Serving in Shame by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Beatrice couldn’t tell if the colonel’s hand hurt more than Miss Frando’s strap or not, because so many other things about the spanking made it seem so much worse to her. Above all, the audience of suitors, watching her punished, naked, over her guardian’s knee, seemed to make the pain worse. She had her eyes tightly closed, and she tried to grip the hard, square legs of the chair tighter to distract herself with that different sensation, but it seemed to her she could feel all of their eyes looking.

At me. At the naughty girl. Spanked with no clothes on, her little breasts bouncing, her little bottom squirming, her little pussy showing between the backs of her thighs. Crying out with each hard swat from her guardian’s hand. Bucking uselessly against his left hand on her waist, his right leg over her knees as her bottom turns red and she feels likes she’s riding upon a seat of fire.

Inside her head, though, one particular pair of eyes, a pair behind her, assumed more importance than all the others, and made the question of whether this punishment was worse or better than her whipping in the classroom even more difficult. The tall man in the red work shirt could see. He could see her red bottom, and he could definitely see her pussy, especially when she moved her hips the inch or so allowed her by the colonel’s firm grip on her.

Shouldn’t the idea of any man watching her spanking make the terrible lesson in obedience worse? Why should Beatrice feel as if a part of her felt better to know that man’s eyes could rove freely over her naked body?

To know that after the spanking the thing that had just happened to Heather would befall Beatrice, too: the colonel taking off his clothes; Beatrice reaching back…

How could she do that? With the whole audience watching intently? How had Heather done it? And Heather hadn’t even had to offer a bottom that blazed like the sun, a bottom turned bright red over her guardian’s knee.

She cried out, and she sobbed, her tears flowing freely, dripping out of her closed eyes. The colonel kept on spanking and spanking her, right in the center of her bottom. His big hand covered almost the whole of both her cheeks, and it struck almost the same place every time. The pain made her body move helplessly, trying to escape, and her sobs came as much from the way none of her efforts could move her bottom an inch from where her guardian had upended it for this terrible lesson as from the searing agony of each swat.

Suddenly, though, Colonel Quinst stopped, and put his hand on her bottom gently, and rubbed her there. Beatrice opened her eyes in surprise and alarm, to see the pool of tears she had made on the stage. She gave a little cry at the very different sensation of her guardian’s gentle touch, for in an instant the pain began to change into that much more ambiguous sensation she had known in the classroom—the sensation she felt certain Mrs. Quinst had felt, that night at her guardian’s home, after the colonel had given her the paddle for playing with herself.

“Let’s see that bottom!” a man called from the audience.

Another suitor yelled from the back, “Ride her ass good, Colonel! Give her what she needs!”

Beatrice’s back heaved with sobs that began now to grow quieter. Her mind, to her surprise, had become strangely tranquil. For a few more seconds, the colonel just kept rubbing her bottom, his hand lingering just a bit down at the lower part, but not pushing his fingers in where she, despite the humiliating circumstances, suddenly felt she might like him to push them. What would the man in the red work shirt think if he saw how Beatrice responded to those fingers? What would the blond man—the nasty one, Beatrice called him to herself—think?

“It’s time, dear,” said Mrs. Quinst from behind the colonel’s chair.

That brought a renewed sob from Beatrice, as she understood what her mistress meant.

Time for the bench, and the kneeling, and the bending.

Time for the reaching and the offering.

Then, when her guardian had done that shameful thing… Time to meet my suitors.

The colonel lifted his leg, and both of the Quinsts helped her stand up on shaky legs. Mrs. Quinst held her hand and led her to the bench.

“Kneel, Beatrice, just like Heather did,” Mistress said, urging Beatrice around to face the kneeler and the sloping, padded surface. Beyond the bench sat the five suitors, but Beatrice felt she could never look at them in a million years, not even the man in the red work shirt. The nasty one sat next to him, and even if she had wanted to look at the dark-haired man she would have had to see the nasty one, too. The thought made her heart jump and her stomach turn over.

She remembered the last thing Heather had done, before the Georgars had gotten the blonde girl up and led her back to her seat, to sit on her towel with a bottom that must, Beatrice thought, feel very strange to her after Mr. Georgar had used it. Heather had met her suitors, and Beatrice must meet her own, too, though from her seat on the stage she hadn’t had a view of what it meant. She had learned a little about how to please her guardian’s penis with her mouth, but the idea of five of them making her do that set her knees wobbling so much that she turned at her mistress’ instruction and sank almost gratefully to her knees.

Whatever gratitude she felt turned immediately to blazing shame, though, because the suitors in the audience applauded and cheered at the sight of her punished bottom.

“Nice”s and “Woo”s echoed through the hall.

“That’s a red ass!”

“Make her spread it!”

“Bend her over!”

“Show us that little hole, Beatrice! You’ve got a big cock to take!”

Beatrice sobbed at the sounds, and now, as if some part of her mind or her heart had a will of its own, she did lift her eyes from the black padding of the bench to look at the man in the red work shirt.

His handsome face—even more handsome than the colonel’s she thought, youthful and somehow also wise beyond its years—didn’t wear a smile, now. His expression seemed to her one of care and of concern. Beatrice felt her forehead crease, and she looked down at the top of the bench, at her hands resting on the upholstered surface: hands that would in just a moment have to reach back and do what Heather had done. She felt Mrs. Quinst’s hands on her shoulders.

“You must bend over, now, dear,” her mistress said. “I know it’s hard. Just bend over and reach back and show your guardian you’re learning to follow the Good Way.”

The nasty one—Beatrice could recognize his voice, now—said, “Get ready to spread those cheeks, bed girl.”

Another of her suitors, who seemed a year or two older than the one in the red work shirt, said from her other side, “Go ahead, Beatrice. It’s time. You’ve got a bottom-fucking coming.”

A sob broke from her chest, and she looked up—that strange new bond with the dark-haired man seeming to take over again—and she saw that he too had a furrow in his brow. He gave her another of his little nods, the same kind as when she had walked to the chair where her guardian had spanked her bare backside in front of a whole assembly hall of young, lusty men.

Beatrice let Mrs. Quinst urge her downward, still looking into the brown eyes of the man in the red work shirt.

“That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”

Another man, one of the older ones, clapped, along with much of the audience behind Beatrice. The nasty one clapped, too. “Nice,” he said. “Put those hands back, now. Show the colonel what a guardian gets.”

She couldn’t help it: she looked at him, trying to shoot him a reproachful look. The blond man had a scornful look in his eyes, but she could also see desire in his face, and she felt certain that he had gotten hard between his legs. That made her look down again, because she wanted to look at the dark-haired man—because she wanted to look at his lap, to see if she could see the outline of his penis, rigid and long, Beatrice found herself shamelessly hoping, for her.

Mrs. Quinst, stooping down a little now, stroked Beatrice’s shoulders.

“Reach back, Beatrice,” she said. “Offer the colonel your bottom.”

Beatrice heard a low whining, whimpering sound come from her nose with each breath. Somehow her hands started to move from the front corners of the bench, backward, around. She gave a little cry when her fingers touched her burning, punished bottom.

“Nice and wide, now,” Colonel Quinst said behind her. “Betty, go ahead and lube her for me, please. No, Beatrice, wider than that. That’s better. Good girl.”

She hadn’t even realized she had started to spread her spanked bottom-cheeks, but with a frightened cry at the feeling of her mistress’ fingers coated in something cool and slippery, she clutched at them now. Her head reared back with the sudden discomfort in the place where her guardian had punished her. Though she kept her eyes tightly shut she felt she could feel her suitors’ eyes on her burning face as they watched her having her anus prepared for her final, most shameful defloration.

Distantly, she heard the colonel taking his uniform off. Everything seemed mercifully far away now, all of a sudden, except the idea of the man in the red work shirt, the suitor who cared. Beatrice hung her head, offered her bottom to the assembly hall, heard the men in the audience call out things about how little and tight it looked, how her guardian would enjoy fucking her there. She started and cried out when she felt the colonel’s hard penis against the tiny aperture, felt his hands encircling her waist as he began to push it inside.

Her hips bucked against the edge of the bench, and she realized that something in its design, at least for a girl of her height, placed her aching clit right against something firm, underneath the padding. It felt even more arousing than the edge of Miss Frando’s desk had—and almost as stimulating as Mrs. Quinst’s tongue.

She cried out, for as he began to fuck her tightest hole, the colonel drove her pussy against that place. The heat from her spanking and the terrible fullness in her bottom seemed to inflame her clit beyond anything she had known even in the Quinsts’ bed two nights ago.

“She’s coming,” said one of the older suitors, a laugh in his voice.

“Oh, yeah, she is,” the nasty one said.

“Good girl,” said another voice. Beatrice opened her eyes wide and wild, and she saw that the voice had come—just as she had thought it might have—from the man in the red work shirt. Somehow she hadn’t dared to hope that he would call her a good girl as she came with her guardian’s penis in her bottom. The sight of his face, the little smile back on his lips, and the thought of his own hard cock and what she would have to do when she met him… together they drove her over the edge and into her climax.

Now the whole audience seemed to understand that the girl they had watched spanked and then seen spread her bottom for fucking had just shown how very wanton and needy she was.

“Oh, yeah!” and “Woohoo!” and applause all came from behind her, but Beatrice’s eyes locked on the dark-haired man as she felt the colonel’s cock moving in and out with authority, filling her and making her cry out again and again.