Virginia Samuels, legal surname Lyons, sat in her bedroom remembering the first time her new daddy had paddled her. It had taken place soon after Ginnie’s arrival here on Oak Street, when she joined the neighborhood at nearly the same time as six other eighteen-year-old girls. Those first seven girls, placed with new mommies and daddies, along with a few more who came as unrelated ‘sisters’ to older girls, had lived for eighteen months as if Oak Street were a normal suburban development. Ginnie liked it here, despite her daddy’s strict discipline; the paddle hurt terribly, but she only received it when she truly needed to learn her lesson.
But three weeks ago, strange things had begun to happen that made Oak Street seem like a different sort of place.
Ginnie wished she could stop wondering what had happened to her friend Wendy Kimball when Wendy had gone away for a few days, after the strange incident at the Woods’ pool. She also couldn’t stop wondering where Frankie and Mary Wood had now gone, only a week after Wendy’s return. That troubled her no less, but it presented a smaller immediate problem: Wendy had returned, so the temptation to ask the forbidden question of where she had gone and what had happened to her nearly overwhelmed Ginnie on a daily basis. Moreover, it seemed reasonably clear, given what Ginnie had seen of the thing that happened at the Woods’ pool, that Frankie and Mary must have gone to the same place, wherever it was, and been undergoing the same treatment.
Ginnie didn’t even know why she thought whatever had befallen those three neighbors, all young women brought, like Ginnie herself, to live on Oak Street in a sort of remedial girlhood, must be something one could call a treatment, except that life on Oak Street seemed itself to constitute a treatment of sorts. It had seemed very strange at first, nearly two years before, when the van from the relocation center had dropped her off here in what looked like a typical suburban development despite its apparent isolation from the rest of the area. But there were many such neighborhoods, Ginnie knew, in the arid land of the West, green oases of more or less traditional upper-middle-class life plopped down as if by some giant in the midst of the dry arroyos.
She had focused on that oddity at first—the topographical one—rather than the greater oddity of the living situation into which the van delivered her, because it only became clear to her very gradually just how odd, by the standards of the rest of the world, her new life would be.
At that point, after all, she hadn’t yet met Wendy, who lived at Number 6, next to Ginnie’s new home at Number 2, let alone any of the other girls who would quickly become her best friends. The whole first group of girls had arrived within twenty-four hours of one another, seven eighteen-year-olds in separate gray vans with Selecta Civil Services stenciled in red across the side. But Ginnie had found getting used to life with Mr. and Mrs. Samuels, her new daddy and mommy, so absorbing and confusing, that she hadn’t even noticed that other vans were arriving.
Ginnie had forgotten all about the geography by then, of course, which had happened very naturally because her new guardians had told her she wouldn’t be allowed to go outside until she had learned the house rules and had showed them she could behave herself.
“We’ll have a little quiz tomorrow,” Mr. Samuels had said. “And if you pass it you’ll be allowed to go and meet your new friends.”
So Ginnie had known of the existence of these new friends without knowing that they each had their own version of her strange living situation: a mommy and a daddy, and a home life governed by the fundamental principle—the first question on the quiz Ginnie had failed the next morning—that the corporate laws, as administered by the Selecta Corporation, had in them a special provision for the guidance of wayward young people, which decreed that despite having reached the age of eighteen, Ginnie would now be the ward of the Samuelses until her twenty-first birthday.
And when she had failed the quiz, she supposed now, the idea that she and the other Oak Street girls, at that point as yet unknown to her, were here for some kind of treatment, had taken hold in the most embarrassing possible way.
Her mommy had spoken her in a tone of frustration, holding up the sheet of paper upon which Mrs. Samuels had now written a big red F.
“Ginnie,” Mrs. Samuels said. “Did you even try to pass this quiz? You didn’t get a single question right.”
“I did…” Ginnie protested, remembering suddenly that she was supposed to call this woman something—wasn’t ever supposed to leave it out—but forgetting in the moment, the way she always seemed to lose track of things she was supposed to have studied.
They were sitting around the table in the Samuels’ lovely kitchen, full of light from the big windows that looked out on the lush backyard. Ginnie could still hardly believe she lived here, in her own room, despite having slept there the previous night, after unpacking under Mrs. Samuels’ supervision into the pink dresser that Mrs. Samuels said was simply the best color for redheads—not only in clothing but even for furniture. The one-page, five-question quiz now sat on the table in front of the middle-aged couple who Ginnie supposed she must now call… she felt a blush creep onto her cheeks as she remembered, and she cast her eyes down to the paper where she had failed so miserably to show that she was ready to leave the house.
Mrs. Samuels’ face had a kind, understanding expression on it, but Mr. Samuels seemed like a rather stern—if fair—man, and now his mouth grew even sterner.
“I did, ma’am,” he corrected. “You are to call us sir and ma’am, or Daddy and Mommy. I don’t know why that should be so difficult.”
Could he really not know? Ginnie wondered.
“We know it’s a lot to take in,” said Mrs. Samuels, looking at her husband a little reproachfully, “but the things on this quiz are very important, Ginnie.”
“We’re going to have to try something else to help you remember,” said Mr. Samuels. “Go down to the basement. You’ll see a door at the bottom of the stairs, with a picture of a schoolgirl on it. That’s the punishment room. Go in and strip down to your underwear, then lie down on the bench on your tummy.” He picked up the quiz and held it out to Ginnie. “Put this on the bench in front of you, and review it while you wait. I’ll be down to paddle you in a few minutes, and we’ll see if we can start fresh with a sore backside to focus your attention.”
Ginnie couldn’t believe—literally, at first, couldn’t—that she was hearing correctly. She listened with open mouth, as if about to interrupt, but no sound came out. When Mr. Samuels had finished, she still wasn’t sure she had understood. She blinked at her new guardian. “I’m sorry. What did you say, um, sir?”
“You heard your daddy,” Mrs. Samuels said in a regretful sort of voice, as if she didn’t want to see Ginnie disciplined but she agreed with her husband that it was necessary. “Girls who can’t concentrate get old-fashioned help in our house.”
Ginnie felt her jaw drop completely. “Old-fashioned?”
Mrs. Samuels looked at Mr. Samuels as if beseeching him to go easy on their new ward, but his well-shaven square jaw was set. She turned back to Ginnie. “Dear, I know you haven’t had the sort of upbringing you should, at least as far as Mr. Samuels and I judge the matter. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to living by our rules, and that includes accepting the paddlings you earn, when you don’t live up to our expectations. We believe it’s the only way to set a girl on the straight and narrow path. That’s why there’s a room set aside in the basement for punishing you.”
Tears sprang to the corners of Ginnie’s eyes. “You can’t!” she exclaimed. “I thought… I thought you were so nice! You’re nasty and mean!”
“We are nice, Ginnie,” said Mr. Samuels, a little angrily. “And you’re going to be nice, too, after you’ve lived here for a few months, even though right now you don’t know what nice means, as far as I can see. Get your naughty backside down to the punishment room right now, before I haul you down there myself and give you extra for this disrespect and disobedience.”
“But I just got some things wrong on this stupid quiz!” Ginnie protested, feeling her face turn very red. “How can you do this? I want to leave!”
“You can’t leave, dear,” Mrs. Samuels said, reaching across the table to take Ginnie’s hand, a gesture Ginnie found to her surprise did feel very reassuring. “The government has located you with us, and given us the authority to discipline you as we think best.”
“And you know as well as we do,” added Mr. Samuels grimly, “that you failed the quiz on purpose.”
“I didn’t!” Ginnie wailed, but when her new daddy pulled back his chair a little she rose, hastily, and started toward the door through which Mrs. Samuels had led her to show her the basement rumpus room, the day before. Ginnie had noticed the door at the bottom, too, with the old-fashioned colored engraving of the schoolgirl standing in front of her teacher’s desk with downcast eyes, which had made her feel rather funny when she had glimpsed it. Mrs. Samuels hadn’t opened the door, though, and hadn’t said anything about what might lie on the other side.
When she went through that door, though, a few moments later, that funny feeling blossomed into butterflies in her tummy of a kind Ginnie had never felt before. There were more of the pictures, and the one of the girl in front of her teacher’s desk was only the first of the series. Around the walls of the little room with the bench at its center she saw that the schoolgirl must have failed a quiz on purpose, just as Ginnie had, to see what would happen. Now, just as Ginnie was about to do, the old-fashioned schoolgirl learned not to test the boundaries that way again.
Second, she had to bend over the teacher’s desk, her face turned back over her left shoulder and her blonde ringlets cascading down over her right. Behind her stood her teacher holding something long and thin, with a crook at its end. On the schoolgirl’s face was a look of woe, beseeching mercy for her offense; the teacher’s face wore an angry expression on it, though.
Third, the teacher must have told the schoolgirl to face forward, because as he raised her pinafore and lowered her drawers to show a pert little bottom, well presented for punishment, she had turned her face toward the blackboard, which bore the sentence, “Naughty girls must learn their lesson from the teacher’s cane.”
Fourth, the teacher, standing behind and above, gave the caning: three red stripes already lay across the poor schoolgirl’s backside, and the teacher had raised the cane to give another. Somehow the engraver had managed to suggest the girl’s agony and the way her bottom must be squirming despite the limitations of the still drawing.
Fifth and finally she stood in the corner with her skirt pinned up. On her back, undoubtedly as a lesson for the rest of the class, the teacher had hung a placard: “Miss George, six strokes for dereliction.” In the faded colors of the engraving, the six stripes across the schoolgirl’s bottom looked so painful that Ginnie found herself wincing.
That wince only grew when her eye moved to what hung on the wall next to the final engraving: a thick wooden paddle with three holes in its oval blade and leather wrapped around its handle.
“No. Please,” she whispered, and then she realized why the room seemed so much larger than it actually was. The engravings and the paddle occupied two of the walls, but on the third hung a large mirror, almost as big as one might find in a dance studio, and from it Ginnie’s own tearstained, horrified face looked back at her: straight red hair to her shoulders, wide green eyes, a slim athletic body, still clad in the blue skirt and white top Mrs. Samuels had given her the previous evening as her first ‘appropriate clothing.’ Ginnie realized suddenly that the outfit bore a certain resemblance to the schoolgirl’s pinafore.
The door opened, and Mr. Samuels walked through. “Ginnie!” he said in a voice full of annoyance. “I told you to strip to your underwear. I’ve had enough. That’s three extra swats.”
Chris Samuels (legal name Ivan Ertinow) happened himself to be reviewing the video footage of Ginnie’s first paddling, in his office, at the same moment she herself was reflecting on it in her bedroom. Exactly a week had passed since Wendy Kimball had come home from her defloration. The Wood ‘sisters’ (Frankie and Mary were actually not related despite bearing a familial resemblance to one another) had themselves been taken to the Institute the previous day.
There Frankie and Mary would be sold at auction, and then have their own first night with their new owner in the little cottage set aside for the loss of the Oak Street girls’ virginities. Wendy, by all accounts, had greatly enjoyed her first real big-girl time with the billionaire who had purchased her. She seemed—both to the other girls and to their mommies and daddies—like a happy young woman with a very special, very big secret. The guardians (Chris and Ella ‘Samuels,’ Wendy’s own mommy and daddy, the ‘Kimballs,’ and the other ten Institute trainers who cared for the Oak Street girls) knew the secret, of course. The other girls could only guess at it, though Frankie and Mary Wood had discovered the truth the previous night.
The more time a girl spent with Wendy, of course, the more curious she would become. Because the Samuelses lived next to the Kimballs, Ginnie had seen more of Wendy than any other Oak Street girl had, especially over the last twenty-four hours, since the departure of Frankie and Mary from the Wood home on the other side of the Kimballs.
That natural arrangement had received shaping and guidance from the Institute assessors, directing the words and actions of the Oak Street daddies and mommies. Everything imaginable had been done to ensure that the transitions would go smoothly. The sale and training of Wendy would lead to that of the Wood girls. Then Frankie and Mary’s auction and defloration would spark Ginnie’s own sexual awakening.
For Ginnie’s turn had come, and Chris sat watching the Institute’s video archive of her first paddling at the request of Jim Setter, the assessor assigned to the Samuels household. After looking at Ginnie’s data from the immediate aftermath of the Wood girls’ departure in the Institute van, he had asked Chris to go over Ginnie’s early days, in order to make sure Chris had as clear a memory as possible of what had produced Ginnie’s strongest erotic responses.
“Please, Daddy,” Ginnie said now on the video—the first time, Chris felt fairly sure, she had ever used that wonderful, by now very familiar phrase.
“You heard me, Ginnie,” Chris said. “Take off your clothes right now.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Give me the quiz.”
Ginnie trembled and handled it to him. On the data crawl of her sensor information, which helpfully accompanied the video, her arousal went to seven out of ten—not bad for a first trip to the punishment room. Ginnie had begun to dampen the panties she would soon expose to her new daddy’s view, the tiny device located between her legs showed very clearly.
Chris laid the quiz at one end of the simple bench, which resembled a pianist’s seat much more than it did the sort of spanking apparatus found in every training room at the Institute, only five miles away and yet worlds apart in its approach to awakening the lewd desires of submissive young women. Outfitting the Samuels’ punishment room had proven a very enjoyable task for Chris and Ella: all the guardians of Oak Street had received every encouragement to develop their own styles of discipline, so that when the time came—as it had now indeed come—for the girls to begin comparing notes they would have a wealth of contrasting detail to share.
The ‘couples’ of the project had all matched with each other because of certain predilections in their styles of dominance and submission: Chris and Ella’s principal strength and interest lay in quick, decisive, painful responses to misbehavior. This first paddling, for failing the quiz on purpose, had been intended to make Ginnie think twice about stepping out of line, or not doing her best, again. It had proven very effective: Ginnie hadn’t returned to the punishment room for a month, and then not again for almost a year.
Chris and Ella had decided on a special room in the basement dedicated to disciplining Ginnie, and then on the simple bench with its faux-leather upholstered top, because it seemed to them to deliver a very specific message: Here a girl learns the lessons she desperately needs. Not a kinky piece of sex furniture but a plain seat, designed not for raising young feminine bottoms for the paddle but for everyday necessity—yet, nevertheless, located not where it would make sense to sit upon it but rather in a place where a girl must lay herself down and receive the painful correction she has earned.
And the mirror…
On the video, when Chris turned back from placing the failed quiz on the bench, Ginnie, her hands now at the waistband of her skirt, said, “Why is there… why is there a mirror… sir?”
“You’ll find out the real reason in a little while, sweetheart,” Chris said, modulating his voice into the tone of the affectionate daddy, regretful of having to punish his little girl. Ginnie’s arousal went to eight at the sound, and the excellent microphone in the room caught a tiny whimper in her throat. “For now, I want you to undress facing it, so that you can see what happens to a girl who doesn’t apply herself. She has to come down here and take her clothes off for a paddling.”
Another little whimper, and Ginnie obeyed, turning to the mirror, arousal dipping to seven as she rediscovered the sight of herself in the conservative clothes of a modest suburban young woman, then rising back to eight once the constellation of her submissive needs caught up with her anxiety. Chris saw himself, on the video, catching Ginnie’s reflected gaze, just as the blue skirt was about to fall onto the gray wall-to-wall carpet. Ginnie blushed deeply and prettily, and her arousal spiked to nine. He remembered that moment, and how hard he had gotten, knowing what lay in the future for Ginnie in the Samuels’ house.
She hastily dropped her eyes, and, though her hands and knees were trembling, finished getting undressed, down to the modest pink stretch-cotton bra and panties Ella had given her the previous day.
“Bend down over the bench, now,” Chris said. “On your elbows, with your knees bent.”
Ginnie’s eyes flicked upward again to his in the mirror, her face reddening even more as she clearly realized what this position would look like—as well, perhaps subliminally, what it meant.
“Go on, sweetheart. A first paddling is always hard, I know, but I’m losing my patience.”
Watching almost two years later, Chris had to hand it to himself: the threat he had injected into losing my patience had done the job, not just in getting Ginnie moving, but in getting her wetness flowing. On the data crawl, her arousal went to ten for the first time. Had Chris gone wildly off protocol and decided to stimulate his ward over the bench with his skillful fingers, thirty seconds or so of effective manualization would have brought about her first submissive orgasm.
An Institute training master, confronted with a new girl he wished to break to his will and the will, eventually, of her owner, might have done exactly that. To make a girl expect punishment and then give her pleasure instead could make her begin the long process of confronting her submissive nature.
But the Oak Street project sought to get there—a girl’s full acknowledgment of and pleasure in her need to be mastered—along quite another road. Once Ginnie had finally complied, and presented herself bottom up for her paddling over the bench, Chris spoke again.
“Let’s have a look at your quiz.” As he spoke, he took the paddle from the wall. Ginnie had turned her face over her shoulder just then, and a little cry came from her at the sight of her daddy wielding the instrument of her correction.
The ten flashed on the data crawl. Ginnie had just ‘recalibrated’: the heat and wetness between her thighs had gone farther than anything observed thus far. A recalibration at this stage didn’t carry very much significance, since the Institute’s database didn’t yet have much fine-grained data on Ginnie. As her life on Oak Street as a concubine in this unique new sort of training continued, recalibrations would become much rarer—especially since the most fundamental level of the protocols to be used in the project sought to keep all the Oak Street girls just off the boil.
On the video, Chris strode straight to the bench. “Eyes on the quiz, sweetheart,” he said severely, and then he laid the paddle on her back for a moment, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pink panties, and pulled them down to her tightly closed knees. Ginnie’s taut little bottom, with its adorably pert cheeks, presented itself sweetly to her daddy’s gaze. She herself gave a little gasp, and recalibrated again.
Chris picked up the paddle. “Read the first question, please, Ginnie.”
Ginnie cast a nervous glance back over her shoulder again, and Chris gave her a very meaningful look, to make her turn her eyes where they belonged.
“How old must you be to leave Mommy and Daddy’s house?” Ginnie read in a quavery voice.
“And what did you write, sweetheart?” Now Chris made his voice very stern. Ginnie’s arousal dropped back all the way to seven in her fear of the paddle.
“I swear I didn’t know!” she protested, hanging her head. “Please, Daddy!”
Chris brought the paddle back and swung it hard, so that it landed with a loud, satisfying crack against the pert little bottom, full across both cheeks.
“Ow!” Ginnie wailed, straightening up instantly and putting her hands behind her to rub and protect. She looked back at him reproachfully.
“Don’t you dare do that, Virginia Samuels! Get back down on your elbows this instant. The next time I see those hands anywhere near your bottom, it will be three more extra swats. And get your eyes forward, on that quiz.”
When she had obeyed, Chris gave her another stroke of the paddle on her already pink bottom. Ginnie yelped, but, though her backside squirmed and bounced in a way Chris found extremely arousing, she held her position.
“What did you write?”
“Eighteen,” Ginnie sniffed.
Chris paddled her again, and she cried out at the building smart. Chris and Ella had decided that Ginnie would be the most severely punished girl on Oak Street, and this punishment seemed likely to represent a down payment on that promise. The backside Chris made her study in the mirror, once her paddling was done, would tell a tale of stern chastisement, and give Ginnie something to think about for several days.
“What’s the correct answer?” Chris asked.
“Twenty-one,” Ginnie said immediately, in a nervous voice full of anxiety that even the right response would earn a swat.
Chris didn’t raise the paddle, though. “Good. Next question.”
Ginnie couldn’t help another look over her shoulder, though she caught herself immediately. She had caught on to Chris’ method, though, and between that obvious understanding and the way the break in the punishment allowed the heat from her backside to flow forward, her arousal hit nine again on the video.
Chris gave her a hard stroke for each incorrect answer: How many families on Oak Street? (Seven.) What were the neighbors’ names? (The Kimballs.) How far was Ginnie allowed to go away from home? (The end of Oak Street, in one direction, and the Londons’ backyard, in the other.) Who taught the little school she would attend, starting Monday? (Mrs. Kimball.)
Ginnie was in tears by the time she received her three extra swats for not taking her clothes off before her daddy had arrived in the punishment room. Only a few minutes later, however, Chris noted as he watched the end of the archival video, she recalibrated in front of the mirror as she examined her bottom, her panties now restored to their proper position but the seat pulled down to reveal bottom-cheeks that were now an angry red.