by Emily Tilton
There. So near where Dr. Franklin had his fingers now, rubbing in gentle circles, as he murmured that she must open her knees. What kind of doctor is he?
She heard a tiny, ambiguous sob come from her throat. She tried to keep telling herself that it hurt, that it only hurt, but to her surprise the pain of the paddling had started to fade very quickly, leaving only a warmth behind. That heat remained, but under the doctor’s fingers it seemed uncomfortable in an entirely new way.
But he paddled me so hard. Even after I took off my clothes, he still held me in place and paddled me until I thought I couldn’t bear my lesson any more.
It hurt so much.
But now it didn’t hurt.
“Spread your legs, Beatrice,” the doctor said again, now making his voice a little sterner. “Do I need to paddle you again?”
That did it: she need, it seemed, have no conscious intention to do a thing, if the doctor mentioned the paddle. Beatrice, lying naked on her tummy on the hospital bed, her hands bunching up the starchy sheet next to her face, obeyed. Her knees moved apart.
He can see me down there. He can see my… my vagina. He can touch my vagina, and… oh, no…
“You’ve had gynecological exams before,” the doctor said in a reassuring voice.
“B-but…” Beatrice protested.
“Shh, Beatrice,” he said, as his fingers made her whimper. They had stroked her furry labia. An image of Erin Metz’ terrible bareness down there came in an involuntary flash into her mind’s eye, making her gasp as much at the mental picture as at the touch of the doctor’s fingers. Those gentle fingers moved on, went further, touched her where she seemed somehow to burn the most, from her punishment.
“You were going to say that what I’m doing now isn’t like what your gynecologist did. That’s very true. This is a different kind of exam.”
She cried out, because the doctor had started to rub more firmly, in the place Beatrice had touched herself in the closet while she had watched Mrs. Metz’s face, in profile, when the beautiful woman, really at twenty still no more than a girl, rode two penises. They had sat her upon the sheikh’s dark-skinned cock, while her husband’s paler one entered her in front. She had made little whining noises in her throat, as if two cocks were much too much for a young woman to have inside her. Then, as the cocks-men had begun to move, she had screamed with pleasure, and Beatrice hadn’t been able to help it anymore: she had touched her clitoris, and they had heard her there.
“You masturbated while you watched, last night, didn’t you?” Dr. Franklin was saying.
“Yes,” Beatrice moaned. Suddenly all her resistance to the terrible shame of this strange examination seemed to change to something else that she couldn’t have named: it wasn’t pleasure, because it couldn’t be pleasure. What the doctor did called not just from her body but also from her mind things that she knew must not be good, no matter how they tricked her both outwardly and inwardly into wanting them to go on forever.
She felt her hips buck under his caress, felt the desperate, shameful movement of her pudenda against his hand as she shamefully sought more from the caressing fingers. They had made her think she wanted it to go on, but they also made her body cry out for release, and she clung to that because after the release her resistance would return—it must.
“How often do you masturbate, Beatrice?”
She moved her hips, pushed her bottom up lewdly, hoping that would make the doctor pick up the pace of his stimulation. She had in her mind one of the images, of what a naughty girl might do with a boyfriend or a husband, to offer him her pussy. An imagine of the sheikh came next, standing over the naughty girl, holding a cane, just as the doctor stood over her now, giving her a very different sort of discipline.
Discipline.
The fingers slowed, and their rubbing became softer, maddeningly so. “It’s a very different kind of exam, I know, sweetheart, but you’re going to have to answer my questions. It’s the only way we can get anywhere, in several senses, including giving you an orgasm now.”
Beatrice’s face went as hot as a stove, and she felt a sense of gratitude, shameful in itself, that her face, turned away from the doctor, rested on the bed. She felt her brow furrow; what was she to do? She couldn’t answer the question, could she?
The doctor rubbed a little more firmly, for just a moment, and she gave a grateful cry that she couldn’t suppress.
“Think of it this way, Beatrice,” he said slowly and gently. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you will have your orgasm, and the sooner you have your orgasm, the sooner I can make everything better for you, and you can start your new life.”
She had started to move her hips again, but at this fresh mention of a new life, she stopped, confused, as more and more troubling images came to mind, seeming to extend themselves outward from the scene in the senator’s den.
Perhaps the doctor had anticipated exactly this hesitation, for he wasted no time, but removed his hand. “Turn over, Beatrice,” he said. “It seems we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
“What?” she gasped, utterly confused by the welter of thoughts and sensations that ran through her mind and body.
“Don’t make me punish you again, or strap you down. Turn over, and get your knees in the stirrups.” These words came to her ears accompanied by a vibration in the bed and a clunking sound, and when she turned up on her hip she saw that he had fitted a metal and plastic device to one side of the bed’s foot. He held another in his hand.
Beatrice had only had one gynecological exam, so far, and the experience had been humiliating despite her doctor being a nice older woman. To have big, handsome Dr. Franklin getting the stirrups ready for Beatrice’s knees turned her face even hotter and froze her in place.
The look on his face was very stern. “Please,” she whispered. “I’ll…”
But she couldn’t move. He reached out, though, with an air almost of mercy, and with a grasp of one hand under her waist and the other on her knee, he deftly flipped her over. She gasped: she hadn’t realized how big the doctor was until she felt his strength that way. Down below, she felt herself contract and flow even more embarrassingly.
More of the images whirled through her mind—the ones from tonight; the ones from the senator’s office, when Mrs. Metz had told her that she and the senator had an understanding; the ones from reading the New Modesty College brochure that had finally made her search the net. Not fantasies. Still not fantasies.
The doctor pulled her left knee into the stirrup, and secured it there with a Velcro strap.
“Oh, no,” she said. And, again, “Please.”
What’s happening? Was there something else in that water, something that lasted longer than the sedative?
He strapped her right knee in, and still she didn’t resist. How could she, now? She would resist once he had finished. Part of her knew the thought made no sense, but when he raised the head of the bed so that Beatrice came to a reclining position and then secured a webbing strap around her waist, she did nothing. Even when he fastened another, padded one around her neck, though she gave a startled little cry of surprise and terrible, mortifying arousal, she did nothing. When, finally, he cuffed her wrists to the bed with strong Velcro strap, she did nothing.
Now, though at first, right after the paddling, the doctor’s fingers between her legs had seemed so urgent, so interested in making her come right away, he seemed to wish to ‘examine’ her at a much more leisurely pace. He said nothing, once he had fixed Beatrice in place with her legs wide open and her golden-haired pussy and little pink anus completely exposed to his eye, but he reached out with both hands and began to fondle her breasts.
Beatrice closed her eyes. The paddle had hurt so much. It had hurt so much. The doctor played with her breasts the same way the sheikh had played with little Mrs. Metz’, when the senator gave his wife to another man, in exchange…
It hurt so much.
She gave a little whimper, an
d, as if in response, the doctor moved one of his hands down between her legs. Beatrice cried out. It hurt so much, so now…
Something new. So now I have no choice.
“How often do you masturbate, sweetheart?” the doctor asked softly.
“I don’t!” she whispered. “I don’t!” But then, under his gentle fingers, she came, her body straining hard against the straps and the pleasure coursing through her so much more intensely than she had ever felt it before, even those two times, when she had… she had, even though it was wrong—not because touching yourself down there was wrong but because when you did, the things that came into your head were utterly wrong. Wrong for you and wrong for the world, because what made Mrs. Metz cry out in undeniable pleasure, to be used that way by men’s hard penises and strong hands, was nothing a normal woman would ever desire.
Beatrice moaned out the pleasure she tried to refuse even as it washed over her, her eyes closed tight and her fists clenched hard. The refusal, cruelly, seemed to make the pleasure go on and on. Her hips bucked again, but with her waist firmly secured they had to strain and still got nowhere, and her pussy could only rely on the skill of the doctor’s knowing hand to cherish the orgasm and make it last until, sobbing, she felt her muscles relax.
“How often, Beatrice?” he asked gently, and now his fingers fluttered very lightly on her clitoris, and without him saying it in words she understood that his disciplinary threat had been renewed, in a very different direction: if Beatrice didn’t answer, he would make her come again.
“Only twice,” she whispered, and she opened her eyes, suddenly sure of what she would find: the doctor looking down at her so kindly, as he kept his left hand on her little breasts and his right on her soaking pussy. “Before… before the closet.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Franklin said. “Now we can get started taking care of you.”
He took his hands away, and Beatrice had to bite her lip to keep from giving a cry of distress at the desertion of his fingers. She watched with furrowed brow as he pulled out a rolling stool from the corner and, moving it squarely between her legs, sat upon it, looking up into her face. It seemed more embarrassing, somehow, than if he had simply looked at her vagina.
“I’m going to give you a standard exam, now. I already know you’re a virgin, from stimulating you down there a moment ago, but we’ll take a close look at your hymen and make sure you’re ready for sexual intercourse.”
It wasn’t all that different from what Beatrice’s doctor had said at her first gynecological exam, she supposed. Dr. Grant had spoken frankly, that way, but she had also added, when the time comes.
But then the doctor said something utterly unexpected. “I’m going to give you a trim down here, now, so I can see everything more clearly. After I’m done with the examination, I’ll give you a contraceptive injection, and then you’ll be waxed by a trained aesthetician so that we can give your skin twelve hours to recover before your owner deflowers you.”
Chapter Six
Steven and Charlotte had agreed before he entered the examination room that the news of Beatrice’s compulsory defloration and training for sexual service should be introduced matter-of-factly. Now that she had had no choice but to face both her body’s need for submissive stimulation and the similarity between her current submissive position and the fantasies she couldn’t acknowledge, to open before her the vista of life as a wealthy man’s well-disciplined concubine should move her nearly to the point of vocal consent.
Indeed, Beatrice had already consented in the most important way, when she had answered Steven’s question about her frequency of masturbation. Her compliance with his request for information she felt such shame about had carried an acquiescence to the discipline the doctor had suddenly brought into her life, after she had craved it for so long.
That acquiescence traveled merely from one part of her psyche to another, and Beatrice certainly thought it only meant she had decided she should answer the doctor’s questions. But now her repression had started to slip. The news of the actual purpose of this examination would form a bridge in her mind. Only a repressed, submissive girl would fashion the bridge, but it would be all the stronger for Beatrice’s inability to perceive it. From now on she would connect admitting to having masturbated with doing anything—including selling herself to the Institute, for resale to the sheikh—if she could have the memory of her consent taken away from her.
The fundamental truth that in reality the agency in her psyche that would actually give the consent lay with her aching need to submit to sexual mastery assured the success of the frank announcement that Beatrice now had no choice but to yield her young body up to exactly that.
“I…” was all she managed in the way of speech, though. Her jaw hung open and her breath, which had quietened after her orgasm, began to grow rough.
Steven turned his attention to taking the electric razor out of the cabinet below the counter, then plugging it in. The device’s buzz sounded loud in the little room, but Beatrice had begun to breathe so hard that he could hear her over the noise.
She strained once against the straps holding her in place on the angled bed, with a little strangled cry of frustration that had in it—though of course she herself did not even realize the fact—at least as much of arousal as of distress. That little struggle, which the Institute’s terminology called a security test, represented Beatrice’s verification, under tremendous pressure from the repressive sentinel of her reason, that she had no choice.
Because she had performed the security test, and found that she could not escape, the labia Steven now began to shave glistened with her renewed arousal. The sweet golden curls fell to the bedsheet beneath her bottom as the razor moved up and down, leaving the short-but-not-too-short hair that would make the girl’s first waxing a relatively easy experience.
“I…” Beatrice said again.
“Dominant men,” Steven explained calmly, “have a nearly universal preference for a bare pubic area on a girl in their service. If you consent to training at the Institute, all the other girls you meet there will also be fully waxed.”
There. He let the word consent sink in, knowing very well how much turmoil it had caused.
“But… but…”
Steven could hear in the very frequency of her voice the indecision roiling her mind as the knowledge that she wanted to submit sexually but didn’t want to consent to submit threatened to break openly into her consciousness.
He turned the razor off and pulled the tiny sensor out of his pocket, in its clear package.
“What’s that?” Beatrice whispered. Her voice had in it the desperation of someone who needed something, anything on which to focus outside herself, rather than consider the confused ideas inside her head.
Steven held it up for her to see, very close to her eyes since the circular device measured less than a millimeter in diameter. “This is a special sensor. I’m going to put it right on top of your perineum, between your vagina and your anus.”
“Oh, God,” she said, and Steven could tell she had understood immediately, knew exactly what the sensor would tell him and anyone else reading its data. Another thing she would give nearly anything—definitely including her body—to forget.
He continued on gently but relentlessly. “It will let us make sure you’re getting the pleasure you should get from your training and your service.”
He withdrew the sensor, ripped the sterile wrapping open, and turned his attention to Beatrice’s vagina, whose demure but glistening pink lips now gave an adorable contraction. He put the sensor on his fingertip, and applied it to the tender, sensate skin. Beatrice gave a little yelp, as if she thought it would hurt, but of course all she felt was his fingertip. The sensor’s gripping hooks, invisible to the naked eye, were also imperceptible to a girl’s nervous system. The cry of alarm became a whimper of helpless pleasure as Steven gave her cute little clitoris a gentle caress. making her natural lubrication grow even greater.
/> He got his handheld out of his breast pocket and pulled up the app that connected him into the Institute’s datanet. It took only two presses to get the sensor’s datastream on the screen. Above a list of fine measurements of temperature, humidity, and galvanic charge, Beatrice’s basic arousal number appeared in large type. He held it up for her to see: 7.
“What does that mean?” she asked fearfully.
“It means that you’re a submissive young woman whose fantasies are starting to be fulfilled.”
Tears appeared in her eyes, which then widened as she saw the number fall to 6, then 5. “I don’t have fantasies!” she protested in a choked voice.
Steven lowered his handheld and tucked it back into his pocket. He didn’t reply, but turned to the pelvic exam, beginning by palpating her vagina gently, as Beatrice made little whimpering noises half in submission and half in continued protest. He spread her labia to reveal her hymen, and gave it a quick visual inspection.
“Very pretty, Beatrice,” he said finally. “And you’re quite ready to have your virginity taken. You’ll remain tight for several months at least, depending on how frequently your owner uses your vagina or loans it to other men, but you won’t feel much discomfort after first coitus, except when penetrated by a very well-endowed man.”
“I don’t,” she repeated, much more softly. “I don’t.”
But Steven got the handheld out again, checked it, held it up for her to see: 10. With a bitten lip and a deeply creased brow, Beatrice shook her head even as the musky scent of her young arousal wafted to Steven’s nostrils.
“I’m going to examine your anus now. I gather you saw a submissive woman have anal sex last night? If you consent to training, you’ll be penetrated there yourself before too long. Many dominant men consider a girl’s bottom the best place to find their pleasure.”