by Emily Tilton
“Do you know why you’re here, Beatrice?” Sam asked, as if he were speaking to a mischievous child. He sat in a dark suit at the old metal desk, while she occupied the old metal chair nearby. Her hands lay on her lap, secured together in metal handcuffs. Diyab wondered what it meant to suggest to her, with the tired surroundings, the cross between a police station and a faceless bureaucracy of low-level diplomats that the office evoked for him. Governmental authority, he thought, of the most generic kind.
She looked about her, very wildly, and shook her head. Clearly they had just brought her out of hypnosis, and she had no idea at all where she was, let alone why. They had dressed her not in her little black dress but in a pink t-shirt and jeans. Diyab wondered for a moment about what she had on underneath, then had the cock-stiffening realization that he would almost certainly soon find out. He had bought the lovely girl, hadn’t he?
As Diyab watched, Beatrice seemed to search her mind, and then, almost perceptibly, to feel that something had changed, about her body—that the most important part of her had undergone a transformation. Her refusal to acknowledge the importance of that place, down under the jeans and whatever panties they had put her in, Diyab felt he could read upon Beatrice’s face, had made her virginal pussy more important than her obvious intellectual gifts.
The thought of changing that—of the therapeutic value of the Institute’s services for the girls they sold—made him smile even as it made him hard in his silk pajamas.
“Did I do something… wrong?” she whispered, finally. She looked down at the handcuffs, her eyes very wide and her chin quivering.
“No, not at all,” Sam said.
“Then… then why…?” The sight of the handcuffs seemed to frighten her the more she looked at them. Diyab noticed again the arousal number in the upper right of the screen, now presumably highly accurate because of the sensor Dr. Franklin had applied down there. The number had jumped from 1 to 5 in a matter of seconds.
Diyab, as he had confirmed to Kevin the previous night, had heard of the Institute. When his handheld had rung, though, and Kevin had told Diyab of a solution that would prevent harm from coming to the poor voyeuse the senator had revealed in his closet, the sheikh hadn’t known very much at all about the organization. Some quick reading of materials provided by Charlotte Nakama had revealed, to his surprise, much more than a highly successful escort service catering to wealthy dominants. Even before he had absorbed everything he read, Diyab had wired the down payment for Beatrice to the account number Charlotte gave him.
He had mastered perhaps a dozen submissive women, including his second wife, Yasmin, whom these days he considered his confidante though they had never been in love the way both of them had experienced with others. He had called her to tell her that he meant to buy Beatrice, as a sort of formality, and also asked her to tell Aliya, with whom Diyab was currently on rather cool terms.
As he had expected she might, Yasmin had giggled in delight. Her submissive nature had never come up as a topic of conversation between them, but it always shaped their interactions. “When do we meet her?”
“In a month, I think,” Diyab had answered, thanking the heavens for the providential arrangement that had brought them together, when he had nearly despaired of having a woman in whom truly to confide. “She has to be trained.”
“Trained?” Diyab pictured Yasmin’s dark eyes going very wide. “Oh, will you… send me for training, too?” In her voice he thought he could hear both dread and fascination.
Diyab had to confess that the Your Wife, Your Concubine program outlined in the Institute’s marketing materials had intrigued him. To formalize his junior wife’s submission to him that way made an intriguing prospect.
“We’ll see, blossom,” he had said, using his favorite pet name for her. “You’ll be kind to Beatrice?”
“Of course, Diyab,” his well-educated wife had said in her ‘real’ voice—the voice of a sheikha—with a hint of offense in her tone. “You know that.”
“Yes, I do, blossom. Thank you.”
“I don’t know about Aliya,” she had said then, though, rather doubtfully.
Diyab had sighed. “Neither do I,” he had confessed.
Yes, he had mastered a dozen or so, and only one of them his wife, but he had never brought a submissive girl home as a true concubine. He had never truly felt the temptation, before he laid eyes on Beatrice Graham. Now, however, he had no doubt at all, despite the problems it might cause.
Diyab didn’t generally believe in destiny or anything of the kind, but current circumstances seemed intent on changing his mind on that score. He had carefully subdued his undeniable dominant impulse into a joke when he first met golden-haired, blue-eyed Beatrice in Senator Metz’ office. He had simply taken a mostly innocent pleasure in seeing if she would blush at the notion of his buying her. It had seemed a relatively ordinary circumstance despite the strength of the urge to possess the obviously virginal, obviously repressed young woman. Diyab couldn’t deny, though, that it had felt more like fate when Kevin Logan had called to offer to sell him the strikingly beautiful girl found masturbating in the closet.
Not merely destiny, though, but also the very special circumstances provided by the political situation on the one hand and by the Institute on the other, had decided him on this course. He would never have allowed Beatrice to be sent into indefinite exile, though he supposed now that she had probably come perilously close to that fate in the small hours of the night. Given the necessities of the next few years for Rashan, the United States, and the entire world, however, if the girl had retained a memory of what she had overheard she would have had to be locked up in some—hopefully reasonably pleasant—fashion. Even constant surveillance wouldn’t have done the trick.
The terrible irony that Beatrice herself didn’t even know what she had overheard, and wouldn’t know unless the war Diyab and the senator were trying to prevent broke out in the Middle East, would have made the whole thing even more regrettable. Only if Beatrice had let slip to the wrong person that she knew of a defense contract between the United States and the principality of Rashan would any consequence arise—but the risk to everyone, including Beatrice herself, was simply too great.
He could imagine having taken responsibility for her confinement, somewhere in Rashan; he had enough palaces that a wing of one of them might be devoted to keeping the girl relatively comfortable. When he began, however, to understand exactly what the Institute did, and put that knowledge together with his recollection of the few women he had met who had trained there and of the way their owners spoke of them, he knew at the very least he had to try. Beatrice’s concubinage could, after all, always be repurposed to imprisonment, Diyab supposed.
In the video on his laptop screen, Sam Gregory paused a long moment, as if waiting to see whether Beatrice would finish her sentence, and ask explicitly about the handcuffs. Diyab already understood the Institute’s methods thoroughly enough to know that the intention must be to make the girl experience the arousal bondage stirred, without having to confront it head on.
Finally, Sam said, “Why are you handcuffed, you mean?”
Beatrice nodded mutely.
“Well, this is going to be a little hard to hear, and you’re probably not going to believe me at first, but eventually you’re going to accept it, because as the next few hours unfold you’ll see it’s completely true, and you won’t have any choice in the matter.”
The number in the upper right of the screen, in nearly perfect synchronization with the word choice, jumped to 8.
“What?” Beatrice whispered. “What are you talking about?”
“Stand up, Beatrice,” Sam said, suddenly turning stern.
“What? Why?” Her breathing got very quick; 9 appeared in the corner of the screen.
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to call in two large men to make you stand up, and then I’m going to have them bend you over my desk, and I’m going to whip your bare bottom
10. Diyab felt a little astonishment at that. He had thought the video of her examination with Dr. Franklin had shown her much more aroused, when the doctor used the vibrator on her newly trimmed pussy, but he supposed that something about the post-hypnotic suggestion had made her repressed fantasies more powerful. If the data were correct, these hints that Beatrice’s body no longer belonged to her, that she had been taken, that she would be disciplined firmly from now on, had incredible potency for her.
“I don’t understand!” she wailed, but Diyab could see in her eyes that she did understand—she just didn’t want to believe that the understanding suggested by her imagination could be the truth.
“Stand up, Beatrice, this instant,” Sam repeated, and Beatrice obeyed, on trembling knees.
Sam looked into her eyes, and reached out toward the waistband of her jeans. Diyab’s cock gave a little leap at the sight of the casual dominance.
Beatrice drew back, but it seemed the chair was very heavy, so she could only recede an inch or two, and though she tried to use her cuffed hands to prevent her case agent from laying hold of the fabric, he pushed them away, swiftly unbuttoned the fastening, and pulled the jeans down to the girl’s knees. The motion revealed a lacy black thong that gave a deliciously translucent view of Beatrice Graham’s freshly bared pussy.
Diyab had wondered why Dr. Franklin had decided Beatrice should receive her first waxing while under hypnosis, so that she would now have no memory of the baring of her pussy, but he thought he understood, now that he could observe her reaction to the discovery that something had apparently befallen her private parts that she couldn’t remember. The 10 in the upper right flashed.
“You’re very wet, aren’t you, honey?” Sam asked, his voice gentle again in the wake of her obedience.
Beatrice had closed her eyes tightly, and now she shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“You don’t know what happened to your pussy, do you? How it got so bare and how it got into those pretty panties?”
A little whimper came from her throat. “Oh, God.”
“I know it must feel very strange not to have your hair down there, and I know how hard it is not to know how it happened, but I’m putting you through this so that you’ll accept what I say, and you’ll obey me, and I won’t have to punish you to make you do as I tell you. Among other things, I want to let you know that you’ve received a contraceptive injection.”
“Oh, God,” Beatrice whispered again. She shook her head, but Diyab thought he could tell that she meant only to try to clear her head of things she wouldn’t be able to rid herself of so easily.
“We took you, honey, while you were asleep. We gave you a sleeping pill, and we took your pubic hair away, and we dressed you in the special lingerie you’re wearing.” Sam spoke levelly, softly, slowly.
“Why?” Beatrice’s word came out as a sob.
“Because you belong to a wealthy man, now, and he has hired us to break you, and then to train you at a place called the Institute.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Please.”
The 10 flashed again.
“Don’t worry, Beatrice,” Sam continued inexorably. “We take very good care of our concubines, and we make sure their owners do, too.”
Beatrice opened her eyes for the briefest of instants, as if to see if she could tell from Sam’s face whether he spoke the truth. Then she bit her lip and shut her lids again.
“You already know how good the care we take is, honey, because you already know one of our girls.”
“Oh, God. Please…”
“Tell me who you think it is, Beatrice. I know you’re thinking of someone.”
The answer came back instantly, though in a voice lower than a whisper. “Mrs. Metz.”
Diyab’s eyebrows went up at that. Wouldn’t it trigger the very memory they wanted suppressed? He immediately saw the point, though. Sam wanted to demonstrate that Erin Metz dwelled in Beatrice’s available memory only as the senator’s wife, who—Erin herself had told Diyab—had told Beatrice that the younger girl shouldn’t worry about fucking the senator. Possibly something about what had taken place in the den lingered in Beatrice’s instant understanding that Mrs. Metz was a submissive concubine, but from this point on any such recollection would seem to Beatrice a fantasy rather than a true memory.
“Yes, honey. Erin Metz was trained at the Institute, just as you’ll be. And I can tell you something else: you already know the man who bought you, too.”
Chapter Nine
Another sob ripped itself from Beatrice’s chest. Oh, no. Could it… Could he…
A knock sounded on the door of the little office.
“Come in,” called the tall, handsome blond man in the suit, who seemed somehow strangely incongruous in this nondescript office. The binders on the bookshelves and the pictures of some tropical island on the walls didn’t seem to go particularly well with his athletic build or his confident demeanor, let alone the way he had just reached out and taken down Beatrice’s jeans as the most casual confirmation of the terrible things he had said about her presence here in his office.
That confirmation, however, had nothing on the way having her pants pulled down in a bureaucrat’s office had revealed the shameful fact of the change they—whoever they might be—had brought about down there. As she had sat listening to him, after somehow suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings to find that she had arrived here with no memory past a very vague one of returning to her apartment and getting into bed, she had become aware of feeling different between her legs. Something had seemed more sensitive, in the place she generally preferred to ignore, and she had even wondered for a moment whether something terrible had happened to her in the space of time she couldn’t now recall.
Something terrible had happened to her, but the nature of the terribleness had turned out to be different, and—in ways Beatrice didn’t want to think about—worse than the more obvious sort of violation. A bare pussy in lacy panties, revealed by a handsome blond man who took down her jeans to show Beatrice what had happened down there, while of course he, too, looked at her, holding her cuffed hands up and away so that he had a clear view.
The images: the images made it worse. Pictures of girls in their panties, and men in suits. What a man in a suit did with a girl whose pants he had just taken down. What a wealthy, powerful man would do with a girl when he had paid good money to take charge of the raising and lowering of her jeans and the nature of her underwear and whether she had her golden thatch to cover her privates.
What would happen to a girl who denied such men their privileges with respect to her jeans, her panties, her pussy.
Whipping. Spanking. Paddling. Caning.
Images: over a desk, over a knee, over a punishment block.
Discipline.
“Ah, Erin. Thanks for coming. We were just talking about you.”
Beatrice whirled around—she couldn’t help it, despite knowing even before she turned that to have Erin Metz see those lacy panties, see that the man in the suit had taken down her jeans, would make her face turn just as red and hot as it now did; red as a beet, hot as the sun.
Lovely young Mrs. Metz, who had said the terrible thing about the understanding.
Who, it seemed, had… trained in some place where the man in the suit said Beatrice would have to go. The images flooded in, and her mind recoiled from them, desperately seeking refuge in the present moment as strange as it was to confront her boss’ pretty redheaded wife with her pants around her knees and her hands cuffed.
Mrs. Metz, to Beatrice’s shock, had a reassuring smile on her face. She was dressed with her usual simple elegance in a black skirt and green silk blouse, a string of pearls around her neck.
“Mrs. Metz, I don’t know what’s going on!” she wailed, encouraged by that expression. “I don’t know how I got here after I helped with the dinner party!”
“That’s alright, Beatrice,” Mrs. Metz said calmly. “I do, and I promise you’re going to be happy about it, someday soon, just the way I am.” She turned to the man in the suit, who had risen at his desk when she entered. “Master Samuel, may I take her down to the breaking room?”
“You may, Erin,” he replied. “I’d like you in your panties, too, please. I have your husband’s permission, of course.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened at the disrespectful, even demeaning tone in his voice. How could anyone address a senator’s wife that way? She turned her eyes back to Erin to see that the woman, who seemed suddenly much more like a girl, had lowered her gaze. “Yes, Master,” she said quietly.
Then she turned back to Beatrice. “Kneel down and thank Master Samuel, Beatrice. You’ll see him again in a little while. Once we get you settled into the breaking room, he’ll come and talk to you more about the first part of your training, and get you ready for your defloration later today.”
Mrs. Metz spoke so matter-of-factly that Beatrice found she had to concentrate hard just to process the meaning of the words before she understood the shameful transformation they implied. Her jaw dropped, but no sound came out. She didn’t know what to say, but surely she could make Mrs. Metz understand that she hadn’t asked for this, and they must have taken the wrong girl.
“Beatrice,” the woman said, with a patient, even a little sad, smile, “you must thank Master Samuel, on your knees, for beginning your training. Otherwise he will have to punish you.” She reached out both hands to grasp Beatrice’s shoulders and turn them gently back toward the man in the suit—Master Samuel.
He had a patient look on his face. “I know it’s difficult, honey, but it will be much easier for you if you learn to obey right now. If you learn to kneel for me when I’m wearing a suit, you won’t have such a hard time when you have to kneel to suck my cock.”
“Oh, no. Please.” Images: a girl on her knees, her jeans pulled down so that the man can see her panties, the way her panties reveal her little bottom, the little bottom he must often spank, to ensure obedience. In front of the girl, the man has lowered his own trousers, to demand of the girl the pleasure he seeks. She closed her eyes, knowing it wouldn’t push the images away, but unable to bear the way they went together with the scene unfolding in this little office.
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