The Oak Street Method_Ginnie

by Emily Tilton

  And the mirror…

  On the video, when Chris turned back from placing the failed quiz on the bench, Ginnie, her hands now at the waistband of her skirt, said, “Why is there… why is there a mirror… sir?”

  “You’ll find out the real reason in a little while, sweetheart,” Chris said, modulating his voice into the tone of the affectionate daddy, regretful of having to punish his little girl. Ginnie’s arousal went to eight at the sound, and the excellent microphone in the room caught a tiny whimper in her throat. “For now, I want you to undress facing it, so that you can see what happens to a girl who doesn’t apply herself. She has to come down here and take her clothes off for a paddling.”

  Another little whimper, and Ginnie obeyed, turning to the mirror, arousal dipping to seven as she rediscovered the sight of herself in the conservative clothes of a modest suburban young woman, then rising back to eight once the constellation of her submissive needs caught up with her anxiety. Chris saw himself, on the video, catching Ginnie’s reflected gaze, just as the blue skirt was about to fall onto the gray wall-to-wall carpet. Ginnie blushed deeply and prettily, and her arousal spiked to nine. He remembered that moment, and how hard he had gotten, knowing what lay in the future for Ginnie in the Samuels’ house.

  She hastily dropped her eyes, and, though her hands and knees were trembling, finished getting undressed, down to the modest pink stretch-cotton bra and panties Ella had given her the previous day.

  “Bend down over the bench, now,” Chris said. “On your elbows, with your knees bent.”

  Ginnie’s eyes flicked upward again to his in the mirror, her face reddening even more as she clearly realized what this position would look like—as well, perhaps subliminally, what it meant.

  “Go on, sweetheart. A first paddling is always hard, I know, but I’m losing my patience.”

  Watching almost two years later, Chris had to hand it to himself: the threat he had injected into losing my patience had done the job, not just in getting Ginnie moving, but in getting her wetness flowing. On the data crawl, her arousal went to ten for the first time. Had Chris gone wildly off protocol and decided to stimulate his ward over the bench with his skillful fingers, thirty seconds or so of effective manualization would have brought about her first submissive orgasm.

  An Institute training master, confronted with a new girl he wished to break to his will and the will, eventually, of her owner, might have done exactly that. To make a girl expect punishment and then give her pleasure instead could make her begin the long process of confronting her submissive nature.

  But the Oak Street project sought to get there—a girl’s full acknowledgment of and pleasure in her need to be mastered—along quite another road. Once Ginnie had finally complied, and presented herself bottom up for her paddling over the bench, Chris spoke again.

  “Let’s have a look at your quiz.” As he spoke, he took the paddle from the wall. Ginnie had turned her face over her shoulder just then, and a little cry came from her at the sight of her daddy wielding the instrument of her correction.

  The ten flashed on the data crawl. Ginnie had just ‘recalibrated’: the heat and wetness between her thighs had gone farther than anything observed thus far. A recalibration at this stage didn’t carry very much significance, since the Institute’s database didn’t yet have much fine-grained data on Ginnie. As her life on Oak Street as a concubine in this unique new sort of training continued, recalibrations would become much rarer—especially since the most fundamental level of the protocols to be used in the project sought to keep all the Oak Street girls just off the boil.

  On the video, Chris strode straight to the bench. “Eyes on the quiz, sweetheart,” he said severely, and then he laid the paddle on her back for a moment, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pink panties, and pulled them down to her tightly closed knees. Ginnie’s taut little bottom, with its adorably pert cheeks, presented itself sweetly to her daddy’s gaze. She herself gave a little gasp, and recalibrated again.

  Chris picked up the paddle. “Read the first question, please, Ginnie.”

  Ginnie cast a nervous glance back over her shoulder again, and Chris gave her a very meaningful look, to make her turn her eyes where they belonged.

  “How old must you be to leave Mommy and Daddy’s house?” Ginnie read in a quavery voice.

  “And what did you write, sweetheart?” Now Chris made his voice very stern. Ginnie’s arousal dropped back all the way to seven in her fear of the paddle.

  “I swear I didn’t know!” she protested, hanging her head. “Please, Daddy!”

  Chris brought the paddle back and swung it hard, so that it landed with a loud, satisfying crack against the pert little bottom, full across both cheeks.

  “Ow!” Ginnie wailed, straightening up instantly and putting her hands behind her to rub and protect. She looked back at him reproachfully.

  “Don’t you dare do that, Virginia Samuels! Get back down on your elbows this instant. The next time I see those hands anywhere near your bottom, it will be three more extra swats. And get your eyes forward, on that quiz.”

  When she had obeyed, Chris gave her another stroke of the paddle on her already pink bottom. Ginnie yelped, but, though her backside squirmed and bounced in a way Chris found extremely arousing, she held her position.

  “What did you write?”

  “Eighteen,” Ginnie sniffed.

  Chris paddled her again, and she cried out at the building smart. Chris and Ella had decided that Ginnie would be the most severely punished girl on Oak Street, and this punishment seemed likely to represent a down payment on that promise. The backside Chris made her study in the mirror, once her paddling was done, would tell a tale of stern chastisement, and give Ginnie something to think about for several days.

  “What’s the correct answer?” Chris asked.

  “Twenty-one,” Ginnie said immediately, in a nervous voice full of anxiety that even the right response would earn a swat.

  Chris didn’t raise the paddle, though. “Good. Next question.”

  Ginnie couldn’t help another look over her shoulder, though she caught herself immediately. She had caught on to Chris’ method, though, and between that obvious understanding and the way the break in the punishment allowed the heat from her backside to flow forward, her arousal hit nine again on the video.

  Chris gave her a hard stroke for each incorrect answer: How many families on Oak Street? (Seven.) What were the neighbors’ names? (The Kimballs.) How far was Ginnie allowed to go away from home? (The end of Oak Street, in one direction, and the Londons’ backyard, in the other.) Who taught the little school she would attend, starting Monday? (Mrs. Kimball.)

  Ginnie was in tears by the time she received her three extra swats for not taking her clothes off before her daddy had arrived in the punishment room. Only a few minutes later, however, Chris noted as he watched the end of the archival video, she recalibrated in front of the mirror as she examined her bottom, her panties now restored to their proper position but the seat pulled down to reveal bottom-cheeks that were now an angry red.

  Chapter Three

  Ginnie wanted to touch her pussy, as she thought about the way Wendy had smiled so secretively at the news that Frankie and Mary had gone away in the van. She lay in her pink bed the morning after the Wood girls’ departure, remembering her first days in the Samuels’ house at Number 2 Oak Street—remembering above all her first trip to the punishment room—and she tried once again, now with the almost-more-frustrating-than-helpful aid of Wendy’s smile, to puzzle out why the Oak Street girls had been brought to live with their new families.

  As she considered these things, for some reason the strange warm tingly feeling she always had as the pain of a paddling started to fade, in front, in her pussy and especially at the top, that felt kind of like an itch but not quite, grew and grew. She wanted to touch herself down there, because rubbing a little seemed to make it better—though also, in a certain way, worse, since she
always wanted to go on rubbing but she knew she wasn’t allowed to do that.

  The Samuelses, the Baskins, and the Woods had cooked out together on the Samuels’ deck, the way they did at least twice a week, rotating between Numbers 2, 6, and 10 to divide up responsibility for the grill among the daddies and responsibility for the salads among the mommies. For the first time ever, Frankie and Mary Wood hadn’t been there.

  Well, really, Mary had only come to live at Number 10 six months before, but Frankie, Wendy, and Ginnie had been together for almost two years at those outdoor dinners, giggling about magazines and social media—until Wendy had been absent three weeks before, and the Wood girls had seemed like they might know something about it that they couldn’t tell Ginnie. Now, as Ginnie understood that Frankie and Mary wouldn’t come tonight, and as she saw Mr. Wood give Wendy a meaningful look when he said, “They went in the van today,” she had known in an instant, from Wendy’s smile, that going in the van meant you would finally understand why you had come to Oak Street.

  Wendy’s expression had made Ginnie blush, then—she thought Wendy had blushed a little, too, actually, which made the mystery even more urgent—though the high-skied Western dusk thankfully obscured the flaming color that always came into Ginnie’s cheeks when the slightest thought of something embarrassing came into her head. But why? Ginnie hadn’t known then, and she didn’t know now, and she hadn’t dared ask Wendy anything about it because Ginnie’s own daddy had said to her directly, right after the Woods arrived without their girls, and Mr. Wood had said the thing about the van, “Now, Ginnie, don’t go asking about the van, or you’ll have a trip to the basement. You’ll find out about that when your turn comes.”

  The thought of a trip to the basement always seemed to start the tingling down there, if it hadn’t begun already. Ginnie, wearing her favorite pink pajamas—a light, stretchy camisole top and boy-shorts with no panties—moved her legs self-consciously under her covers, trying both to get a little relief from the tingling and, naughtily, to make it grow without doing what she knew would earn her a session in the punishment room. Somehow it seemed to her that she wouldn’t be able to figure out the mystery of the van and Wendy’s smile if she didn’t give into the need between her legs, under the cute pink boy-shorts.

  She had never actually been paddled for touching herself, of course. Her mommy had just made very clear that Ginnie would be sent down, to take off her clothes and get over the bench and wait for her daddy, if she were caught with her hand inside her panties—or her pj’s, of course.

  “The place between your legs is very special, Virginia,” Mrs. Samuels had said solemnly, when she had noticed Wendy fidgeting one night at story time. In accordance, Ginnie supposed, with age-old custom, her mommy only called her Virginia when she was angry, or might soon become angry, so Ginnie had sat up in bed, clutching her teddy, and paid full attention.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she had whispered. At that point, she had been in the Samuels’ care for only a month, and had been paddled only once more, for breaking her curfew and lying about where she had been. That had happened just the previous day, and Ginnie’s bottom had still been very sore there in bed, from the terrible lesson her daddy had given her over the bench.

  “Mommies know that little girls feel funny down there sometimes—like they want to do big-girl things.”

  Big-girl things. Ginnie had blushed deeply, because she had known what her mommy meant: sex.

  Part of Ginnie wished that she knew more about sex, but mostly she felt glad that despite having grown up, to age eighteen, in very rough circumstances, she had managed—thanks in large part to the single-sex schools the corporate government had built in many urban areas—to remain not just a virgin but also almost entirely innocent. The brief government-mandated curriculum in reproductive health had of course told her how things worked, though she blushed even thinking about those mechanics. The how had been taught to the girls of her high school, but not the why. Now, on Oak Street, it had seemed like Ginnie had started to discover the why without understanding it any better despite Mrs. Samuels’ efforts.

  “Yes, Mommy,” Ginnie had said, even more quietly. She had wondered even then how it could feel right to be treated as such a little girl by her mommy, and why it seemed to make the tingling and the fidgeting even worse when she thought about it.

  “I understand, and so does your daddy.” The mention of Ginnie’s handsome, stern daddy made the blood rush back to Ginnie’s face. What did it mean that Mr. Samuels understood about the feeling between Ginnie’s thighs? “But it’s very important, Virginia, that you wait until the right time to do those big-girl things. In this house, girls keep their hands away from their naughty places, or they go down to the punishment room for a date with their daddy’s paddle.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ginnie had whispered a final time, and that had been that. Though she thought about it from time to time, if she couldn’t sleep at night, or woke up early, the memory of the paddle kept her from putting her hand down there. She tried not to think about the strange way that memory also seemed to make the tingling get worse, and got up to get a glass of water or got her lazy bones out of bed, as Mrs. Samuels liked to put it when she called Ginnie for breakfast.

  Once she hadn’t managed to stop herself quite soon enough, having awoken in the middle of the night from a dream about her daddy and his paddle. She had found her hand already down there, and her hips already moving against it. She had moaned, thinking of the schoolgirl in the pictures that hung in the room in the basement whose only purpose was to paddle Ginnie’s little bottom. The tingly feeling had grown so fast, and so urgently, that Ginnie just couldn’t stop rubbing, moving her hand inside her pj’s and finding herself strangely wet down there. Remembering the paddle hadn’t helped, but rather made it worse: her daddy would punish her so terribly, she knew, and somehow, for some reason, she felt like she wanted him to teach her a terrible lesson about keeping her hands away from her naughty places.

  A knock had sounded at her door, and her mommy had opened it. “Ginnie?” she had said in her sweet, concerned voice. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” Ginnie had said, pretending to a sleepiness she didn’t feel and trying to keep her tone even. She had snatched her hand away from her pussy and moved it to join her other one, near her face. A strange and oddly enticing fragrance came from it: the smell of naughtiness, as Ginnie would always think of it afterward.

  Had Mommy heard in her little girl’s voice how out of breath Ginnie had been just a moment before, doing the thing that would send her straight down to the punishment room? She must not have, because she had brought Ginnie a glass of water, and sat on her bed to give her a kiss on her forehead before going back to her and Daddy’s room, where she slept in the same bed as Daddy and, Ginnie always blushed to consider, must have sex with him almost every night.

  Daddy always made it clear, when Ginnie got sent up for bedtime, that he and Mommy would be doing things their little girl must try not to think about. “Time for you to be in bed, Ginnie, so Mommy and Daddy can have grownup time,” he would say.

  Once, Ginnie knew to her shame, that had included Mommy getting a paddling in Ginnie’s punishment room. After Mommy had bought a kitchen mixer online that Daddy didn’t think she needed, and Ginnie had seen in his eyes the same sort of look he had given Ginnie the three times he had paddled her, she had crept out of her room after bedtime, partway down the stairs, and heard her daddy say sternly, “Get that bottom up, Ella!” the same way he did to Ginnie. Then she had heard the crack of the paddle and a wail from Mommy, and she had raced back to her room and tried desperately not to think about what she had heard.

  There in bed the morning after Frankie and Mary had gone in the van, remembering the night Mommy got paddled, and remembering the expression on Wendy’s face when she heard that the Wood girls had been taken away, she also recalled, suddenly, the incident at the Woods’ pool that seemed to have begun all the recent strang
eness on Oak Street.

  Heather London and Wendy and Ginnie had all been there, along with Frankie and Mary, and they had been hanging out the way they usually did, though Frankie was wearing shorts for some reason, and seemed a little agitated. Then Mary had whispered to Wendy, and Wendy had blushed and looked at Frankie. Then, for some reason, all three of them had gone into the pool house, and stayed there for nearly half an hour.

  Ginnie had felt some annoyance about that, but she liked the full-figured, ash-blonde Heather and felt like she didn’t really get to spend as much time with her as she really wanted to. After all, Heather, living at the end of the street at Number 14, hung out as much with the gang across the street—which was how Ginnie, Wendy, and the Wood girls referred to the Giuliani girls, Renee Dalton, and Delia Chichester—as she did with the girls on this side.

  They all went to ‘school’ together in Wendy’s basement playroom, of course, but Mrs. Kimball made it clear that school, for all its informality and its lack of desks and a blackboard, wasn’t a time for socializing. After school Heather usually went over to the Giulianis, if she didn’t just go home. The Londons, Heather’s mommy and daddy, were the least seen guardians on the street, since they both worked, but it seemed like they had strict rules for Heather: she must either stay at home with no friends over after school, or go over to the Giulianis where, it seemed, Mrs. Giuliani had agreed to supervise Heather very closely. The reason for the strictness made a topic for speculation among Ginnie, Wendy, and Frankie, but they had come up with nothing more concrete than the probability that something in the sweet girl’s past made her mommy and daddy feel the measures to be necessary.