by Emily Tilton
Mr. Graves, Jessica had blushingly confessed to Lauren, had asked the question of Jessica, and received a yes, on her second day in Mrs. Fredericks’ apartment. That night she had gone to the penthouse and surrendered her lower virginities to her owner, first in front and then behind. The other girls reported the same: their owners asked them politely whether they felt ready for anal sex, and then, when the girl said yes, began fucking them in both places, as and when they chose.
Asked the question in the lovely Mediterranean restaurant, as she nibbled at her baklava, Lauren had bitten her lip, encountering even more starkly the problem that had determined her answer each of the previous times Mr. Killington had asked about her readiness to have his cock in her bottom-hole. She couldn’t say yes. Even if she had known herself to be ready—which she didn’t know, she told herself again and again—even if she felt somehow that she needed the terrible act—which she didn’t—how could he expect that she could ever do so much as nod, ever manage to lower her chin in assent the merest fraction of an inch?
You couldn’t ask for… for that. Lauren had thought at the dinner table, as her contemplation of the question made the problem of Mr. Killington’s refusal of permission to touch herself much worse, about Jessica, and about her other new friends. She had wanted to ask on the social network if any of them had still been virgins after two weeks living in one of the matrons’ apartments, but she’d been too embarrassed. It had only taken Jessica two days. Most of them seemed to be talking about similar timeframes.
If only Mr. Killington would… what? Her cheeks got very hot thinking about it. And she didn’t seem to be able to think about anything else, as she waited naked in her room. To reinforce the lesson, Mrs. Fredericks had said she would be naked in her room all day, forbidden to come to the gym with Jessica, her sandwich brought to her on a tray with a sympathetic expression on the blond girl’s face, and a whispered, “It’ll be okay. Mr. Graves wants me to comfort you, afterward.”
As the time of Mr. Killington’s arrival approached, Lauren found she couldn’t keep still, but roamed the little bedroom, desperately trying to avoid catching sight of her naked, soon to be disciplined body, either in the mirror or looking down. She picked up books and put them down, checked the social network and found that no one had posted anything interesting. Her face flushed hot and then went cold as she thought about what awaited her in the bathroom—when she had stolen out to pee, feeling so very naughty to be in the hall with no clothes on, she had seen the red enema bag, the yellow hose, and the white plastic nozzle, laid out on the counter next to a tube of lubricant and a bottle labeled Castile Soap.
I’m not ready for anal sex, but it seems I’m ready for an enema. Am I ready for an enema? Lauren couldn’t help thinking about how enemas were supposed to clean you out, down there. If you’re clean, down there, what does it mean? Does it make you ready for… that? If a man is going to put his cock there, it should be clean for him. Clean and ready, just like my pussy is neat and tidy now, and it still feels so strange in my panties, and to my fingers.
Even wiping herself after she had peed made her give a little whimper, in the wake of these thoughts it seemed she couldn’t push away no matter how she tried. Not having her hair down there anymore seemed to have such a strange effect on her: she felt that even though Mr. Killington hadn’t… used her there, he still owned that part of her. Most of what she had learned being owned by him involved didn’t really seem all that much like ownership, or belonging—but this part, just because he had specified that Mrs. Fredericks would keep her pussy bare, for him, made Lauren feel that even when she sat on the toilet, the place between her legs belonged to Mr. Killington.
The knock at her door, when it finally came, made Lauren give a little cry of fear. The door opened, to find her standing in the middle of the room, fighting the urge to cover herself because she suspected that if she showed herself to be compliant and obedient, ready to display her nakedness for the man who planned to punish her, he might go a little bit easier on her.
Now that he stood there in her doorway, though, she knew he wouldn’t, and the urge to put a hand in front of her pussy and an arm across her breasts came on her again at the sight of his stern face. She felt her brow crease, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek, but she kept her hands at her sides, balled into fists.
Not for long, though. “Hands on your head, Lauren,” Mr. Killington said. “Mrs. Fredericks is waiting in the bathroom. She will give you your enema while I supervise.”
“Oh, no, please,” Lauren protested. “Please, sir.”
“Mrs. Fredericks has a great deal more skill at administering naughty girls’ enemas than I do, Lauren. And it will be very helpful for you to have her lessons reinforced by my authority. Neither of us wants to leave you in any doubt as to the consequences of your disrespect and disobedience. Now put your hands on your head and get going into the bathroom.”
Chapter Sixteen
Anita waited for Lauren’s arrival, well satisfied with the girl’s progress but knowing this lesson must be made very memorable. Mr. Killington had alerted her the evening before that Lauren had asked permission to masturbate, and received a firm refusal. The probability models the club used to predict young women’s erotic behavior showed an eighty-five percent chance Lauren would play with herself sometime over the succeeding twelve hours, and so Anita had felt little surprise upon entering the girl’s room.
That wasn’t to say of course that her outrage and indignation at finding Lauren with her hands in her panties was wholly feigned. Anita regarded masturbation by a girl in her care, whose private parts belonged to a wealthy, powerful man, as a serious act of misbehavior that required firm correction. She knew enough about her girls’ erotic psychology, also, to understand that such punishment helped them understand their bodies’ needs better—and made them better companions for her employers.
The lovely, naked redhead entered the bathroom, her hands on her head and her little breasts heaving. Down between her legs, Anita noticed, the private parts the matron had bared for Mr. Killington showed the sweetest little hint of her coral inner lips. Knowing what this evening would probably bring for Lauren, and what would probably happen in her bedroom after her whipping, Anita wanted to embrace the girl whose eyes, bright with tears, had gone wide at the sight of her pant-suited matron standing imperiously by the sink.
Anita had had hair nearly that color once—chestnut, her own mother had called it, while Lauren’s was best described as auburn. Mr. Fredericks, whom Anita rarely called anything but Mr. Fredericks, even—really, especially—in bed, had never forgotten to admire Anita’s hair after a trip to the salon, or even after a bath. Mr. Fredericks had also never neglected to spank Anita for even the most minor faults of deportment, and to use his belt when he thought it necessary in order to deliver the message he sought to convey.
Mr. Fredericks had been a traditional man, and so enemas were not something that had represented part of Anita’s married life, but their use by the gentlemen of the club received her full approval. Above all because the men whose girls lived with Anita greatly enjoyed bottom sex—something to which Mr. Fredericks had of course introduced Anita early in their marriage, and which Anita considered within the rights of a man who supported a young woman in a comfortable lifestyle—she found enemas perfectly in keeping with her standards of cleanliness and modesty.
“You will prepare your own enema, and lubricate the nozzle yourself, Lauren O’Hara,” Anita said, giving the girl no room to doubt that the occasion represented the beginning of the severe consequences of illicit self-pleasure. “Then you will bend over the toilet to receive the full bag in your bottom.”
Mr. Killington had come into the spacious bathroom behind his girl, looking elegant in his dark suit as he always did, the blue-striped tie and pocket square from one of London’s most fashionable boutiques handsomely setting off the charcoal gray of the jacket. Anita never tired of the little thrill she always got
“Mr. Killington, how long should she hold the enema?”
“I’ll defer to you on that matter, Mrs. Fredericks,” he said smoothly.
“Well,” Anita said, making herself sound thoughtful though she had the answer already, “Lauren will be whipped afterward…”
Looking from her owner to her matron, her lower lip caught in her teeth, Lauren gave a little cry at this news, though she had of course known it already.
“…and she showed what I consider real penitence, so perhaps five minutes?”
“Perfect, Mrs. Fredericks.” Mr. Killington put his hand down to pat Lauren’s bottom. The gesture warmed Anita’s heart as she saw the girl look up at her owner in anxiety, but also with that indefinable air of trusting submission that the matron tried hard to cultivate. Lauren’s relatively wild life as the youngest child in a large family had caused her to take quite a long while to reach this stage, but Anita had little doubt that the time for her to keep company properly with Mr. Killington had arrived.
“Go on over to the sink, sweetheart. Mrs. Fredericks will tell you how to get the enema ready for your bottom.”
The merest hint of a sob came from Lauren’s chest as she obeyed, going to the sink and looking into Anita’s face as she lowered her hands uncertainly to grasp the red rubber of the bag.
Anita turned on the hot water tap. “We use water that’s quite warm, Lauren, and we add the Castile soap and mix it all up. Then we put it in your bottom. It teaches you the beginning of your lesson and it gets you nice and clean in there. Go ahead and fill the bag up, now.”
The girl’s hands shook a little, but she obeyed. As she filled the bag, its rubber distending with the expansion of the fluid, she cast a pitiful look back over her shoulder at Mr. Killington, as if to plead for deliverance, for a shortening of the time, for a kind word from him.
He gave that, at least. “Good girl,” he said gently, warming Anita’s heart again. “You know you need this. You were naughty this morning, weren’t you?”
With an adorably puckered face, Lauren nodded. Anita marveled anew at the power of her girls’ flowering sexuality to aid in teaching them lessons beyond the realm of the erotic. When Lauren came to the end of her residence with Anita she would know not just what she needed when keeping company with a man but also that her needs and desires mattered. Anita, herself terribly innocent when she married Mr. Fredericks at twenty, had gotten very lucky and found a man who knew instinctively how to keep order in his house without cruelty or injustice.
Such men had nearly vanished from the face of the earth, though, it sometimes seemed. Though the club’s schoolgirls might not find themselves engaged in traditional romances, Anita had no doubt that learning to submit to their owners readied them for the kind of independent life Anita could never have imagined at their age. Did Mr. Killington’s Heather not write Anita faithfully, never using incorrect grammar, to say how grateful she remained, even now when she had almost finished her second year of medical school?
“Yes, sir,” Lauren whispered, turning her red face back toward the sink.
Anita spent a moment, as the water gurgled into the bag, just enjoying the marvelous little scene of the pretty naked redhead preparing her own enema, with her owner standing behind her in his suit, all of it in Anita’s apartment, supervised by Anita. She thought of Jessica, who had kept company so well with Mr. Graves in the locker room, as far as could be told from Mr. Graves’ knowing smile to Anita afterwards.
Most of those through the ages upon whom the title matron had descended would not, perhaps, have recognized Anita’s claim to it. She nevertheless felt very much the matron and the chaperone even when she watched a middle-aged man take one of her girls into the men’s locker room, knowing he would lower her panties and keep company with her there. And she felt even more matronly as she watched another of her charges prepare the implements of her anal discipline.
“Alright,” she said. “That is enough water, Lauren. I will hold the bag while you pour in two capfuls of the Castile soap.”
Anita hadn’t always eschewed contractions, though she had since her own schooldays believed in the importance of well-formed speech and writing. Casting about in her early days as one of the club’s matrons, six years before Lauren’s arrival, for some means of providing regular discipline, she had settled on this one, and now found it highly satisfactory. She liked having a way to remind girls like Lauren and Jessica that Mrs. Fredericks reserved the right to punish them, and thus also to ensure that they received the regular spankings that alone could familiarize them with their very complicated need for discipline.
If someone had inquired of her, though, as to her very favorite element of this approach to communication, she might have said that it lay in the unexpected way it had caused her charges to react when Anita said that is or I will. Lauren’s nose twitched when she heard her matron’s little reminders of the way she lived now, and the punishment she must expect if she neglected the rules of proper speech in Anita’s home.
“Yes, Mrs. Fredericks,” she said almost automatically.
Anita reached into the sink and took the warm rubber in her hands. With shaking fingers Lauren unscrewed the cap on the plastic bottle. Some of the soap splashed out of the cap, and Lauren looked nervously over at both Anita and Mr. Killington, but neither remarked on it. The girl swallowed and turned her attention back to the bag, to pour first one and then a second measure of the soap.
“Now hold the neck of the bag with one hand and shake and squeeze it gently,” Anita said, modulating her tone a bit to reflect Lauren’s good conduct so far, despite her nakedness and her knowledge of where the contents of the enema bag would soon go.
Lauren took the bag and did as instructed, the sloshing sound of the soapy water coming faintly but clearly into the still, slightly moist air of the warm bathroom. Her adorable breasts moved just a bit as she mixed the soap in, and Anita couldn’t help smiling at the sight.
“Alright, honey,” she said. “Give me the bag. You will lubricate the nozzle now, so it will slide easily into your rectum.”
Lauren’s nose twitched again at the shameful, if clinical word, and her brow creased, but she did as Anita had said. She bit her lip as she spread the slippery jelly onto the white plastic, with the bulb at the end to keep it in place once inserted. Anita could almost read the girl’s mind—this step brought the reality of the coming punishment, with all the awful humiliation of such naked bathroom discipline, much nearer.
“Give me the hose, now, honey,” she said, “and bend over the toilet with your hands on the seat.”
The furrow on Lauren’s brow got much deeper as she turned, holding the slick nozzle in her right hand and the yellow hose in her left. “Please, Mrs. Fredericks,” she said and then, looking at her owner, “Please, Mr. Killington. I am sorry. I… I will not do it again. I promise.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” said Mr. Killington. “You won’t do it again, after this punishment. You’re going to learn your lesson now. Bend over. It’s time for your enema. Don’t make me spank you before we even get started.”
But Lauren, as Anita had suspected she might, needed further assurance that her owner could be resolute when discipline was necessary. She stood, biting her lip but not moving, looking from Mr. Killington to Anita to the door, as if contemplating flight.
Mr. Killington did not delay in reinforcing his wishes. He took a step forward, and, though Lauren tried with a little cry to evade his grasp more—Anita thought—out of surprise than out of disobedience, he took her firmly around her waist and turned her around, bending her over slightly so that her sweet young bottom protruded a bit. Then, as the nozzle and hose fell from her grip, he delivered five tremendous spanks with his right hand.
Lauren cried out piteously as her owner made his intentions clear, her face a mask of woe. She tried to cover her bottom with her right hand, but Mr. Killington merely evaded it as he spanked her, leaving the pretty cheeks very red for such a brief punishment.
“Are you going to obey Mrs. Fredericks, and bend over for your enema?”
“Yes, sir,” Lauren sobbed.
Anita picked the hose and nozzle up and fitted the hose’s end into the neck of the bag, where the valve kept the water from flowing in yet. Mr. Killington released Lauren, and she turned to the toilet, stepped over to it, and finally, with a little sob, bent to place her hands on the seat. Her punished backside, presented for discipline, confronted the eyes of her owner and her matron.
“Now stay bent over, honey,” Anita said, “but reach back and pull your bottom-cheeks apart. Show me where your enema goes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Her bottom hurt so much, from Mr. Killington’s big hand. As she obeyed Mrs. Fredericks’ terrible command, the little cheeks she took in her fingers stung from the brief but severe spanking she had earned. How could she resist, after that, after he had just turned her around and spanked her bottom as if he were punishing her immediately—in a public place, even—for something unsafe she had done and for which she must learn an immediate lesson to prevent its happening again?
It couldn’t wait: Mr. Killington had had to spank her, in the bathroom, naked, because Lauren had decided not to comply. She knew she had broken the rules, by playing with herself, and yet she still resisted the discipline she understood, in her heart, to be just and necessary. It didn’t matter at all that from the standpoint of the outside world—from the standpoint, say, of Ed Stevens—none of it made sense, and girls shouldn’t be kept in widows’ apartments and made to give blowjobs and told not to masturbate. Lauren had been taken, she belonged to Mr. Killington, she lived with Mrs. Fredericks, and she had broken the rules. Mr. Killington had turned her naked body right around, bent her over, and spanked her hard, because Lauren had to learn that when Mrs. Fredericks told her to bend over the toilet to receive her punishment enema she had no choice.
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