by Emily Tilton
“Well, hi, Chris,” he said, looking surprised to see them. “Hi, Ginnie. What brings you here?”
“Ginnie has something to tell you, Tom—and Wendy and Wilma, too,” Chris said in a stern voice. He glanced over at Ginnie and saw that her face had gone the shade of bright red that only a redhead can achieve.
“Arousal five,” Jim said. “Ease her in a bit, Tom.”
“Well,” Tom said slowly, “Wendy’s got a visitor right now…”
“That’s it,” Jim said over the comm link. “Six.”
“And Wilma is down there keeping them company.”
“Seven.”
Tom looked at Ginnie, whose eyes had gone to the well-known door to the basement, just beyond the Kimballs’ living room.
“I’m afraid this concerns Wendy’s visitor, too,” Chris said. “But we don’t want to interrupt Wendy’s visit. Maybe you all can stop by once things have finished up in the basement?”
“Sure,” Tom said. “That’ll be fine. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Eight,” Jim announced. “Good job, everyone.”
Chapter Seven
As soon as their own front door closed behind them, Ginnie’s daddy said, “Go down to the punishment room to wait, Ginnie. You may leave your clothes on for now.”
“For now?” Ginnie wailed.
“Go, Virginia. Right now.”
She looked into his handsome face, and saw sternness and decision. Not anger, she realized, but that wouldn’t save her poor bottom: Daddy clearly wanted to make it plain that what Ginnie had done in the bushes, spying with her hand in her panties, would have terrible consequences. Her heart raced and her tummy flip-flopped as she moved to the basement door, casting a woeful look back over her shoulder and seeing her daddy’s face just as adamant.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned right and saw again the picture of the schoolgirl about to learn her lesson. As she had every time her mommy or daddy had sent her here to get ready for a paddling, she wondered what the girl in the pictures had done. It couldn’t, Ginnie reflected now, have been as bad as what she herself had done in the Kimballs’ bushes.
What had she been thinking? Just that she needed to know, she needed to understand about Wendy’s ‘visitor’: who was he, and what did he do with Wendy? Her friend had confirmed that it had to do with sex, but could it really be true? And surely this man in the limo hadn’t come to do that with Wendy in Wendy’s house?
But then it had turned out to be so much more…
So much more what? Ginnie wondered as she opened the terrible door to the room where the bench sat and the paddle hung on the wall. She felt the color rush to her cheeks. Wendy would see the punishment room. And Wendy’s parents, and the man who had made Wendy suck his hard penis, after whipping her.
So much more frightening. So much more thrilling. So much more fascinating.
So much more arousing, down between Ginnie’s thighs, so that she couldn’t have kept her hand out of her shorts no matter how hard she might have tried.
She had tried. Really. But that morning in bed she had felt so close to something wonderful, and now she saw that Wendy, despite being punished with the rich man’s belt, seemed to like kneeling before him and pleasing him so much, completely naked and ready for him to put his cock in her pussy, too, when he decided to do that.
At least Ginnie knew now that Wendy got punished on her bare bottom the same way Ginnie did, though it was with the rich man’s belt rather than a wooden paddle. Surely Wendy’s punishments hadn’t started when she went to have sex with the visitor for the first time, so the Kimball household must have the same kind of strict approach to Wendy’s misbehavior that the Samuels household did to Ginnie’s.
Ginnie wondered, as her heart jumped with the faint sounds from above of the front door opening and the ‘guests’ arriving, whether Frankie and Mary Wood got punished with their panties down, too. Was that what Oak Street was about, as well as sex?
She heard the feet coming down the stairs, and distinct voices, speaking indistinct words: her daddy, then Mr. Kimball, then the visitor’s voice, heard by Ginnie for the first time only a few minutes before through the basement window but nevertheless unforgettable in its confidence and its well-educated slightly southern accent.
Wendy’s voice, sounding a little fearful, asking a question. “Where’s Ginnie?” maybe. They were right outside the door.
Ginnie’s daddy, his words now clear, as the knob of the door turned. “She’s in here, Wendy. This is our punishment room.”
Ginnie had been sitting on the bench, but she got up to face the little crowd that filed in, filling the small room, looking around.
“Hi, Ginnie,” Wendy said, looking very guilty, as if it were her fault Ginnie was going to get paddled.
“Hi, Wendy,” Ginnie replied, trying to show in her expression that she knew it was her own fault: Wendy hadn’t told her to spy, and she definitely hadn’t told her to play with herself.
“Ginnie,” Mommy said, “please take Wendy and go and get four folding chairs from the rumpus-room closet. The adults are going to sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ginnie said miserably, thinking of what it would look like: the guardians, and the handsome blond visitor, sitting to watch her get punished. Four chairs, because the grownup paddling Ginnie wouldn’t need one.
Wendy followed her to the other half of the basement, where Ginnie’s weightlifting bench and yoga mat shared space with a couch and a big TV. Ginnie opened the closet to reveal the metal folding chairs, then turned to Wendy.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.
Wendy gave her a little smile. Ginnie felt a strange surge of envy run through her chest; her friend looked content—almost glowing, despite the concern Wendy clearly felt for Ginnie.
The rich visitor fucked her, the way I think I need to be fucked, the wicked part of Ginnie’s mind whispered.
“It’s kind of my fault, but thank you,” Wendy whispered back.
Ginnie turned to reach for a chair, then turned again to hand it to Wendy. “Does your butt hurt?” she asked softly.
Wendy smiled again. She looked so happy now, dressed in a blue sundress that Ginnie realized she had never seen and instantly thought must be a present from the visitor.
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “But… well, you’ll see.”
“I will?”
“Girls?” called Mrs. Samuels in a severe tone. “No talking.”
Ginnie’s face went hot, and she turned back to the closet to get the remaining chairs.
Back in the punishment room, Ginnie and Wendy had to set up the chairs along the wall without the mirror.
The visitor was looking at the pictures of the punished schoolgirl. “Very nice,” he said, with an air that struck Ginnie as that of someone who collects art showing how naughty young women need to be corrected. She blushed as she set up the final chair.
Then her mommy said, “Ginnie, this is Mr. Weaver. He’s Wendy’s owner.”
“Owner?” Ginnie said, startled. She looked from Mr. Weaver to Wendy, who now stood a little bit in back of the man Ginnie had seen punishing and enjoying her.
“Yes, Ginnie,” Mommy explained patiently. “Mr. Weaver bought Wendy at an auction last month, just as you’ll be auctioned after you’ve had a few of the special lessons we’re going to start today.”
Ginnie kept stealing glances at Wendy and Mr. Weaver as her mommy spoke. When she saw on their faces—especially on Wendy’s—that Mrs. Samuels had spoken the truth, strange and scary as Ginnie found it, she felt her whole body start to tremble. What did it mean?
“Say hello to Mr. Weaver and shake his hand, please, Virginia,” her daddy said in a stern voice. Ginnie looked over to see that Mr. Samuels had moved to stand just beside where the paddle hung on the wall.
Ginnie turned to the wealthy man, feeling the fire in her cheeks as she had to confront him after watching him whip Wendy and use her mouth for his penis’ pleasure.<
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“Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled, putting out her hand.
Mr. Weaver captured it in his own big one, which seemed to radiate southern warmth. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance too, Miss Samuels. My little Wendy has told me a good deal about you.”
Now Ginnie had to drop her eyes, so hot did her blush blaze up at that. What had Wendy said? What might interest the man who it seemed had spent a good deal of his considerable fortune on buying a young woman for… what? His toy? His sex toy?
Could Mommy really have meant it, that Ginnie herself would soon be sold? And what would happen then, after the auction, when the man who had bought her took possession? Where would he bring Ginnie, and what would he do there?
“Sir…” Wendy said hesitantly. Ginnie could hear in her friend’s voice that Wendy wanted to spare her this embarrassment. But the idea that Wendy called Mr. Weaver sir made the problem worse, and it made her realize just how much heat had grown down between her thighs, inside the running shorts and panties she still wore, to match her blush above.
“Yes, darlin’?” Mr. Weaver said in a rather distracted voice. “What is it?”
“Sir, please. I think Ginnie is so confused she doesn’t know what to think.”
Ginnie darted a glance up into Wendy’s face and found the chestnut-haired girl looking back at her with a gentle smile that struck Ginnie as very grown up—the kind of smile she was accustomed to seeing on the faces of the mommies and daddies, not those of the Oak Street girls themselves. The thought flashed into Ginnie’s head that belonging to Mr. Weaver, whatever it might mean, had given Wendy a sort of polish that Ginnie herself lacked. She tried to smile back, but she felt her upper lip quiver.
“Well,” said Mr. Weaver a little sternly. “I think that’s the way it should be. Be careful about questioning my decisions, Wendy darlin’. I don’t want to have to take you over my knee in front of your friends, especially after I whipped you just a little while ago, but I will if I must.”
The look on Wendy’s face, as she turned her eyes to her owner’s face, changed in an instant from the grownup expression to a very different one—an expression Ginnie knew from her own face, in the mirror of the punishment room, when her daddy had told her to get ready for a paddling. Red cheeks, furrowed brow, bitten lip.
“That’s actually why we’re here,” said Ginnie’s daddy. “Mr. Weaver… Wilma, Tom… why don’t you sit down. You too, Ella. Ginnie, come stand in front, please. Hands folded in front of you. Eyes down.”
Daddy needn’t have told Ginnie to cast her eyes down to the carpet, for she couldn’t have lifted them for all the riches of the world. She watched Wendy’s feet and lower body as Mr. Weaver drew his little girl over to stand right next to him, his arm possessively around her waist. Fear and arousal at that simple sight welled up so fiercely in Ginnie that she started to feel light headed as she waited for her daddy to begin.
“Ginnie,” he said simply. “Please tell Wendy and her owner, and her mommy and daddy, what you did.”
Ginnie turned to shoot him a desperate look, where he stood right next to the paddle. Daddy responded by reaching out and taking the paddle from its hook. Ginnie gave a whimpering little cry at the sight. Daddy couldn’t really punish her in front of the Kimballs, and Wendy, and Mr. Weaver, could he? He couldn’t really make her lie over the bench with her bottom toward these onlookers, and then pull down her shorts and panties, and then bring the terrible paddle down so, so hard, the way he always did, to teach Ginnie the lesson she needed.
He couldn’t. Not when with the mirror in front of her, if she opened her eyes, she would have to see the guests looking back at her: looking at her being disciplined, looking at her weeping as her daddy spanked her little bottom red, for the wicked thing she had done.
“Go ahead, Virginia,” said her mommy, seated at the end of the row of four chairs, nearest to Daddy.
Ginnie looked over at Mommy, and saw her just as firm in her expression as Daddy, though the softness of Mrs. Samuels’ face didn’t make Ginnie’s heart kick and leap the way Mr. Samuels’ blue eyes did.
She felt her nose twitch with the coming tears, and the tears themselves started to well up.
“Look at Wendy, please,” Daddy said.
A little sob burst from Ginnie’s chest as she wrenched her gaze upward. Wendy’s face seemed kind and understanding, though.
“I watched,” Ginnie whispered.
Chapter Eight
Jim didn’t think he could possibly be prouder of his team, or of his own work, where Ginnie’s progression was concerned. From Chris’ spanking her over his knee in the open air, with the scent of freshly mown grass in her nostrils (Jim had to project a little on that bit, he supposed), to Ella’s Go ahead, Virginia, just now… well, Ginnie had just recalibrated as she stood before her little audience, knowing she must tell the story of her wicked voyeurism or make the paddling she would soon get from her daddy even worse.
Now Jim knew he didn’t even have to suggest Ella’s next words, and he felt certain they would make Ginnie’s ten flash again.
“You didn’t just watch, Ginnie. You spied. On something very private.”
The number in the upper right of Ginnie’s main video feed, which showed her blushing face to great advantage, blinked to indicate the recalibration.
“Perfect, Ella,” Jim said.
He felt the eyes of everyone else in the control room on him: they had a full house, of course, for this important transition in Ginnie’s case. Charlotte had come back to observe, and Serena, who had responsibility for Wendy, sat next to her at the upper table, typing notes, while Paul, next to Jim, kept an eye on the rest of the neighborhood.
Paul’s main responsibility lay with the Wood household, but with Frankie and Mary sold at last night’s auction for a record-breaking ten million dollars to a German aerospace executive, he could be tasked to more general matters. Jim glanced at the screen of Paul’s laptop and saw that he had the feed from the honeymoon cottage, where the Wood girls had been deflowered only a few hours previous, in the lower right corner of his screen. It showed the lovely blondes snuggled up in bed on either side of their new owner, who seemed to have told them to take turns sucking his cock: Mary was now demonstrating how much she had learned from the special lessons her mommy and daddy had given the girls before they were sent to the Institute for the auction, while Frankie looked on, blushing. Their owner fondled both little bottoms gently, his smiling face representing the pinnacle of customer satisfaction.
Now Ginnie’s turn had come to begin those special lessons.
“I’m so s-sorry, Wendy,” she stammered, able to meet her friend’s gaze only for a moment. “I spied.”
“It’s Mr. Weaver you should apologize to, dear, most of all,” said Wilma Kimball. “He owns Wendy now, and he has a right to punish her and enjoy himself in private.” She turned rather theatrically to Wendy’s owner. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Weaver. I know you paid a lot of money for our little girl, and you expected to whip her and fuck her without being disturbed. Wendy, you get undressed, honey, now, so Mr. Weaver can play with your pussy just as he likes.”
Serena chuckled. “Nice, Wilma,” Jim heard her say over the comm link. Wilma had a gift for the most shocking kind of dirty talk, as well as for the lewd little moments to which it generally led.
“Wh-what?” Ginnie whispered.
“You go ahead and take off your clothes, too, Ginnie-bear,” said Ella. “You and Wendy should be naked together now.”
Ginnie and Wendy looked at each other: the effect on the big board at the front of the control room, where the two girls’ video feeds, with close-ups of their red faces, appeared side by side, struck Jim as quite moving—and incredibly arousing. Wendy’s face wore, in her crinkled brow and her sympathetic eyes, a greater familiarity with these things, which of course came from her weeks of experience following the same kind of awakening Ginnie was now having. Ginnie’s bitten lip and the fearful furrow
in her own forehead showed that she appreciated her friend’s sympathy, but she still didn’t understand exactly what new thing had begun to happen here in the punishment room where, before today, her daddy had taught her proper behavior the old-fashioned way, with the wooden paddle applied to her bare bottom.
The redhead in the running clothes turned to her mommy. “All my clothes, ma’am?” she asked in a pleading voice. “Daddy doesn’t—”
“I didn’t used to, Ginnie,” Chris said with a little severity. “From now on, you will be punished with all your clothes off, when we—or, soon, your owner—decide that’s how it should be. Do as your mommy said, now. Everything off.”
Ginnie’s arousal had dropped to eight as she tried to process the strange new information, but now, with her daddy’s firm command, it rose to nine. When she turned to see that Wendy had taken off her sundress to reveal that she wore no panties, Ginnie’s number hit ten again. Her video feed revealed an unasked question in her raised eyebrows.
Tom Kimball, trained to read submissive body language, answered it. “Mr. Weaver doesn’t allow Wendy to wear panties anymore, Ginnie. It makes her pussy available to him whenever he wants to fuck her. Your owner may have the same feelings about your underwear, or you may wear a chastity belt that keeps you from playing with yourself the way I bet you did while you were spying. Wendy has that problem, too, which is why her mommy spanked her pussy this morning and her owner whipped her this afternoon. Wendy, why don’t you show your friend what Mr. Weaver’s belt did?”
Wendy turned around obediently, then reached down to take the backs of her knees in her hands.
“We need to tell Weaver that he can be more severe than that,” Charlotte commented from behind Jim.
The sight of the faint, curling red lines across Wendy’s creamy bottom-cheeks and thighs had the desired effect on Ginnie, though, despite the gentleness that appeared to an experienced eye. She drew a sharp breath through her nostrils, and her ten flashed again.
Weaver reached his hand out almost idly to stroke his concubine’s punished bottom possessively and very tenderly, displaying it to Ginnie’s red-faced fascination the way a proud craftsman might display a carving or a jewel, with a little flourish.