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Home / Stormy Night Publications Newsletter / Her Shameful Service by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Her Shameful Service by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

My head started to shake before I even realized it. I had to bite my lip to keep from instantly giving in, and my hands opened and closed over and over as the struggle inside me, between mind and body, grew more and more desperate. Tears sprang from the corners of my eyes at the distressing truth I couldn’t escape—that reason and logic lay on the side of submission, of giving in simply to spare myself the pain that would represent only a token of futility.

I thought my mistress would give me a moment to reconsider. I thought she would ask me a final time to do as she had instructed and commit the terribly shameful act she required. My fingertips itched, even within the tight balls of my fists, and I didn’t know, really, whether when Mistress Franla demanded my obedience a final time I would find the will to continue defying her. How dreadful a thing was it, after all, simply to spread the globes of my backside for the warm tingle of her device?

But my mistress didn’t ask again. Her eyes went from my face downward. She put her left hand on the belt that stretched across my belly, holding me down to the horrid training chair. She raised the terrifying paddle high, and she brought it down swiftly and with very evident skill.

When the agent had paddled my bottom in the basement of the village house of my village on Kamnos—and even when he had whipped me on my thighs, where I had a good deal less padding than I did on my hind cheeks—the pain had taken a moment to reach me. If any gap of time intervened, between the slap of the leather blade of that barbarian instrument on my newly smooth pussy and the blinding agony that shot through my entire nervous system, I had no awareness of it. Nor could I discern even an instant between the awful torment between my thighs and the full-throated scream I let out in response.

Somewhere, in the far-off sector to which my brain had fled, I understood that as far as a sheer quantity of pain went, the Trestrimarian cunt paddle didn’t hurt as much as the electronic effect the Vionians called the punisher did. The punisher didn’t leave any room for detachment. The instantaneous, unrelenting pain of it overwhelmed my body so completely that even when it went on for seconds, as Agent Delvik had made it do, I couldn’t find the breath to scream.

But from the first lash of the cunt paddle on my pussy, I understood that this agony was, in its own terrible, special way, much worse. Above all, it seemed supremely dreadful because my mistress delivered it to that most sensitive part of my body—the part that to my distress I found myself thinking deserved correction and needed chastisement. That part of me—my pussy, my quim, my cunt—had over and over shown its terrible waywardness, when touched by the fondling hands of those into whose power I had come. Even after, indeed especially after, those hands had punished me, my pussy responded not with defiance but with humiliating, melting submission.

I screamed, and I writhed against the restraints. I had hoped, as I watched Mistress Franla approach with the cunt paddle, that I could demonstrate the strength of my will by holding still. The leather straps binding me to the training chair meant that no struggle would save me from my punishment, and I had supposed, and even felt a bit of confidence, that I would have the fortitude simply to endure the torture, gazing defiantly into my mistress’ eyes when she deigned to turn her gaze on me.

That foolish resolve vanished the moment she brought the paddle down on my pussy the first time. I screamed and sobbed and writhed, tears flowing down my cheeks in continuous rivulets. My first scream became a howl when I saw Mistress Franla raise her arm again, without any pause at all, and bring it down.

I lost all control. I had just peed in the nice bathroom, but I felt my bladder let go after the second lash. I heard a wetness in the slap of the third one that would have heated my cheeks if my body hadn’t already felt feverishly hot from the shame that went along with the agony.

My fists uncurled, and I took desperate hold of the halves of my bottom. The pain from my pussy meant that I barely even noticed the different discomfort that came from my bruised rear cheeks. I pulled them apart, and I felt how shamefully the act exposed me. Mistress Franla looked up, into my eyes. I felt relief rush into my chest. My mistress raised the paddle again, tightened her grip on the belt, and returned her attention to my pussy.

“No!” I cried.

She brought the horrible thing down again, just as hard as the previous lashes. Then she spoke, and I heard her voice clearly somehow despite the screaming, which seemed at this point to emanate from some other requisitioned, auctioned, owned bed girl.

“It’s… very… important… Wetquim,” she said, whipping me all the while so that my body bucked uncontrollably against the chair’s restraints. “That… you… learn… this… lesson… thoroughly.”

By the end of her sentence, to my own surprise, where my consciousness had taken up residence off in the far reaches of the galaxy, I had stopped struggling. Each new lash brought a spasm all the way through my body at the renewal of the terrible, mounting pain, but my limbs no longer strained against the leather straps.

I held my bottom cheeks, spreading them obediently for my mistress. I sobbed quietly at the torment between my legs as I watched her return the cunt paddle to the cabinet and get the depilator again.

“Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said, looking into my eyes, “I’m afraid the real lesson has only just started.”

She touched the warm edge to the lowest part of my private lips, and then she moved it lower. I cried out, a single sound that somehow conveyed too many feelings. Shame, and discomfort, and fear, but above all, to my horror, a need so urgent I had to bite my tongue to keep from begging my mistress to touch me where I knew much too well it would give relief.

“This part of you is special, Chalondra,” she said, her voice calm and even as if she wanted me to contrast her impassivity with the surges of desperation traveling through my limbs with every degrading movement of the device between my bottom cheeks.

I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, feeling my forehead crease very deeply with the effort of not crying out—or, worse, begging Mistress Franla to tell me why the most embarrassing part of my body was also somehow special. The worst part lay in the feeling, which my mistress had apparently mastered the art of imparting to the girls she trained, that I already knew the answer. That if I only had the strength of mind to face the wantonness of my nature, I would see exactly why that tiny, wrinkly opening between my hind cheeks had a particular, specific importance in my new life of servitude.

Mistress Franla moved the depilator’s warm edge up and down. I chewed on my lower lip, willing her to be done. I felt her use the towel again, to wipe between my legs, and I let out a little sob at how the moment of friction made me long, despite myself, for more of her attention there.

“Very special,” she murmured, and she put a fingertip there… right there. My eyes flew open, and I saw my mistress gazing down intently at what she had just done—what she was doing, because the finger didn’t remain stationary. No, it moved in a circle, and then it pushed, and I had to close my eyes again so that I wouldn’t see her patient demeanor, the obviousness of her intention. She meant to teach me something, in this dreadful, humiliating way. The finger inside my anus, the one I tightened on but couldn’t expel, carried a lesson with it.

In the darkness behind my eyelids, I came up against the edge of the terrible knowledge—a dawning understanding of the specialness my mistress meant. Her finger, moving gently in and out, making me whimper, making my hips buck against the belt around my waist, making my mistress have to wipe my melting pussy again with the towel… that mysterious lesson met in my mind with the other thing I felt so desperate to understand.

Fucking. It must have something to do with fucking, whatever fucking proved to be. For the first time I confronted the violence of the word itself. Fuck. A single syllable… a harsh, short way to talk about something only adults discussed, and, it seemed, that they discussed in polite society only with other, softer words. The thing husbands and wives did in bed—that, apparently, masters did to their concubines, too.

“I’m going to start training this special place right now, Chalondra,” Mistress Franla said, beginning to accompany the dreadful invading finger with the very gentle, slow-moving pressure of two fingers, just where she had punished me so severely. “You’re going to learn to climax with my finger in your anus.”

Suddenly I felt the desperate need to see my mistress, as if the sight of her face might help me understand these dark matters. I opened my eyes, and instantly they widened to what felt like the size of dinner bowls as I saw the expression on my mistress’ face. Her blue eyes, the color of cool water, seemed paradoxically to burn with meaning as they gazed into mine.

The seriousness there, the solemnity, the passion, even, stimulated a wayward impulse to giggle. At that moment, in the wake of the terrible agony she had brought between my thighs with the barbarian instrument of discipline and now the presence of her soothing fingers, I wondered if I could help coming. My hips jerked, my body trying to thrust the tiny, tingling button of my clit against the softly rubbing presence. The idea that I might have to learn to climax that way seemed irresistibly humorous.

The next moment, though, to my chagrin, I began to understand. I wondered how I could have dared to say—to think, even—that Mistress Franla couldn’t break me. She had broken me with the frightful paddle, and she obviously intended to break me again with her searching, demanding, impossibly skillful fingers.

I let out a deep sob. She had told me, hadn’t she? She had given me the most important lesson of all, when she had seemingly yielded to me, and admitted—or so it had seemed—that I might have spoken the truth, that she might never break me.

Both things can be true, I understood, the blood rushing to my face as the thought flashed into my mind. She can break me over and over, and yet, if I choose the hardest path, I will never be broken.

The caressing, knowing fingers, the ones higher up, moistened with my own liquid need, did not move with anything like the insistence of the lone finger further down. That one pushed further inside the more secret opening, much further. It invaded my most private place more deeply. It impaled me so completely that the cry I let out—at the expression on Mistress Franla’s face, at the gentle fondling of my pussy, and above all at the terrible motion of the finger in my anus—had much more of shame and fear than it did of pleasure.

“You need to come, Wetquim, don’t you?” she asked, her voice as tender as the two fingertips rubbing soft circles around my clit. “You need it very, very much, don’t you?”

For a moment I hardly noticed that she had shifted to my horrid service name once again, and then the awareness dawned.

She will break you again and again, to make you the kind of bed girl your master likes to fuck.

My body tried to come, and my mind tried to stop the climax. The idea of feeling that terrible, much-too-welcome release with my mistress’ finger there, training me in the most humiliating possible way, seemed like a kind of breaking from which my spirit could never recover. I had foolishly thought they would train me with pain alone, and I had thought their torments, if I stayed true to myself, would only strengthen my resolve.

But the overwhelming need, the dark pleasure, overcame the feeble barrier of my will as if it were a wall made of sand. I threw my head back and screamed out my irresistible climax, my limbs writhing against the leather straps and the sensation of binding and restraint bringing new, more intense waves of pleasure with each twist of my knees, my arms, my hips.

Screams became sobs, of pleasure and of shame. My mistress’ fingers grew more gentle, and then they left me, and I heard her washing her hands in the little basin I had noticed, right next to the cabinet. I opened my eyes to see her there, intent on her task, that very concentration bringing a new wave of warmth to my cheeks.

“You did well, Chalondra,” she said, without turning around. “Your master will, I fear, be quite demanding tonight, but if you obey him you will find that most of your fears are idle. You’ll be quite sore tomorrow, I’m certain, but a healthy, spirited girl like you will recover quickly. And I believe I can persuade his lordship not to use you again until you’re ready to please him without any chance of lasting harm. You represent a significant investment, after all, and his lordship has placed his confidence in my judgment as to the course of your training.”

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