by Emily Tilton
All the men rose as the girls and their matrons entered the penthouse. Mr. Killington came forward to greet them. “Good evening, girls,” he said in that warm, almost paternal tone that always put butterflies in Lauren’s tummy although she didn’t really see why. Mr. Killington could be severe, when the time had come for a spanking, and that stern voice sent shivers down Lauren’s spine. She didn’t see why the kind voice would make her nervous, though—unless the nervousness had something else to it, something to do with the region down below her tummy, too.
“Good evening, sir,” she said quietly, and the other girls said, “Good evening, Mr. Killington.” Lauren saw now that the red symbol on the left breast of his bathrobe simply comprised the letters OC. Owners’ Club.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fredericks, Mrs. Wentworth,” Mr. Killington said, nodding to each matron. “Thanks so much for bringing the girls up. We’ll keep them here all night, as we discussed, so you ladies have the evening to yourselves. Will you play Mah Jongg?”
Mrs. Wentworth positively giggled at that. “Oh, yes, Mr. Killington.” She winked. “Come on, Anita, let’s go play Mah Jongg.”
Mrs. Fredericks, to Lauren’s surprise, seemed to be having a rather difficult time keeping a smile off her face. She turned to Jessica and Lauren, though, and said, “You girls be good for your owners, now. Best behavior.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fredericks,” they both said. Lauren felt an obscure gratitude to have landed in the care of the more severe matron. She liked Mrs. Wentworth, and she knew Yo and Tricia did, too. Certainly, from what Yo and Tricia said, their matron didn’t spank them as frequently or as harshly as Mrs. Fredericks did with Lauren and Jessica, but Lauren felt that if she had lived with Mrs. Wentworth she might not have come to terms with the program as quickly or as decisively as she had in her own matron’s special kind of care.
“You too, Yolanda and Patricia,” said Mrs. Wentworth, sounding a little chastened by Mrs. Fredericks’ example. Lauren nearly giggled at the sudden image that flitted through her mind: Mrs. Wentworth over Mrs. Fredericks’ lap for a spanking.
“Yes, Mrs. Wentworth,” they chorused back.
“Good night, ladies,” said Mr. Killington with some decision in his voice. Beyond him, Lauren could see that Mr. Stevens had fallen into conversation with Mr. Philips. The butterflies in her tummy started doing backflips. She didn’t understand very much, really, about why Ed Stevens from across the street appeared now to have been hired by the owners’ club. The emails didn’t seem to contain the half of what was really going on—or at least the ones that she had read. She hoped she would learn more about that tonight, obviously, but something about not knowing made the presence of Mr. Stevens’ big, muscular form and his chiseled jaw—larger and handsomer, Lauren couldn’t deny, than any of the owners themselves—even more exciting. She found herself chewing on the inside of her cheek as she gazed across the penthouse at him, and she realized that the tingling had indeed spread from her tummy to her nipples, and also to places further down.
“Good night,” said the matrons, and receded back into the elevator, Mrs. Wentworth still looking like she had received a scolding from Mrs. Fredericks, and Mrs. Fredericks looking like she planned to paddle Mrs. Wentworth. Lauren had to bite down hard on her cheek to keep from giggling, as she now pictured Mrs. Wentworth’s slacks and granny panties (surely the matrons wore granny panties) around her ankles as she bent over the sofa arm.
“Come meet Mr. Stevens,” Mr. Killington said, and led the four girls into the living room, Lauren at the front of the little line, her right hand held in her owner’s left. Even the skin of her hand felt alive with anxious sensation, and the firmness of Mr. Killington’s grip—not at all painful or even uncomfortable, but firm and possessive—made a tiny whimper jump from her throat.
“Ed, you know Lauren, of course, but these pretty young ladies are Jessica, Yolanda, and Patricia. As we’ve discussed, they’ll all be at your disposal this evening, since you’re our guest, and of course because we want to see what you can do.”
“Hello, Lauren,” Mr. Stevens said, then, “Hello, girls. Very nice to meet you.”
Then, to Lauren’s surprise, he reached his hand out, as if to take hers out of Mr. Killington’s grasp. She felt even greater surprise when Mr. Killington readily delivered the hand into Mr. Stevens’. She looked up into his blue eyes, feeling hers go wide. She cast a glance behind her at Mr. Killington as Ed drew her toward him. Lauren’s owner had an enigmatic smile on her face. Some of this must be planned, she concluded, but what did it mean?
“You said Lauren was disciplined yesterday afternoon?” he asked Mr. Killington, speaking over Lauren’s head.
She felt her face go very hot. She had emailed Mr. Killington after receiving the hairbrush, of course. Then he had fondled her punished bottom for a very long time, when they got back to her room after the theater, before lubing her anus and entering her there. Something about it had felt so… proprietary. It startled her to think that her owner had told Mr. Stevens about the spanking. How much did Mr. Killington say? Did he tell Ed about how hard he rode my bottom? About how I cried out? About how he made me play with myself while he fucked my most private place?
“That’s right. With Mrs. Fredericks’ hairbrush.”
“Well, I think we should see how her bottom is coming along.”
Lauren’s jaw dropped as she took in a very sharp breath. Of course she knew that this sort of thing lay in store for her and for the three other girls tonight—but the way it had begun seemed to make it all a shock, as she supposed the owners meant it to be. She wondered whether the group sessions Jessica, Yo, and Tricia had experienced so far had unfolded like this—Lauren thought she could tell that as the girl newest to this part of being owned, as well as the girl known to the man being interviewed, she would undergo ‘special’ treatment.
But she felt desperate for some indication of just how special the treatment would be. It seemed to have started with Mr. Stevens in command, and with her passing from Mr. Killington’s control into that of her erstwhile neighbor, but what did that mean? The heat between her legs and the growing dampness of her panties made it all somehow both better and worse, because though she could tell thought would be taken for the girls’ pleasure, the sheer newness of being shared this way made her heart race.
Lauren looked around the living room at the other owners. No effort had been made to introduce her to Mr. Diaz, she noted—that seemed somehow to show again, if subtly, that Ed’s presence represented what mattered most. Perhaps it also showed, Lauren suddenly thought, that a girl owned by a member of the club didn’t have to know another owner’s name in order to know that she must give him whatever sort of pleasure he might require. A shiver went through her whole body at that idea.
“Of course,” Mr. Killington said. “Lauren, you do as Mr. Stevens says, sweetheart.”
She swallowed hard as Ed’s eyes returned to hers. He smiled, and she felt her nose twitch the way it always seemed to do when she knew something new and difficult and probably terribly shameful lay in store. But the smile seemed to have a kind of wonder in it that suddenly sent a wave of calm through her taut muscles—not so much that she could relax, of course, but enough that she didn’t feel she stood in immediate danger of fainting.
Without a word, Ed led her further into the living room, toward the table, or bench, or bed, or whatever it might be called. It hadn’t been here when Mr. Killington had brought her to the penthouse before; the owners obviously brought it out for nights like this one, when several girls might be told to perform upon it at once.
“Go ahead and get out of your uniform, Lauren,” Ed said, releasing her hand. “You can leave your underwear on for now.”
She felt a little sob form in her throat as she looked up at him, chewing now on her lower lip as she sought in his face the same resolution she had learned to find in Mr. Killington’s—the same wisdom about what she needed and about his ability to give it to her. S
he found it in the set of Ed’s jaw, and the way the smile that had vanished from his lips seemed to linger around his eyes. His attitude, she could tell, about disciplining and enjoying young women, differed in some ways from Mr. Killington’s—he seemed a little less solemn about it, for one thing—but Lauren could indeed read in his eyes the basic truth that she knew from the faces of Mr. Killington and Mrs. Fredericks: Do as I say or your bare bottom will pay for it, because that, Lauren, is what you need.
Her eyes traveled around the circle of the other owners: each of her friends had gone to stand next to her own gentleman of the club. The owners themselves, including Mr. Killington, wore nearly identical smiles as they looked at her in expectation of her obeying Mr. Stevens command, while Jessica, Yo, and Tricia all had sympathetic expressions and pink cheeks. Lauren could tell that despite their having experienced group sessions before, the embarrassment never went away—perhaps something about the living arrangements, with a matron to make sure the girls never forgot the way girls in plaid skirts and white blouses should behave, ensured that they never became truly shameless.
Now Ed’s voice became a little stern. “Do as I said, Lauren. Strip down to your panties and your halter top. We’re going to have a good look at your bottom.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
John had known fifteen minutes into Ed Stevens’ interview that the man belonged here in the owners’ building. More important, if also rather poignant, he had felt nearly positive that Lauren would fall in love with him, if she wasn’t already falling.
It had happened too quickly—much too quickly, really—but the return of Ed to Lauren’s life mirrored a situation that occurred in fully a third of New Career Partners’ cases: a man from the girl’s life before her acquisition re-entered, and proved to be sufficiently dominant to give her what she needed in the long term. Heather had left John only six months before, in fact, to return to the New Jersey suburb where she had grown up, having taken up with the prominent investment banker who had given her a job on John’s recommendation. Rachel, owned by Jeff Reuter and initially placed with Mrs. Fredericks, had departed only two days ago for London with a friend of her Pennsylvania family.
The club’s schoolgirls—even when they had only spent a few days in the program, as Lauren had when Ed had caught sight of her on Fifth Avenue—presented a very special opportunity to men like Ed Stevens. Such men had known the girls before their acquisition by the owners’ club, and had cared for them in a purely paternal or brotherly way, without feeling any erotic interest at all.
The transformation wrought by the girls’ participation in the program, though, and their erotic awakening at the hands of their owners, added a bewitching and almost irresistible charm and refinement to their youthful beauty. The girls’ previous acquaintance with these men gave a sweet impetus to their newly adult affections and their burgeoning romantic—as well as erotic—feelings. When they met again, both men and girls—young women, now, in one very important way, and even more significantly ready to ask for what they needed both sexually and in their daily lives—tended to fall in love.
It wouldn’t mean the end of John’s ownership of Lauren, at least for several months, but it would probably mean that instead of coming to live with him in his apartment during the beginning phase of her first job—a time he had treasured with his previous schoolgirls—she would go to live with Ed instead. Between now and then, however, there would be a good deal of training for Lauren to get through, at John’s hands, at Ed’s (as her personal trainer), and at the hands and cocks of other owners. John certainly had that to which to look forward.
Lauren would begin her aptitude battery next week: they usually let a girl take a month to settle in before she started, dating her owner and learning to pleasure him and to accept his discipline, but Ed’s arrival complicated that. Most girls’ first group-sex session happened at the end of their first month: even girls like Jessica, who accepted the cock in their asses almost as soon as they arrived, weren’t shared until life as an owned schoolgirl had begun to seem routine. The data showed that happened on average after twenty-six days, the benchmarked milestone being the girl’s going three days without a spanking.
Lauren had already reached that point, if barely, before her enema and belt whipping, but the benchmark had a serious drawback in the way it made one size fit all. John had been able to observe on their date the previous night that she did feel comfortable in the program, but—perhaps, he admitted to himself, for selfish reasons—he would rather have waited another week or two to share her. After all, he had only had the chance to fuck her twice himself, so far.
That he thought of the matter in such selfish, masculinist terms, and that despite having a very warm affection for Lauren he didn’t love her romantically, and wouldn’t fall in love with her the way Ed would, made the decision easy, though. Giving her into Ed’s hands had caused him a pang of jealousy, but of course it had also stiffened his cock. More important, he had gotten the moral and emotional benefit of the altruism involved, which represented—despite the way it would appear to the conventional world—the foundational value of the owners’ club.
“Yes, sir,” Lauren finally said, turning back to Ed after a final visual survey of the other faces in the room, the owners and their girls. She began to unbutton her blouse.
“Good girl,” Ed affirmed warmly. “Jessica, as Lauren takes off her clothes, would you please take them and put them in the bedroom?”
Really John could have skipped the interview, and probably even the medical lab results, if he had heard Ed Stevens say good girl. John knew he shared the opinion with most of the other owners, as he certainly did with Sam Graves, Ben Philips, and Angel Diaz, that the phrase, uttered by a dominant man who understood the submissive needs of the young woman he owned, had a nearly incantatory quality.
It worked its magic upon Lauren now, at any rate: her cheeks, which had paled as she tried to puzzle out why John had given her hand into Ed’s, grew warmly pink again. Lauren handed the blouse to Jessica, and John gave an inward sigh at the sight of the perky nipples tenting the cotton of the modest white halter top.
Lauren’s hands went to the waistband of the plaid skirt, and her eyes went down to the floor as it dropped away to reveal her white schoolgirl panties. John’s cock gave a little jump at the sight of the pretty bottom, modestly molded by the demure fabric. He mused, as he often did, on the power of colors over his dominant eroticism. He would have to go ahead and send over the red lingerie he had already bought for Lauren tomorrow, wouldn’t he?
Jessica took the skirt.
“Shoes off, but your socks will stay on,” Ed said. Lauren looked up into his face inquiringly: she didn’t understand, clearly, about the allure of clean white school socks as an essential part of a girl’s underwear. Seeing him nod, she took off the flats and handed them to her friend, who receded into the bedroom. Sweet eighteen-year-old Lauren O’Hara stood only in her underwear in the midst of men in bathrobes and other young women fully clothed in their uniforms. The time to make of her a cautionary example had arrived.
“Bend over, now, Lauren,” Ed said, with a little authority in his voice. “Elbows on the table. We’re going to take a very good look at your backside now.”
Lauren took a sharp, almost gasping breath through her nose, and her brow furrowed as her face went red. For a moment it seemed as if she might defy Ed, but then she turned, her head bowed and her eyes downcast, to face the table. She bent, and her auburn hair spilled down around her face to hide it as her elbows touched the padded, faux-leather-covered top of the sex table, as the owners called it, having had it specially built for their penthouse.
“Jessica, honey,” Ed said, “could you arrange Lauren’s hair so we can see her face, please?”
That brought a little whimper from Lauren as her friend moved to obey, but the next thing to happen, Ed’s lowering of her panties to her knees, turned the whimper into a sob.
John heard Angel mu
rmur, “Very nice,” to Ben. Sam chuckled. Tricia, whom John knew as a sweet, soft-hearted girl, said, “Oh,” at the sight of Lauren’s still well-punished-looking bottom-cheeks, upon which the bruises made by Mrs. Fredericks’ hairbrush lingered in purple. A true disciplinarian, Mrs. Fredericks liked to deliver her messages with heavy, thudding implements like her paddle and her hairbrush, and the impact tended to leave her girls with a good deal by which to remember their matron’s lessons.
A little wistfulness overtook John as he thought about fondling Lauren’s sore cheeks the previous night in her bedroom, after an evening during which his schoolgirl had had to perch adorably on her hip during supper and then at the theater. She had responded to his knowing hands, soothing her there, and then preparing her anus gently for his cock, so sweetly, sighing and moaning and even whispering, “Thank you, sir.”
The aptitude battery would, John knew, find Lauren O’Hara to be smart as a whip, and ready to begin what most of the world would call actual training—targeted courses in sociology and statistics, John guessed, but that would depend on where her talents and interests lay, once she had considered them seriously. The owners’ club, doing business as New Career Partners, had no need to publish its results, and so also no need of a control group of girls not owned by wealthy men and trained in sexual submission. They therefore couldn’t say with absolute certainty that acquiring their schoolgirls and placing them under a regime of old-fashioned bare-bottom discipline, augmented by keeping company with the owners, as Mrs. Fredericks liked to put it, represented an essential part of the girls’ transformation into successful professionals or in some cases successful housewives deeply engaged with their communities in a volunteer capacity. The sex and spanking didn’t seem to get in the way, though: they knew that from the successes of their girls out in the real world.
“Bend your knees, Lauren,” Ed said, “and push out your bottom. That’s it. Now spread your feet. We need to see how you’re doing in front, too. I’ve been waiting to show these gentlemen how qualified I am to train every part of you.”