by Emily Tilton
He watched every word of the little speech find its target in Beatrice’s mind. Anal sex, the scene in the senator’s den, what Beatrice had done as she watched, the preferences of a dominant man, and… consent to training. She stared wild-eyed back at him as he once again put the handheld back in his pocket, then pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves from the box on the counter and applied some lubricant to his fingers. He turned his attention to her crinkly button of an anus, laying his slick forefinger there gently, then pushing slightly.
He looked up again, into her eyes, still applying pressure to her rectum, and said, “What if I told you that if you consent to be trained and sold as a bed girl for a fabulously wealthy man, I can make you forget that you gave that consent? What if I said that at the end of a year of service, during which we will monitor your well-being very closely, you will be given two million dollars and, if you want it, your freedom?”
Beatrice made submissive little noises in her throat as Steven moved his finger gently inside her bottom, reinforcing his words with the movements that would stir in Beatrice the fantasies she refused to let play as anything but flashes, images briefly glimpsed and instantly repressed.
“Can you… can you take away what happened last night?”
Perfect. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“And… and this, right now?”
“Absolutely.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’ll do it.”
“That’s the right decision for a girl like you, Beatrice,” Steven said, letting calm and reassurance fill his voice to embrace her, even as his probing fingers down below reinforced for her exactly how much she needed domination and guidance into the ways of men’s pleasure, and of her own. “I’m going to ask you some embarrassing questions, now…”
“But I thought—” she protested.
The beauty of the Institute’s techniques shone through most clearly at moments like this one. Steven said gently, “Remember that you won’t have any recollection of this examination, sweetheart. The more honest you can be with me now, the more certain I can be of giving you the experience of submission you need and deserve.”
Beatrice’s face crumpled into a mask of shame and sorrow, and she gave a quick nod. The apparently instantaneous decision to give her consent to something many people would have found monstrous concealed much deeper processes of thought, imagination, and libido. Steven’s long experience of the submissive psyche told him that the girl now felt that her whole life, especially including the unfortunate incident the previous night, had led up specifically to this moment, when a doctor had just offered her the chance both to live and (she supposed) to get rid of her troubling fantasies.
He found himself quite moved by her struggle against herself—more moved than he had been by a concubine recruit in a long while. The crisis in her inner and outer life precipitated by her concealing herself in the closet had brought about a confrontation with the part of her she had always denied much starker than what most other concubines experienced when picked up and told they would now serve the sexual pleasure of a wealthy man.
Steven knew with absolute certainty that to take Beatrice Graham and deflower her, break her, train her, and sell her to Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani represented the very best chance of happiness for her. He acknowledged the deception involved here, in targeting more of the girl’s memory than he intended to tell her, but to make her happy as a concubine—as she herself had just demonstrated—he would have to suppress that memory anyway. His task now lay in obscuring not only the memories of what she considered her shame—seeing what she had seen, masturbating as she watched, being caught, and now having a humiliating medical examination that led to her consent to sexual training and use—but also the highly sensitive political information she might not even know she now carried in her head.
“Tell me why you do internet searches about discipline, sweetheart,” he said, two of his fingers still firmly planted inside her rectum.
She seemed to accept now as a matter of course that the people into whose hands she had fallen knew shameful things about her. “It… just the word, I mean… makes me feel funny,” she said in a thick, hesitant voice.
Steven withdrew his fingers and stripped off the glove, then he returned his hand to Beatrice’s mons and rubbed a soft circle there, around the hood of her clitoris. She responded with a little whimper.
“Down here, you mean?”
Another circle, another whimper, and a little nod. The logic of the promised hypnosis had set in: Beatrice could talk about these things she had never even acknowledged to herself, now, because of the promise that she would forget she had done so.
“Tell me about your sexual experiences, so far,” Steven said.
Chapter Seven
Beatrice told him everything. Her sexual history, such as it was, didn’t take long. She told him about her two quick self-pleasure sessions in bed, touching herself as she thought not about a picture but just about a word. Discipline. She told him the truth about the orgasms: they had resembled what he had just done to her the way a molehill resembles a mountain. She had only known she had climaxed because she suddenly didn’t want to touch herself anymore, and the word discipline had stopped making her tingle down there.
She told him about the petting with John, and about her plan to give him a blowjob.
“When you thought about taking his penis in your mouth, what position were you in?” the doctor asked.
When a little whimper burst from her throat at that, Beatrice knew she had lost some battle so completely that only the mercy of her conqueror could save her. He’ll make me forget. I just want to forget.
“I don’t know,” she tried.
“You mean, I think, that you didn’t know, then. Is that right?”
Beatrice nodded. Yes, the doctor had it exactly right. She hadn’t pictured anything, she had just decided, on an intellectual basis, that she would give John a blowjob.
Now, though, after she had seen Erin Metz on her knees before Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani, had seen him take her head in his hands and force her mouth down further on his cock as she made submissive, obedient, wet sounds and the sheikh murmured, “Good girl…”
“How do you picture it now? What does your fantasy of fellatio look like?”
Fantasy. Why should she deny now—now that Dr. Franklin had promised to free her from all this sex stuff—that she had a fantasy about sucking a man’s penis? How could she deny it? She wasn’t stupid, for God’s sake. Of course she knew what a fantasy was, now that she had seen her fantasies unfold through the slats of the closet door.
Now that a man in a white coat, a doctor who despite the dominant and frankly sexual way he treated her, despite the fact that he had spanked her with that terrible plastic paddle, seemed to have her best interest and even her ultimate happiness at heart, had offered her…
What? What did I just consent to?
He hadn’t stopped caressing her down there. He hadn’t stopped rubbing the little pussy he had shaved, that he said someone would wax tomorrow, the way Mrs. Metz was waxed, down there, for men’s pleasure. Beatrice wanted to tell him to stop, and she wanted to beg him to go on forever, so she could have orgasm after orgasm like the first one, right after the paddling, when she had struggled against the straps holding her in place for his skillful fingers.
If she told him to stop, though, might he actually comply with her request, because he hadn’t hypnotized her yet? Her heart quailed at the thought that he might stop, and then her mind screamed furiously, like a wounded animal, That doesn’t make sense!
She sobbed, eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to see his patient expression. “On my knees. Like… like her.”
“Like who, sweetheart?” The fingers, down below, gave a firm rub. Beatrice moaned.
But she shook her head. It doesn’t make sense. She opened her eyes to see how he would react, if he would get angry and fetch the paddle. The heat of the spanking had faded, but she c
ould still feel her bottom-cheeks tingling where the doctor had taught her her first lesson in obedience.
Again her mind shouted at her insane desire, at her yearning heart, at its wayward self. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. But the fantasies wouldn’t stop being fantasies, and it felt to Beatrice like now that she had no basis upon which to deny that she had fantasies—sexual fantasies, submissive fantasies—she had no choice but to listen to Dr. Franklin, and do what he told her to do.
He’ll spank me again if I don’t. It hurt so much.
His eyes had remained patient despite her refusal to name Mrs. Metz as the girl she wanted to be like, the girl who knelt before men and sucked their penises because they said so.
“I know how hard it is,” the doctor said. “I have something that will help.”
As her eyes widened, he rolled his stool over a few inches, so he could reach another drawer under the counter. She managed to keep herself from crying out in forlorn sorrow as his fingers deserted her clitoris, but she couldn’t suppress the little whimper of fear when he brought out the device with the big knob at the end, and plugged it in just as he had plugged in the razor before.
He turned it on, and a buzzing like the razor’s, but of a different pitch, filled the little room. Then he looked into Beatrice’s eyes.
“Have you ever seen one of these before, Beatrice?” he asked kindly.
She shook her head violently. She had never seen one, but she knew what it was. She watched the kind of show where they talked about them—not the kind where they showed them.
“But you know what it is?”
She felt a deep crease appear on her forehead as she gave a little nod. Down below, though his hand had ceased its ministrations, she felt her pussy clench and her arousal start to flow again, just at the idea of this scene, which seemed like…
Like what?
Like a fantasy: a fantasy she had without knowing she was having it. The doctor, bent on ensuring that she complied. His medical instruments, laid out so that he could do what was necessary. The most fearsome instrument of all in his hand, at the ready, to enforce on Beatrice her obedience once and for all.
She gave little sobs as she watched him lower the vibrator, and then she cried out and arched her back, straining again against the straps and letting them tell her that she had no choice, no choice, no choice.
“Mrs. Metz,” she cried out. “Oh, God. Mrs. Metz. She… she…” The buzzing went on mercilessly, right there, right where a girl most needed that torment that would build and build until she couldn’t deny that all she wanted was a new life as the possession of a man like Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani, who made her blush every time he fixed his eyes upon her.
Beatrice saw it in her mind, half memory and half fantasy, because in the picture she was both in the closet and kneeling in front of the sheikh, in Mrs. Metz’ place. She felt the penis in her mouth, felt the masculine hands on her head, moving her up and down, filling her and leaving her empty not as she wished but as he did.
She opened her mouth and screamed as she came under the terrible vibration, came more strongly than she had even right after the spanking, right after the doctor had strapped her down.
He took the vibrator away, turned it off.
“What did you see, Beatrice?” he asked.
Her eyes still closed, her breath still gasping, she whispered, “They were… they were fucking. They fucked her. The senator… her husband… he… he told her what to do…”
“What did he tell her to do?”
But the flow had ceased again, and something else had come into her mind. “Will I? Will… I have to…”
“Yes, sweetheart. You will have to do exactly that kind of thing, when your owner wishes it. If you don’t get ready for fucking when your owner decides to use you, your bare bottom will pay the price of your disobedience. You’ll do it because otherwise you will be punished.”
Words came to her mind that she wanted to say, but wanted not to say, too—wanted to forget she had ever even thought. He’ll make me forget. It hurts so much, when he spanks me. She had to know the answer. She whispered, “Not because I want to?”
She opened her eyes, and saw Dr. Franklin looking steadily back at her. He spoke slowly. “No, Beatrice. Not because you want to. You won’t have any memory of consenting to be sold to a powerful, wealthy man for sexual use, and to be trained as a submissive concubine so that you will be able to afford him as much pleasure as he expects.”
How could she be aroused again? How could her pussy have started again with its shameful little contractions, at those terrible words?
Her mind gave in, at that moment, for wasn’t it in her mind’s best interest now to admit that she had an impossible problem to which Dr. Franklin had just offered her an unexpected, if terrifying, solution? She had these fantasies. Even when she had called them images, she hadn’t been able to banish them from her thoughts. The more she tried to banish them, the more she tried to push back the pictures and replace them with words, the more powerful they became.
Discipline. Discipline. Discipline.
Images of girls on their knees, girls bare-bottom-up over desks, girls over their husbands’ knees. Until she knew that the only way to make the images go away was to touch herself. Twice—only twice so far, before the senator’s den—but Beatrice had enough intelligence to know that it could only get worse. She couldn’t have a normal relationship, could she? She had liked John, had maybe even loved John a little, but she knew she had come across to him as frigid, because every time he touched her either it felt wrong or, on the rare occasions when he did something dominant, it felt much, much too right, and Beatrice had almost literally frozen.
Two million dollars, he said. But that hardly seems to matter. My freedom afterward, and that doesn’t matter much either. Forgetting I consented, so that I can teach my body to stop wanting this: that’s everything.
Because a year of sexual service would teach her the lesson she most wanted to learn, wouldn’t it? Surely it would be out of her system at the end of a year. Erin Metz was married, so she couldn’t get away, now, could she, even though she must want to—but Beatrice would be free, in every way: free of bondage and free of her shameful apparent need for bondage.
She closed her eyes again, and started to narrate.
“They came into the den, and the senator told Mrs. Metz to kneel in front of the sheikh. They made her suck his penis, and they took off her clothes except for her panties, which were very skimpy and very lacy.” Beatrice tried to keep her voice as matter of fact as she could, but as she spoke it seemed she couldn’t help communicating the wicked little details that seemed to have stuck immovably in her mind.
“Did you start to masturbate at that point?” the doctor asked.
A little sob broke from her throat. “Yes. They put her on her hands and knees, and the sheikh pulled her panties down and he put his penis inside her. The senator said something like, ‘Let’s make sure my naughty girl can’t render an opinion while we talk,’ and he made her suck his penis while the sheikh was… you know, inside her.”
Beatrice opened her eyes again and saw that Dr. Franklin had a tablet in his hand, and was typing notes on it. When she paused, he looked up at her. “I’ll need to refer to my notes when I’m suppressing your memory,” he said. “Keep going.”
“Then… I didn’t really understand what they were talking about, but it had to do with a defense contract, I think. The sheikh said something like, ‘That was the most enjoyable negotiation I’ve ever had, Senator. Thank you,’ and then he…”
Beatrice’s pussy clenched as she recalled this part, and the contraction made her whimper.
“He patted Mrs. Metz’ bottom and thanked her, too, while he kept… doing it.”
“Penetrating her, you mean? Thrusting?”
Beatrice nodded. “Then the senator asked if the sheikh wanted to try Mrs. Metz’ bottom, and he said he did.”
They had reached the worst part, be
cause the sight of the senator’s wife’s face as they sat her upon the sheikh’s hard penis had overwhelmed Beatrice with erotic longing and made her cry out. She tried to speak with a complete evenness of tone.
“They made her sit on his highness’ lap.”
“With his penis in her anus, you mean?”
Beatrice’s pussy clenched. She nodded. “And… and the senator was in front, and Mrs. Metz moaned so loudly, and I had an orgasm and I couldn’t keep quiet, and they found me.” She closed her eyes yet again, this time scrunching them like a little girl who’s it in a game of hide-and-seek, while she counts.
Silence prevailed in the exam room except for the tapping of Dr. Franklin’s fingers. At last he said, “Alright, Beatrice. Now let’s see what we can do to help you forget all that. First, though…”
He held up the tablet, the bottom of which displayed a line for her signature. The text above the line was very simple.
I, Beatrice Graham, consent to training and to contractual service as a personal assistant, as specified by the Institute and its agents. I further consent to be hypnotized with the intent of having my memory modified, specifically so as to suppress my recollection of this consent.
Beatrice signed with her fingertip. Dr. Franklin countersigned, underneath, then turned back to her.
“Wonderful. Now, just look into my eyes, sweetheart. I want you to think about a big, wide meadow. You’re running through the meadow.”
After that, for a long time, she didn’t remember anything.
Chapter Eight
As you will see in the exit interview, the post-hypnotic suggestion appears to have been entirely successful, at least at this early stage.
Diyab clicked on the play icon for the video Beatrice’s case agent Sam Gregory had sent him. Beatrice sat in a nondescript office that Diyab assumed must be quite near the examination room. A glance at the computer’s clock told him that it was only nine a.m. now, and the video could only be an hour old, if that. The text message from Charlotte had woken him five minutes before; he had fallen asleep himself when Dr. Franklin hypnotized Beatrice.