by Emily Tilton
The expression grew only the tiniest bit sterner, but Master Samuel’s voice spoke terrible words. “Turn around and put your hands on the seat of the chair, Beatrice. I need to make sure you understand that disobedience has consequences in your new life.”
Her eyes flew open and she felt her face crumple. Her knees, of their own accord, tried to bend for him now, but he took a step forward and turned her around firmly and even a little roughly.
“That’s not enough, now, honey. I have to whip you, to teach you to respect my authority as your breaking master. If I didn’t punish you now, I’d be failing in my duty to your owner. Hands on the seat of the chair. It will be over soon, and we’ll try again, and your whipped backside will help you obey.”
She faced Mrs. Metz again, now, whose own forehead had a crease in it, who looked back at Beatrice with a sympathetic expression. “Don’t worry,” the senator’s wife said. “I got whipped a lot, too.”
Beatrice had half bent over, as much to buy a little time to try to think of some way to avoid what seemed to her the worst of fates as to obey Master Samuel. Now, though, she felt his hand on her back, urging her down into the position he had specified.
His other hand—oh, no—touched her bottom. Beatrice had a moment of confusion in addition to the shame and the fear, with which her eyes had now welled up into tears. It felt almost as if a tingle had arisen there, where he didn’t just touch her but… but… fondled her, as her breath turned into little whining pants that she knew betrayed the terrible secret he had already guessed, the warmth and wetness down there. The tingle somehow made her feel that although the whipping she would now receive—because, she thought with another whimper, apparently she had no choice at all in the matter—would be absolutely the first time Beatrice Graham had ever undergone corporal punishment, it also wasn’t the first time. The bottom Master Samuel now fondled, as Beatrice made her puppy sounds, felt like someone had spanked it before.
“Present this,” he said, as if giving a command to a dog, and he pressed upon her back again while with his right hand he told her very clearly what this meant. “A good girl knows how to show she understands the importance of discipline, even while her master whips her.”
“Oh, God,” Beatrice whispered, closing her eyes, as she felt her body respond.
“Look at me, Beatrice,” said Mrs. Metz, and Beatrice opened her eyes again to look into the other girl’s blue ones. I’d like you in your panties, too. I have your husband’s permission, of course. What did it mean? Would Beatrice really get to see Erin Metz in her underwear? What would happen then?
You’re very pretty. Don’t worry if Andrew seduces you. We have an understanding. Mrs. Metz had said that. She had said that, though Beatrice had tried to pretend she hadn’t. She hadn’t even wanted to try to figure out what an understanding might be. Now she saw that it must mean a great deal more even than she had feared it might.
Mrs. Metz didn’t say anything, but merely held Beatrice’s eyes with her own, and somehow that made it easier. Another woman, it seemed, had gone through this same terrible shame and fear. Other girls got whipped.
Did other girls have the awful images that made a whipping somehow even worse, because something in you wanted to push your little bottom out and present it to your master?
Master Samuel’s hands left Beatrice’s back and bottom. She heard a drawer open. She trembled, trying to imagine what lay in the drawer.
“I’m not going to take your panties down, Beatrice,” he said, “because they don’t really give you any protection anyway.”
She looked into Mrs. Metz’ compassionate eyes and gave a little sob at the way he had called into her mind another image: of her own bottom in the sort of panties she had never worn before in her life. They might play their wicked role in the images, but she would never, ever put them on.
“I’m going to show you my strap, now.”
“No, please,” she pleaded. She broke eye contact with Mrs. Metz and turned, her cuffed hands still on the faux-leather upholstery of the metal chair, desperate to avoid seeing. If she saw the strap, she would… It would be in her mind from now on, and…
But he had already taken it out; he had its wooden handle in his right hand while the thick leather rested in his left palm. Beatrice couldn’t help giving a little cry.
Mrs. Metz said, “It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as you think it will. And it will be over soon, and you will understand why you needed it.”
Master Samuel nodded. “That’s right, honey. I’m only going to give you ten lashes, and then you’ll kneel and thank me, and we can move you forward.”
Forward. Toward my… my…
She felt a sob rise in her throat, and she turned back to Mrs. Metz’ kind face, a little above her own where she had bent over the chair. Her vision misted over with her tears of fear, but again she found solace in the idea that this girl, too, had once known what it meant to have her first whipping.
It happened quickly, then, thank goodness. Master Samuel’s shiny black shoes, in the corner of her eye, coming to stand closer. His left hand again on her back, steadying her, and then the whistling.
And then her own cries of pain and shame, blotting out the further whistling and even the loud crack of the stiff leather against her poor little bottom.
It hurt so much. But… yes, Mrs. Metz was right. It hurt so much, but Beatrice sobbed and yelped not with the pain so much as with the shameful realization that she did need it. She had disobeyed, and now she must learn to obey, and kneel, and if the man before whom she knelt didn’t have his clothes on…
She knew it because even though the wetness went away while Master Samuel whipped her, as soon as he finished and said, “Good girl,” and she did turn and kneel with the tears streaming down her face and her cuffed hands before the lacy panties where they barely covered her, that place got so warm and wet again that she knew she deserved all the discipline she would get.
She must have discipline, now, mustn’t she? For the images. When the images come true, and they bare your pussy and dress it in lace, and they sell you, and train you, they whip you as much as necessary, to make certain you understand that your body belongs to the man who has bought you.
And could it be that man, after all? The one who had asked if Beatrice Graham were for sale?
Chapter Ten
Steven watched on one of the three monitors of the little DC control room as Erin led Beatrice down the hall to the breaking room, her hands still cuffed and her jeans still around her knees. He knew the shuffle enforced by her constricted thighs must feel exquisitely humiliating to the newly recruited concubine. Her head hung very low.
Charlotte, next to him at the table, typed busily at her laptop, probably taking care of other girls’ business: the Institute waited for no single concubine, as sensitive or valuable as she might be. Beatrice seemed on her way to a successful term of service, but only time would tell.
As the two women reached the door for which they were bound, and Erin opened it to reveal what looked for all the world like a luxurious hotel suite, Charlotte lifted her head and said, “Satisfactory, right, Steven? That’s what you’re going to tell Joe?”
“Absolutely,” Steven replied.
Charlotte typed: she clearly had started her summary memos—one very dry one would go to the assessment team and the Institute trainers who would soon take charge of Beatrice; the other, with more client-focused salacious detail, would go to the sheikh.
“What are the challenges you see for the breaking process and her early training?”
“One—let’s call it—interesting, and perhaps challenging, aspect of Beatrice’s case is her resistance to the idea of fantasy. She resolutely refuses to admit, even when confronted by the strength of her own imaginary narratives, that she has fantasies of any kind, let alone submissive ones. Under the pressure I was able to bring to bear in my interview with her, I got her to a point where she had to acknowledge the inconsistency
in her belief. I found it extremely useful in gaining her consent—at that point she would have given almost anything to be spared the confrontation with her submissive orientation. Now that I’ve taken the associated memories away, though, she’s likely to go to great lengths to avoid admitting that she’s suited by her nature to serve her master’s pleasure.”
Charlotte frowned. On the middle monitor, Erin had led Beatrice inside the breaking room, and unlocked the girl’s handcuffs with the key Sam had given her.
“So she’ll brat?” Charlotte asked, as usual cutting right to the bottom line.
“Not in the classic style,” Steven demurred. “Classic brats are responding to fantasies of defiance punished. From Beatrice I’m guessing we’re going to get a more complicated kind of defiance. Masturbation, for example, isn’t going to be a problem—at least at first, though later she may touch herself to try to assert that she can experience sexual pleasure without reference to submission.”
Illicit masturbation had a place very high on the list of bratting behaviors for concubines, and it made a highly useful moment for a lesson in obedience and respect for the absolute rights of a girl’s owner over her body.
“How will Beatrice’s resistance manifest itself, then?”
But on the screen, as Steven glanced at it, he saw what he thought might well become a very early example. Erin had taken Beatrice’s hand and led her to the closet. The older girl opened the door to reveal the three short, lacy nightgowns of an Institute concubine-in-training and the standard rack of lingerie. He used the controls built into the table to bring up the audio from the breaking room.
“White is for when you get up,” Erin was saying. “Blue is for when you’ve been fucked. Pink is for when you’ve been punished.”
Beatrice held her newly freed hands in front of her, clenched into little fists. Her arousal, which had hovered around 5 in the hallway, now spiked to 8, but she said in a weak voice, “That’s so… how can… please, Mrs. Metz, can’t you just send me home?” As she continued, her voice grew more frantic. “I won’t tell anyone that you… that you do this stuff.”
She turned to the senator’s wife with wild eyes, and now her hands clasped one another in an attitude of pleading.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, Beatrice,” Erin said in a sympathetic voice. “Go ahead and get into the pink nightgown, so that your owner knows you’ve already been disciplined today.”
“Watch this,” Steven said to Charlotte.
Beatrice’s eyes, at the word discipline, flicked to the mirror over the dresser, and Steven could almost perceive the exact moment when she caught sight, as her unconscious had wanted her to do, of the state of her bottom after her whipping. Sam had done his work very well: the girl had several very pretty, slightly curling red welts from the whipping her breaking master had been forced to give her.
Even a classic brat, at this point, having been punished already, would obey and get into the nightgown. Beatrice, however, said, in a little sob, “I won’t.” Her arousal went to 9.
“Explain,” Charlotte demanded.
Erin, knowing the role of the more experienced concubine in a scene like this one, treated her junior with softness. “Watch,” she said. “I’ll take off my own clothes the way Master Samuel told me. I have to be in my panties, but you get to wear your nightgown.”
As she reached back to unbutton the neck of her blouse, Steven responded to Charlotte. “The nightgown uncovered a fantasy, the way it does for every submissive who goes through this process whether it happens early in her breaking or later at the Institute itself. For most girls, the realization that the most important part of them wants to put on the nightgown helps move them further along. But for Beatrice, the very uncovering of the fantasy makes her resist. It’s probably being made worse right now because her fantasies have it seemed centered on the word discipline itself.”
“So if it had been the white nightgown she might have had an easier time?” Charlotte asked, a crooked smile of comprehension breaking onto her face.
“Exactly. I don’t think there’s any danger to her happiness or to the post-hypnotic suggestion here, but both her trainers and her owner should be aware that they’ll probably have to punish her at unexpected moments until she finally gets used to her submission.”
“How long will that take, do you guess?”
“Ninety days? Maybe as much as six months.” Steven turned his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
“Fair enough,” said Charlotte, and returned to typing as Steven renewed his attention on the monitors.
Beatrice watched Erin Metz undress with wide eyes and a trembling upper lip. The camera angles in these fully Institute-designed breaking rooms always left him in awe: on the right monitor he had a close-up of Beatrice’s face, on the left a close-up of Erin’s, and in the middle a slightly wider angle putting them in context.
The purpose of the thorough coverage—Steven estimated that there were probably something like twenty cameras placed in the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor of the suite—didn’t lie as much in allowing the Institute’s experienced observers a good view as in utilizing the sensing and analysis technology developed over the organization’s long history. The Institute’s supercomputers were analyzing the images right now much more closely than Steven, Charlotte, or even the crack assessment team watching from thousands of miles away could.
That analysis factored into the base arousal number ever-present in every monitor’s upper-right corner (Steven noted that Erin’s had risen to 6, on the left-hand monitor, the lower number befitting her greater level of experience). More important, it provided a range of corollaries to confirm or modify conclusions based on the sensor between Beatrice’s thighs. Slight inconsistencies between the level of moisture down below and the dilation of her pupils could tell the assessors a good deal about where the girl stood on her path to serving her owner properly. Later, the same kind of analysis would tell them about Beatrice’s happiness in the sheikh’s service.
Erin had her blouse off, and then her skirt. “Would you hang these up for me, Beatrice?” she asked gently, holding the garments out to her companion.
Beatrice, who had not moved from the spot to which Erin had led her several minutes before, in front of the closet, still clad in her pink t-shirt and the jeans around her knees and the lacy panties, opened her mouth. Her face had gone bright red; her arousal held steady at 9. To her knowledge, this was the first time another girl had undressed in front of her in a situation—very unlike the fleeting glimpses of a locker room—where Beatrice’s eyes were invited to take their fill of the other’s physical charms.
The lovely red lingerie, including a garter belt holding up black stockings with very lacy tops, that Erin wore underneath her elegant but very businesslike clothes, clearly made the situation even more fraught for the younger woman. In Beatrice’s eyes Steven thought he could read the memory of the lacy nightgown and the lacier articles glimpsed inside the closet.
An instant message came across the secure net from Joe Hodges at the Institute, directed to the whole team on both coasts.
Nice touch to ask her to hang them in the closet.
Charlotte, next to him, typed back:
That’s Erin for you.
“Please?” Erin asked. “I have to take off my bra and my stockings, too, I guess, and Master Samuel will be here any moment. If I’m not in my panties I’ll get punished.”
Beatrice swallowed hard and very visibly. She closed her mouth and put out her hands to receive the blouse and skirt, then gaped again, a furrow developing deep in her brow, as Erin reached back to unhook the lacy red bra. Beatrice’s arousal went to 10 at the revelation of the red-haired girl’s little breasts, and the hands that held the clothing onto which Erin now layered the bra trembled.
Little spots of pink appeared on Erin’s cheeks, now. “Will you help me with my stockings, Beatrice?” she asked softly.
Beatric
e shook her head, very slowly.
“Please?”
The younger girl’s mouth opened a little, and her eyes grew very troubled. The 10 descended to 9, then went back to 10.
“She’s trapped,” Steven said with satisfaction. “She’s only got two choices and both of them correspond to fantasies of discipline: her own or Erin’s.”
Wordlessly, Beatrice turned back to the closet. She looked down at the clothes in her arms and Steven had the distinct impression that she took a little heart from the way they blocked her view of her own shameful semi-unclothed state. Still looking down, now it seemed to avoid looking at the other contents of the closet, she stepped in and turned to the rack of hangers opposite those occupied by the lacy things she would soon have to don, one way or another.
Erin, now sitting on the bed and taking off her black pumps, called, “Beatrice, you’ll make it so much easier for yourself if you just get into the nightgown. Another whipping would hurt so much right now, on top of what you got before. If you do as Master Samuel says, and as your owner says, today can be a wonderful experience for you.”
Steven typed to the team:
Putting pressure on the clothing like that will probably pay off, if we make it consistent.
Joe sent back:
Agreed. Charlotte, can you put that in the memos.
Then, Charlotte’s busy fingers.
Definitely. We need his highness’ lingerie preferences, too. I’ll get on that.