by Emily Tilton
Not as funny, though, as the way Wendy looked up at her from the impatiens she had been planting, when Ginnie said, “You have to tell me what happened. You have to tell me what’s happening to Frankie and Mary.”
Mrs. Kimball was in the kitchen, cooking something complicated. Ginnie had felt funny even saying, “Hi, Mrs. Kimball, is Wendy around?” The funniness, thank goodness, seemed mostly located in her tummy, but Ginnie felt like it threatened constantly to send tendrils further down, and to reawaken the thoughts and feelings of her naughtiness in bed upon waking.
“I can’t,” Wendy whispered. “My…” Her voice trailed off, as if she had been going to reveal something with the very next word she had meant to say. “I can’t, Ginnie. I’m sorry.” She looked anxiously toward the kitchen window.
Ginnie felt herself close to tears. “What if we went up into the hills? For a run? Couldn’t you tell me there?”
“I’m not allowed,” Wendy said. “I’m not allowed to go anywhere, now. I…”
Again Ginnie felt like Wendy was about to say something more.
“Please, just tell me something. Is it… did you have…?”
Wendy bit her lip and nodded.
“Sex?” Ginnie whispered.
Wendy nodded again.
“And Frankie and Mary…?”
Another nod, quicker now. Then a single word. “Today.”
Ginnie felt faint. What did it mean? “With who?” she asked in a pleading voice. With the same man? Would they come for Ginnie, too, to bring her to him?
“Wendy?” Mrs. Kimball called from the doorway. “It’s time to come inside. Your visitor will be here in a few minutes.”
Ginnie frowned in confusion as Wendy yelled back, “Yes, ma’am.” Her cheeks had gone bright red.
“Visitor?” Ginnie demanded.
“I can’t tell you,” Wendy insisted, her voice again dropping to a whisper. Then she seemed to have a sudden idea. “He’s… I think he’s going to take me down to the basement.” She gave Ginnie a very meaningful look, and then cast her eyes toward her house.
Ginnie followed Wendy’s gaze, and felt the heat creep into her own face as she thought she understood: there were windows that looked down into the Kimballs’ rumpus room, at the side of the house.
“Okay,” Ginnie said uncertainly.
“See you,” Wendy said in a distracted voice, apparently not seeing the irony of her words.
“Bye,” Ginnie said, as Wendy walked toward her mommy, who stood with hands on hips in the doorway, waiting for her.
I think he’s going to take me down to the basement. It couldn’t mean the same thing in the Kimball house that it meant at the Samuels, could it? The heat blazed in Ginnie’s face now as she followed Wendy a few steps, not sure what to do next.
“We’ll see you later, Ginnie,” Mrs. Kimball called to her in the friendly but final voice a mommy uses to dismiss a friend of her ward who should now run along home. “Say hi to your mommy and daddy for me.”
“Sure, Mrs. Kimball. Um, bye.” Ginnie walked in the direction of her own house, doing her best to make it clear that she meant to make her way to the end of the weathered fence that divided the backyards of Numbers 2 and 6, ending in a hedge through which the girls always cut when going to one another’s houses.
When she heard the Kimballs’ back door close, though, she stopped and flattened herself against the wall of their house, heart pounding and feeling absurdly like a secret agent. She stood there for a moment, looking around to try to figure out whether she was visible from any window of her own house, or from Oak Street. If she crouched, she realized, the Kimballs’ hibiscus plants would hide her completely from the front, and the only window in the Samuels’ house that might show her was the glazed one in the first floor bathroom.
And just to her right was one of the semicircular light wells dug into the grass to let the builders put the little rectangular windows high up in the basement walls. Wendy could see a sliver of the green carpet that she knew so well from the little school Mrs. Kimball taught, and part of the top of one of the old-fashioned school desks at which the Oak Street girls sat for their lessons. The desk, Ginnie reflected not for the first time—blushing a little, also not for the first time at the idea—might not be quite as traditional as the top-opening, inkwell-bearing ones in the pictures that adorned her punishment room next door, but it definitely came from a bygone era of education, like Oak Street itself she sometimes thought.
Then, to Ginnie’s surprise, Wendy came and sat at it. She heard Mrs. Kimball’s voice waft up, and realized that the little window had been left slightly ajar. The faint sound of her own daddy mowing their lawn made it difficult to hear very clearly, but she could make out the words nonetheless.
“Mr. Weaver will be here soon, Wendy. You just get ready to tell him what happened this morning.”
Wendy’s mommy’s voice sounded so severe now that it took Ginnie aback. She had very little time to wonder what it might mean, though, or why she felt that Wendy’s misbehavior this morning—for Mrs. Kimball’s tone left no doubt as to the basic nature of the happening—must have something to do with had nearly occurred in Ginnie’s own bed. A car pulled up that instant in front of the Kimballs’.
Not just a car: a limousine, Ginnie saw as she cautiously raised her head to look over the hibiscus. She checked her phone to see that she still had ten minutes before her mommy and daddy would even expect to see her after her usual route.
A driver in a black suit got out and walked around to open the door. A man stepped out of the limo, casually dressed but still looking like a picture from a fashion magazine: crisp khakis and a blue polo shirt that looked freshly pressed. Something in the forty-or-so-year-old man’s manner suggested that someone else had done the ironing. Even without the limo, and lacking experience of the last two years of the world outside Oak Street, Ginnie would have been able to tell that this man was rich.
She looked down into the basement. She couldn’t see Wendy’s face from this angle, but she could see her leg, up to her waist, and she realized that her friend had changed out of the jeans she had been wearing to garden, and into one of the blue school skirts all the girls wore as a kind of de facto daily uniform. Wendy shifted in her chair, and although Ginnie had no idea what expression might occupy her pretty face she couldn’t get over the feeling that the hint of body language from her left leg seemed nervous.
Or perhaps that was just Ginnie’s own nervousness, because the combination of the man in the limo and the confirmation from her friend that sex was what all this was about made Ginnie’s tummy do terrible flip-flops as she waited to see what happened.
“Wendy,” came a deep, unfamiliar voice from the basement window. “I hear you’ve been naughty.”
Chapter Six
As he pushed the lawnmower around the yard in his familiar pattern, Chris Samuels listened carefully to the dialogue in the control room five miles away, clearly audible despite the noise of the mower thanks to the implant behind his ear. Jim had assured him that he needn’t go in to watch the video feed: having Ginnie think her daddy would be occupied with the mower would help put her in the proper frame of mind while giving Chris a very good excuse to interrupt her when the time came.
Nor would the video feed have shown very much at all, since the only cameras covering the space between the Oak Street houses were placed high, at the rooflines of the houses themselves. All the real information would come from correlating the data from Ginnie’s perineal sensor with the thoroughly monitored scene in the Kimball basement.
Still, Chris wished as he listened that he could see Ginnie’s data crawl in real time, as he watched Wendy’s home visit encounter with her owner unfold. It would have given him a little more visceral an understanding, he thought, of what his little girl was going through, and how it affected her.
The occasion also represented the first home visit of the project, a feature Charlotte swore up and down had come to her in a drea
m. That she dreamed that way, Chris thought—and he felt sure every trainer and assessor at the Institute agreed with him—only proved she had a true genius for her work.
Without knowing the internal functioning of the Institute, a matter always clouded in secrecy as far as the outside observer could see, the clients had turned out to be of precisely that same mind. The idea of home visits after having deflowered an Oak Street girl and sent her back to her idyllic neighborhood for a few weeks’ further training had caught fire on the exclusive community forum devoted to discussing the project, and even seemed to have become a central part of the attraction. To come to Oak Street in a limo and visit your young lady for whipping and fucking in her innocent suburban home, under the watchful eyes of her mommy and daddy, had a highly seductive charm.
Nor did that prospect, luring clients to bid high for the privilege of deflowering an Oak Street girl and eventually taking her home, as Jacob Weaver had done for Wendy, even touch what the Institute personnel running the project saw as the true genius of the home visit. The plan behind the Oak Street brand had involved from the very start the slow burning of a sort of braided erotic fuse, along which all the girls’ individual awakenings branched like firecrackers. Home visits from the girls’ new owners seemed to everyone working on the program an essential means to keep the fuse lit.
The slow flame now, Chris could hear on the audio feed, had taken hold in his little Ginnie’s pussy, thanks to what she saw and heard happening in the Kimballs’ basement.
“Please, sir!” Wendy cried on the crystal-clear audio from the little schoolroom.
“Are you going to play with my property again without permission?” Jacob Weaver asked very sternly.
A whistling sound, and then the crack of a stout leather belt against Wendy’s bottom.
“No, sir… no, please…” Wendy sobbed.
Jim’s voice, on the feed from the control room, said, “Ginnie’s recalibrating. Her hand just went between her legs.”
A soft chime in the background, which Chris—a trainer, rather than an assessor—didn’t immediately recognize.
“Masturbation,” Jim said.
A female voice, unmistakable. Charlotte: “Let her come as many times as she wants during the whipping. Chris, you’re going to interrupt after she sees Wendy suck Mr. Weaver’s cock.”
Another alarm, this one a buzzer, and more insistent.
“Pre-orgasm,” Jim announced.
Chris pictured little Ginnie crouched in the bushes, her hand down her running shorts, desperately and uncontrollably pleasuring herself. His heart went out to her, even as his cock hardened. She would start to get what she needed very soon, even if she didn’t expect the form it would take.
Jacob Weaver’s voice, from the basement. “Your mommy told me she spanked your pussy this morning. Is that right?”
The belt cracked down. “Yes, sir,” Wendy wailed.
“Orgasm one,” Jim declared from the control room.
“Do I need to spank your pussy myself, or is a naked whipping over your school desk enough to teach you your lesson?”
The pre-orgasm buzzer sounded again.
“It’s enough, sir,” Wendy sobbed. “Please.”
“Are you ready to suck my cock, sweet girl?” Weaver’s voice grew suddenly much softer.
“Orgasm two.”
“Yes, sir. May I please suck your beautiful cock?”
The buzzer emphasized the lovely submission in Wendy’s voice.
“Kneel down, Wendy. Right here in front of me. Oh, there we go. Oh, good girl. That’s it. You’re getting so good at this.”
“Orgasm three. Chris, any time.”
Chris took the turn in his mowing pattern he had been waiting to take for five minutes, and pushed the mower toward the Kimballs’ house. It only took a few seconds to approach Ginnie’s hiding place: she, of course, didn’t pay any attention to the increasing loudness of the lawnmower. Her attention, when Chris caught sight of her at last, remained firmly fixed on the Kimballs’ basement window. He couldn’t see what was happening between her thighs, of course, but he could discern a definite riding motion of her sweet hips, and a bouncing of her knees, as she pleasured herself in the way forbidden to her for so long, and cruelly interrupted that morning. Ginnie peered down into the scene of Wendy’s cock-sucking with an intensity that seemed unbreakable.
When Chris abruptly shut off the motor, though, she turned around: first in surprise, then in dismay, and finally in horror.
“Daddy!” she cried as he tugged off his noise-protection ear guards. Her hand was still in her purple shorts, and her face glowed with a beautiful combination of helpless arousal and sudden shame.
“Ginnie-bear, what are you doing?” he asked severely. “Get your hand out of there this instant! What were you doing in the bushes?”
“I…” was all Ginnie could say, as she pulled her hand guiltily from between her thighs. She screwed her face up in an expression of woe: contrition mingled with the flood of ecstatic sexual feeling beyond anything she had ever experienced before.
Chris spoke slowly and deliberately, as if figuring out as he uttered each word what had been going on in the bushes. “You were spying, weren’t you? And playing with yourself! I can’t believe it. Virginia Samuels, you are in very big trouble.”
“Please, Daddy,” Ginnie wailed. “Please don’t paddle me!”
“Of course I’m going to paddle you, Ginnie. Don’t have any doubt about that. You’ll have that just for touching yourself inappropriately, and you’re not going to sit comfortably for a week if I have anything to say about it. Your mommy warned you that we don’t tolerate masturbation in this household. But we have to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Kimball, too, and to Wendy’s visitor. Violating their privacy is a serious matter.”
“What?” Ginnie cried. “Oh, Daddy. Please don’t tell them. I’m… I’m sorry…” Her voice had a sweet confusion in it that seemed to say that the most important part of her didn’t actually feel sorry, because of how she longed for the same kind of awakening she now knew Wendy had undergone, and the Wood girls were now undergoing, and she certainly sensed lay in her own future.
“Arousal six,” Jim said in his ear. “Go ahead and take her over your knee, Chris. We want her at eight when you ring the doorbell.”
With pleasure, Chris thought, and let himself obey his dominant instinct. He stepped forward, toward Ginnie, who cowered back a little.
“Come here, Virginia,” Chris said.
“Wh-why, Daddy?”
“To learn what happens to girls who don’t come to their daddies when they’re told. Don’t make me come get you.”
Ginnie’s mouth opened, and her breath came in little pants. Her back had come up nearly against the clapboard-covered wall of the Kimballs’ house. She held her little hands up in front of her chest, half in defense and half in supplication.
Chris moved quickly forward and seized his ward around her shoulders and her waist. She gave a little cry as he manhandled her over his work-jean-covered left thigh, putting his left foot atop the lawnmower so that Ginnie’s feet dangled as he positioned her for punishment.
“Daddy, no! Not here! Please!”
She struggled in his grasp, trying to stop him from pulling her shorts and panties down, but Chris put his hand in the nylon waistband and pulled them down all the way to her knees.
“Daddy!” Ginnie wailed, but Chris started spanking her immediately, hard and fast, raising his hand high and bringing it down with force on the bare little bottom that quickly got very red.
“Don’t… you… ever… question… my… judgment… young… lady,” he said sternly, emphasizing each word with a hard spank.
Ginnie screamed and cried as she was punished in the open air for the first time. Her bottom ablaze with the fiery lesson her daddy had decided to teach, she squirmed under his strong left arm. Her adorable hind-cheeks clenched and relaxed, trying to soothe the smart of the severe, if brief, punishment
Chris had administered.
“Arousal two,” Jim said. “Hold her for a bit, please, Chris, and things should get where they need to go.”
Chris stopped the spanking, and instead began to rub his little girl’s bottom. Ginnie gave a little sob at the sensation, then whimpered softly.
“Four. Five.” Chris could hear the satisfaction in Jim’s tone even over the comm link. “Six.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Ginnie said in a choked voice. Chris didn’t think he’d ever heard sweeter words, filled as they were with reproach, but also with gratitude, and longing.
“Shh, Ginnie-bear,” Chris said.
“Seven.”
“Don’t worry. Daddy will take care of you. Sometimes he has to punish you, but it’s for your own good. You’re growing up very fast now.”
Ginnie gave a little moan. “Yes, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know you have to paddle me, but…”
“Eight. Anytime.”
Chris set her on her feet again. “Pull up your shorts, Ginnie. We’re going to go talk to the Kimballs.”
She looked up at him, the plea in her eyes, as well as the conflict. She had clearly meant to try one final time to avoid the humiliating visit to Wendy’s house, but now, her bottom tingling and aching from a trip over her daddy’s knee, felt as conflicted about that as about everything else. Her shorts were still around her knees, though she held her hands modestly in front of her pussy.
“Holding at eight,” Jim said.
“Don’t make me spank you again, Virginia. Pull up your shorts.”
Ginnie bit her lip and cast her eyes downward. Keeping her left hand in front of the sparse thatch of curly red hair that Chris felt sure would soon be removed, when his ward’s training progressed, she tugged up her purple shorts and pink panties with her right.
“Follow me,” Chris said grimly, and set off around the Kimballs’ house.
Tom Kimball answered the door very quickly, of course, since he had been waiting patiently for the doorbell.