by Emily Tilton
She had to try even harder, through finally with greater success, not to think about the real reason for that relief. Beatrice should, she thought, have felt she had escaped something unpleasant simply because she didn’t want to take a penis in her mouth until it spurted its seed, which she had planned on directing back onto the penis’ owner. Sucking a penis was supposed to be a chore undertaken because guys liked it, and if you liked a guy it was a favor you could do.
Instead, though, the relief she actually felt came from pushing away the images that had filled her mind as she had contemplated it. Images of how it might happen, of kneeling, of his hands on her face, her head, her neck, commanding, enforcing—and then the hardness thrusting, taking away her voice, seeking only its master’s pleasure. Of John not allowing her to stop until she had swallowed his semen the way he preferred a girl to do. Beatrice of course had no reason to think that John had any such preference, but that made the images even more troubling.
Images. Not fantasies.
What the hell? Had this doctor just somehow made her think about the blowjob she had never given the boyfriend with whom she had broken up six months ago? She had stopped thinking about that stuff, and the images had gone away.
“Hold her head down on your cock, your highness. She’s good, isn’t she?” Wet sounds from Erin’s mouth, as the sheikh accepted her husband’s suggestion. A satisfied grunt from the diplomat.
“Very good, Senator.”
“Would you like to come in her mouth, your highness? Or would you rather try the cunt, now?”
Those images: memories, not fantasies. Memories Beatrice didn’t want.
The doctor spoke very sternly, cutting through this terrible reverie. “Turn over, Beatrice, and raise your bottom. I’m going to paddle you now, until you’re ready to undress for your examination.”
“Do you have to spank Mrs. Metz often, Senator?”
Beatrice felt frozen in place, looking up at the doctor. The rails themselves shook now with the frightened trembling of her body.
“Beatrice,” said Dr. Franklin. “I can call an orderly in to put you in position for your spanking, and hold you down, if I have to, but I’m sure you don’t want me to do that. Turn over on your tummy like a good girl and take your punishment. Once you show you can obey a simple command like that, everything will get easier.”
Easier for whom? Beatrice wondered wildly.
The doctor tapped the plastic against his left palm, and for some reason that did it. The implicit threat that the more Beatrice defied him the worse her paddling would be seemed to motivate her. Suddenly she understood, through that simple gesture, that she wouldn’t be able to get out of any of it.
“I’ll get undressed, now, Doctor,” she said as meekly as she could. She felt sure she could avoid the paddle, and right now that mattered most.
Dr. Franklin smiled. “Alright, Beatrice. Go ahead and do that.”
Awkwardly and feeling a very strange mix of emotions in her breast—including, to her dismay, a bizarre sort of disappointment—Beatrice obeyed. Her little black dress soon hung on a hook and she stood in her rather sensible black nylon bra and even more sensible gray cotton briefs, with her back to Dr. Franklin.
“Underwear, too, please,” he said, and Beatrice, again relying on the sense that she wouldn’t be able to escape, stripped down her panties first, thinking that to do it in that order would be the opposite of any kind of strip-tease, and the opposite of the order in which…
“Take the bra off, your highness, and feel those sweet young breasts while she sucks.”
Then, later, “Let’s take those naughty, lacy panties down so we can see your cunt, sweetheart.”
Beatrice put the panties on a nearby chair, her face hot from the memory, and another memory that came with it, of touching herself through those panties, of getting them very wet as she watched Mrs. Metz being used by her husband and the sheikh. She stilled a sudden urge to pick up her briefs again to see if she had left embarrassing evidence upon them of her masturbation. Quickly she reached back and unhooked her bra, shrugged it off, dropped it on the chair. Where had her thigh-highs gone? Had Charlotte taken them from her, along with her shoes?
She looked around then, for an examination gown, in confusion because there should have been one hanging nearby, shouldn’t there?
“Back up on the bed now, and raise your bottom nice and high for the paddle,” the doctor said.
Chapter Four
As he watched the girl’s examination on his laptop in the presidential suite of the Ritz, Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani couldn’t keep the smile from his face—or the hardness from his cock. He had known the instant he saw Beatrice Graham in the senator’s office that she needed the kind of mastering he knew so very well how to provide: the kind Western girls, and American girls in particular, often benefitted greatly from getting at the hands of a non-Western dominant.
He didn’t require any robust dataset or supervising Institute to tell him that: he had seen it in her eyes.
When they had discovered her in the closet of Senator Metz’ den, though the timing had annoyed Diyab greatly—he had been on the verge of coming inside Mrs. Metz’ anus, a heavenly little spot Diyab didn’t get to enjoy as much as he would have liked because of his own culture’s mores—he hadn’t really felt much anger. Poor Beatrice had grown up in a country where the mixed signals of modernity and tradition had suited her obviously submissive nature very badly.
Like a young woman of Rashan who took no pleasure in submission, forced at a young age to marry an insensitive or even a cruel man, this American girl had no clear or even easily available way to get what she needed. Indeed, Beatrice’s culture told her—with the exception of the very interesting New Modesty movement, whose fortunes Diyab followed with great attention—that her desires represented a perversion of nature. In the same, though converse, way, the Rashani girl heard from every side that to desire anything but her husband’s mastery went against the divine will. The Rashani girl’s plight, Diyab knew, might well hold a much more terrible ordeal in store than the denial of pleasure Beatrice would experience, but he couldn’t help sympathizing with the Western girl as well.
Diyab’s first wife Aliya might have embodied that Rashani girl had Diyab not learned his lessons concerning the multiplicity and relativism of cultures very thoroughly at Oxford. On their wedding night, she had at first refused his bed. If Diyab had been a true traditionalist, rather than simply a modern sheikh who believed strongly in the importance of the old ways, where they remained possible and appropriate, he certainly would have bared her bottom and caned her until she had obeyed his command to undress. Indeed, despite his youth—he and Aliya had both been eighteen—Diyab had already had the cane ready, having informed himself well as to his rights and duties in his marriage chamber.
But he had seen in Aliya’s eyes the full refutation of the totalizing tendency of the marriage manuals. He had no thought of coming to the opposite conclusion and giving up his masculine desire for mastery over his bed partners, for he had already by then enjoyed the favors of two concubines, one on his eighteenth birthday and the other at his bachelor party, both of them very submissive.
An insensitive man might have decided Aliya’s refusal unnatural, might have grown more enraged by the pleading look in her eyes—for Aliya herself worried, just as poor Beatrice Graham did, what had gone wrong in her makeup to create a girl who couldn’t comply with her society’s demands. Diyab had sat with her on the bed, holding her hand, talking gently with her.
They hadn’t known each other well despite being fourth cousins, but that had changed very quickly that night. Diyab had thanked the heavens for sending him the glorious fuck with the Swedish concubine the night before. If he had had blue balls on his wedding night, the way the silly defenders of purity would have wished it, he thought it might have been more difficult to keep himself from ‘persuading’ Aliya to her duty with the cane.
By morning he had fucke
d his new bride, though of all the sex acts of Diyab’s life that fucking most closely resembled wandering the courts of pleasure or even making love. He had deflowered her as gently as he could, face to face, and moved inside her exquisite tightness as she looked up at him, anxious to do it right despite her anxiety and her soul’s refusal to belong to him in the traditional way. Her dark, pretty eyes had told him then, and the few times he had fucked her in the twelve years since, to make babies in her royal womb, that she knew her duty despite finding it very hard and even distasteful. He had disciplined Aliya over the years, of course, with his hand and with the cane, for various misbehaviors, but never for failing to please him in bed.
As he watched Beatrice cover herself desperately, at the news that Dr. Franklin had no intention of commuting her sentence of a paddling with the white plastic disciplinary implement that seemed to Diyab so appropriate for a medical examination room, he wondered how she would have acted had she been in Aliya’s place. Undoubtedly she would simply have submitted, for she would have been raised to submit to her husband, and her nature would have suited the lessons she learned. Beatrice in that culture would have had no need of a paddling when a doctor told her to undress.
Now, though, in a marvelous, tortuous paradox of erotic reversal, the girl who would have submitted without a paddling had she grown up in Rashan would now need, it appeared, a very great deal of correction to reassure her that the submission she thought perverse represented not a choice but a necessity forced upon her. Diyab felt himself well up to the task, the more so as he would reap the pleasurable benefits with his cock.
He turned to Charlotte Nakama, who had joined him a few minutes earlier, after she had briefed Dr. Franklin. “So the doctor, I gather, will now bring out her fantasies? Will that make her more obviously submissive?” Diyab tried to remain philosophical about the matter, but having agreed to pay a great deal of money for the rather dubious privilege of keeping a ticking time bomb—albeit in the form of a gorgeous young American fucking piece—he hoped the task of breaking Beatrice to her sexual duties would fall largely to him.
“No,” Charlotte said. “Dr. Franklin will only start to surface her fantasies, so that she’ll flee more violently from them. It will cause her to consent to the hypnosis, but with the help of the hypnosis the fantasies will instantly undergo repression again.”
Diyab frowned. He turned back to the monitor, remembering the lovely Erin Metz, whom he now understood to be the product of the same Institute Charlotte ran, where it seemed Beatrice would soon be sent for sexual training. He had of course heard of the place, but despite being easily able to afford several trained concubines, Diyab had little need to spend his wealth that way; submissive girls came his way very naturally.
On the screen, whose volume Diyab had turned so low that Beatrice’s sobs could barely be heard, and Dr. Franklin’s remonstrations not at all, the girl had turned back to the hospital bed and begun to clamber atop it, shaking violently.
“Does she have any idea how much she needs this?” he asked. In his mind’s eye he saw Mrs. Metz’ eyes as she had sucked his cock, kneeling before him, her lovely breasts fondled for Diyab’s enjoyment rather than her own, and then Beatrice’s matching eyes at the opening of the closet. Such a paradox: the one girl assured in her submission, the other terrified of it, but both with the look that said, Master me. Please.
“No,” Charlotte said sadly. “Every lesson she learned growing up about who she’s supposed to be is screaming at her now that to want to be punished, or even to want to be guided by a doctor or a sheikh or a husband, would make her insane. That’s why the hypnosis technique is so effective. Really it’s almost a shame that taking girls based on their datastreams turned out to be so much more scalable.”
Dr. Franklin spoke sternly, and Beatrice shifted her position. A wail could be heard as she arched her back and raised her pretty bottom. Diyab’s mouth watered; he couldn’t help it. A pair of little round bottom-cheeks about to have their very first paddling stood very high on his list of the most beguiling sights in the universe.
In the upper right, a number he hadn’t noticed before caught his attention as it went from 7 to 8, and then 9.
“What’s that number?” he asked Charlotte curiously.
“That’s her arousal as best we can gauge it without the sensor Dr. Franklin will put between her vagina and her anus in just a few moments. It’s not completely accurate at this point, but it won’t be far wrong. 10 is the highest, but you’ll probably see the 10 flash in a little while, which means that she’s gone higher than any previous reading, and the scale has been recalibrated. That will keep happening as she’s broken and trained, and probably even after you take her home, but at a slower pace, until she finally hits what we call bodily max.”
Diyab nodded, admiring the Institute’s acumen. “Meaning the most pleasure her body is capable of feeling?”
Charlotte gave a single nod. “Exactly.”
A sharp sound from the monitor drew his attention back there, and he saw to his cock-stiffening delight that Dr. Franklin had begun to paddle the girl who would soon belong to Diyab, as she cried out into the covers of the hospital bed in shame and agony. The doctor had his left hand atop Beatrice’s waist to control her movements enough to ensure that all his quick, efficient swats with the white plastic blade landed just where he wanted, in a right, left, center pattern.
The paddling went on and on: Dr. Franklin knew his job, and he obviously wanted to make absolutely sure Beatrice understood what it meant for a girl to receive a bare-bottom punishment in the world of the Institute—even well before she understood anything at all about the Institute beyond the hard fact that she would now have to learn to submit or learn a painful lesson. The number in the upper right of the monitor had remained above 5 for the first minute or so, vacillating between 6 and 7, but as Beatrice’s cries grew more anguished and heartrending, it descended. By the time Dr. Franklin released her waist and let her collapse on the bed, her whole backside flaming cherry-red, the number stood at 1.
Instantly, however, and at first to Diyab’s wide-eyed surprise, the arousal number climbed to 3, then 5. He wondered if a girl who knew her submission better—a girl like Erin Metz, or perhaps Charlotte herself—would climb more quickly, or less, after a painful discipline session, or whether the response lay so purely in the physiological realm that it might befall even a woman like Aliya.
As if reading his thoughts, Charlotte said, “It’s the ideas in Beatrice’s head that matter now much more than her physical arousal. She’s soaking wet down there, but that doesn’t help us by itself—what helps us is that she’s probably remembering you, your highness.”
Diyab chuckled. “You mean because I was talking with the senator about spanking my wives?”
“Exactly.” Charlotte’s tone grew intense as they watched Dr. Franklin put the paddle away and then return to the bed, and begin to stroke the sweet eighteen-year-old bottom he had punished. The number ascended once again: 7, 8, 9. “Beatrice has a great many things in her head right now, mostly fantasy fragments. For the purposes of formulating the post-hypnotic suggestion, the very clear memory of what she saw at the senator’s house functions exactly like a fantasy would, despite having actually happened.”
10, flashing.
Diyab felt his brow crease. “Without even touching her up front?” he asked.
Charlotte smiled. “That’s the submissive arousal cycle. She’s probably squeezing her clit between her thighs a little bit, but it hardly matters; a well-spanked bottom and a dominant hand on it make up the center of the world for her, erotically speaking.”
She reached out and turned the volume up on the laptop.
“Oh, God,” Beatrice sobbed softly. “Oh, God. Please, no. Please, Doctor.”
“Shh, sweetheart,” said Dr. Franklin. “I’m just going to help you feel good, now, so I can see what your master has to look forward to and get you ready to serve him.”
; “In the old days,” Charlotte said, “we would have done several interviews with Beatrice before we got to this point—in fact, most of the time we wouldn’t even do a sexual exam until after the post-hypnotic suggestion was in place. In this situation, Dr. Franklin agrees, it’s better to find out what we need to know when he puts her under.”
“What do you need to know?” Diyab asked, fascinated.
“Her full sexual history, as short as it undoubtedly is, for starters. What movies and books she likes, and what they make her think about. Even under hypnosis she won’t be able to talk coherently about her submissive fantasies, but we can get at them obliquely that way.”
On the monitor, Dr. Franklin’s fingers moved in a gentle circle right at the middle of Beatrice’s bottom, fading now to a bright pink, down low. “Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he said. “You were a good girl for your paddling, when the time came, and you deserve a little treat.”
Chapter Five
It hurt so much. So much. Beatrice made her brain keep saying that, over and over. So much. It hurt so much. So much.
If she kept telling herself that, it would mean that like any sane person, Beatrice Graham would always reject the idiotic, patriarchal notion that a wayward girl sometimes needed a lesson delivered to her bare bottom by a man. It would mean that when she heard the sheikh say that he spanked his wives, she hadn’t felt herself stir down below her tummy; hadn’t already, even then, merely at those words, had the urge to move her hand up under her skirt and rub there, just a little.