Sometimes Renee Dalton could hardly remember life before Oak Street. Everything had changed so very much for her when she came to live with Mr. and Mrs. Dalton a little more than eighteen months ago. Renee’s year of life, before that, on the streets evading the corporate police tasked with cleaning up the urban mess left by America’s municipal governments seemed like a nightmare. Her sixteen years in corporate school, Edrolia Inc.’s idea of the ‘ideal environment to raise the ideal citizen,’ before that, seemed no less of a bad dream for all that they had clothed her and fed her and taught her that ‘America’s recovery depends on you!’
Renee and two friends had escaped at seventeen, into the city at whose outskirts Edrolia Educational Facility Number 67 stood. The other two hadn’t seemed to have the inborn need to resist that Renee had, when it came down to it, and they had quickly found themselves picked up by police vans when they loitered too long, begging in the wrong part of the city, and then failed to run.
Renee had felt bad about that, because she had encouraged them to come with her, but she supposed they were better off in the corporate hostel to which they would probably go after a few months in detention, since they were so close to eighteen. Kids said that they used the paddle in the hostels, but at root, and despite feeling bad, Renee really thought her friends deserved it, especially after what they had put her through.
Her own stay at a hostel had only lasted a day, to her surprise—so Renee didn’t get to see whether the matrons actually paddled the girls for misbehavior, though she had steeled herself to defy them and see if she could use the opportunity to create confusion and run away. All the girls around her seemed like sheep, and she knew that the moronic obedience of her fellow unattached youth would lull their minders into inattention.
She felt sure, given what she had heard on the street, that they would try to paddle her, to make her submissive like the other girls—then they would drop their guard, because that kind of authority figure (she had learned at the Edrolia school) always relaxed a little when they felt most in control. She would twist her arm over her head with a practiced, impossible to evade grip-breaking maneuver, and then she would run; she had seen the emergency exit she should use as soon as she entered the dormitory for the first time.
Instead, after a brief, intensely embarrassing doctor’s exam, which Renee hadn’t thought to resist because she was planning her escape when they tried to paddle her, they had marched her out the door and into a gray van that said SELECTA in red letters on its side. They had driven from the Midwest into the Great Plains. Geography was one thing Edrolia spent a lot of time on, as if trying to impress upon its orphaned students the greatness of their land through its sheer regional variety. Renee had always paid more attention in the schoolroom than she had ever let on to her teachers—she purposely tanked tests, having seen how high achievers were taken into the ranks of Edrolia at special ceremonies clearly intended to make Renee want to wear the shiny blue Edrolia corporate uniform instead of the gray shorts and t-shirts the students destined for manual labor, like Renee, wore. As they had traveled toward the setting sun, from the Great Plains into the desert, she knew what lay ahead, but she had no idea why they might be taking her there.
They—two big men in black t-shirts and black jeans, in the front seats of the van—had said nothing at all to her for the first three hours of the journey. Then one of them had said, as they pulled into a service area off the highway, “Go ahead and use the bathroom. Then we’ll buy you whatever you want to eat, and you’ll eat it in the van.”
After that, they had seemed to assume she understood the drill would be the same at each service area. One of them had accompanied her to the restroom and then to the convenience store while the other had filled the van’s gas tank.
Renee had waited in some excitement, and then in annoyance, and finally in desperation, for them to talk to her—to tell her anything at all, whether about where they were taking her or about who they were or about… anything. She had refused, however, to give in, especially because she could see on their faces a little amusement about her defiance, her weak attempt to give them the silent treatment. Surely they would want to talk to one another, at least? she had thought. Then she would have been able to say something cutting about how stupid everything corporate was. Then they would have said something retaliatory about what happened to girls like her, where they were taking her.
The doctor had at least said something, when he had told the hostel matron standing by the exam chair that Renee was healthy. “She’s Alpha Plus,” he had said, looking down at Renee’s pussy with its sparse thatch of light brown hair. Renee had felt the blood rush to her face and had despised that reaction the way she despised all involuntary displays of emotion. The doctor had just spent ten minutes poking and prodding her down there while Renee had lain spread open for him, knees in cold metal stirrups; he had no right to look at her private parts that way, almost… admiringly—possessively.
“What are you looking at?” she had asked the doctor almost in a snarl. She knew that she could make herself look unattractive that way despite her good looks, her pretty blue eyes, her willowy body and medium-sized breasts.
“I’m looking at a very pretty young lady,” he had said, nevertheless, with a smile that infuriated her. “Who happens to be a virgin, and who’s going to learn some manners, very soon.”
Renee had thought that meant the paddle, in the dormitory, and the chance to escape. Instead the matron had told her to get dressed and then walked her straight out the door.
So in the van, on the way it finally turned out to the strange new, little world of Oak Street, she had had only the doctor’s rather teasing but very calm assurance that she would learn manners. And the strange thing he had said about being Alpha Plus.
Eighteen months later, Renee still didn’t know what the doctor had meant by Alpha Plus. She had, however, learned very quickly about the manners. The trouble was, no matter how much she loved Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, the daddy and mommy she had never had and had never expected she might suddenly get at age eighteen, she couldn’t seem to behave the way they expected of her. Renee had discovered what the doctor meant about learning manners, but she couldn’t actually seem to learn them.
Today would, it appeared, represent no exception. The sight of another of her friends going away in an unmarked white van on a quiet Sunday morning—Heather London, this time—had Renee staring out the kitchen window that gave the best view of the London house, number 14 at the end of the street. When Daddy said, from the doorway to the hall, “Renee, honey, what are you doing?”, despite everything she knew about his and Mommy’s expectations, she said, “Nothing, Daddy,” in the same voice she had used on the streets when she wanted some creep to leave her alone.
Daddy sighed. Renee heard in that sigh both Bob Dalton’s great patience and his continual frustration. She wondered for the millionth time why she couldn’t, for example, just have turned to him with the kind of shy smile her friend Wendy might have smiled and said, “There’s a van at the Londons’ and I want to see.”
She knew her mommy and daddy didn’t like her snooping around to try to figure out what was going on with the other Oak Street girls, but looking out the window on a Sunday morning didn’t seem the kind of thing they would forbid. When she asked about Wendy’s, and then Frankie and Mary’s, and then Ginnie’s absence from school, Carol Dalton had said Renee should mind her own business, but the admonition hadn’t brought with it the stern reaction she felt very sure she would now receive from her daddy.
She hadn’t turned around to look at him, but rather kept staring out the window. The two men in dark suits had walked Heather to the van, now. One of them opened the sliding door. Heather gave him a fearful kind of look. Renee’s heart did a flip, and her tummy seemed to flutter. She had no idea why, but the sight of her friend getting into the rear of the van, as she knew the others had, before coming back different somehow—more experienced and definitely more knowing—had a strange effect on Renee. She wanted to know what it felt like, to have the men tell you to get in the vehicle that took you away, and to fear it at the same time.
“Honey,” her daddy said in an exasperated voice, “turn around and look at me.”
This time, Renee thought to herself, when she turned around, she would put a bright smile on her face that told Daddy how grateful she was, how much she wanted to show him and Mommy she could learn to behave like the modest, intelligent, happy young lady they expected her to become. It couldn’t really pose such a challenge, could it?
But when she did turn, to put the counter at her back, to face her daddy in the pretty blue nightgown Mommy had given her the day Renee arrived, and to see his handsome bearded face above the green t-shirt and gray sweats in which he slept, she felt her face twist into an expression of defiance. Her narrowed eyes told him, she knew, just as they had told him on her very first day on Oak Street, that Renee didn’t mean to obey him happily, when she obeyed him at all.
Why? Why couldn’t she even turn around, when she knew she might get a scolding for looking out the window like a nosy parker, but she wouldn’t have done anything to warrant the spanking she knew must now be coming?
For Renee, to her hot-faced embarrassment, got spanked. She got grounded, too, and paddled at Mrs. Kimball’s basement school. All of it, in one way or another, in an attempt to help her learn manners. Or, to put it another way, to help her change her attitude.
Sometimes it almost seemed to work. For more than a week, after Mrs. Kimball had given her the paddle in front of the class for being half an hour late, and then Daddy had spanked her over his knee until she couldn’t sit down at the dinner table, Renee had managed to remember to act like the penitent girl she truly was, grateful even for the discipline her Oak Street guardians gave.
But the restless urge to rebel had returned then, the way it had returned now, this morning. Renee had gotten spanked three days before, for staying too late over at the Giulianis and not being home in time to help Mommy with dinner. She probably wouldn’t have gone bare-bottomed over Mr. Dalton’s knee that evening if she hadn’t told Mommy that she didn’t care if Mommy had to slice the vegetables herself—or even if she had said it without the angry look Renee knew her face wore again as she looked at her frustrated daddy.
“What were you looking at, Renee?” he asked slowly. He clearly didn’t want to start Sunday this way, and she knew that should make her eager to make it up with him, so that they could have the kind of lovely, loving day the Daltons sometimes had, with the baseball game on the TV and the Chichesters from next door coming to visit, and hamburgers on the grill, and—above all, and the only thing that really mattered—Renee feeling happy and loved, and like she could do it: could learn to be a good girl like her Oak Street friends.
But the same part of her that had made her run away from the educational facility and had kept her free for a year, making the creeps stay away and making her feel like the sole mission of her existence lay in staying alive, now forced her left nostril to flare in a sneer.
“I told you, Daddy,” she said in a hard voice. “Nothing.”
Daria Weathers, the assessor with principal responsibility for Renee Dalton, fed into Bob Dalton’s ear highlights of the information about Renee that came across Daria’s laptop screen in a rapid crawl.
“Fight-or-flight is running high,” Daria said in her usual level tone despite how crucial the moment might prove in Renee’s awakening. “Overall at five. The van definitely piqued her interest, and the numbers are consistent with an association with discipline.”
Everything in Renee’s pretty face, as Daria glanced up from her laptop to study it on one of the six video monitors in front of her in the Oak Street control room, reflected the same defiance complex that had brought her to the Institute’s special neighborhood. Firmly set brow, tight mouth, slightly lifted chin: Daria didn’t need the facial biometrics captured by the camera in the interior upper corner of the Dalton’s kitchen to see the evidence of Renee’s brattiness, as the assessors usually called what in their technical jargon they had named defiance complex.
It represented one of the rarest, and for the right group of prospective buyers most valuable, traits an Institute concubine could possess. Charlotte Elkins Nakama, academic dean of the Institute and marketing genius in the area of nubile young women destined for consensual sexual servitude, had wanted Oak Street to feature two brats in the initial season of the brand—the awakening, sale, and first training of the nine girls who had come to live there with Institute trainers as their mommies and daddies. Though the Institute could cast a very wide net thanks to Selecta’s tight grip on the reins of power from the federal government down to the various cities the corporation had for all intents and purposes acquired as subsidiary entities, only Renee Farmer, renamed Dalton here on Oak Street, had crossed the analytic radar developed by the assessors of the Institute.
Eighteen, beautiful, habitually defiant, certain to be sexually submissive when at last awakened, as verified by the Institute’s biometric algorithms, in need of rescue from the streets… Daria knew that the characteristics of the defiance complex prevailed in the general female population a good deal more than most people would assume, but the whole package had proved very hard to come by, and Renee Dalton represented a precious asset. Daria, in the control room deep underneath the Institute’s manor house, and Bob, in the Dalton residence at Number 5 Oak Street, now had the care of that lovely, good-hearted, petulant asset, who would now receive the bare-bottom spanking she had earned and badly needed.
Renee had gone over her daddy’s knee many times since her arrival on Oak Street, but this punishment would prove very special, if Daria and Bob had their way. The plan called for Renee to take her first steps toward sexual awakening today.
On the monitor from the exterior corner of the Dalton kitchen Daria could see Bob’s self-control and improvisational performance skills manifesting themselves in equal measure in the paternal frustration and sorrow that crossed his handsome, bearded face. The spanking they both knew must follow Renee’s sass would hurt him more than it hurt her, his eyes seemed to say. Though he would have to spank her very hard, as he always did, in hope of teaching the lesson that seemed so slow to sink into her heart, he would do it only because his little girl must pay the price for her defiance, or there could be no order or peace in their otherwise happy home.
“Honey,” he said, his voice now full of decision, “go to the living room and get ready for a spanking.”
Though everything in her history, and in her body language—not to mention the data streaming in from the tiny sensor placed on her perineum, right between vagina and anus—declared that Renee had known very well indeed what the word nothing would earn her, her face betrayed the flash of fear that always came even to brats when the right dominant man informed them of their backside’s approaching agony. She instantly replaced it with renewed defiance, though.
Daria looked at her laptop, then spoke to Bob over the comm-link. “Six. Fight-or-flight under control.”
From the table behind her, Charlotte said, “Looks like we’re a go.” Despite the vast number of daily duties the dean still carried out around the Institute, she insisted on being present for each of the key moments in the development of the Oak Street girls. To have the legendary embodiment of the Institute’s extraordinary heritage sitting right there—unseen but watching with all her famously sharp submissive senses—made Daria a little nervous, but it also kept her very much on her game.
She relayed the green light. “Bob, we’re a go.”
On the monitors, Renee flashed her daddy another rebellious so what glare as she walked by him into the living room. She looked so adorable in the blue nightgown, and so little despite her considerable height of 5′7″, that Daria’s heart went out to her in sympathy for the fiery pain her young bottom must soon feel, despite the certain knowledge of how much the girl needed it and, in her own way, wanted it—despite even the oppositional impulse true brats like Renee inspired in those who took care of them, to find a way to wipe the glare off their faces by turning it into the weeping expression of a naughty girl with a well-spanked rear end, begging forgiveness and promising amendment.
Bob turned in the doorway to watch his little girl’s progress into the living room. There might as well be a groove worn in the carpet, in the direction of the far corner, for all the times Renee had made this walk. She cast a look over her shoulder at her daddy, with the very beginning of the trepidation that would soon become unfeigned though temporary remorse for her lack of manners—the attitudinal challenge that accounted for the vast majority of her punishments, though misdeeds like coming home after the appointed time and breaking her early curfew after dinner also featured. That look, also, had figured prominently in her punishments over and over since her arrival.
She found her daddy’s face stern, and her cheeks showed the tiniest hint of a blush, confirmed by the heat camera in the room’s ceiling.
“Seven,” Daria told Bob.
Renee turned back toward the corner and completed her journey there. She held her hands at her side, the fingers showing only a tiny tremor.
The moment had arrived.
“Bare that bottom for me, Renee,” Bob said. “Nightgown up and panties down. I want to take a look at the backside I’m going to spank.”
The fight-or-flight meter in the upper left of Daria’s laptop screen shot up. Renee turned her face over her shoulder again, eyes wide. “Daddy! That’s not… Why?”
Bob took a step into the living room. Before he answered his little girl, he deliberately took his right hand into his left, massaging the palm. On the monitor, Renee’s eyes went straight to her daddy’s enormous right hand, the spanking hand, as Bob visibly prepared himself to give her the punishment she had earned. Again a moment’s fear flashed across her face, and again she replaced it with her hard defiance. Her eyes returned to his, silently renewing the challenge she had just made, of this new element of the Dalton household’s spanking ritual.
Renee had never had to display her bottom to her daddy, either before or after being disciplined. Corner time had featured in her punishments, from the first day when Carol Dalton (real name Ziolkowski) had patiently told their new ward that when Daddy said to get ready for a spanking, it meant going to stand in the corner to wait for him. There she should think about what she had done to end up here, about to be upended over Daddy’s knee, her bottom about to be bared and then given the strict lesson it had earned from his firm hand.
Bob made her take down her panties after she had laid herself over his knee, so that he could spank her young bottom on the bare, as her rude behavior clearly warranted. Afterward, he always told her to pull up her panties and only then said she might rise and go to her room to consider the question of how to be a better girl.
So, crucially, Renee had never felt the exquisite embarrassment of an inspection by her daddy of her most private places, before a spanking. That would change today, and if the assessor team had modeled the results correctly, a good deal more would change along with it—beginning this very moment with Renee’s anticipated refusal of her daddy’s instruction to take her panties down.
Now Bob spoke, his voice quite stern. “It’s time for us to try something new, honey,” he said, taking another step toward her, so that he stood about six feet away. The simple wooden chair in which he sat to administer Renee’s punishments was against the wall; ordinarily at this stage Renee would have to listen to him taking it from its place and moving it out a few feet, before Bob sat in it and called his little girl to him.
“Eight,” Daria told Bob, glancing at the rising number in the upper right of her screen. Yes, as predicted, the very idea of newness in association with this command to pull her panties down and raise her nightgown had begun to have the desired effect.
“Your mommy and I think we need to try to get through to you some different way, since spanking alone doesn’t seem to be improving your behavior. We think maybe if you feel ashamed of yourself, when you give us that unbecoming attitude of yours, it might sink in that things need to change around here. From now on, before I spank you, and after, I’ll take a look at your bottom, and at your little pussy, too, and we’ll talk about the responsibilities a lovely young lady like you has, when her body has developed, as yours has, so very sweetly.”
Renee’s body visibly tensed. “Seven,” Daria said. She looked at the fight-or-flight scale, which had just ticked up. “Give her a moment.”
Bob paused, looking into Renee’s eyes, still massaging his right hand as a reminder to his little girl of the coming punishment.
“But…” Renee said.
“Go, Carol,” Daria told the mommy who waited at the top of the stairs. Carol began to descend, her footsteps startling Renee, who turned her head a little further to see her mommy enter the living room through the door to the hall. Carol wore a bathrobe over her own nightgown, and had a bright smile on her face that she quickly—and almost theatrically—turned into a frown when she saw Renee in the corner.
“Eight,” Daria said with satisfaction. The presence of Carol would make this transition seem more natural and less menacing, for all its unexpected and lascivious nature.
“Mommy,” Renee instantly pleaded, the hardness of her defiance forgotten with the opportunity to take her case to her other guardian and play the two of them off against one another. “Daddy says he’s going to… to look at me!” She shot Bob a resentful look, but he remained impassive, looking to Carol with slightly raised eyebrows, so that Renee, clearly so sure that her mommy wouldn’t have authorized the inspection, now showed some alarm.
“Nine,” Daria told Bob and Carol.
“That’s right, honey,” Carol said, nodding. “We need to find some way to get through to you. I talked to some of the other mommies, and they said that it might be a good idea to make it clear to you that you’re our little girl this way. The Kimballs inspect Wendy before Mr. Kimball spanks her, and Mrs. Kimball says it’s done a world of good.”
“Ten,” Daria said. “She’s wet.”
“Wendy…” Renee said. “Wendy gets spanked?”
It represented the key moment, and Daria hoped Renee’s potential owners would watch it over and over: the instant an Oak Street girl realized her friends shared the special, embarrassing secret that even as eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds they still received regular bare-bottom discipline. Renee’s eyes went wide and she swallowed hard, before her face returned to its bratty demeanor.
“Yes, honey,” Carol said. “Just like you. Now go ahead and pull your panties down. Daddy and I will both inspect you now.”