by Emily Tilton
In the closet, Beatrice’s troubled face, as she hung up the blouse and skirt, then, on a little lingerie hanger, the lacy red bra, seemed to display the disproportionate results of Erin’s gentle admonishment. She stood with her hands still on the bra, her thumbs running idly over the lace, for long moments, until Erin, holding her garter belt, stockings, and pumps, came up behind her.
“It’s going to be okay, Beatrice,” she said very softly. “We both know you want this, but you don’t have to say so. Just go ahead and get into your nightgown.”
Chapter Eleven
Beatrice bit her lip. She wanted to turn around, to see Mrs. Metz in nothing but the lacy red panties that matched her own black ones, but to do that would mean that the sight—that even her imagination of the sight—had the effect upon her that it did not have. That it must not have.
The shame of having her jeans around her knees, and the way their position reminded her that she had a whipped bottom, came crashing in, and suddenly she simply needed at least to put an end to that part of it. She pulled them down all the way. She stepped out of them.
She did it because she wanted it to stop, not because she wanted it to go on. If she hadn’t taken her pants off, if she hadn’t taken the pink t-shirt off to reveal her breasts, just a little bigger than Mrs. Metz’ tiny ones, she would have had to turn around and see another girl in lacy panties. If she hadn’t turned to see the three nightgowns and the pretty lingerie on the opposite side of the closet, if she hadn’t reached out and taken the pink one that meant it seemed that Beatrice was a naughty girl who needed a man’s firm hand, she would have told Mrs. Metz and Master Samuel that more discipline should be applied to her bare bottom.
Beatrice dropped the little nightgown over her head. She had never worn anything like it; she wore t-shirts to bed, over her sensible gray cotton panties. It had lace at the collar and the cuffs, and a little frill at the hem. The rest was of a gauzy fabric that she knew without even looking in the mirror revealed nearly as much about her young body as it concealed.
“See?” said Mrs. Metz from right behind her. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? And now you won’t be punished.”
It hurt so much. I got into the nightgown because I couldn’t stand another whipping.
But Mrs. Metz’ words came back to her: We both know you want this, but you don’t have to say so.
Beatrice thought, I want not to say so.
She turned, and there was the other almost-naked girl, holding her hands out to Beatrice, and how could Beatrice help but take them. A strange thrill went through her, and the memory arose of the images that had flashed in her mind when the senator’s wife had mentioned out of the blue that the younger girl shouldn’t worry if the senator seduced her. An image of holding hands, like this; of being seduced not just by the senator but also by the senator’s wife.
“We’re going to have to kiss, soon,” Mrs. Metz whispered, “and do more, too.”
Beatrice felt her upper lip move in a little frown of embarrassment, and the tears came to her eyes. “But I’m not…”
“Shh. I know. I’m not, either. But my husband makes me, and your owner will, too. Dominant men like to watch girls together, and they like to give girls to dominant female friends sometimes, too. If you don’t obey, your owner will punish you, and let the other girls punish you, too.”
Oh, no. How could that terrible image make her feel warm inside her panties?
She whispered, desperate to know and not to know, “You wouldn’t punish me, would you?”
Mrs. Metz compressed her lips for a moment, as if reluctant to answer. Then she said, “I would if Master Samuel or your owner told me to, Beatrice. I would have to, or they would whip me, too.”
“Have you ever…”
The other woman gave her a smile so experienced it almost seemed weary. “The first time I had to punish another girl, it was my best friend. Senator Metz owned both of us then. It was so hard, but my husband made me whip her very severely.”
The image seemed to rise up to swallow Beatrice, and she found herself, to avoid it, leaning toward Mrs. Metz: she must get it over with, because how could she push the image down again but by acknowledging that her bare bottom would pay a terrible price if she refused to kiss another girl? She didn’t want to kiss Mrs. Metz, she told herself, but it would be far worse to go over another girl’s knee for a whipping, and have the other girl see the effect the punishment had on Beatrice, wouldn’t it?
She closed her eyes as she leaned, but then she felt Mrs. Metz pulling away, and her eyes flew open as her face went hot. “Not yet,” the red-haired woman said with a knowing little smile. “We’ll both be punished if we do it without permission.”
Beatrice felt her face crumple. Her heart felt adrift in a sea full of emotional mines that would explode not just into the single images she had worked so hard to push away but into whole sequences and scenes: kissing Mrs. Metz, hearing that she must touch Mrs. Metz’ tiny breasts, must touch Mrs. Metz’ lacy panties, must kneel down and…
A sob burst from her throat. The other woman’s face grew much more sympathetic. “Shh. I know how hard it is. We can hug, at least.” She gathered Beatrice into her arms, and the feeling of Mrs. Metz’ nakedness against her own, through the wickedly thin fabric of the pink nightgown, confused Beatrice even more.
“I don’t understand,” she said over the naked, lightly freckled shoulder, as she couldn’t help looking down, too, to see Mrs. Metz’ perfect bottom skimpily covered in red lace. Were those the purple marks of a punishment she saw there, across the other girl’s lower cheeks? Had the senator had to discipline his wife? When? Why?
“I know,” Mrs. Metz replied softly. “But you don’t have to understand. All you have to do is what Master Samuel and your owner tell you to do, today. Then, when you get to the Institute, you’ll do what your training masters tell you. After that, you’ll go home with your owner, and by then you’ll be used to submitting to him, and to anyone he lends you to.”
“But I don’t… I don’t…”
“Shh,” said Mrs. Metz. “You don’t even have to finish that sentence.”
The lock clicked, and the door opened. Locked in. Beatrice had not the slightest doubt that the door wouldn’t open from the inside. That only the men who had the right to master her had the key to come inside and demand her obedience.
Master Samuel, now in jeans and a black t-shirt that utterly changed Beatrice’s impression of him, strode to the center of the room, near the king-sized bed. He moved like a tiger, his hands held loosely before him like paws ready to enfold her. Beatrice’s insides seemed to turn to jelly.
“Erin, bring Beatrice to me, please. Beatrice, you are to kneel before me, as you did in the office. Because my cock is covered, you may look at my feet. You may not look me, or any man in authority over you, in the eye without permission, ever, or you will be spanked immediately.”
Mrs. Metz was disengaging from Beatrice’s arms, and Beatrice had obediently looked down to see that Master Samuel had on black loafers, when the image of the immediate spanking seemed to break in upon her like a piercing, hot flash of sunlight, and she knew she had no choice but to resist. Purposefully, as the other girl took her hand and started to tug Beatrice toward the big man only a few feet away, she lifted her eyes to his.
Master Samuel’s own hazel eyes narrowed just a little, and a tiny smile played on his lips. The smile made Beatrice’s heart quail, and she dropped her gaze again, thinking she had gotten away with it though her heart seemed to want to pound out of her chest.
But then Master Samuel said, “Erin, Beatrice just looked me in the eye. I’m afraid she has to go over my knee, first, now.” As Beatrice watched in horror, he turned and sat on the bed with his knees well apart, then patted his left thigh.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Metz said. Wasn’t she going to question the judgment? Wasn’t she going to try to plead for Beatrice? She kept tugging on Beatrice’s hand, but now in the direction o
Beatrice turned to her wildly, digging her heels into the carpet. “I only… it was just for a second…” She knew, she thought, that Master Samuel would never remit her punishment, but couldn’t a senator’s wife find clemency for her husband’s intern here and now if not back in the office?
“Don’t make it worse,” Mrs. Metz said in a kindly tone. “You need to learn your lesson. Show Master Samuel you can be a good girl. Lay yourself down and he won’t spank you for very long.”
It will hurt so much. She looked at Master Samuel’s denim-covered thigh. How could she do it? But Mrs. Metz’ hand pulled her, and, her eyes as far away from Master Samuel’s face as she could manage, Beatrice let herself be led. Tears leaked from her eyes.
With her gaze fixed on his shoes, as she confronted the knee over which she must lie, she whispered, “Please, not very hard, sir.”
He didn’t reply until he had upended her over his leg with her face in the bed’s blue comforter, and put his right thigh across her own thighs to secure her in place.
“I have to spank you hard, Beatrice, to teach you to obey me.”
The terrible paradox that had afflicted her in the closet seemed to loom over her now like a dark tower: between her thighs, inside the lacy black panties just before he did, this time, pull them down, the warmth and wetness had grown so shameful that she felt something must drive it away or she would scream with the sheer embarrassment of it.
But as Master Samuel’s huge hand fell upon her little bottom, making the welts from his whip an agony, so that it really did hurt so much, the warmth went away, and suddenly she knew she did need it. Discipline: the source of the images. She needed discipline, because it made the images mean not that she was a bad girl but that she could be a good one.
She cried and struggled, as he spanked her, but he held her arm behind her back and kept punishing the little cheeks that clenched and squirmed as Beatrice vainly tried to lessen the smart. He didn’t prolong it, just as Mrs. Metz had promised, but by the time Master Samuel finished disciplining her Beatrice was crying and begging him to stop.
He released her and said, “On your knees in front of me.” He helped her kneel up between his thighs, and she fixed her eyes on his silver belt buckle, and the expanse of denim below it. Her heart gave a little nervous leap knowing she was so close to his cock. A tremor went through her whole body.
She had never seen a cock close up—she had touched John’s, and she had planned to suck it, she supposed, but that seemed entirely hypothetical in comparison to this moment with Master Samuel, though fabric divided Beatrice’s face from his naked lap. Master Samuel had announced, after all, that her owner would… Beatrice swallowed hard, and tried to push back the word, but it came into her mind anyway. Deflower her.
To her shock, as her sobs quieted, Master Samuel held her close and patted her back. “Good girl,” he said. “There you go. I understand.”
His arms felt warm, and very, very strong. Really it felt like no embrace she had ever had; her father had certainly never shown her this kind of affection, and John was nowhere near as muscular as Master Samuel—nor had he ever tried to embrace her this way, as if she would be hugged whether she wanted the hug or not. She half-expected him to fondle her—her bottom seemed to cry out, even, for fondling, as the warmth he had driven away with his spanking hand returned to Beatrice’s pussy. But he only patted her back, as she became more and more aware that her lacy panties were around her thighs in a tangle where he had left them, and the bare place between her legs was rubbing, through the thin fabric of the nightgown, against the lap of his jeans, where she had fixed her naughty eyes only a moment before.
When he finally released her, and she looked at that place again, the heat creeping into her face, Master Samuel began to instruct her.
Chapter Twelve
Diyab watched on his laptop as he got ready to take the short limo ride to the Institute’s underground facility on Embassy Row. He had made his selections from the menu of lingerie Charlotte had sent; now they said he needed only to pack his toilet kit, a dressing gown, and a change of clothes for the morning after his first night with the beautiful girl he had bought.
At five o’clock Diyab would enter the room where Beatrice had begun her training as Diyab’s concubine. Before then, while Beatrice had her lunch and was prepared for him, he would meet with Charlotte to go over his preferences for Beatrice in the weeks ahead.
“You know now why you are here, Beatrice,” Sam said, looking down at the kneeling girl. “Before I leave you to ready yourself for your defloration, with Erin’s help to cleanse you, perfume you, and array you as your new owner wishes, I must make it as clear as I can exactly what you must expect and do, today and in the future. You will be much happier if you have no illusions as to the nature of your new life.”
Sam had already punished Beatrice twice. Diyab had grown hard, of course, as he watched her receive the whipping in the office and the spanking in this bedroom where he would soon take her virginity. In addition to his natural jealousy and his looking forward to the day when he would hold sway over the girl’s bare-bottom punishment, Diyab had also felt compassion for her tears and confusion, though. He wondered whether he wanted to specify to Charlotte that Beatrice should be disciplined less harshly.
Diyab had a strong cultural belief in the firm correction of women who need it. He had no compunction about spanking and when necessary caning his wives and female servants—even Aliya, whom out of respect he didn’t dominate in the bedroom and with whom he rarely slept, required firm correction all the more when she overreached. If she made life difficult for Beatrice, as he suspected she might, Aliya would feel the cane across her bare backside until harmony was restored.
He wouldn’t react the way Sam had, with Beatrice, though—especially when Sam had turned her over his knee for making eye contact, without warning her first. He wondered if it had to do with what Charlotte had told him about the nature of Beatrice’s fantasies, and resolved to discuss the matter thoroughly with her in her capacity as the Institute’s academic dean. Diyab supposed he could get used to using a firmer hand with his concubine, but he thought he might also have to employ that same firmer hand with Yasmin and Aliya, for the sake of fairness, when he brought his new girl home.
Sam had paused a few moments, apparently wanting his words to sink in as deeply into Beatrice’s consciousness as they could. Diyab noticed that during the silence Beatrice’s arousal, which had descended to 1 while her breaking master had trapped her between his thighs and spanked her so very hard atop the welts of his strap, and recovered to 4 just afterwards when he had hugged her, now rose all the way to 6.
That must be about her fantasies, Diyab realized. His screen showed three different views of the scene. The editor, whom Diyab supposed must be at the Institute itself, changed the main view to the close-up of Beatrice’s face. On it Diyab thought he could see a battle raging inside her, and in her furrowed brow and quivering lip he had the sudden impression that he could read exactly her dilemma: she knew that she had always seen this—kneeling before a man who told you about your new life of discipline and submission—in her imagination. She had, however, done everything in her power to persuade herself that she hadn’t seen what she had seen in her mind’s eye—to the point of denying that she even had a mind’s eye, or a mental stage where shameful things took place.
Sam reached out and stroked Beatrice’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles. He spoke sternly, though, and made Diyab grateful for that because Diyab planned to speak very softly, even when he had to discipline Beatrice.
“You belong to a wealthy, powerful man. He has paid a great deal of money for you, and that alone would make him treasure you.”
The word treasure made Beatrice’s eyes go wide. When Sam had started speaking again, the number in the upper right had gone down to 5, but now it went back up to 6.
“It’s almost as important, though, Beatrice, that your new master is the sort of man who would treasure you even if he had found you in the street and taken you without even paying.”
Beatrice swallowed hard. 7. Her hands, held in front of the darling see-through pink nightgown, clasped one another more tightly.
“He will treasure you simply because you belong to him, because you are very beautiful, and because he knows you need his dominance even if you cannot admit it.”
8. Now it seemed Beatrice had lost a battle with herself, to remain silent. “Oh, God,” she whispered, and closed the eyes that she had fixed on Sam’s lap. Diyab had a moment’s jealousy. She will look at my lap, very soon, and wonder what she will see when I unbelt my robe and require her service.
Sam reached out his hands and grasped Beatrice’s. She flinched, but her eyes stayed shut.
“But—and this will be the most difficult part for you, Beatrice, so I want to make it as clear as I can make it—you will be for him, today, a very special kind of treasure.”
Her eyes flew open, went wide, and almost—Diyab thought—traveled upward to her trainer’s face. 9. Diyab made a mental note to try a stern voice and harsh but elegant words with Beatrice, in addition to his soft ones.
“Men like to show that this special kind of treasure belongs to them by ruining its innocence. Your master is going to ruin you today, Beatrice. He will be the first man to enter your mouth with his penis, and he will be the first to enter your vagina, and so the only man to open you there, for his pleasure and the pleasure of those to whom he gives you.”
10. She struggled against Sam’s hands, and Diyab had the impression that if her trainer let the hands go they would travel immediately down to where Beatrice’s uncovered pussy ached for a touch.
But Sam held her, and went on with growing emphasis, so that Diyab could tell that the lesson had nearly reached its conclusion.
“Your virginity will belong to him entirely: a thing he ruined and owns forever. In a few weeks, in a special ceremony, he will also be the first man to penetrate your bottom.”
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