by Emily Tilton
“That’s a lovely gesture, Mary, but I’m afraid it would lessen your value,” Miss Charlotte said sympathetically. Then, with decision, “Shall we start the bidding at six million dollars?”
Before Frankie could even grasp the import of the number the dean had spoken, Miss Charlotte said, “Yes, Mr. Dupont.” Some instinct told Frankie what must surely be about to happen, and the same instinct made her struggle as hard as she could against the straps that bound her to the bench. Their webbing was much too stout, though, and the concubines had fastened her very securely just as Miss Charlotte had instructed. Frankie squirmed, her bottom clenching in fear, but the hard spank from the paddle landed exactly where the dean had, Frankie felt sure, aimed it: full across both cheeks.
The pain made her yelp and struggle more, but only for a moment, because it faded quickly and Frankie pictured herself moving her hips that way, showing more of her bottom and her pussy as she tried to soothe some of the smart.
Six million dollars.
Six point five, and another spank, the pain remaining longer now. Her cry of anguish brought no mercy, though. Seven. Eight. Eight point five, and Frankie screamed now, her hips riding the bench uncontrollably because Miss Charlotte spanked so very hard. Beside her she could hear Mary softly weeping, and she wanted to tell her friend that it was alright, that Frankie knew she would have been paddled in any case, because if they had learned anything in their special lessons it was that the kinds of mommies and daddies and ladies and gentlemen to be encountered on Oak Street and at the Institute just liked to spank pretty girls.
And thank goodness, Frankie thought primly, despite it all, pretty girls like us don’t really mind getting spanked, even when it hurts a lot.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s not prolong this for poor Frankie.”
A man’s voice—Mr. Bonner’s?—said, “Ten million.”
Miss Charlotte gave Frankie a tremendous spank, down low where some of the leather came against her bare, cringing labia, too. She gave what sounded to her like a piteous cry: a plea to the rest of the buyers to yield to Mr. Bonner, if it were he.
“Ten million once,” Charlotte said. “Miss Godfrey? Mr. Dupont?”
“Oh, please,” Frankie whispered. Her bottom felt like it was afire. She couldn’t bear any more, and yet this pause made the fire creep down and in, made her squirm with the most shameful double meaning, made her offer her pussy and bottom to Mr. Bonner, for his use and enjoyment. She knew that if she pleased him he would reward her: she’d heard it in his voice.
“Ten million twice,” Charlotte said. Frankie could hear the satisfaction in her voice, and that made the elder Wood girl feel obscurely proud, and made her wonder how a person could feel proud and ashamed in the very same instant. She gave her spanked bottom an extra little clench, just for Mr. Bonner, because she knew somehow he would like that.
“Sold to Mr. Bonner. Frankie and Mary Wood, at ten million dollars for one year of service.”
Chapter Nine
A million more than he had intended to spend, and Johann Bonner didn’t care a bit. As he waited in the pleasure house that overlooked a secluded beach, he pondered how to maximize his and his girls’ enjoyment of their little honeymoon. They would arrive in the Institute van in a few moments: he had taken a limo over, after accepting the congratulations of the other buyers, half an hour before.
He fingered the two pairs of panties in his breast pocket from time to time, and more than once brought them out to inhale the heavenly yet also very earthly scent of his girls’ sweet pussies, sipping at his whiskey to enhance the contrast. The slight difference in the aromas with which the Wood girls had helplessly imbued their underwear enchanted him: he set himself the challenge of someday telling them apart, blindfolded, simply from the fragrance of their young cunts. Frankie would blush furiously, he knew, at the thought—but naughty little Mary might giggle. The mental picture made his heart feel even lighter than it had in the moment after realizing that he had just purchased them for a year of dominant pleasure beyond anything most men could even imagine might befall them in reality.
Frankie and Mary had papers to sign before they became his in as legal a fashion as the Institute’s lawyers could devise. Given fuzzy bathrobes, they had followed Miss Charlotte back to the side room, where their attorney—also Selecta’s attorney, since Selecta stood in loco parentis to them according to the corporate laws—awaited them. Johann’s own attorney had reviewed the contract before he committed to the auction.
The girls must be on their way now, probably still nearly as dazed as they had looked walking away from the spanking benches on the dais, casting surreptitious glances his way. Johann hadn’t let himself think until now about how tonight, and the next seventy-two hours before he would return them to Oak Street would go. True, he had made his preferences for the girls’ clothes and lingerie known, so that the walk-in closet could be properly stocked, but so had the other buyers: the closet featured a rather dazzling array of swimwear, resort wear, evening wear, and above all lacy undergarments and nightclothes.
Johann had every intention of having his girls try on the things chosen not only by him but by the losing bidders as well, but he also had no desire to deviate from the one specification he had given for the beginning of the evening: the girls should arrive in their Sunday dresses and modest underwear—minus their panties, of course. After that, he had already laid out the lacy surprises for Frankie and Mary on the enormous bed in the master bedroom, into which they would change before he at last made women of them there, one after the other.
He heard the van on the gravel of the drive, the crunch announcing the arrival of the loveliest bed girls Johann thought a man had ever had the privilege to acquire. He had only a moment to decide among the many approaches he had been contemplating since the auction, ranging from brutally severe to meltingly tender.
Should he order them inside, tell them to bend over the back of the couch, hoist their skirts, then lube their anuses and impose the big plugs from the toy chest? Should he make it clear that as their owner he had the right to change anything in the expectations even Miss Charlotte had given, and fuck their bottoms right there, before he even deflowered their bare pussies?
No, of course not. But should he instead treat them as proper young ladies on a date with an elegant older man? Certainly some of that feel made sense, but it must also give way to a healthy mixture of real dominance over the submissive nature that Oak Street had brought out in them so beautifully. Frankie and Mary were proper young ladies, but they also had shown themselves, not just at the auction but in their time on Oak Street, to be submissive sluts who needed treatment as such.
He put down his whiskey and went to the door, opened it before the van’s door had even slid back to reveal Miss Charlotte, herself now in a simple sheath dress of an elegance impossibly beyond the girls’ old-fashioned ones.
“Good evening, Mr. Bonner,” she said with a smile, as she climbed out to stand and extend her manicured hand in greeting. “I’ve brought your concubines.”
Johann thought he heard a little noise from one of the girls, sitting on the bench from which Charlotte had just arisen, at the word concubines.
“Good evening, Frankie. Good evening, Mary,” Johann said, smiling, as he shook the dean’s hand. He turned to Charlotte. “Did everything go well at the signing?”
Charlotte nodded. “Very well. Girls, isn’t that so? You consented to sexual service in Mr. Bonner’s house, didn’t you?”
Frankie and Mary both nodded with wide eyes. Charlotte turned back to Johann.
“Would you like to get them out of their seatbelts yourself, Mr. Bonner? Or I could do it, or you could allow them to unfasten the buckles themselves.”
The question represented a very interesting choice—the first, Johann knew, of a great many. Many dominants would avail themselves of the opportunity to put Frankie and Mary in a framework heavily shaped by ageplay—to make of these big girls
, in their minds, much littler ones. Johann certainly planned to engage in all sorts of ageplay with his concubines, but he had purchased them not as little girls but as big ones—modest, innocent, blushing big girls, but ones who might be allowed to handle their own seatbelt buckles.
“You may go ahead and get out, Frankie and Mary,” Johann said, smiling at them. Both girls gave him a shy smile back, and put their hands to the buckles of the lap belts stretched across the fronts of their pretty dresses.
Then, to reinforce the importance of submission to him, even as big girls, he spoke again as they stood up and moved to climb down from the van, using a much more authoritative, paternal tone. “Go ahead inside and take off your dresses and slips, please. It’s nice and warm in there. Stand in the middle of the living room rug and put your hands on your head.”
Frankie stopped in the doorway of the van, her eyes wide and her lower lip caught between her teeth. “But…” she said.
Charlotte spoke with asperity. “Say, yes, sir, Frances Wood. Your master has just given you his first command.”
Frankie cast her eyes back to Mary, then looked at Johann with a beseeching air. “But… sir… what did we do? My… my bottom hurts so much, and I know Mary’s does too. Please don’t punish us tonight!”
Johann couldn’t keep the grin off his face, then. Any thought of true severity flew away. “Oh, Frankie, don’t worry. I’m not going to spank you, or punish you at all, if you’re good girls for me. Putting your hands on your head just means that you’re showing me you belong to me.”
The smile returned to her face, in response to the warmth in his tone.
“Yes, sir,” she said softly, and let him take her hand to exit the van, followed by Mary, who also wore a little smile.
“Yes, sir,” Mary repeated.
Once the girls had gone inside, heads self-consciously lowered as if in an effort to follow every rule they had learned, Charlotte said, “They’re very good girls, Mr. Bonner. I know you understand the purpose of the Oak Street project, but it’s important for me to emphasize, now that Frankie and Mary belong to you, that the method produces good girls, and the Institute expects them to be treated as such.”
Johann chuckled. “Even Mary?”
Charlotte smiled, but her blue eyes remained serious. “Mary is an imp, I think, rather than a true brat. That’s not a term our assessors use—for them, she’s a level-one brat out of three levels. We don’t have to get that complicated about it, though, since I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that even completely good girls like Frankie need spanking from time to time—and the same is true of Mary.”
Johann nodded. “I’ll let their daddy’s discipline be my guide. How does that sound?”
Charlotte’s smile became radiant. “Perfect, Mr. Bonner. That’s all we could ask for. Your plan is to send them home next week, after they’ve had a few days of anal training at the Institute?”
He nodded. “Yes, and I’ll fly in for a visit in ten days, if that’s alright.”
Charlotte nodded back, quickly and decisively. “Yes, of course. You’ll have a suite in the guest wing, and we’ll drive you out to Oak Street in a limo. You could take them anally then, if you wanted, or wait—though as you know you could also open their bottoms tonight on your cock, if you chose, though it’s not recommended.”
Johann felt his mouth crook up in a wry smile. “Was just thinking about that, actually. But the look on Frankie’s face when she thought I was going to spank them put that out of my head. Let’s see how their bottoms are coming along after they wear their harnesses for a few days.”
“Very wise, Mr. Bonner. Knowing that you’ve had a full-dress ass night with the lovely Caroline makes me think you might want something more intimate for first anal with Frankie and Mary. Jacob Weaver went the other way with Wendy, but she’s his first concubine.”
“How is Wendy doing in her training?” he asked curiously.
“Very well indeed,” Charlotte said, smiling. “Mr. Weaver has to belt whip her sometimes for playing with herself, but that’s almost a game to her now. Her ass night was at the Institute, as I said, and it went very well. Her lessons with her mommy and daddy are very special indeed these days, since they dress her in the anal harness for them, because Mr. Weaver wants her well opened. She and your girls will have a lot to talk about, and some joint special lessons will be very much in order.”
Johann’s cock swelled at that thought, and he cleared his throat. Charlotte’s smile broadened. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Bonner. Call catering for dinner when you’re ready. We know you have a choice for your sexual service, and we’re glad you’ve chosen the Institute to provide for your pleasure.”
She got into the passenger seat of the van, and the unseen driver accelerated away into the Pacific twilight, the van cresting a hill and disappearing from view in a very few seconds, leaving Johann alone with his treasures. He closed his eyes for a moment, preternaturally conscious, as only an aerospace engineer could be, of the soft breeze swirling around him off the ocean that crashed against the rocky beach below the house.
Two lovely young women, his to take care of: something about Oak Street made that his uppermost thought, rather than the pleasure he would take from their beautiful, nubile bodies. Yes, he would fuck Frankie and Mary tonight. He would demand shameful things of them, and discipline them if they hesitated despite his promise to Frankie. The Wood girls would learn what it meant to serve the pleasure of a man who had spent millions of dollars acquiring them, as he trained them to his cock.
But he could already feel himself somehow falling in love with both of them, in the different ways suited to their special individual personalities. Obedient, anxious Frankie. Impish—yes, that was the word—Mary. In their panties, and out of them, under his firm hand in correction and in reward. As he opened his eyes and turned to follow them into the house, he caught a wonderful glimpse of them in their bras and garter belts, standing in the living room as ordered, with their hands on their head to offer him their lovely bodies. Frankie bounced a little on her knees, nervously, while Mary’s head swung from side to side as if watching for his approach from every direction.
My sweet young ladies, he thought, I promise to make women of you in the way you need, but for which you cannot ask.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Bonner came into the living room. Mary stopped turning her head back and forth, looking at everything in the lovely little house. She hung her head and felt her face grow hot, as if any movement not commanded by their owner might receive swift punishment. She heard a tiny whining noise come from Frankie, beside her.
They had signed the papers, after looking at one another for a single, long moment. Part of Mary had thought she had never expected to have such a happy—if rather ambiguous—ending to her strange story on Oak Street. A million dollars, after a year with Mr. Bonner traveling the world and learning so much about herself and about the people who ran everything—including Selecta and the Institute, which represented the two things Mary wanted to learn the most about, just at the moment.
If you discounted learning about herself, and about Mr. Bonner, in a particular context that had still made her cheeks flush scarlet as she had sat across the desk from the lawyer. The auction had taken away any lingering doubt Mary had that she needed what the Institute had chosen her to receive. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t do things like refusing to come down from her room to go in the van; it just meant that when she did them she would understand much more clearly that she wanted the discipline that came with her defiance.
She wanted discipline from the man who had spent five million dollars on her, and five million on Frankie, to have the two Wood girls as his own matched pair of suburban-raised concubines. She wanted to learn about him: about his body, about his desires, about what made his voice capable of getting her wet between her thighs the way it had in the grand salon.
After the signing she and Frankie had walked back out of the Institute to the w
aiting van, where Master S and Master G had once again buckled them into their seats, while Miss Charlotte, so elegant in her dress that for a moment Mary hadn’t recognized her, had done her own seatbelt. She had found a moment to squeeze Frankie’s hand and whisper, “Am I crazy, or could I be falling in love with Mr. Bonner?”
Frankie’s brow had developed that crease that always made Mary’s heart ache a little, since it showed both the similarity in the girls’ natures and their difference: Frankie’s brow furrowed immediately and helplessly, while Mary always staved off her own aroused facial reactions as long as she could, until her whole body seemed to cry out for more of what Daddy, or, now, Mr. Bonner, wanted to give it.
“You’re not crazy,” she had whispered back. “I feel it too.”
“Quiet, girls,” Miss Charlotte had said in a disapproving voice.
So Mary hadn’t gotten to say to Frankie that even though she had only laid eyes on Mr. Bonner’s face for something like sixty seconds, the sound of his voice lingered in her ears and, even more, the feel of his hands under her slip and over her panties, lingered on her tenderest, most private flesh. Even now, standing in the living room with her hands on her head looking out at the ocean, she felt her owner’s hands still there in the same way she had seemed to feel Daddy’s, after that first special lesson, when he had touched Mary between her legs for the very first time and told her she would soon be sold to a man who would do much more there.
“Face the couch, please, girls,” that man said. “You may look me in the eye.”
They turned, and saw him, tall, blond and blue-eyed like them, in a gray suit with the collar of his light blue silk shirt open. Mr. Bonner looked like a cross between a cross-country skier and the sort of businessman who ruled the boardroom in films about corporations saving innocent citizens from a rampaging government. He settled onto the couch, looking up at them contemplatively, a small smile on his face. He reached out to an end table for a glass of what must be some kind of whiskey, and took a small sip.