Heather London found out that her friends Tricia and Luisa Giuliani got spanked at home, just as Heather did, in the most embarrassing possible way.
Heather, whose real name was Heather Davis, had to go over to the Giulianis every weekday after she attended the little school in Mrs. Kimball’s basement, because her mommy and daddy didn’t trust her not to ‘get up to mischief’ if she went home by herself. She had learned of this restriction on her first day living on Oak Street, soon after her eighteenth birthday.
Her protests had been quickly greeted with the promise of her first trip across her daddy’s knee. Mrs. London had accompanied the command to go upstairs and wait for Mr. London with the mortifying disclosure that Heather’s new mommy and daddy knew all about the conduct that had made curvy, ash-blonde, brown-eyed Heather a candidate for pickup in the gray Selecta van that had brought her to their lovely home.
Now nineteen, Heather obeyed this rule faithfully, as she tried to obey all the many strict rules her mommy and daddy laid down for her, with the same twin motivation: she didn’t want a spanking and—even more—she didn’t want Mommy and Daddy to talk about the reason their little girl had come to live with them. She supposed that many people, like the ones on the TV shows the Oak Street girls were allowed to watch during their screen time—though of course Heather only got half an hour of it a day—wouldn’t have found Heather’s peccadillo all that terribly shocking. Heather herself nevertheless couldn’t even think of it without her creamy complexion turning bright red.
Above all, she didn’t want Tricia and Luisa to know. Mommy sometimes threatened to tell Heather’s friends, when Heather had broken a rule again, usually through her dreamy failure to pay attention to the clock and get her chores done on time.
“You know your panties have to come down for a spanking when your daddy gets home, Heather. I have half a mind to let Tricia and Luisa know just how easy it is to get your underwear around your knees. If you can’t be a good girl, at least we can make an example of you—and maybe the shame will make you pay closer attention than it seems your daddy’s firm hand can do on its own.”
Then Heather would have to go up to her room and await her daddy’s return home from work. Mommy worked too, but her hours were shorter and she got home around four. Daddy didn’t usually get home until six. If Heather’s failure to sweep the kitchen by 4:30 was discovered soon after that deadline, she would have to spend almost an hour-and-a-half thinking about her coming punishment and wondering if Mommy was calling Mrs. Giuliani to advise that Tricia and Luisa’s mommy should prepare the girls to learn of Heather’s shame, as an example to them of the perils of boys’ company.
Nor would Heather even learn until the next day that her mommy hadn’t done just that, for when Daddy entered her room he never had any news of such things, and Heather knew it wouldn’t do any good to ask him about it: he would only become more stern, and spank her harder.
When Daddy came to spank Heather, he didn’t take any nonsense. First he told her to get into her PJs. It didn’t do any good to try to anticipate this step and put her pajamas on before Daddy arrived: the one time she had tried to do that, he had made her get out of them entirely, and spanked her in the nude.
No, Heather’s daddy said that he found it very important she learn who had the right to tell her to undress and who didn’t. As he had spanked her that time, very hard, while Heather sobbed out her penitence, he had explained, “You need to understand that your young body, and your little pussy and bottom, in particular, are my responsibility. Especially because of how you came here, and what they found you doing at the hostel.”
Now every time she heard the command to get out of her school clothes and into her PJs, of course, she thought of it, and her face got as pink as she knew her ample bottom soon would under Daddy’s big hand. She turned her back and took off her skirt, and then her blouse, leaving only the white cotton underwear her mommy and daddy made her wear on weekdays. Shuddering with embarrassment, she slipped her bra and panties off, trying not to think about what had happened at the hostel or about her daddy watching her bottom and even her lightly thatched pussy come into view as she bent to pick up the panties and put them on her dresser.
At least Daddy allowed her to have her PJs ready on the dresser; the pink ones or the green ones, both made of roomy stretch cotton that Heather actually liked very much. Her new pajamas had been one of the only nice surprises the day she arrived on Oak Street: she had never actually had even one set before. She had always slept in sweats and a t-shirt, both in the many foster homes through which she had passed and in the few weeks she had spent in the Selecta hostel for indigent youth. To have comfy PJs in which to get into her comfy pink-covered bed had almost made the terrible humiliation of that first spanking seem worth it. Almost.
Once Heather had her pajamas on, Daddy always said, “Alright, pumpkin, come here now.” While she had changed into her PJs, he would have sat down on her bed, and she always turned to find him in his Oxford shirt and suit pants, his knees apart so that Heather could assume the position.
Daddy never said, “Assume the position,” but for some reason Heather always thought those words, though she had no idea where she had first heard them. The strange sentence always made her face go hot and her tummy flutter. It also made her think, though she could never tell why, of what had happened in the girls’ dormitory at the hostel, when the boy whose name she had never even learned had whispered that they should sit on Heather’s bunk, and she had agreed.
Heather kept her eyes down as she crossed the room, trying not to see any of Daddy, though she could never help catching a glimpse of his muscular thigh and his outstretched right hand, ready to steer her over his knee for her spanking. As soon as she got in between his legs, the worst part happened, because Daddy put his fingers in the waistband of her PJs and her panties and pulled them all the way down to Heather’s knees, before using that right hand to upend her, her bottom high and her torso resting on her pink comforter.
Or maybe the worst part was when he put the hand that would spank her on her bottom, holding it gently, and said something like, “You know how sorry I am to have to punish you, pumpkin, don’t you?”
Then Heather knew—she had known even the very first time—that she had to say, Yes, sir. But although part of her wanted to say it, another part always warned that the way she wanted to say it was shameful and wicked. That the way it made Heather feel to whisper those words had something to do with what had happened on her bunk in the girls’ dormitory, when the boy had pulled down Heather’s panties, even if having Daddy take down her panties seemed like something else entirely.
But when Heather had finally gotten the ‘Yes, sir’ out of the way, things always got better, even if at the same time they got much worse, for her daddy never said anything specific about what Heather had done to earn her spanking, or lectured her. He left that for Mommy to do, both before and after the punishment: Heather knew that Daddy was too busy and had too much to worry about to spend time on anything but what he alone could do—making sure his little girl was very sorry she had been naughty, and had a very warm bottom to consider when she got into bed and even when she woke up the next morning.
Daddy held her down with his left arm around her curvy hips and his right leg across her ample thighs, and he spanked Heather hard and steadily. He didn’t spank fast, really, but he covered her whole bottom and her upper thighs at his measured pace, as if he wanted to make sure the punishment went on long enough that it assumed its proper significance in her memory—as if the time spent over his knee, held down and given the lesson she had earned, would go on as long as Daddy decided it should.
Heather always cried from the very beginning of the spanking. It wasn’t the pain, really, for the sting from her daddy’s firm hand didn’t really start out as anything like the fiery agony it would become before he finally allowed her to rise. No, the sheer embarrassment of being there, over his knee, as an eighteen- and now a nineteen-year-old, panties down and bottom up, made her sob under his correcting discipline as soon as his raised hand came down on her round bottom and she began to squirm against his arm and his leg, as she always did.
The only thing Daddy ever said during a spanking concerned that squirming, and it only made her cry harder. He would tell her, without ceasing to bring his hand down just as hard, “Pumpkin, you’re a big girl now and big girls know how to take their punishment. Hold still,” or, “Heather, stop squirming. That’s disgraceful. You earned this spanking and now you’re going to have it.”
Then, when her sobs had turned to shrieks of pain and she knew it would hurt even to pull her panties up, Daddy stopped the spanking. He held her in silence as her body grew still under his strong hands. She knew what she had to say.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she would choke out.
“You’re welcome, pumpkin,” he would say in a low voice, full of regret but also something else that always made her shiver. “I’m sorry I had to do that. You may get up and pull up your panties and your pajamas now. Then get right into bed. Mommy will come up in a few moments to tuck you in.”
That part, Mommy knocking quietly and coming in, sitting on the edge of Heather’s bed and stroking her little girl’s tearstained cheek, seemed like the best part, if a spanking could have a best part. Those moments of Mommy telling her softly that she knew Heather could do better, that with Daddy’s and Mommy’s help she would learn to pay better attention and that she mustn’t dwell on her past mistakes but rather look toward the future, had their troubling aspect, though.
Something about Mommy’s voice and Mommy’s hand made Heather too conscious for her complete comfort of the way the burning in her bottom had started to fade and the funny feeling to grow. Heather knew she had to keep her hands where Mommy could see them, because once, when she had without even thinking about it started to rub her bottom, which had made her give a little whimper, Mrs. London had said in a stern voice, “Don’t fidget, Heather. I know you feel a little itchy down there after Daddy spanks you, but we mean to make sure you don’t get into that kind of trouble again.”
Mommy had said no more about that, but Heather had known that she mustn’t give in to the funny feeling, as hard as it seemed. In her dreams Daddy stood over her bed and told her to show him how naughty she was, but whenever her dreamy waking mind went in that direction it seemed like Mommy or Daddy or another grownup could almost read her thoughts. A knock would sound at her door just as her hand moved below her waist, or she would be called to come down to get ready for school right when she had decided it was alright to take a look at her bottom in the mirror, the night after a hard spanking, to see whether Daddy had left any faint bruises.
Whenever Heather got talking with her very best friends Tricia and Luisa, or her other best friends Wendy, Ginnie, Frankie, and Mary, who lived on the other side of Heather’s house at the end of Oak Street, the moment the conversation turned to anything about boys, a mommy or daddy seemed to appear right when the talk had begun to make Heather feel a glimmer of the funny feeling. She had of course never confessed that she had actually kissed a boy, and had her panties pulled down in the girls’ dormitory at the hostel. She didn’t know whether her friends had any of the same naughty feelings, even.
Or, rather, Heather didn’t know about that until the day she learned that Tricia and Luisa also got spanked.
Jane Leonard felt a glow of pride, as well as a not inconsiderable warmth between her thighs, as she watched the scene at Number 9 Oak Street unfold from the neighborhood’s special control room deep below the Institute. She had, she dared to hope, perfectly orchestrated the beginning of Heather’s and Tricia’s awakenings. As the lead assessor for the London household at Number 14, Jane could breathe a small sigh of relief, though of course more delicate work lay ahead.
After all, she had conceived the wicked idea of making Mrs. Giuliani a devotee of vintage magazines, and in particular of the dearly departed Playgirl. She could still remember the way Holly Jasper’s eyes had lit up at the briefing meeting for Number 9. In the guise of ‘Holly Giuliani’ she would be the one to keep the secret stash of magazines in a box on the high shelf of her closet—put there of course only once the proper time had arrived.
Just before that meeting three weeks earlier, Charlotte Elkins Nakama, academic dean of the Institute, had made a difficult decision. The revered Miss Charlotte, as her regular concubine recruits knew her in the Institute’s manor house, had settled on the final determination that Heather and Tricia would begin a second cycle of Oak Street awakenings.
The original plan had called for the ignition of Heather’s simmering submissive fuse from her curiosity about Frankie and Mary Wood, who had recently returned from their auction at the Institute and their defloration by the man who had purchased them. That strategy had proven successful with Ginnie Samuels, whose curiosity about Wendy Kimball, the first of the Oak Street girls to go under the gavel, had compelled her to eavesdrop so as to bring about her own awakening to her need for stern discipline and masterful fucking.
According to that scheme, Heather would have eavesdropped on Frankie and Mary when their owner Johann Bonner came to visit and enjoy them alongside their daddy and mommy. But after Miss Charlotte had successfully sold Ginnie for seven million dollars, ratcheting up the value of the Oak Street brand yet again through an emphasis on the awakening narrative, the canny dean had grown concerned that too close a repetition of that narrative might have an adverse effect on Heather’s pricing, already a bit of an unknown because of her deviation from the classic schoolgirl body type. Any dip in purchase price would of course also have a knock-on effect on the brand, which would have a much greater long-term impact.
Charlotte had decided, at a marathon meeting with the Oak Street assessors the night after Ginnie’s auction, to follow her gut and to shoot the moon. She had asked for their ideas, and Jane’s affection for Playgirl had won the day in the quiet, hyper-intellectual though thoroughly sexually charged, Institute version of a landslide.
The box—Jane’s actual, beloved old box—of dirty magazines would be placed while all the still-innocent Oak Street girls slept on the night of the second Thursday in May. Tricia (real last name Vittorio) would be told to get her mommy’s hair curlers from that shelf. If the older Giuliani girl’s curiosity failed to make her look in the mysterious box she would assume she had never noticed before, further measures of enticement could be taken.
In the event, no such extra lure proved necessary. As Jane watched via the video feed that covered every inch of every home and every quarter-acre of the Oak Street development, Tricia had looked guiltily out into the bedroom, going so far as to make sure neither her friend Luisa (real last name di Angelo) nor her mommy were in the hallway either.
Jane had smiled to see the look of shame on Tricia’s face, but her nose had prickled a little, too, as she thought of her own years of discovery after turning eighteen, of the shame and the delight involved in becoming an obsessive collector of Playgirl. The frank envy Jane knew she shared with many of her fellow assessors came to the fore, but it really meant only that she wished Tricia and Heather and all the Oak Street girls well—and that Jane knew that whatever her sainted mother might think, she did important work.
How did Tricia know that the box must have something naughty in it? Well, as a trained assessor with a PhD in research psychology, Jane could have spun a long tale about how for girls like those selected for transfer to Oak Street according to the corporate laws, any mystery had an erotic dimension. Really, though, she preferred to attribute it to the numinous essence of the gorgeous photos of big, beautiful cocks that could not help but emanate from the old beige shoebox that had once held Jane’s first real grownup boots, a present on her eighteenth birthday.
Tricia had returned to the closet. As she carefully took the box down from its shelf, the heat sensor in the closet had shown that despite the dark Mediterranean complexion that hid all but the deepest blushes, the girl’s face was burning. More important, the all-important general arousal number in the upper right of her video feed showed a six, a small but definite—and very important—elevation for a girl whose submissive sexuality had been purposely and diligently kept at a simmer for the past eighteen months.
“Holly, get ready,” Jane said over the comm link that sent her voice directly to the audio implant in ‘Mrs. Giuliani’s’ ear, as Tricia put the box on her mommy and daddy’s bed. Holly, downstairs in the kitchen with Luisa, packing the girls’ snacks for school at the Kimballs’ across the street, gave the tap at her jaw that meant copy and sounded with a boom in Jane’s headset.
In the bedroom, Tricia opened the lid, and saw the cover of Jane’s absolute favorite issue: April 1996, the ‘working man’ Danny Gaveston, out in the woods with his Jeep. Jane’s own heart skipped a beat, while Tricia’s tiny perineal sensor went wild, five separate metrics spiking or bottoming out at once.
A red warning flashed at the bottom of the screen, one of six on the front wall of the control room.
“Whoops,” said Paul Farmer, observing from one seat over at the console. “She’s going down.”
“Shit,” Jane said, reading the fainting alert at the same time she heard Paul’s comment. “No, she won’t.”
Tricia wobbled a little, but she didn’t faint, and her graphs smoothed, her blood flow actually reversing itself so that all the blood that had drained from her face at the sight of what the box contained rushed back in a blush that Jane could actually see over the camera in the molding of the Giulianis’ master bedroom. Her arousal jumped to eight, and the humidity sensor showed she had just gushed into her white school panties.
“And that was just the cover,” Paul said a little ominously, but Jane could tell he was—mostly—only teasing her. Paul had maintained at the long meeting that the Playgirls might be overkill.
The original plan called for letting Tricia open at least one magazine, but though she didn’t fear Tricia might faint, Jane knew that Paul’s concern had validity. She had a slightly panicked impulse to run to Charlotte, but she had no time, and she didn’t want to look indecisive. A flash of insight told her that the strength of Tricia’s initial reaction had gotten the girl where Jane needed her to go, at least for the next few hours.
“Holly, go,” she said over the comm link.
Instantly, Holly, who had been futzing with bags of pretzels for the last two minutes, took two steps into the hallway and yelled in a proper Sicilian-mama way, “Tricia, get your backside down here with those curlers this instant if you don’t want it tanned. You girls are late for school.”
Tricia froze for a moment, and the red fainting warning flashed again. Damn, if Paul is right and this all falls apart…
But an instant later the willowy olive-skinned girl slammed down the cover of the box as if it were filled with adders. Paul chuckled at that, and Jane allowed herself a little smile. Ten seconds later the box had returned to the shelf and the curlers had come down from it, and Tricia was scooting down the stairs.
“Nice, Holly,” Jane said. A spanking reference at such moments was almost de rigueur, but Jane couldn’t help feeling thankful for it anyway: Tricia’s arousal, now at seven, could be sustained with the help of Wilma Kimball for the next few hours, until the all-important moment when Heather went home with the Giuliani girls and the curvy blonde girl’s awakening could begin.
The Giulianis’ household dynamic had been designed as a kind of backstop to a runaway erotic and disciplinary current that might interfere with the orderly sale of the girls at auction, one girl per month. Holly and Marco didn’t discipline harshly, but they intentionally meted out punishments with much more consistency than any of the other mommies and daddies—that aspect of being a Giuliani girl had just manifested itself in Tricia’s reaction to hearing her mommy’s threat. In most houses on Oak Street, such a hint at a spanking wouldn’t have been fulfilled even if the girl had taken five more minutes to come down. At Number 9, however, if Tricia hadn’t appeared within a minute her panties would have come down and Mrs. Giuliani’s biggest wooden spoon would have made school a very uncomfortable experience for her while Luisa had to watch, worried that Mrs. Kimball might paddle both of them for being late, as sometimes happened, one swat for every minute of lateness.
The consistency in discipline meant that Tricia’s awakening could be safely delayed for as much as three months—according to the best model the assessors could produce—without adverse effect either to herself or to Luisa, or to any of the other Oak Street girls. Extra spankings for masturbation attempts would only add to the girl’s value, as prospective owners, interested in the Mediterranean look and the old-world family narrative, looked on via the exclusive reality channel, Oak Street TV, that provided an enormous additional revenue stream to the project’s bottom line.
Holly and Marco would keep Tricia in line, and Luisa from catching any more than the faintest rumor of the true nature of her neighborhood. Jane could concentrate on the girl whose buxom beauty and dreamy imagination had endeared her to all the assessors so very much, Heather London.
As Tricia and Luisa headed out the door in the skirts and blouses that constituted the de facto schoolgirl uniform of Mrs. Kimball’s little school, Jane turned her attention to the next screen over. This one showed the schoolroom, where the other seven Oak Street girls already sat at their desks. The cozy room in the finished basement of Number 6 had been arranged to give an authentic one-room schoolhouse feel: the only thing missing, really, was a pot-belly stove by the teacher’s desk.
As befit the place where all the Oak Street girls spent a good deal of every weekday, the Institute techs had fitted it out with more sensors, microphones, and cameras than Jane thought the assessors could ever actually use. That impression of excess, though, didn’t stop her from feeling grateful that at the click of her mouse she could get a very good close-up of Heather’s frowning face, as she looked at Tricia’s empty desk right in front of her.
The Giulianis were never late. Delia Chichester was late two days out of three, though she had only actually been punished for it twice. Renee Dalton had been half an hour late once, and been made a very sorry girl for it, but Renee was the brattiest girl on the street. Heather had been five minutes late, once, and Jane thought that the sweet girl’s face now reflected the fear that had registered all over her body on that occasion, at the thought of being bent over for the paddle in front of all the other girls.
The assessors had designed school punishment on Oak Street to provide a sort of counterpoint to the bare-bottom spankings all the girls got at home. Wilma Kimball gave them with an old-fashioned wooden spanking paddle over the girls’ skirts, as the offender bent over the teacher’s desk at the front of the schoolroom. The ritual, and the presence of the paddle on a hook affixed to Wilma’s desk, ensured that her very special pupils never forgot about the role of corporal punishment in their lives—though of course these girls in general stood in no need of the reminder. It also, and more vitally, led to the natural conclusion for each girl that her Oak Street friends must not get spanked at home, that she must be the only one. For how could any other caring mommy or daddy—and all the Oak Street mommies and daddies were doting parents—think of adding more domestic discipline on top of what the girl got at school? Surely only her guardians found it necessary to bare her bottom for further punishment.