by Emily Tilton
“Why?” Lauren whispered.
Jessica came into the room and saw the shopping bags. “Ooh! Lucky!” She turned to Lauren. “What’s… I mean, what is up?”
“That is a vulgar expression, Jessica,” said Mrs. Fredericks, but in a surprisingly indulgent tone of voice, which strangely extended even into the threat of her next words. “Please do not use it again or the paddle will come out.” Then, however, as if remembering that Lauren had only arrived an hour before, her voice became stern. “Lauren, if a girl needs discipline a third time in a single day, I always fetch the paddle, and make sure she will not sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Jessica, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fredericks,” Jessica said, her mouth pursing into a sad little moue. “What can I help you with, Lauren?”
“Go ahead and ask your questions, Lauren,” said Mrs. Fredericks, her tone once again becoming kindly. Lauren found she had already started to grow accustomed to these swings between warmth and ice, though they always sent a little thrill of emotion through her, of an intensity she had never known. “Why not start with the one concerning the bathroom?”
“Why do we have to leave the door open?” she asked softly, unable to meet Jessica’s eye.
“Oh, Mr. Graves told me this once. It is so we feel disciplined. I know that probably does not make sense to you now, but… well, it will. Just wait until Mr. Killington watches you pee.”
“What?” Lauren gasped, lifting her eyes in startlement, but Jessica had glanced over to Mrs. Fredericks.
“That is enough of that subject,” said the matron. “Now ask about the uniform, Lauren.”
The crease in Lauren’s brow grew very deep. “Did you wear a uniform at school, before you came here?”
Jessica smiled. “Oh, no. I was a public school girl just like you.”
Worried that Mrs. Fredericks might punish her but unable to keep the question inside, Lauren blurted out, “Why are you okay with this? I mean, even with the jobs, and…” Her eyes went to all the beautiful clothes, and she remembered the irrepressible happiness the shopping bags had brought. Then her eyes went to the uniforms, and the white cotton briefs. Finally, as if she couldn’t keep her gaze from it, she saw the white lingerie.
“I do not know?” she heard Jessica say softly, behind her. “But, well, Mr. Graves is… nice.”
Lauren looked the blond girl in her earnest blue eyes. She saw that Jessica had very little idea what she even meant by the word nice—or, really, that no word existed for what he represented to her.
Mrs. Fredericks spoke then, in her firm voice, which seemed to walk the line between kindness and severity. “It will be best for you, Lauren O’Hara, if you decide to accept your new life. The men who own you, and Jessica, and the other girls you will meet, have your best interests at heart alongside their pleasures. Yes, you will learn about old-fashioned discipline, just as Jessica has, and your bottom will pay the price when you misbehave. But you will learn other lessons, and gain other benefits, that you would never have known if Mr. Killington had not taken you.”
Lauren had turned to meet Mrs. Fredericks’ gray eyes during this speech. Now she looked into Jessica’s face again, and saw that the other girl agreed with the matron despite perhaps not having the words for it. Lauren felt desperate to ask about the fellation of the men who had held Rachel down, about the enemas, but she couldn’t find the words.
“You may go, Jessica,” Mrs. Fredericks said. “Lauren, put on your uniform, please.” She left the bedroom behind Jessica, and closed the door behind her.
So we can change with the door closed, but we must pee with it open? Lauren stared at the uniform on the bed for a few moments, wondering what it really meant, and then she started to undress.
She emerged feeling very strange especially in the thick white cotton of the briefs that seemed to cling to her bottom, which still tingled a little from her spanking.
“You look very fetching,” Mrs. Fredericks said, after she had made Lauren stand in front of her in the gorgeous living room with a view of Central Park. “Now it is time to write your first email to Mr. Killington.”
Mrs. Fredericks stood looking over her shoulder, having sent from her phone the humiliating picture of Lauren’s corner time with Jessica, instructing that the picture must be attached to the email.
“Describe your spanking in your own words, honey,” the matron said. “The mail need not be long, but Mr. Killington expects your honesty concerning your first trip over my knee.”
Chapter Four
Dear Mr. Killington,
Today Mrs. Fredericks had to spank me, even though I had only just arrived in her apartment. I refused to give her the password to my email, even though Jessica said I should. I had to lay myself over her knee, and she pulled my skirt up and my tights down. She did not pull my panties down, because I was wearing such little ones, that did not cover very much of my bottom. She spanked me for a long time, and, as you can see, she turned my bottom very red. Jessica got spanked, too, after me, as you can see, but my bottom is still red in the picture because Mrs. Fredericks spanked me so hard.
Later, Jessica got spanked with a wooden spoon for saying ‘like,’ and I had to watch. I felt sad for Jessica. I will try to use proper English, and help Jessica do the same.
Thank you very much for the beautiful clothes, and for my uniforms. I am looking forward to meeting you tonight. I hope I will be able to learn to please you.
Yours truly,
Lauren
John Killington didn’t think anything could exist in the world lovelier than a girl’s letter to her owner after being disciplined for the first time. Some owners in the club didn’t see the value in the emails, but John respectfully considered them fools. How could you invest so much money in keeping a girl under the strict but loving guidance of a matron like Mrs. Fredericks and not want to know how the girl felt when the matron spanked her, and how her pretty young backside looked afterward?
Sam Graves maintained that as long as Mrs. Fredericks kept Jessica in line, he could content himself with the punishments he gave the girl in person, and seeing the evidence on her bottom over video chat, when he was traveling. John, by contrast, wanted to know every time Mrs. Fredericks’ firm hand, spoon, or paddle came down on Lauren’s adorable bottom.
He also enjoyed the way Mrs. Fredericks’ quirky rules about spoken and written English made her girls sound, as they tried in their early days to avoid punishment by talking and emailing in simple sentences that conveyed their submission so thoroughly between the lines. Heather, the last girl he had placed with the matron, had come to enjoy writing the emails so much that she had developed a wonderful formal style to amuse Mrs. Fredericks and, at the same time, to avoid the paddle.
Honored sir, Heather might have written,
My backside received condign chastisement this ante meridiem, when I was discovered playing with your property, unable to restrain myself on waking with the sensory remnants of your use of said property lingering there.
That sort of thing lay in the future with Lauren, of course, but John thought he could already detect in her short declaratory prose precisely the feelings the discipline provided by Mrs. Fredericks was meant to awaken.
Mrs. Fredericks’ own mail to him made it clear that she had the same high hopes for Lauren’s eventually being for him everything he had hoped she would be when the club’s recruiters had forwarded her dossier to him that morning—Lauren’s eighteenth birthday.
Dear Mr. Killington,
As you can read in her own mail, Lauren is settling in here. She is full of questions, as any girl in her position would be, but with Jessica’s help I have managed to make it clear to her that she must not think of disobedience, because your firmness with her, and mine, will ensure her compliance in the end, and to obey without needing punishment will be far preferable.
I am happy to say that Lauren also seems already to understand how much she needs a firm hand and loving g
I attach a photograph of Lauren in her uniform, so you can see that despite her rather slovenly upbringing she is very eager to appear neat as a pin. What should she be wearing when you call for her at seven o’clock?
Respectfully,
Mrs. Anita Fredericks
The picture showed Lauren looking extremely adorable, her hands held before her midriff as she looked at the camera. Her slightly wavy auburn hair was gathered in a headband that matched the tartan of the pleated school skirt, and the sweet glimpse of her bare knees between the pleats of that skirt and her white knee socks seemed to reach out into John’s chest and squeeze his lungs with tenderness and desire for the girl he had purchased. He thought for a moment about her white cotton briefs, anticipating the day, a few weeks hence if Mrs. Fredericks’ assessment proved correct, when he would take them down for sex—as of course he would take them down for punishment a good deal earlier.
Yes, he had resolve—and he would also of course have mildly blue balls, for a while. The club (its members called it simply that—the club) who jointly owned the apartment building in which they kept their schoolgirls had been founded on the central idea that dominant sex with pretty, submissive eighteen-year-olds could with the proper resources be made into a transcendent experience of pleasure for both wealthy older men and innocent younger women: more, that the club could turn that pleasure into an experience that launched the girls, after their residence with a club matron and their sexual service to their owner, into the world as confident, successful professional women. A central tenet of the club philosophy lay in employing old-fashioned loving discipline to unlock the girls’ submissive desires, but not pressuring them into sex—indeed, in maintaining an almost Victorian mystique about sex, though with certain important differences like the use of fellatio to keep the men able to think rationally about their girls’ progress.
He wrote back to Mrs. Fredericks,
Please have Lauren wear the green cocktail dress, with her white lingerie and stockings, and the pumps that match the dress. Her hair should be down. I’ll bring jewelry, so don’t worry about that, and (though I know you know my preference in this regard) please have her make herself up only very lightly.
Yours,
John Killington
Some owners liked to have their girls look as sophisticated as possible when they took them out, trying to avoid—John supposed—some of the stares that accompanied a man of thirty-nine taking out a girl of eighteen. John had to confess he enjoyed the stares, especially a few months into his keeping of a girl, when she herself could share in the naughtiness of the idea, knowing what would happen in her older man’s bed later that night—all the things he would command of her and she would give, whimpering with the helpless pleasure he awoke in her.
He liked it most of all when he heard the whisper he felt sure he would hear tonight in the quiet restaurant to which he would bring Lauren for their first date: He’s old enough to be her father.
* * *
Mrs. Fredericks opened the door to him at 7:02, and led him into the living room where Lauren stood next to Jessica, whom he knew from socializing with her owner Sam. Lauren had her hands clasped in front of her just as she had held them in the photo sent by Mrs. Fredericks, but to John’s eyes she appeared to have transformed into what seemed to John an impossibly lovely young woman, her innocence set off so beautifully by her elegant clothing that it made his heart ache. Her downcast green eyes seemed to him to glow in their very shyness, and the slight awkwardness of her stance on the medium-high heels of the shoes made him want to take her in his arms.
He looked at Jessica. “Hello, Jessica,” he said. “How are you?”
“I am fine, Mr. Killington,” the sweet blond girl, who still wore her uniform, replied. She cast a nervous glance at Mrs. Fredericks, and John smiled at the I am. “It is very nice to see you.”
“Not going out with Mr. Graves tonight?”
“No. He is in California. I will speak to him on video chat later.”
John smiled again. Thank goodness for video chat. Speak, he knew, didn’t really describe what Sam would ask of Jessica over the net, as he watched from his hotel room.
John glanced at Lauren, whose eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“Mr. Killington, may I present Lauren O’Hara?” Mrs. Fredericks asked.
John extended his hand. The simplicity and calm of the gesture seemed to startle Lauren. Her eyes darted up to his, and went wide as they took in the reality of his face, his well-trimmed beard and high cheekbones.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Lauren,” he said. “I hope your first day here has been reasonably pleasant despite being very unexpected.”
Her lips, which bore only the hint of gloss, parted a little, but she clearly couldn’t find the words to express the complexity of emotion John knew she must feel. He had kidnapped her after all, and delivered her into the hands of a woman who didn’t hesitate to discipline her girls, facts that all the arrangements for her comfort and gifts of clothing and jewelry couldn’t conceal.
She glanced nervously at Jessica, and then at Mrs. Fredericks. Then, tentatively, meeting his eye again, she extended her hand for him to take gently in his own and press softly, as a Victorian might.
“I’m…” A quick, very anxious glance at Mrs. Fredericks. “I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Killington.”
Certain other members of the club liked to ridicule Mrs. Fredericks for her singular emphasis on proper speech, but John and Sam—and Bill Ashihara, who also placed his girls with Mrs. Fredericks—found it gave a wonderful individuality to their time with her pupils.
John released Lauren’s hand and reached into the breast pocket of his charcoal gray suit to bring out the jewelry case. He had the great pleasure of seeing Lauren’s eyes go very wide, and a smile he suspected she couldn’t have repressed if she had tried appeared on her lips. She actually said, looking up from the slim black case to John’s face, “For me?”
“Yes, sweetheart, for you.”
The first moment he called a girl sweetheart always tugged hard at his heartstrings, and he saw the word register on Lauren’s face with a slight widening both of eyes and of smile. She looked over at Jessica almost apologetically, as if concerned that her new friend might be envious, took the case, and opened it.
“Happy birthday,” he said, and she saw in her expression that, like most girls in her position, she had completely forgotten that she had just turned eighteen.
“Let me see!” Jessica said, and craned her neck around. “Oh, wow, Mr. Killington!”
“Would you please help Lauren put the necklace on?” he asked.
As Jessica put the strand of pearls around Lauren’s neck, she blushed for the first time in his presence. He wondered if she knew the other meaning of pearl necklace, but decided from the way she looked at him that her face had grown red with pleasure, and perhaps with the more general significance of receiving an extravagant gift from an older man.
Jessica handed her the matching drop earrings, the pearls set off with diamonds, one by one. Lauren looked away as she put them in her ears, as if too shy to maintain eye contact yet. John wondered, with delicious anticipation of the possibilities, how self-conscious she felt about the white lace she wore underneath the dress.
Unless she misbehaved, he wouldn’t see it tonight. John didn’t like to invent excuses for discipline until a girl appreciated her situation and her needs more. The knowledge that, under the beautiful dress he had provided, her nubile body wore the kind of lovely, skimpy lace things that a man liked to see a girl wear would lie between them all night nonetheless, enhancing her blushes and keeping John’s cock very hard.
Chapter Five
Lauren couldn’t figure out whether her helpless attraction to Mr. Killington made the situation better or worse. She couldn’t even figure out whether she really felt it, or he had somehow created it with the clothes and the jewelry.
And the beard. And the suit. And the hands.
And his eyes.
And his voice. “Am I right that your favorite subject is history, sweetheart?”
Why did it make Lauren’s heart jump to have him call her sweetheart?
Maybe because the man calling her that had specified her clothes for this dinner at the first real French restaurant to which Lauren had ever gone—all her clothes, including the panties that threatened to make her squirm in her seat like a fidgety child every time she remembered them, and the garter belt whose suspenders felt so strange on her thighs.
Lauren O’Hara thought she liked naughty grownup panties, a voice seemed to say in her head, sounding suspiciously like Mrs. Fredericks. Well, now she’s wearing them not because she wanted to, but because the wealthy, aristocratic man who owns her decided she should wear the kind of underwear a girl wears when it’s time for her to have sex.
Sex. Sex. Sex.
The word echoed in her mind all the louder because Mr. Killington wasn’t saying anything about it. As they had walked down the city street in the warm April breeze, Lauren had felt impossibly elegant to be wearing what she wore and to be walking with an older man in a dark suit. He had tucked her arm under his as they left the apartment building’s lobby, as if the possessive gesture were the most natural thing in the world, but he had spoken of the architecture of the tall buildings between which they passed, and of the restaurant he had chosen.
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