive brain found too many different words beginning with wh-. She couldn’t decide, and then her mind flipped over because the man who had stood ready to get her did reach into the little interior space of her car, and take hold of her shoulders with his huge hands and strong arms.
“It will help calm you down when you understand that you don’t have a choice,” Gordon said. “There’s a lot more at stake than the naughty backside of a tech CEO.”
She turned to look at him, her brow creasing into a puzzled frown. Her words returned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”