“Look into my eyes, Tatyana,” said the woman who had introduced herself only as Joan. “You know I’m not making this up.”
I felt my face go hot, and I knew my cheeks had turned bright crimson, since despite my dark hair my fair complexion always gave away even the barest hint of strong emotion.
“You’re blushing,” Joan said. “It’s alright. That’s part of who you are, and why I’m here.”
We sat at my tiny kitchen table, in the only-slightly-larger kitchen of the subsidized apartment that Selecta, the megacorp who sponsored me, had provided.
The heat in my face grew. I didn’t appreciate having this woman call attention to my inability to hide my emotions. That certainly wasn’t the most urgent factor in my dismayingly physical response to what Joan had told me, however.
“It’s not true,” I said flatly. “Someone hacked your computer and made it look like I clicked on that… thing. I think you should go.”
My heart quailed at the lie even as I spoke it. I had let Joan into my apartment in the first place because she had held up a tablet that showed a record of me clicking on something in an email. The sight of the tablet had made all the blood drain from my face, and Joan had walked right in. Now, instead of responding verbally, she took the tablet from where she had laid it on the table and held it up for me to see.
“Our technical people,” she said, “are very, very good. They can even tell from the way you moved your cursor that your click on the naughty website wasn’t a mistake.”
The naughty website. The link. I saw it, in my mind’s eye, the brief text of the email that had seemed to come from a shopping site.
Are you feeling naughty? We know what you need, girl. One moment of weakness: I had clicked.
I felt my forehead crease, and unconsciously I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I watched Joan’s hand move over the tablet, and I saw what she meant to do before she did it.
“No… please, don’t.”
“So you did click on this link yesterday?” she asked, in a sympathetic tone that seemed to indicate I shouldn’t feel ashamed of myself—even as she tapped the address and opened the website that yesterday had made me blush almost as hot as I did now.
“No,” I said weakly, shaking my head. There he was: the bare-chested, dark-haired man, standing over the girl on her knees. She had on only a tiny pair of panties, and her hands were bound in front of her. He held something stiff in his right hand, a length of black leather he rested on his left palm. The lewd little scene seemed to be taking place in a castle or a dungeon—somewhere with walls of stone on which hung red tapestries.
Seeing the picture again, I felt the same physical reaction that had made me slam my laptop shut the day before. My nipples tingled, stiffening into my bra and between my thighs; inside my jeans, I could feel a mortifying warmth.
To my horror, the mere glimpse of the picture on Joan’s tablet—the sight of the man with the strap, of his bare chest—made me squeeze my legs more tightly shut, so that the shameful, delicious sensation would get more intense. I saw Joan’s eyes glance down and take in the humiliating little movement, and her lips curled into a slight smile. I wanted to sink through the floor.
“It’s alright,” Joan repeated now, as my eyes dropped below the table, to where my hands lay in my lap, balled into little fists. “The way your body responds to this image makes you very special, and very important.”
I looked up, sharply, feeling my brow crease in puzzlement. “Important?”
“Yes, Tatyana,” Joan said. “It means you can help me save the world. Tell me, who pays for this apartment?”
I frowned at the question that seemed so unconnected to anything that had gone before in this bizarre encounter.
“Selecta?” I said. My voice rose, as if the word represented a question, not because I felt any uncertainty about the answer but because I had no idea why Joan had asked the question.
“Do you like Selecta?” she asked, even more oddly. “What do you know about them?”
“I mean…” I said. “They’re big. They own the chain I work for, and they subsidize me, so… they’re okay? No worse than any other megacorp?”
Joan’s face had gotten very serious. “What if I told you that they’re much worse than every other megacorp? What if I told you they kidnap girls like you and make them serve as sexual servants to wealthy men?”
My lips parted, but no sound came out. Joan turned the tablet towards herself and tapped a few times, then showed me what she had brought up on the screen. I couldn’t suppress a tiny whimper at the image.
A naked girl lay bound hand and foot over some sort of trestle. A man stood over her, wearing a red robe. He held a paddle in his hand. I could tell that he had been punishing the girl, because her bare bottom had gotten so very red.
I didn’t even see the little arrow in the middle of the screen that indicated the image was actually a video until Joan tapped it. From her tablet came the sound of a feminine sob.
“This is one of the only clear videos we’ve been able to obtain from inside what Selecta calls ‘the Institute,’” Joan told me.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest.
On the screen, the man put the paddle down on a little table and started to untie the belt of his robe.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Penny,” he said. “From now on, here at the Institute, you’ll be fucked whenever I or another of your trainers feels like it. You need to learn that your body no longer belongs to—”
Suddenly, on the soundtrack, a horn sounded loudly, and a disembodied, robotic female voice said, “Alert.” The video ended.
I couldn’t look at Joan. My breath came raggedly between my parted lips.
“They detected our microdrone,” she said, “and destroyed it.”
I looked down at my hands. Several seconds passed.
Finally, Joan said softly, “Tatyana, you want to help that girl, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. I willed the wanton place between my legs to stop getting warmer, my mind to stop picturing the now-vanished image of the man—the trainer, my brain whispered—about to… to do that to the punished girl.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“My employers,” Joan said, “call themselves the Groupe Synergistique. As you might guess from the name, they’re from Europe.”
I glanced up, interested. People said that the European nations had avoided the oppressive rule of the megacorps that had taken over the governments of the Americas.
“What does that have to do with me?” I asked as skeptically as I could manage when I really just mostly wanted to get the video out of my head.
“As you can imagine, Tatyana,” she replied, turning her tablet back again and starting to tap its screen, “it’s all very complicated, but it will help greatly if you read this message we intercepted yesterday morning.”
Frowning, I looked at the screen, which Joan turned toward me. I saw a brief message that brought my heart to my throat.
Sensor drone, preliminary to pick-up for Institute training.
Grishin, Tatyana. Greenleaf, NJ, Turnbull Ave, 564, Apt 7B.
Me. My address. I tried to breathe, but there didn’t seem to be enough air in my apartment.
“I’m sure you want it to be fake,” Joan said. “But it’s not. They’re going to send a sensor drone here tonight, while you sleep.”
“What’s a sensor drone?” I whispered.
Joan’s face grew even more serious. “A microscopic device that plants an even smaller sensor between your legs, Tatyana,” she said.
“Between…?” I said weakly, before my voice trailed off.
“Specifically,” Joan continued, her voice now hard, “between your vagina and your anus. To measure your sexual responsiveness. To see if they want you for training, so that they can sell you to a wealthy man as a concubine—as they call it.”
My breath came raggedly between my parted lips.
“You can’t stop it,” she said, each word seeming to grow more forceful. “They will figure out just what we figured out, when you clicked on the link in our email. In one month’s time, they will pick you up—that is, kidnap you. You are going to end up like the girl in the video, unless I and my Groupe intervene. They like to whip pretty girls like you, and I’m afraid you will probably be punished often.”
My face had puckered into a mask of abject horror and I kept shaking my head as Joan delivered this terrifying news. My heart pounded in my chest. For several moments, my lips moved without a sound, until finally I managed to find my voice.
“What can I do?” I whispered.
“You can try to flee,” Joan said, her face assuming an expression of resignation, her eyes telling me how pointless that course of action would be. “Or perhaps you could be even more foolish and go to the police. Remember that you’re dealing with a megacorp. They would find you—and they own the police: you would just save Selecta the trouble of kidnapping you. I’d like to help you get away—I really would, but even our resources don’t extend so far.”
I felt my face crumple, tears coming to the corners of my eyes.
“Or…” she said.
I looked up, to see that Joan’s face had a very different, intent look now.
“You can work for us,” she said slowly. “You can fight it on the inside.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to get control of myself but finding it impossible. The whole world seemed to spin around me.
“Just look at this,” I heard Joan say, her tone becoming strangely soothing. She held her tablet up in front of me.
I looked: I couldn’t help it.
Something on the tablet flashed, and everything became clear.
The Institute trainer broke into my apartment at 3:33am, earlier than Joan—my Groupe Synergistique handler—had told me my kidnapping would probably occur. Still, the man broke the lock, slid open the window, and climbed into my living room on the night Joan had predicted.
The Institute agent didn’t take me completely by surprise, though, even though I expected him at 4am. At 3:30, I had received the encrypted alert on my phone telling me to get ready. The Groupe’s drone surveillance, the alert said, had detected the trainer’s presence.
I also knew that after that alert I would be on my own, as far as communication with Joan and her bosses went. The secure app that had kept me in touch with her for the past month as she prepared me for the mission that had just begun would now delete itself from my phone without a trace.
The Groupe would follow me as best they could. Joan had assured me their drones had stealth tech that went beyond what they knew of the Institute’s detection protocols.
“Still,” Joan had warned me, “you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that you’re going to have to go it alone and get in touch with us on your own, using the steps you memorized.”
As I waited in my bedroom, expertly feigning the relaxed, shallow breathing of sleep, I ran through those steps in my head.
First, accept the training. Resist realistically, but not so as to put yourself in jeopardy.
My brow furrowed as I thought of what it meant: tonight and then, wherever the trainer would take me, for the months I would spend in the Institute’s “care”—being prepared for auction to the highest bidder, or sold out of hand to a man who wanted me for the privilege of taking my virginity.
All my virginities. Deflowering me and using me as he pleased for not less than three months. Exactly as he pleased.
I bit my lip, momentarily losing the rhythm of my breathing. That wouldn’t do. Joan had made it clear that Institute trainers could detect feigned sleep very easily unless the feigner had a great deal of skill.
Second, gain their trust. Let them sell you, and serve your owner.
Not less than three months as a fuck toy.
Again my breathing slipped away from me. I needed to go through the steps in my mind because they should calm me down. Joan had taught me to use them as a mantra, so I would never forget them and would always have an inner core of peace and resistance.
The steps had always remained theoretical though, and now I stood on the verge of their becoming real.
Well, lay on that verge, anyway.
I heard him in the living room.
Oh, thank God. Joan had told me the Institute man might make a noise, on purpose, so that I would get up and discover him in my apartment.
“They have several different protocols,” she had told me, weeks ago. “We think the one the trainer uses depends on how exactly they’ve analyzed the girl’s psychosexual metadata—and those algorithms are of course the thing we’re sending you to acquire for us.”
The girl was me, now. About to receive the kind of training I had seen being administered to the girl on the video Joan had shown me. About to get what I had seen in the picture of the bare-chested man looming over the nearly naked, kneeling girl—the image and the implied story that had made me slam my laptop shut.
But not before Joan’s Groupe had seen me click, and their technical team had confirmed I was the kind of girl in whom Selecta’s evil Institute took too great an interest.
Joan and I had run through this scenario, as we had run through six others, from the hand over my mouth to the hood over my head to the deep voice saying, “Wake up, Tatyana.”
“Who’s there?” I called, making my voice very fearful. It didn’t take much effort: my tummy had filled with crawling insects the moment the alert had lit up my phone.
He didn’t respond. I hadn’t expected him to, but Joan had told me to call out, so as to put the pick-up—as the Institute evidently called kidnapping girls to turn them into sex toys—on the path least likely to arouse suspicion in my assessment team.
To my annoyance, I had trouble getting over a certain feeling of specialness, knowing that I had an “assessment team.” To have three highly educated psychologists tasked with my sexual awakening, currently—if Joan was to be believed—sitting in a conference room on the other side of the country and watching the video feed from my pick-up… well, how could a girl not feel special under those circumstances?
Yes, I resented the sensor an Institute nanodrone had placed between my vagina and my anus at some point the same day Joan had knocked on my door—but that technological intruder too, whose existence I knew of only through Joan’s revelations, also gave me a certain sense of value. Growing up in the educational facility outside Trenton, New Jersey, experiences of specialness had seemed few and far between.
At the moment, I knew my assessment team had their eyes on my sensor data, evaluating my autonomic responses to the fear sparked by the suspicion someone had come into my apartment, violating the sanctity of my home, such as it was. Not a nice apartment, by any means, but at least girls who made it all the way through the EF system got a modest amount of housing support if they committed to working a service industry job like my own position in laundry.
That was if they turned down the much bigger subsidy offered to some girls, including me, willing to move to the midwest and join the New Modesty program—or, in the case of other girls, to join the armed forces. Still others, ones who got high grades, received offers for further education like law school or business school in exchange for a commitment to a particular megacorp.
I had kept my grades high enough to graduate, and to get housing support. I had assumed I would also get an offer for the military, but to my chagrin I had instead received a very attractive, very glossy mailing from the New Modesty, with an offer of an even more attractive subsidy package. My face hot at the thought of traditional family values and male-led courtship, I had thrown it in the trash.
I got sleepily out of bed, just as Joan had told me to do. I knew what would probably happen when I walked through the door that led from my tiny bedroom to the nearly-as-tiny living room. I knew I needed to do everything I could to make sure I seemed surprised, however, both in mind and in body. Thankfully, the natural tension that came with having the suspicion that someone had broken into my apartment seemed to be taking care of that.
I shouldn’t have worried at all. The moment I stepped into the living room on hesitant feet, opening my mouth as I moved to say, Is someone—, massively strong arms grabbed me from behind. One hand came all the way around my body and locked over both my upper arms in my thin cotton nightshirt. The other found my face, and I felt against my chin that the man had some kind of cloth, like a wash rag or a dishtowel, in his fingers.
If I had had the presence of mind—any presence of mind, really—I would have instructed my mouth and my voice to scream, because Joan had mentioned this part. My in-drawing of breath and the parting of my lips, however, was one hundred percent reflexive and involuntary as my fight/flight response kicked in. I struggled feebly against the enormous, muscular body that had just engulfed mine, pulling me back against him, and the man slid the gag between my lips and past my teeth with no apparent effort at all.
He knows exactly how my body will react. No amount of training—least of all the training Joan gave me with the specific intention of keeping my autonomic reflexes intact—would change that.
Here lay a danger for me though: it could happen all too easily that my knowledge of what would befall me would make my reactions seem suspicious to my Institute kidnapper and the assessment team watching over his shoulder. Joan had told me not to worry too much about that, because submissive young women characteristically reacted with a surprising degree of compliance, but the worry itself, she had acknowledged, could create a problem.
All I had to do, though, she had told me, was forget about her, and the Groupe, and my mission. Indeed, her explanations of what would befall me now, and at the Institute, had dismayed me as much with their vagueness as with the few shameful, frightening details Joan provided. She had to maintain a certain level of ignorance in me, she said, so that I could forget what I knew and respond properly to the humiliating ordeal that awaited me.
“Hello, Tatyana,” my new trainer said into my ear.
I took a desperate, sobbing breath through my nose. My whole body reacted to that deep, growling voice. I realized it had already begun to prove much, much too easy to forget.
“Shh,” the huge man said unnecessarily. “I know you’re frightened, and I’m sorry to say that you have every reason to be frightened, but if you want to avoid real unpleasantness as much as I do, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”
My tummy leapt with fear. My heart rate had ascended into somewhere in the 180s, I thought. With the mere words real unpleasantness, the trainer had suggested worlds of pain and even of violence that brought my nervous system to its knees.
The worst part of all lay in the way—as I had known would happen but had never quite believed, because I had never actually experienced it before—my body’s reaction included a sexual response like nothing I had ever known. To my horror, my hips bucked against the man’s enormous, hard body, my bottom, clad only in cotton panties and the thin nightshirt, pressing back against his tree-trunk thigh.
No man had ever held me that way. No one at all had really ever held me any way at all, even Joan, who had given me a few hugs along with her lessons in the evils of the megacorps’ control of the world economy.
The man who held me now did much more then. He thrust the hand that had gagged me between my thighs. He took hold of my pussy in my blue cotton panties, and he squeezed roughly.
I let out a muffled cry of fear and discomfort and, worst of all, need. I felt my arousal gush into the thin fabric of my underwear and the blood rushed to my face, making my cheeks feel like they might actually catch fire.
“There we go,” growled my trainer into my ear. “See, Tatyana? This doesn’t have to be unpleasant at all. If you’re a good girl for me, you’ll come for the first time before the sun even rises.”
Oh God. A voice in my head cursed Joan, for keeping me in the dark about the full details of Institute training, for keeping me as innocent as she could—even as she terrified me with the outline of my fate as a captive sexual servant. The idea that this man knew that I had never had an orgasm shook me deeply on every level. I trembled in his arms as he followed his rough treatment of my pussy with much gentler fondling.
“How do I know?” he murmured teasingly into my ear. “How do I know you never come, even when you play with yourself, sweetheart?”
Two fingers made a circle right over my clit, the place I touched, guiltily, no more than once a week and—just as the deep voice had said—never for very long.
“I know everything, Tatyana. Everything about you and about your little cunt.”
I jerked hard against him as he accompanied the awful c-word with his fingers’ moving to slide deftly inside my panties, under the elastic around my right thigh. Up and down they moved in the sparse, crisp hair about which I felt such obscure embarrassment.
“I know,” my trainer continued, “because there’s a man who’s going to buy this sweet, hot cunt for his pleasure, and I’m here to get it for him.”
I pushed my bottom back against his leg. My face got even hotter, because of the emotion that washed through me at these words—words I had known were coming, and to which I had known I must have an authentic reaction, as if they had taken me by surprise.
Gratitude. I felt grateful toward this Institute fuck. Because he had gagged me, so I didn’t have to worry about acting with my voice. I could let my body’s helpless arousal, the terrible mingling of fear and shame and need, take its course.
I thought I had understood precisely what Joan and the Groupe had gotten me into when she told me how this early, early morning would unfold, and what would happen afterward. I knew that the Institute planned to sell me, and that this trainer who had come to “pick” me “up”—as if I were a kid at play-practice or something—would inform me of the fact as brutally as possible.
So I had worried that I wouldn’t have the ability to manifest the proper shock. If the man holding me in his vise-like grip, with his huge hand inside my panties, using his terrible skill to awaken me in a way I had never felt before, hadn’t gagged me… if he hadn’t taken away my capacity to say What?! or to use my voice, my words, at all… I would have worried I might give myself away.
I had no worries, now—about that, anyway. I gave a muffled cry as my body shook with the approach of the release I never allowed myself to come so close to, in bed with my own hand down there.
“Oh my,” growled the man into my ear. “You’re even naughtier than we thought, Tatyana.”
He pulled his hand out of my panties, and I let out a whimper through the gag, a desperate plea for more of the obscene, forced attention of his strong fingers.
“No, sweetheart. Not yet. Soon. We need to get your cunt nice and smooth first. You don’t get to come until you’re ready to start your training, between your legs and your ass-cheeks.”
He had moved his right hand to my tummy, underneath the nightshirt. The fingers, slick with my need, felt almost more intimate there, against the less erogenous but still tender skin—as if he meant to tell me he could move them down inside my damp panties anytime he wanted. I mewed through the cloth in my mouth, my back arching desperately against the washboard abs I could feel through his shirt.
I didn’t get it, came a wayward semi-rational thought. Joan didn’t want me to get it, did she?
Despite what she hadn’t told me, the details she said she couldn’t supply if the mission was to succeed, I had thought myself basically informed. Joan had told me she represented the forces of good, in a terrible struggle against the forces of evil. She had demonstrated to me that, yes, to my embarrassment, I had the sexual responses for which the Institute looked. I had never understood what I would feel now though, with my kidnapper’s hands on me.
The man who had just brought me to the brink of my first orgasm, against my will, who had left me literally panting… panting through the gag he had shoved into my mouth… moaning for release… was the embodiment of the evil I meant to fight, and yet he commanded my body with what felt like the slightest touch.
I had spent a month preparing to steel myself against this moment, preparing to keep my head and to resist, if only in my mind.
And yet I felt all my defiance slipping away. I hadn’t understood what it would feel like, to be in the grip of a huge, dominant, masculine presence—to be held like that.
To be told I had a cunt rather than a pussy, let alone a vulva. To be told my cunt belonged to someone else—to whatever dominant man paid the most to fuck it… to deflower it.
“When I take the gag out of your mouth, Tatyana, you may call me Master Trent.”
He moved his left hand, the one that had immobilized my shoulders, to my throat. I whimpered, the sound feeling like it came from directly beneath its fingers. My hips jerked.
I didn’t know. The thought just kept spinning round and round in my mind. I hadn’t known that a man could nearly make me come just by touching my throat that way. My brow creased so deeply it hurt as I felt the absence of Master Trent’s fingers. If he would just put them back, just brush against the place where I had that ache… that need I had always somehow thought I could ignore as long as I chose… if he would just touch me lightly there, then maybe I would have the ability to think clearly again.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
The strong fingers caressed my throat. An impulse built in my limbs to try to get away, because Master Trent’s grip felt looser on my body than it had a moment before. I might be able to twist away.
I didn’t think: I moved, purely on instinct, realizing as I did twist away that Master Trent must have intended that I do that, so that…
So that what? My heart quailed at the very idea, even as my flight reflex kicked in, in real earnest. I did get away from his hands… I had escaped…
I ran for the door. I got two steps toward it, out of the four it would have taken to get hold of the—locked—doorknob. I could see the doorknob in the illumination coming from the tiny kitchen, where I always left the stove light on as a nightlight.
Master Trent grabbed me from behind.
“Naughty,” he said, very simply, and started to haul me toward my couch.
I shook my head wildly. Joan had warned me about this part, but I hadn’t wanted to listen. This part represented the element of the training I had least wanted to hear about, to be honest. Joan had looked at me with what seemed to me like sympathy in her eyes, when I had said, “Please… we don’t have to talk about that.” She had said, “Okay, Tatyana. It’s going to happen whether you want to talk about it or not. It’s part of what they do, and it’s part of why they’re going to choose you.”
Master Trent sat down on the little blue couch. He had no difficulty at all in throwing me across his left knee at the same time.
“Naughty Tatyana,” he said, and I cried out through the gag just at the word naughty and the feeling of being over his enormous thigh, with his arm across my back and his hand curled around my waist, holding me down. “You know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”
A new blaze of heat to my cheeks, and even worse, a surge of warmth between my legs. Yes, I knew—and I could hear in Master Trent’s voice that the question had more than its mundane, standard function. He knew that I knew the answer much too well: I could hear it in the way he said don’t you. He knew me, and he knew girls like me, as it seemed only an organization with the resources of the Institute could.
I shook my head, though I tried desperately not to, to deny him the satisfaction. Master Trent of course willfully misinterpreted the gesture.
“Oh yes, you do, sweetheart,” he said. “I know what you think about when you’re touching yourself.”
Oh God. I just hadn’t expected how it would affect me—all of me—mind, heart, and body. To have him say it flat out that way. I mewed through the cloth in my mouth, tasting the fabric, clean and a little antiseptic. I felt a strange flash of reassurance, of comfort even, at that taste. The gag wouldn’t make me sick, at least. This man might have the intention of turning my nervous system and my libido against me, but he would do it without posing me any danger—whether from microbes or from misdirected force. If he had silenced my cries with antibacterial fabric, surely he wouldn’t use his enormous strength to do me permanent harm.
The thought made me sob, my back arching against Master Trent’s restraining hand. I struggled to escape, writhing over his knee. He responded to my feeble effort with an easy renewal of his mastery: I kicked, and he put his right leg over the backs of my thighs. I twisted and he gathered up the hem of my t-shirt in a slow, leisurely way, tucking it under the massive forearm that held me down.
I expected him to speak again, to say it—what happens to naughty girls. My skin already crawled with embarrassment at the approaching sound of the word… that word.
He didn’t: instead—much, much worse—he did it.
His right hand went inside the waistband of my thin cotton panties. I redoubled my struggles, such as they were, and only received for my muscles’ desperate effort the terrible reward of knowing how securely he had positioned me for my first experience of… of old-fashioned discipline. The feedback of the tension in my limbs sent a mortifying shock of heat racing through my body, centered in the place that, to my abject humiliation, lay right over Master Trent’s thigh.
He pressed down harder with his left arm, pressed that place more firmly down onto his leg. He pulled my panties down.
I cried out through the gag. My training master… he had pulled my panties down, bared my bottom. My body gave one final shudder at the sensation of the air on my bare skin, of the tangle of fabric now at mid-thigh, at the knowledge that Master Trent could see my little bottom, lit from the stove light in the kitchen.
I still haven’t laid eyes on him, I thought, feeling my breath come ragged through my nostrils. I haven’t seen him, and he’s about to…
His right hand came down, hard, right in the center of my backside, across both cheeks and low down so that to my distress, I felt it in front too. Of course I did: Master Trent knew how to do his awful, evil job.
I let out a muffled yelp. For a split second I supposed he would pause, at least. He would evaluate my response, let me think about the fact that I had just received the first actual spank of my life. For that instant, the pain began to build the way I had known it would but had never experienced. I felt my body tense, and my eyes began to water. I wouldn’t give in, obviously: not after the first spank.
It didn’t even hurt that much, I thought with mild surprise.
But Master Trent made it clear immediately that he had no intention of pausing to evaluate. My thoughts on the subject had less than a second to form, before that idea of the situation exploded with the second spank, which still didn’t hurt that much…
Until the pain from the second one built to join the pain from the first.
Until the third one added itself to the horrible mixture, and they were all coming too hard and fast to count. The tears sprang to my eyes and though I had supposed my body exhausted, I started to struggle again, reflexively and without any real defiance. I cried out through the gag, and then I screamed through it, because Master Trent—the man sent to take me to the place where they would train me to have my body used as a wealthy man’s plaything—clearly meant to teach me a lesson I would never forget.
His hand moved up and down and side to side, and just kept coming down, as his leg shifted slightly under me with each movement of his right arm, each preparation to renew the terrible punishment. My bottom-cheeks already felt like he had set them ablaze with burning coals. Every time I felt the slight shift of his weight on my couch—my couch, which I had actually bought with own money, secondhand—my heart quailed a little more. Master Trent meant to punish me… really punish me…
My body relaxed, and I sobbed over his knee. He kept spanking me, though he slowed the cadence. My head jerked up a little with each blow.
He still hadn’t said anything at all since the beginning… since pulling down my panties. Now I didn’t feel him shift his weight the same way, and a humiliating whimper of gratitude rose in my chest.
Master Trent rested his right hand on my bottom.
“Naughty girls get spanked, sweetheart. But before it happened to you, I don’t think you really understood what that meant.”