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Harsh Training by Emily Tilton – Sample

Chapter One

Jane Smith never saw the wealthy man who had decided to take her as his sexual servant until his men removed the hood they had put over her head. Jane found herself in an enormous, opulent bedroom, standing in front of a man in a business suit who sat on a bed covered in golden fabric.

“Please,” she begged, as soon as she saw his face, the first uncovered one Jane had glimpsed in hours. “Please… what do you want? I’ll do… I’ll… I don’t have any money, or any family, or anything… but I promise I won’t tell anybody…”

She realized she had begun to babble, but what else could a person do when they had just come face to face with the presumable sponsor of their recent kidnapping? That highly rational question floated through her mind as a strange accompaniment to the abject terror she felt to have her wrists bound behind her as she contemplated the intelligent-but-terribly-cruel-looking man seated before her.

His high cheekbones and his icy blue eyes gave him a slightly Nordic appearance. His slicked back blond hair, too, fit the indefinably Northern European accent that came out of his thin lips when he addressed her. Norwegian? Finnish? Danish?

“Do you think I brought you here so that I could just send you home again, Jane Smith?”

Jane felt her face crumple. The last hope that the whole thing constituted a terrible ten-hour misunderstanding vanished. She had tried very hard to quash that hope during the dark hours on what she could only assume was a private jet, with her mouth at first wadded full of the cloth gag they had pressed into it and the black hood making her world one of utter darkness.

But even when one of the men who had abducted her reached under the hood to remove the gag, and said in a careless voice with a strange accent she couldn’t catch, “Don’t worry, Jane, from now on no one can hear you who might rescue you,” the hope had risen.

She had said, “You’ve got the wrong person. The wrong Jane.”

But neither of the men who had grabbed her from behind as she walked home from the train after work—who Jane had to presume had sat there with her on the jet—had answered. Now, standing before the man who had just admitted to bringing her here, the scene replayed itself again in her head, as it had done inside the black hood over and over in the van and on the plane.

The sound of a van door, barely registered, as Jane walked by it on the city street, on the way to her apartment building.

“Jane!” A friendly male voice.

Turning to see two men in black masks, much closer to her than they should have been.

Her natural friendly instinct making her sure she would know whoever had just spoken her name, even on a dark street, still there despite the strange turn of events.

Her mouth, still open to say, “Hi,” stuffed full in an instant with a piece of cloth, by one man—as the other man began to lower something over her head.

Only then beginning to struggle, when the moment for flight had already long passed, if it had ever existed. Wrapped up in the arms of the one who had gagged her and carried her a few feet. Trying to make a noise through the cloth in her mouth, through the hood. Already thinking, “The wrong Jane. They’ve got the wrong Jane.”

The sliding door of the van had thunked shut behind her. Her muscles had grown tired very quickly, embraced by the unyielding strength of the big man in the black mask. They had tied her wrists behind her and put her face down on a bench. The van had started to move.

Jane didn’t know for certain how much the hood had muffled the noises around her, but she didn’t think anyone had spoken a single word from that point forward, except that once when one of the men had taken the gag out of her mouth. Silently, he had put a bottle of water under the hood, too, and made her drink, swallowing desperately so she wouldn’t drown.

Had one of them flown the jet? Or had another man—two other men?—sat in the cockpit? Had they known that an eighteen-year-old girl, just out of the youth educational facility and thrilled to have a well-paying job at an investment bank downtown, lay with her wrists bound and a hood over her head, on a leather-covered bench seat in the cabin of their plane?

Had they known how happy the girl had felt to get a place of her own, even in a not-so-great neighborhood? Or how proud she had felt to put on her adorable blue midi skirt and her professional-looking pink top that morning, knowing she would receive compliments on how the pink brought out the red in her auburn hair?

The hope had vanished, and yet…

“You’ve got the wrong Jane Smith,” she sobbed to the cruel-looking blond man. “I’m just a secretary.”

To her surprise, the hardness in his face vanished for a moment, and he looked sympathetic—as if indeed maybe he meant to apologize, to send her home, and to tell his men to go kidnap the important Jane Smith he actually wanted. Relief rose in her chest, and built until he spoke again, in that accent that somehow chilled her despite the apparent warmth in his face.

“I know who you are, Jane,” he said. “And I know this will be very hard for you.”

Behind her, one of the two men who had brought her into the bedroom—she knew their number from the hands on her elbows—who still stood behind her, chuckled. Jane turned to see, to her horror, that they had taken off their masks. She couldn’t have said just then why it terrified her to see their square-jawed faces uncovered, over their black clothes, but the sight of those eyes, all blue, looking coldly back at her made her shudder.

“Fritz and Erik,” the man on bed said, his voice sounding rather disdainful. “You may go. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

Now even more terrified, Jane wanted to tell the men, as horribly as they had treated her, that they should please stay. They nodded, though, and silently left the room, not closing the door behind them, as Jane turned back to the man on the bed.

“You’d better lower your eyes, Jane,” he said. “You’re not to look me in the face unless I instruct you to do so, from now on.”

Of all the things that had happened—even the moment when the cloth had gone in her mouth and the hood over her head—these words terrified Jane the most. At first she couldn’t figure out why. For the sake of her physical safety, which felt horribly precarious in front of this well-dressed man despite his evident manners and his opulent bedroom, she wanted to comply with his order. The meaning of the order frightened her so much, though, that she couldn’t even find the mental capacity to process it and to carry it out: she stood with wide eyes and parted lips, her wrists bound behind her and her cute office clothes still on, her commuting sneakers on her feet.

Jane wondered where her heels had gone, where the purse that held them had gone. The men must have taken it, right? She should ask for them back, shouldn’t she?

Her mind flipped over, and she understood that the question of her footwear had entered her thoughts as a way to keep herself from thinking about the blond man’s words, about not to look me in the face and unless I instruct you to do so and from now on.

He looked back into her eyes with a calm that seemed on the verge of amusement, and the appraisal in his expression made her confusion and dismay much worse. Jane felt she might have processed the situation better, understood more, if he had thrown her to the floor—if he had hit her, even.

Jane swallowed hard. Her lips closed, opened again, closed to form a consonant at last… “Wh—”

She could see in those icy blue eyes that the man knew exactly what Jane meant to say, but out of terror couldn’t utter. She could see, too, that he meant to offer her no help—that he intended to let Jane feel her fear, and even to allow her to defy his orders. She bit her lip and felt her forehead crease, then, because she knew with a stomach-churning certainty that he liked to bend people to his will this way.

Worse, much worse, she could see in his cruel gaze that he especially liked assigning consequences to people’s failures to do as he told them. A puff of air burst from her nose, a sort of pre-sob, and she did lower her eyes, to see his gleaming black shoes. Somehow that small act of compliance seemed much larger, much more important, than the slight downward movement of her pupils.

Jane’s whole body started to tremble. She tried desperately to push back the acute awareness that the man’s blue eyes could rove over her as he pleased. He could look—surely he did look—just as he chose. Out of abject fear of what might happen if she raised her own gaze, though, Jane must look only at his elegant shoes.

“There we are,” the man said. “That wasn’t so difficult, really, was it, Jane?”

Jane’s lips parted. The breath came in short little pants between them, and she started to feel like she might fall down—might even faint, something she had always thought only happened in books.

“You must answer me when I speak to you,” said the man.

Her eyes rose, then, because she couldn’t help it. Something about the way he phrased things, in his really very musical accent, absolutely terrified her. Did it have to do with the tenses of the verbs he used? Or even the conjunctions and prepositions? Part of her mind told her that again she was trying to take refuge in minutiae so as to flee from an awareness of the real danger, especially the danger of raising her eyes and thus defying the man’s order, but she couldn’t help it.

From now on, he had said, and when I speak. As if…

As if there would be no return trip on the private jet.

His eyes narrowed when hers rose, and her whole tummy seemed to take wing as if with a single enormous butterfly. The slight upward curvature of his lips seemed the worst part of that cold expression: she had pleased him, somehow—but his pleasure would involve terrible consequences for Jane. She had made him happy, because now he would…

Jane felt her face crumple, and now she couldn’t keep back the word she had almost spoken a moment before. In a cry that drew itself into a wail, she begged, “Why? Why?”

The man’s chin moved back and forth slowly, and only by a very few degrees. His smile became a look of mocking disappointment, as if he had known Jane couldn’t obey even his very simple commands. Now, his face seemed to say, he would have to correct her faults despite the inconvenience to his own schedule.

“You’d better lay yourself over the edge of my bed,” he said gently. “I’m going to whip you, because you can’t seem to obey me.”

Jane took a shuddering, gasping breath. The tremor in her body became an uncontrollable shaking. She did fall: to her knees, almost toppling all the way over because of the difficulty of balancing with her hands bound behind her. Her eyes sought the man’s shoes.

“No… why… please… why?” Her mouth produced monosyllable after monosyllable, none of which seemed to mean anything, when the man had just said the terrifying thing he had said.

“I think you heard me, Jane,” he said, as she watched his shoes shift a little, for he had started to rise from the bed. “Don’t worry, though. I will tell you why, while I flog your young backside for the first time.”

She watched his feet move past her, and wondered why, feeling that now she could not have raised her eyes to look at him for a million dollars.

“Fritz,” the man called. “Bring the cane, please.”

Chapter Two

Roland Garrison watched over the feed from the surveillance camera as Kai Luonnen received the two-foot-long rattan cane from his henchman Fritz Gortner. The Pretorian Guard had installed enough devices in Luonnen’s house that Roland could fly around the room, virtually, and get a good view of what happened in every corner.

The system had to extrapolate, of course, for slightly out of the way places—like real corners—making them up as it went along. But part of the effort to keep an eye on the trillionaire oligarch who sat atop the brutally corrupt Northern European energy market had involved mapping his extravagant mansion to the millimeter. The nano-droids had flown in, utterly invisible to the naked eye, and provided Roland, sixth-level initiate of the Guard, formal title Heliodromus, with the data needed to ensure none of Luonnen’s activities went undetected.

Very few of those activities fell into any category Roland would describe as innocuous—or even as mundane. Kai Luonnen spent much of his time planning raids for execution by the several commando units of his private army. Sometimes these raids destroyed energy capacity not under his control. Other times they killed local government officials who had shown interest in ceasing to comply with Luonnen’s extortion. Occasionally they simply killed random civilians as a way of maintaining an atmosphere of servile fear across the vast territory Luonnen now controlled, lands that had once lain under deep snow but now possessed vast potential both for dirty energy and for real estate.

When Luonnen engaged in pursuits outside of sending his commandos to inflict terror and watching those operations unfold through the body cameras of his men, he amused himself. His amusements nearly always involved the exercise of his power in ways Roland found himself describing as cruel in report after report he made to his Guard superiors in Rome.

Luonnen assisted in the training of his pack of German Shepherds. The beautiful animals regularly tore apart important enemies, after Luonnen’s security forces had extracted any useful information from them.

Luonnen collected fine wine. An observer with less access than Roland had to the details of the oligarch’s actions might have supposed that hobby to give little opportunity for brutality. Luonnen, however, had sent his henchmen to destroy three vineyards in the last two years, in order to drive up the price of the wine in his cellar—and, Roland felt certain, for the sheer joy of possession and power.

Much more important, both because Luonnen had devoted his morning to it and because it presented Roland with a crucial opportunity, the trillionaire collected young women.

He took them, he used them, and then—if the girl had proven enjoyable—he sent them to serve his commandos in their barracks. In his youth, Luonnen had courted movie stars, but his tastes had evolved—the Institute’s analysis said—to the point where he needed to exercise the kind of sexual cruelty a movie star would report to the authorities.

After an incident in Los Angeles five years ago, the report from the Pretorian Guard’s partner said, where a rising film star ended up with twelve livid stripes across her backside and Luonnen had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up, he seems to have changed tactics dramatically.

Luonnen had given up jetting around the world for social occasions. Instead, he jetted to the world’s metropolises for low-profile but financially consequential business meetings. He had, for example, signed a multibillion-dollar deal with the similarly corrupt head of the American Energy Organization the previous day in New York.

Whenever he attended one of these meetings, he walked the halls of the office where it took place. The handheld device Luonnen glanced at from time to time on these walks told him the name and all the vital data of each young woman he passed. That data included a key percentage: the possibility that the girl could be snatched off the street without consequence to Luonnen’s business interests.

From the several young women whose capture posed no risk he made his selection. Yesterday he had selected Jane Smith, and his men had taken her. Luonnen had sat, reading financial reports, on his private jet back across the Atlantic, with the bound, hooded Jane a few feet away from him.

Luonnen never started playing with his new acquisition until he had her in his vast bedroom, built deeply into the side of an ice-covered mountain.

Luonnen enjoys the feeling of complete control, said the Institute’s report. In particular, he takes pleasure in teaching a young woman to fear him not only in a general way but in as many specific ways as possible. Above all, he wants his girls to fear punishment and sex with him and his henchmen, but Luonnen likes also for example to inculcate fear of circumstances like cold, or even of a particular time of day.

The tall, blond man turned now, holding the cane. Jane, on her knees by his enormous bed, gazed at him with wide eyes and open mouth. Luonnen glanced back at Fritz Gortner.

“You can go,” he said. Roland watched Gortner give the girl on the floor a look clearly calculated to terrify her—a smile that seemed to say she would see him again, but under circumstances even worse for her than his just having handed a cane to the man who had kidnapped her.

“Please,” Jane said to the henchman, perhaps thinking somehow she could move him to pity. “Please don’t let him. I haven’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Fritz laughed. The sound seemed to make Jane quail back, until her bound wrists came up against the golden fabric of the bed’s silken coverlet. She gave a little cry as she felt that contact, as if even the luxury of the room had begun to terrify her.

Precisely what Luonnen wants his subterranean palace to do, Roland thought grimly.

He didn’t like having to watch Jane undergo this awful commencement of what Luonnen intended to constitute an even more painful and degrading servitude to his lust. At least he, and the Guard, had an intention and a plan to rescue her. Roland couldn’t put that plan into motion, though, before this part had fully unfolded.

Pretty, blue-eyed Jane, who didn’t even know she had submissive sexual needs, would soon find out that even her worst fears about the man with the cane fell far short of his ability to master her. Roland’s dominant desires and his training to use them as a servant of the Pretorian Guard’s Mithraic code cried out in his mind, and even in his heart, for he couldn’t deny that working Jane’s case had attracted him to the innocent, optimistic young woman.

Sitting in the surveillance van in a garage two miles away, Roland shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. He had only ‘met’ Jane the previous day, when the report from the Institute had landed on his virtual desk. At four a.m. local time his handheld had beeped to life to let him know he had something urgent from Guard Control.

The time of day hardly mattered since at the latitude of Luonnen’s little empire the seemingly never-ceasing sun of Nordic June played havoc with the circadian rhythms. Or at least those of a guy who spent most of his time in New York City. Still, Roland had managed to get a few hours of sleep, since Luonnen had been gone for a day and his minions did nothing without him there but get ready for the oligarch’s return. The incoming file from Control had cost him the tail end of a dream about his favorite restaurant and the lovely young woman whom he had last trained.

Sweet Annie, Roland had thought, a little idly, as he had picked up his handheld to enter the elaborate thirty-two-digit passcode and send the file to his laptop. She’s in Cali, and I’m in…

Roland liked to joke to himself that he couldn’t pronounce the name of the principality Luonnen had carved out of what might have been Russia and might have been Finland. He had mastered the local dialect sufficiently, though, that that wasn’t actually true. It helped to joke about it, though, because his linguistic ability had in fact doomed him to this coldest of assignments. If he hadn’t been so good at insanely difficult languages like Finnish, he might be with Annie in Baja, dealing with the Mexican energy market. Instead, Roland Garrison had the dubious distinction of being the highest-ranking Guardsman currently on solo assignment.

Also the Guardsman at the highest latitude. Also the only Guardsman within a thousand miles. What with the booming potential of Antarctica, that probably made him the loneliest member of the Pretorian Guard on Earth, right now.

If he had indeed started to fall for Jane Smith, then, he felt sure any outside observer would forgive him. Roland had, after all, been waiting for her—without knowing he was waiting for her, specifically. His presence in Luonnen’s kingdom revolved around the possibility of the kind of girl described in the report that had arrived that morning, twelve hours before Jane herself did.

Monitoring of Luonnen’s text messages to Gortner, the report read, indicates that Gortner and Rendoka will take an eighteen-year-old female named Jane Smith today, for transportation back to Luonnen’s residence. Luonnen took her picture at her desk and sent it to Gortner, with the message “This one.”

If the capture follows Gortner’s and Rendoka’s usual procedure, Jane will be taken on her walk home from the train, after work: Institute monitoring shows Gortner searching Jane’s map activity to determine her likely route. Luonnen’s flight plan indicates arrival by 1700 your time. If procedures remain consistent, Luonnen will wait to show himself to her until her arrival at his residence, at which point he will quickly begin her training as a sexual servant.

If the trillionaire followed the practice observed on the previous occasions during the six months Roland had already spent surveilling him, he would punish and fuck the girl he had kidnapped. Roland had already watched Luonnen acquire and train two bed girls for his enjoyment, one from Italy and the other from Egypt. Both young women, initially terrified, had realized in the first few hours of their stay at the subterranean mansion that if they pleased the oligarch they could avoid punishment. Neither had put up much of a fuss about having sex with a handsome, wealthy man, even in the submissive way Luonnen demanded of his partners: the girls had yielded up mouths, pussies, and anuses to the oligarch’s hard-thrusting cock while Roland had watched over the video feed.

After a week, in both cases, Luonnen had tired of them, and had passed the girls along to his security staff. Each had found a boyfriend among Luonnen’s henchmen, who lived like kings. To Roland’s relief, their new boyfriends, despite working for an entirely evil organization, treated their romantic partners a great deal better than their master did.

Neither of those young women had fit the profile for which the Institute, and Roland, had waited. The delicate operation that would hopefully bring down Luonnen’s little empire and slow the course of worldwide economic collapse had remained only a hope for the future.

Now, the future had arrived.

Jane Smith rates as an Alpha Plus repressed submissive, Roland reread, to distract himself as he watched Luonnen approach her, brandishing the cane in his right hand. Nano-drones installed the usual sensors a few minutes after Luonnen took her picture, and a quick evaluation using advertisements inserted into Jane’s social media feed scored at the highest level for submissive desire (see attachment).

Roland glanced again at the graph, which showed a five-minute span of heat and humidity readings from the microscopic sensor the Guard had installed between Jane’s vagina and her anus. The ads inserted by the Institute depicted a suggestive scene from a recent movie series notorious for its power-exchange content, followed by an apparently unrelated ad for a lingerie website. As the report indicated, Jane had responded, between her trim young thighs, in a pattern of blood flow that even Roland could see must mean something.

Jane represents a nearly ideal subject for this operation. Her repressed sexuality will, in our estimation, stimulate Luonnen to severe discipline from the beginning of her training. Expect the opportunity to put the operational plan into action to arise soon after her arrival.

Chapter Three

The man in the business suit took another step toward Jane, the horrible cane in his hand. Idly, he whipped it through the air, and it made an awful whistling sound although the man hadn’t even seemed to move it very quickly, or with much force.

“No,” Jane whispered. “Please… I’ll… What do you want? Tell me? Please?”

“I want you to do as you’re told, Jane,” he said in a cold voice. “Get over the edge of the bed. I’m going to take down your panties and whip you now.”

“But why?” she begged.

“You know why,” the man said.

Jane felt her face crumple into tears as he swung the cane again, harder now, so that the whistling got louder and sharper. Looking into her eyes all the while, he took another step forward, and tapped the terrifying thing against his left palm three times.

You know why.

She did. Did she?

Because I looked him in the eye. That’s the thing he told me not to do. And I’m looking him in the eye right now.

With a wrenching sob, she looked down at his shiny black shoes again. Another thought, a much worse thought came to her: something in Jane knew another reason, at a deeper level. She knew why the man intended to whip her with his horrible cane. Jane had no idea how she knew it, and she wished she didn’t.

Most frustrating of all—so frustrating that she sobbed again as the frightening thoughts and feelings roiled her mind—she couldn’t seem to think properly at all about it, because of the way her body had reacted to the sight of the cane. The reality of the long, slender thing in the man’s hand. The inexorability of his feet’s movement toward her. The cold sound of his voice.

His whole elegantly clothed body standing over her as she knelt with her back against his golden bed.

But Jane knew why the man had decided to whip her bare bottom, and the knowledge made the problem worse down below her tummy, under her cute midi skirt and her white panties with the pink polka dots on them.

He likes to whip girls.

He likes me.

He wants me.

He wants me, and so he wants to whip me.

Another sob burst from her chest. Her eyes rose to his knees. Maybe if she could look him in the eye one more time he would understand that he had the wrong Jane Smith. But the fear the man had already instilled in her took hold, and she shuddered and lowered her eyes again. Her bound hands pressed against the coverlet as she tried to shrink further away.

Then the mortifying thing happened again, much worse, between her legs. She felt her face start to burn with shame.

Jane knew she had no chance of escaping, but she felt suddenly that she simply had no choice but to try. With no idea of where on Earth the man’s minions had brought her, with the knowledge that those minions waited just outside the door, with the clear threat that any rebellion would only make him punish her more savagely… still, her heart and mind wouldn’t let her just kneel there.

She had shown herself, at school, to be smart and independent. She had won the spirit award, her senior year. Jane Smith might only have gotten a low-level job after graduation, but she had every intention of moving up.

A memory suddenly flashed in her mind, from earlier that… day? Could it even be the same day?

An important man—an enormously wealthy man—and his entourage, in her firm’s offices.

Kai. Kai something. Walking down the hall on the way to the conference room. A more experienced administrative assistant in the cubicle next to Jane’s saying, “That’s one of the richest men in the world. Kai…”

She had said the name, but Jane hadn’t really caught it, since it sounded very foreign. She had turned, to get a glimpse of a man so consequential. She had stood up, because she had to go bring a document to one of her executives, and she had seen a blond man looking at his phone as he walked by her cubicle.

That memory made Jane spring to her feet despite her hands being bound behind her, a mixture of fear and shame and defiance spurring her muscles into action. Her mind went along, but Jane knew her brain only let her body move that way because it had no other way to keep the horrible scene at bay.

The man didn’t even let her take a step. As his left arm caught her around the waist, Jane let out a sharp cry of fear. She struggled against him, twisting as violently as she could. His business suit concealed a strength she found overwhelming, though, despite her own gym-acquired fitness. Jane found herself looking him in the face again, as he manhandled her toward the bed, and that circumstance made her cry out again and turn her eyes wildly away, because of the cruel pleasure she saw in his icy blue gaze.

He likes to whip girls.

He’s going to whip me.

Now that she had started to struggle Jane couldn’t seem to stop, even though she already knew how terribly pointless her resistance was.

“No! Please… you can’t,” she screamed, turning her face this way and that, now, in her attempt to keep from seeing those eyes again. “You can’t… I’ll… I’ll…”

What did she want to say? Part of her mind yelled, I’ll tell the police, as absurd as she knew the idea would sound. But another part, to her horrified dismay, pleaded, I’ll be good.

“Yes, Jane,” the man said. “You will obey me, or you will find yourself being flogged with your panties down a good deal, here in my house.”

She cried out again, hoping wildly and irrationally that the henchmen, Fritz and Erik, would somehow take pity on her. Looking at the door, in the single instant she had to as the man swung her back toward the bed, she realized she could see straight through it to where the two men, in their own dark suits, sat in a vast living room, watching a soccer game on an enormous TV.

The one she thought was named Fritz had turned from the screen to look into his boss’ bedroom. His dark eyes met Jane’s, just as the man who had brought her to his terrifying lair turned her around. In Fritz’ expression she saw appreciation and envy. The henchman approved entirely of his master’s decision to whip Jane Smith’s bare bottom with a rattan cane.

That sight made Jane gasp, and struggle anew though her strength had already begun to wane.

A crazy idea arose, then, in her mind, and—greater lunacy still—her body responded to the bizarre thought, down there, more mortifyingly than it had to any of the terrible scene thus far.

Do I deserve it? Do I deserve a whipping? I looked… I looked… him… in the eye, didn’t I, after he told me not to.

Between her legs, Jane felt a contraction that made her whine through her clenched teeth.

I was naughty.

“Oh, God,” she sobbed. “What… who… who are you?”

It took the man, who seemed to ignore her question completely, only a few seconds to get Jane over the edge of the bed with its silken golden coverlet. She felt the luxurious quality of the fabric against her cheek, and she sensed cloud-soft down underneath it. She moved her arms as if she had some hope of freeing them from the thick plastic tie in which the henchmen had bound her wrists.

They had left the tie on, and the hood on, even when they had taken her to the bathroom on the plane: Jane, facedown over the bed and dreading what the men in the business suit had promised would happen next, shuddered now at the sudden memory, of peeing with the hood on and her hands tied behind her. They had raised her skirt and pulled down her panties in a casual, businesslike way, without a word, before pressing her onto the airplane toilet.

They had seen her—the naughty part of her—long before she had seen them. Had he? The man in the business suit? Had he been the one who had done it, even, on his private jet?

She felt his hand at the hem of her blue skirt.

The naughty part of me.

Jane twisted on the bed, tried desperately to get up despite the utter futility of the attempt. The man held her down so easily that it took her breath away.

“Jane,” said his cold voice, “discipline is going to be an important part of your life from now on. I suggest you get used to holding still when I decide to teach you a lesson.”

A thrill of fear went through her whole body. She cried out pitifully, “Oh, God.”

She felt her back arch, and the warmth down there grew so great that Jane wished she could simply burn up with it and turn to ash. She could feel that what she had feared, a moment before, had certainly come to pass: her polka-dot panties definitely felt damp.


It had never happened before. She had heard other girls talk about it, of course. You even heard wet used that way on videos, though that kind of video had never appealed much to Jane. At school, of course, you heard all about it in health class.

In health class you even heard that touching yourself down there wasn’t a big deal. Jane didn’t know why it had always seemed like a big deal to her—one not worth exploring, really, because why would you want to feel so embarrassed? What if someone walked in on you, like your roommate? Even if you could be sure you would have all the private time you needed—something rare at school—wasn’t it still so mortifying, to put your hand down there because… well, because you couldn’t help being naughty?

Of course it was naughty. Anything you could never, ever do when other people could see you… wasn’t that what misbehavior was? And girls who misbehaved didn’t get spirit awards.

No, girls who misbehaved had to report to the principal, or the boss.

And that thought… the one about what happened to a naughty girl in the principal’s office… Jane had never let herself think it for very long.

If she had, she realized now in the worst possible circumstances for such an epiphany, this would have happened.

This: the flow of the wetness that, according to health class, got a girl ready for sex—even if the girl happened not to have had a boyfriend, ever. Even if she hadn’t even felt her own hand, down there, let alone anyone else’s.

Even if she were a virgin, like me.

Jane closed her eyes and sobbed into the coverlet. The rush of terrible, naughty, irresistible thoughts and feelings had somehow caused her to obey the man who held her down effortlessly with his left hand. She lay still over the edge of his enormous bed as she felt him start to raise her skirt.

“Please,” she moaned. “Please, don’t.”

“Shh, Jane,” he said. “This is how a girl learns to please her master.”

“Oh, no,” Jane breathed. For a moment, her mind allowed the word free play in her thoughts. Master.

Then the warmth in the place the man in the business suit slowly exposed to his view, covered only by white cotton with pink polka dots, made her brain throw the word away. Her body tried to do that throwing, physically, and she twisted against the hand holding her down.

But now that he had her skirt up, he didn’t even bother pulling her panties down as he responded to her futile rebellion. Jane heard the cane whistle through the air, and she heard it crack across her bottom.

Then she felt the searing line of fire across both her hind-cheeks, and she screamed in agony.

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