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A Shameful Punishment by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

“I told him everything I knew,” Katrina said in a whisper, hoping desperately that even if Jay didn’t care that she would tell him about Halvorson, hearing how thorough her betrayal had been would move him to… to pity? No, of course not. To anger? Wrath?

“Oh, God,” she cried, when Jay made no reply at all. “Please whip me, sir. Please.”

“You’ll be whipped, Katrina,” Jay said, his voice becoming even colder. “Don’t worry about that. The guard knows how to punish treason.”

A wail broke from her chest, then, of pure, searing fear, and then thoughts and feelings too complicated to grasp or even to sort out one from the other rushed into Katrina’s mind and heart—physically, it seemed for a long instant in which rational thought became impossible, in her head and her chest.

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Sir, I can’t. I’ll tell you… I told him… I’ll help… I’m…”

Could she say she was sorry? Katrina was sorry—that represented so large a part of the emotions she had felt since that very first time with Halvorson that it felt like ambient noise, like the rushing wind that any other impression had to shout over to be heard in her mental soundscape.

But could she say it?

Halvorson had told her to say it.

“I’m sorry, Jay. Sir… I’m so sorry.”

“If you think that makes a difference, agna, any more than your desire to tell me everything does,” Jay replied, “you don’t understand me, or what you got yourself into when you accepted my leather on your body, the day you came to me.”

“But…” She had needed the whip, hadn’t she, a moment before? The way Jay had whipped her when he took her virginities, in the underground chamber in San Francisco.

Not the way the Pretorian Guard punished treason, whatever that was, for she had only ever known the civilized face of the secret, world-saving organization she had joined. Ostia girls whispered about punishments meted out for real disobedience, for real crimes against the guard: girls brought before the council in the mithraeum for remedial discipline, tied to whipping frames and punished for hours and hours, with something called the penitential cane, and with the cock.

You let an enemy agent put you in his ass-fucking machine. You peed in your panties for him. You let him whip you harder than Jay ever had, and you screamed with pleasure when he allowed you to come. When he said that you had to lick his asshole until he decided you had done it enough, that you had to take his cock in your anus, as hard as he wanted to give it to you, because you were a dirty whore who had disgraced her family, and they would hear about it if you didn’t obey… you came, and came, and came.

But the way her leo spoke to her now made Katrina think that if she thought she had feared him her first three nights—and if she thought she felt alarm at her two subsequent initiations, when to reach nupta she had served two bridegrooms at once while Jay looked on approvingly; when to reach agna, in Rome, she had pleased the open-legged priestess while three men took turns in her ass—and if, above all, she had been scared when Rich Halvorson had strapped her into the metal frame of the device that pounded her poor anus with an enormous rubber cock—she had not understood what she had signed up for, when she had let Daria put on her neck the collar, around her waist the belt, around her wrists and ankles the cuffs of the Order of Ostia.

The guard knows how to punish treason.

Daria’s words, in Katrina’s mind, then, that first day: “You belong to your masters, now. If you fail in their trust, they will know how to punish you.” The frisson that had gone through Katrina’s whole body took hold of her again, over the bench deep below Manhattan.

Oh, whip me. Please, but… but not like that. Not like he did. Not like the others will, when they take me to pay the price of my treason.

Jay’s icy voice went on, though, and the burning of the mastix didn’t fall upon her bottom.

“An intelligent girl like you, though, knows that your punishment isn’t going to begin for quite a while. You know that, Katrina, don’t you? That I’m not here to punish you?”

His voice had turned warm and wistful again, and it made Katrina sob, “Yes, sir.”

“No,” Jay said more softly, moving closer to her again, standing over her upturned backside. “I’m here to understand.”

“B—” Katrina started, meaning to say again that she would tell him everything, that Halvorson had told her to tell him everything, that she didn’t know what that meant but she wanted her owner, her leo, to know it all, now that it was over and she must go and receive the terrible discipline the Pretorian Guard prepared for girls like Katrina Cole.

But the word of protest died on her lips and became a long, piercing, unformed cry of forced pleasure. Jay had seized her pussy just as roughly as he, the other, the one whose name Katrina now pushed from her mind in wrenching self-disgust, ever had. He rubbed her clit so hard… too hard… but the pain felt right… and his thumb, pressing against her anus, claiming that shameful part of her—no, reclaiming it and taking it back for himself…

She came so hard, and so long, and Jay kept going, two fingers now inside her pussy, seeking her g-spot unerringly and making the orgasms come in batches, while Katrina wordlessly screamed out her penitence, writhed on the bench, begged him to stop. He didn’t stop until she had started to weep with the excess of pleasure, with its turn to displeasure, to a feeling that she never wanted pleasure again. Katrina lay limp over the bench when he took his slippery fingers from her pussy, tears pooling on the stone floor under her face where it overhung the end of the padded surface.

“Now,” Jay said, returning to the cold, stern tone. “Start talking. But not about what you did, or what you told him. Tell me about his cock.”

“What?” Katrina couldn’t even figure out whether she’d heard him correctly, or if her memories of him and of Halvorson had somehow become intertwined and tangled into a fantasy that had risen to overtake the horrible reality of the interrogation room.

“You heard me. Does your handler have a big cock?”

A whimper came from her throat. If Jay had asked the question like a jealous lover, or better like a jealous, angry master, she might have known how to answer, how to tell him that she loved him, and had never felt anything for the enemy agent but a shameful need she hadn’t been able to control. But the way he had asked that lewd, degrading question, like a dispassionate official on a fact-gathering assignment, went against every expectation of how this scene would play out—whether those imaginings had fallen on the side of Jay showing her how much she had hurt him or on the side of out-and-out torture, the lash falling on her naked rear end until she screamed out all her confessions.

“I’m waiting, Katrina. We’ve hydrated you well, and we’ll keep doing it by IV if necessary, so you can pee as many times as you need to on the bench before you decide I’ve humiliated you enough. It would be easier to answer the question, though. Does your handler have a big cock?”

Jay sounded bored, now. The casual image of Katrina urinating over the interrogation bench, drenching herself over and over, delivered in that blasé tone pulled a moan from her chest, and she felt her pussy clench and knew he could see how the idea had affected her.

Katrina hung her head. “Yes,” she said quietly. Something in her decided to try for some kind of quiet dignity, now. If Jay meant to humiliate her with questions that had nothing to do with anything important, she would simply answer them.

“Does he use it well?”

The detachment cut through Katrina’s new resolve scant seconds after she had made it. “Oh, God, Jay. Please. Please, don’t.”

“Does he fuck you hard enough, Katrina?”

Why wasn’t the voice from behind her angry?

“Yes!” Yes, he fucks me hard enough. You fuck me hard enough, too. He fucks me hard enough to make me betray the world, because…

His hands on her waist. What? Oh, please… oh, please, no… oh, please… yes…

The head of his big cock, just as big as Halvorson’s, at her pussy, in her pussy, fucking so hard, slamming her down onto the bench, then gone. She pictured him: he must be wearing his red master’s robe—she felt its heavy silken fabric brushing her flanks.

Katrina cried out as the cock pushed against her anus, so well lubricated from her pussy that Jay could drive in hard, knowing that his agna, his slut, his whore, would open instantly to him—just as she had opened instantly to Rich Halvorson, the enemy, when he had fucked her that first time after the pee had gushed into her lacy panties.

Somehow she knew, because of what he had said a moment before about the hydration, and because of the way it had activated her awareness of her bladder’s fullness, what Jay would do then. She even knew that he would give the command in that same cold voice.

“Pee for me now, Katrina. With my cock in your ass. Show me what you need, you little whore.”

She thought she had screamed before, when he had forced the climaxes on her with his fingers in her pussy. Now, because Jay knew exactly how to give her an anal orgasm, driving her down onto the bench’s padded surface so that somehow his cock in her anus lined up with her g-spot and the clit underneath, the pleasure that tore through her, alongside the relief of letting go with her bladder on his command, made her voice rise in sobbing shrieks of shame and pleasure.

The golden stream gushed from her onto the leather, onto the floor. The rushing sound of it came from her pussy, the streaming sound from the bench, the pattering sound from the floor, and because of the incline of the floor it ran under her toward a little drain she hadn’t noticed, in the corner. Katrina’s face burned the way it had that first time in the CIA safe house with Halvorson—the way it had in the initiation chamber with Jay, when she sucked his cock, when he deflowered her pussy, when he opened her anus.

“Oh, God… Jay… I… I’m so sorry,” she wailed softly.

“You know that doesn’t matter, sweetheart,” Jay said, his voice thick and his cock still hard inside her bottom. “I told you that.”

It doesn’t matter. Not, I don’t care.

You little whore.

Sweetheart.

“But… why…”

Why aren’t you asking me the questions he said you would ask me?

“I can tell he treated you the way a girl like you needs to be treated.”

A whimper from Katrina’s throat. The golden stream, running under the bench. Her pussy clenching and clenching as Jay kept fucking her ass, slowly now but just as deep, just as hard.

A girl like me.

Another orgasm: sobbing again. “Please. Please.”

“What did he do that made you tell him everything?” Cool, detached, even though his hands gripped her flanks so tightly and his cock drove in so hard.

The image came into her mind: the answer. Not an answer she had thought he or anyone else would ask for, or an answer Katrina had even thought she had to give.

She choked it out. “The machine… the… the way… the…”

The way he looked at me, before he told me to get into the frame, with the arm, with the thrusting dildo on the end of the arm.

Jay kept driving into her, like the machine but not like it at all.

“He made me…” Katrina cried. “He put me in it… and it hurt, but he made me beg for it.”

“What did he call it?” Jay asked, his voice scornful now, his hardness unrelenting. “His machine. What did he call it?”

Katrina came again, just from the shameful, brutal simplicity of the words her master made her speak, the degradation to which he made her give voice.

“The anal machine,” she whispered. “He called it the anal machine.”

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