by Emily Tilton
Chapter Seven
This can’t be happening, Heather thought numbly.
But she let Tricia lead her down the shag-carpeted stairs, across the tiled entryway of the house laid out like a mirror image of her own, into the spacious kitchen.
In the kitchen there was a small round table. The breakfast table, with four simple wooden chairs around it, each adorned with a thin red cushion that tied onto the rails making up the chair’s high back. Heather had sat at the table, in the chairs. She and Tricia and Luisa did homework here, most afternoons, once they had used up Heather’s half-hour of screen time.
“I didn’t know,” Heather whispered, knowing as the words emerged from her mouth how foolish they sounded. She felt the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes start to trickle down her cheeks.
She didn’t know exactly why she felt sorry for not knowing that the chairs in which they did their homework were also… or, maybe, were really…
Spanking chairs. Chairs for putting girls over, to bare their bottoms, to teach them a lesson.
Tricia, entering the kitchen slightly ahead of her, turned back, her nose twitching a little as if she too were about to cry. She seemed to know why Heather would apologize, even if Heather herself didn’t.
“It’s okay,” Tricia said softly. “I… I didn’t know you got… get… you know… either.”
Tricia turned back to the table. Heather saw her friend shudder, and then the willowy olive-skinned girl stepped decisively toward the table. Heather had the sense Tricia had done this a hundred times, and it gave the blonde girl a strange, dizzy feeling as she thought of how many times she had had to change into her pajamas to get over her daddy’s knee.
Get a spanking chair. Assume the position. Skirt up and panties down. Learn to behave like a proper young lady, even if it means not sitting down for a week.
She thought of the belt awaiting Tricia’s backside, of her own daddy’s hand and maybe now… she swallowed hard… her own daddy’s eyes. Have George take a look between her legs.
How could Mommy actually have said that?
No. Oh, no. Please. Not when I feel the funny feeling more strongly than I’ve ever felt it and I don’t know why and I don’t know what it has to do with being punished. He’ll see I’m wet. He’ll feel how damp I got my panties, more when I heard Tricia was going to be spanked even than when I saw the woodcutter’s big penis.
Tricia had pulled one of the chairs into the middle of the kitchen. She looked back at Heather, who had stopped only two steps into the room.
“Get a chair,” she said urgently. “I’m going to get the sofa cushions.” Tricia disappeared into the living room.
Heather’s train of thought tugged so urgently at her mind that the news that sofa cushions were somehow involved in Giuliani family punishments barely registered.
Well, if I looked at a naked man, shouldn’t a man look at me? Heather gasped at the thought, and gave a little cry because of the spasm it brought down below, in her panties, the way it made her so shamefully wet. Please, don’t let Mommy see. Don’t let Mrs. Giuliani see.
Don’t let Luisa see.
Don’t let Tricia see.
She found herself lunging forward, pulling out a chair with a dragging, scraping sound. She could hear the mommies talking to Luisa on the stairs above, answering questions though Heather couldn’t make out what the younger Giuliani had asked. Maybe if she just thought about getting it over with, the funny feeling would go away, and she wouldn’t think about anybody being naked.
Except that Tricia came back from the living room with two beige cushions, and, after putting them on the chairs, had quickly turned her own chair sideways to the doorway that led toward the stairs and pulled her panties down to her knees, under her navy blue skirt, so that she could begin to lower herself over the cushion. She glanced back at Heather. “Like this,” she hissed. “Please! I’m sure Mommy will spank me extra if you’re not ready.”
For a moment Heather felt she couldn’t have moved a muscle even if the house had started to fall down around her. The sight of Tricia’s white panties around her knees made her give another little cry, for the spasming, clenching thing had happened again, even more strongly, down there. The new impression that with the sofa cushion there her friend’s bare bottom would be raised up to meet its terrible fate made her mind spin in circles.
Please don’t let Daddy look at my panties.
And that made it so much worse—but it also made it possible to move again, just through the magnitude of the red-faced shame, somehow. She tugged the chair, turned it so that it stood parallel to Tricia’s, two feet away. Tricia was over the seat of her spanking chair now, grasping the bottom of one of its back legs with her right hand while with her left she reached back in a very ungainly fashion to pull up her skirt.
Heather couldn’t suppress a whimper at the sight of her friend’s trim, olive-skinned bottom, upended over the spanking chair and the sofa cushion, bare and ready for punishment. Her whole body seemed overheated now, and her breath came in little puffs of air through her mouth. What was happening to her? It was like what it felt like after a spanking from Daddy, when she fidgeted a little too much in bed waiting for Mommy to come tuck her in. It was a little like when the boy had taken down her panties in the dorm, though she had felt too nervous then—in a very different way from the anxiety she felt now—really to pay attention.
“Like this,” Tricia hissed. “Please do it, Heather.”
The mommies’ voices had reached the bottom of the stairs. Trying not to think at all, Heather reached under her own gray pleated skirt to get hold of the waistband of her cotton briefs, somehow feeling an extra bit of heat in her cheeks at the humiliation of having to take down her panties in her friend’s kitchen.
She tried to do everything at once, to make it go faster and make herself think less about it: pulling her underwear to her knees, getting over the cushion that felt so funny under her hips, grabbing the back leg of the chair, flipping her skirt up. Of course it meant that each thing took a good deal longer and happened much more awkwardly than it would have if Heather had simply done them one after another. She almost tipped the chair over as she tried to lie across the seat and raise her skirt at the same time, unable to suppress the image in her mind’s eye of how she and Tricia must look, two naughty girls with bare bottoms raised over bunched panties, ready for the stern correction they had earned.
George always talks about how much of it there is to punish.
Heather choked back a sob, though even as it tried to rise from her chest she understood it didn’t come from sorrow or fear, really, but rather from the funny feeling that made her pussy warm and wet. She knew Mommy hadn’t meant to make her ashamed of her body: even if the Londons insisted that their little girl’s dreaminess and tendency to forget her responsibilities need curbing, Mommy had always made it absolutely clear that Heather was a lovely, smart, kind girl who had every reason to believe in a bright future once she left Oak Street. Still, the picture of the two bottoms, one bronze and pert and the other creamy and round, had a terribly strong effect on her.
And on the funny feeling.
And then, just as Mrs. Giuliani said, “Luisa, go get my spoon, please,” Heather realized something about that funny feeling that made everything even worse.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t put it together, because she did know about human reproductive biology. Probably, she reflected, she just hadn’t wanted to understand, because it would mean she had a good deal more naughtiness inside her than she thought even Mommy and Daddy could know about.
The funny feeling made her wet. A girl’s pussy needed to be wet, when a man decided to fuck her, out in the woods. It made her ready for him, ready for his long hard cock.
Another sob rose, and Heather couldn’t push this one down.
Tricia whispered, turning her upside-down face as her black hair hung around it, “Don’t worry. It won’t be that bad. Not as
bad as…”
Not as bad as the belt. The thought of Tricia getting the belt, of the possibility that her own daddy might decide to use his belt, since Heather had looked at the dirty magazine, made her sob again. Tricia must think it was only fear, mustn’t she? Heather took a tiny bit of consolation from that.
“No talking, girls,” said Mrs. Giuliani. “You’re here to learn what happens to young ladies who don’t behave like young ladies. That’s why your bottoms are raised up over those cushions and presented for punishment.” Heather heard a drawer open, and then close, but she couldn’t see anything but Luisa’s flats and white knee socks as she crossed the marble-patterned linoleum back to her mommy.
Where was her own mommy? Suddenly Heather wanted to see her so bad it made her chin quiver and a tear fall from her eye onto the kitchen floor. She wanted to tell Mommy how sorry she was, how she would never look at naked men again…
Without permission. Yet another tiny whimper came from Heather’s throat at that thought.
“This is my spoon, Heather,” said Mrs. Giuliani. Confused, Heather tried to turn and rise a little, sure that Tricia’s mommy meant to show her the terrible thing. But her own mommy’s voice said, “Stay down, Heather,” in a cold tone, and then she felt something laid against the middle of her bottom, the split between its twin roundnesses, low down where she could kind of feel the light pressure of it just a little in her pussy. She gave a startled cry, and bit her lip.
“Hold onto the chair legs, young lady,” said Tricia’s mommy, and then to Heather’s astonishment, and her immediate discomfort, Mrs. Giuliani began to spank her, hard and quick, over and over.
“There you go,” Mrs. Giuliani said. “That’s what you get, Heather, you naughty girl.”
Heather wailed as the stinging blows continued. She tried to keep her left hand around the chair leg, but she couldn’t: she had to fling it back, to try to keep the spoon away. She squirmed over the cushion, terribly conscious of how it would show the mommies everything between her legs but unable to keep still.
“Get that hand where it belongs, Heather,” her mommy said in a furious voice. “Mrs. Giuliani is doing me a favor by spanking you. Don’t interfere with your punishment.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Giuliani said. “The girls never keep their hands there for long.” And then Tricia’s mommy had grabbed Heather’s wrist, turned her palm upward, and begun to smack it with the spoon.
“Oh, please!” Heather cried. “Oh, no. Please. Please.” Her hand seemed to sting even worse than her bottom already did.
“See?” said Mrs. Giuliani. Behind her, Heather could hear Luisa weeping softly, and her heart went out to the sweet younger girl despite everything: the pain, the shame, the awful funny feeling. “Now put that hand back where it belongs.”
Helpless, Heather did, her grip feeling strange with the sting left in the palm by the terrible spoon.
Instantly, Mrs. Giuliani began to rain down swats onto Heather’s bottom again, all over—right cheek, left cheek, in the middle, low down and almost on her thighs. The feeling differed so very much from a spanking from her daddy that it made Heather’s mind reel: each blow of the spoon’s broad, flat bowl didn’t hurt nearly as much as Daddy’s huge hand, raised high above his little girl’s bottom before being brought down hard. But Mrs. Giuliani punished her so furiously and so quickly that before long Heather heaved huge, real sobs of pain, and she felt her punished bottom-cheeks clenching desperately, felt her hips moving shamefully over the cushion, as her body attempted to do something, anything, to soothe itself.
Then, without warning, Mrs. Giuliani stepped a little to the side and started spanking Tricia. To Heather’s surprise, her friend didn’t cry out the way Heather always did whether under Daddy’s hand or Mrs. Giuliani’s. Tricia gave little grunts instead as the sharp slap of wood against flesh came again and again.
It fascinated Heather. Somehow she could feel that Tricia purposely kept quiet, though it cost her great effort. She sensed a contest of wills between Mrs. Giuliani and her older girl that took Heather’s mind off the awful pain in her upended, exposed bottom a little. She wondered if Luisa tried to keep from crying out, too, when her mommy spanked her.
“Are you feeling sorry yet, wicked girl?” Mrs. Giuliani asked, apparently not looking for an answer. “Are you going to try anything like this again?”
Heather started to feel ashamed of the way she had cried out under what she felt sure was a less severe spanking than Tricia now got on the chair next to hers, but then suddenly she sensed some tension going out of her friend’s body, and Tricia did start to bawl, and to beg in a way Heather hadn’t even thought of doing.
“Please, Mommy,” Tricia cried. “Please, no more. It hurts so much. Pleeeease!”
The sound of her friend’s agonized voice, to Heather’s mortification, made the funny feeling—her arousal, she finally knew she must call it—grow down there so much that she couldn’t keep her hips from bucking against the cushion on the seat of the spanking chair. The motion, so much worse than the kind of fidgeting Mommy had told her not to do in bed, drew a whimper even as she felt more of her wetness gather, even as she felt it trickle to her abject shame, onto her inner thigh.
Please don’t see. Please don’t see.
“Heather London,” said Mommy. “I cannot believe what I am seeing. Holly, I think I need to get her home right away. Hopefully her daddy will be able to take care of this.”
“What?” Luisa asked. “What did…”
Mrs. Giuliani had stopped spanking Tricia now, and Heather’s friend’s head turned, cheeks tearstained, trying to puzzle out what Mrs. London meant.
“Hush, Luisa,” said Mrs. Giuliani severely. “Unless you want to go right over that chair once Heather gets up. She has disgraced herself, and that’s all you need to know.”
Chapter Eight
Delilah couldn’t help wondering if the scene had gone too far. Would Heather be traumatized by her shame at having even such rather subtle attention called to her arousal by the spanking in the Giulianis’ kitchen? When the time came in only a few hours to release her at last, and to tell her of the complicated joy that awaited her as a wealthy man’s or woman’s concubine, would the sweet girl be able to feel the delight she should?
Jane, after all, had remained silent after Delilah had, at the assessor’s suggestion, made cryptic reference to the little stream of private wetness flowing down Heather’s plump inner thigh. A little nervously, Delilah walked the hundred feet between the back doors of Numbers 9 and 14, saying nothing to the naughty girl who trailed five feet behind, shamefaced. Jane spoke to Holly over the comm link now, helping her manage her own girls’ arousal, cycle it down in the wake of Heather’s departure.
“Doesn’t seem like Luisa picked up on Heather’s wetness,” Jane said with relief in her tone. “She’s at six: obviously turned on by Tricia’s punishment but not in much danger of progressing farther than we want. Tricia’s still up at eight, though, Holly. Go ahead and send her to her room, and I’ll keep an eye on her for you. Stand by to interrupt—the model gives her a seventy-seven percent chance of trying to masturbate.”
Part of Delilah wished she could hear the conversation unfolding in the kitchen of Number 14, simply because the scene had aroused her nearly as much as it had aroused her little girl. Delilah’s own pussy felt the warm need of attention from the little vibrator in her nightstand to ease the erotic itch fostered there by the sights and sounds of two such different bottoms receiving a stern lesson over side-by-side spanking chairs.
If she had her true, duty-shirking wish she would have gone up to the master bedroom and lain back in bed with her own skirt up and her own panties down, watching the replay of Heather and Tricia being punished and letting the vibrator do its heavenly work. George would spank her for masturbating without permission, but that represented half the attraction: like all the Oak Street mommies and daddies, she and her ‘husband’ had a truly satisfying sexual
working relationship—as Heather herself would soon learn, very much to the girl’s surprise.
Delilah’s love for Heather, though, and her concern for her ward’s development not just as a bed girl for sale at auction but as a happy, sexually fulfilled young woman, dominated. As soon as she and Heather entered the mudroom, Delilah said, “Go up and wait for your daddy, Heather.”
The girl, still red-faced, her brown eyes red with tears, raised her face to look into her mommy’s eyes for the first time since the scene in Holly and Marco’s bedroom. “Please, Mommy. I already got spanked. It hurts so much. Please don’t tell—”
This moment represented the easy part for Delilah: even without Jane’s help she could handle this exactly as needed. She interrupted Heather sharply.
“Of course I’m going to tell Daddy, and of course he’s going to spank you, Heather. What you and Tricia did was shameful and dirty, and we can’t tolerate it one bit from you when we already know you have trouble keeping your panties on and your knees closed. I think a thorough inspection from your daddy may well help a great deal, but whether or no, he will make certain you understand just how seriously we take your modesty. What happened at the Giulianis means you need a new kind of discipline.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Heather sobbed, and then she turned and positively ran for the stairs.
A little woodenly, Delilah began to prepare dinner. At least she had made the casserole the previous night, in anticipation that she would have a good deal more to worry about when it came to tonight’s mealtime than cooking and cleanup. The one-sided conversation—Jane’s guidance to Holly on Tricia and Luisa—went on in Delilah’s ear as she made the salad dressing, wondering whether Heather stood in any danger of playing with herself, alone in her room with a spanked bottom and the promise of much more. Surely the assessors must be monitoring the situation, but sometimes the life of an Oak Street mommy could involve the stress of such moments, when the usually voluminous flow of information got completely cut off.