“No,” I said weakly, but when Cal pulled me further, his eyes still locked on mine, my fingers just let go of the webbing of the belt, as if he had cast some sort of spell over me. Being in his arms, even if he had put them around me for such a humiliating, alarming reason, seemed to make it difficult to imagine doing anything but following his calm—but also terrifying—instructions.
You’re going over my knee. My ears had heard the words, and my brain had processed them, but I seemed to feel them in my body, too, in the most distressing way. My stomach twisted and an electric current seemed to run over my skin as I felt Cal suddenly, shockingly lift me into the air and upend me like a sack of potatoes, over his shoulder.
“But… wait…” Words seemed to come out of my mouth without any meaning behind them except that I had absolutely no idea how I wanted to respond. I struggled a little bit as Cal, with his left arm wrapped securely around my upper thighs, opened the door from the garage into the house. I could see only his muscular legs in the faded denim of his jeans and the concrete floor of the garage, and then the two steps up into what I could tell from the tiled floor had to be his kitchen.
I’m going over his knee. I swallowed hard while the neat lines on the very clean kitchen floor went by below me. I thought I should probably feel unsafe, like I would fall off his shoulder or he would even hurt me by carelessly knocking me against a doorframe, but I didn’t. The idea of Cal’s knee had some sort of power—a kind of terrible fascination that I could feel not just in my mind but in every inch of my body. I felt my face pucker in dismay as I realized that part of me desperately wanted to know what it felt like, even though I knew whatever Cal would do when he got me there would definitely hurt.
The kitchen floor ended. I got a glimpse of wood cabinets, the bottom of a refrigerator. Then the tile gave way to a wood floor, quickly followed by a red rug. A wild part of my brain couldn’t help noting that Cal had decided to give me the chance to inspect his housekeeping skills very closely, and he had obviously vacuumed today, maybe in my honor. For some reason, the idea added a flash of heat to my already very warm face.
He cleaned his house for you, and you couldn’t help disrespecting him, could you?
Everything had started to happen very quickly, like in a dream where the transitions make absolutely no sense. Suddenly Cal was turning, sitting, and shifting me from his shoulder downward until my upper body landed on a couch and my legs were draped over his startlingly muscular thigh.
I felt his left arm descend across my waist, holding me in place, and then I sensed the skirt of my dress rising. With a start I understood that Cal had begun to pull it up without further ceremony of any kind, and then time seemed to stop its breakneck pace and stand still as all the resistance that had fled when he had pulled me out of the truck returned.
“Wait!” I tried again, but the word had just as much effect as it had a few moments before: none at all. The physical side of my attempt to avoid the terrible humiliation of having my skirt raised and my horrid training panties exposed got just about as far as the verbal side. I had started to struggle much too late, and so I writhed under Cal’s restraining left arm without his apparently even noticing. I felt his hand curl around my hip and pull me in a little closer to the rock-hard abs I could feel through his red-checked button-down shirt, but that could well have had more to do with getting me into exactly the posture he wanted. It definitely didn’t stop the steadily progressing lifting of my skirt.
I reached back with my right arm, seeking out the hand on my dress, trying to push it away. That hand, huge and strong, found my wrist instead and bent it back behind me, so that Cal could capture it with his left hand, repositioning that arm a little to exert downward pressure. At least he’d had to let my skirt fall again, and that seemed like a tiny victory, but then I felt him pulling it up once more.
“Don’t!” I yelled. “Just… just… don’t!” I accompanied the cry with a desperate attempt to writhe away, but Cal bent my arm just a little further in an obvious warning. With a yelp of pain I went limp for a moment, at which Cal reached down and took hold of the hem of my skirt again.
I kicked out with my feet, instinctively, desperately trying to interfere with the process that way since my upper body could apparently do nothing. I found that Cal had placed his right leg over the backs of my calves so that I couldn’t even move my feet far enough to make the slightest difference—except maybe that he repositioned that leg a little to make sure I couldn’t get my feet free. He had the hem of my skirt to the middle of the backs of my thighs, and then he had it to my waist, and I knew he could see the thick white cotton of my awful new panties. A little sob burst from my chest.
“Jake told me you were in training panties,” I heard his deep voice say from what felt like a million miles above me. “But he told me to take them down, too, if you needed it.”
Another attempt to wriggle out of his strong grasp just earned me a further little bend of my arm. With a sob I understood just how good at controlling a woman’s body Cal Perkins was. I could sense in the way he moved my wrist that he would never actually harm me; he intended to apply exactly the pressure he needed to apply to get me to obey him. He had decided that I needed this lesson, and he meant to deliver it.
I felt him tuck the hem of the skirt underneath my wrist. I thought he would take hold of the waistband of the panties, and I felt my forehead crease in expectation of the feeling of having them pulled down. Instead, I felt his enormous hand on my bottom, just holding my still sore cheeks through the fabric.
“I’m not going to take these down right away, though,” he said.
“What?” I asked, startled. To my surprise and dismay, instead of spanking me Cal began rubbing my bottom gently. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“I know you’re in training panties because you’re learning about what you need, down here,” he said quietly. His deep voice had dropped in volume to what seemed like a gentle rumble. “That includes punishment, and I heard you got a helping of that from Jake’s family strap last night. In a moment, I’m going to take a look at what your bottom looks like after a thorough whipping. First, though, we’re going to talk about your little pussy.”
I couldn’t help it. The combination of his gentle hand, just stroking the little cheeks, with his unexpected words sent a jolt of arousal through my system, radiating from my clit outward. It made my hips jerk hard over his thigh, pressing my bottom further into his hand, and it drew a tiny whimper from my lips.
“That’s it,” Cal said. “Good girl. There are a lot more kinds of discipline than just the strap or a spanking, darlin’. I hear you learned about that, too, last night.”
[divider]He didn’t speak again for a few moments. He let his breathtakingly skillful right hand do the talking. I could tell he meant me to remain hyperconscious of the thick fabric of the humiliating panties while at the same time he gave me a little of the friction I so desperately needed, close enough to the place I really needed it to make my breathing ragged and labored. Mortifying little jerks from my hips, moving me over his thigh, revealed far too much about the effect his hand had on me, but I couldn’t stop the tiny spasms no matter how hard I tried.
No, said that distant observer, resuming her place to the side. You’re not really trying, are you? It feels way too good, doesn’t it?
“Please,” I whispered. “Please… don’t…”
“Don’t what, darlin’?” Cal asked, his voice soft but still so deep it made me feel faint. He spread his hand, so that he could hold my whole bottom in its gentle grasp, and squeezed softly. The keening, whimpering noise that came from my throat sounded like a kitten mewling for milk.
“Don’t do this?” he said in that same low rumble, and he moved his hand. He put two fingers further down, and his thumb up against the place where the training panties covered the valley between my whipped bottom cheeks. He squeezed again, more firmly this time, and he moved the tips of the two fingers right where I needed them so badly—the spot I had both hoped and feared he would put them—rubbing urgently so that even through the thick white cotton I could feel the longed-for friction against my tingling clit.
I cried out, and the bucking of my hips over Cal’s knee up to that moment seemed like nothing compared to the way I moved at this new, terribly possessive caress. I thrust my backside up into his hand, feeling the tension in my bent arm, my captured legs. To my dismay the sensation of restraint, of being held immobile and vulnerable by the muscular body of a gorgeous man, brought its own fierce surge of arousal.
“Should I take your training panties down, Grace?” he asked. “Will you be a good girl for me when I teach you about your pussy and your little bottom?”
“Oh… oh… oh, God…” I sobbed, because Cal hadn’t stopped moving his fingers over my clit as he asked me this utterly degrading question. “Oh, no… oh… oh, please…”
“You’d better go ahead and start calling me sir,” he instructed me. “Same as you do with your foster father.”
I closed my eyes and just breathed, panting, gasping, because I couldn’t think straight enough even to muster words like oh and please. My body had betrayed me completely, and I shamelessly tried to ride Cal’s hand, moving my hips over the rock-hard solidity of his thigh in a rhythm that I knew must seem to him unmistakably sexual. My face burned as I pictured him looking down at the mortifying spectacle of a virgin on her first date with an older man, moving her pantied backside lewdly in his grasp, demonstrating precisely how badly she needs fucking.
Teach you about your pussy and your little bottom… you better start calling me sir.
The shameful memories from the night before, in Jake and Shelly’s living room, rose into my mind to resonate humiliatingly with what Cal was doing to my pussy here over his knee, in his own living room.
I sobbed as I remembered, and compared. My pussy? But wasn’t Cal already showing me that it wasn’t really my pussy—not anymore? Had Jake told him that the pussy I had called my own had come into my foster father’s possession last night, and Cal should feel free to share it with him, as my approved suitor?
“Oh, God…” I whispered. “I’m… I’m…”
Words had returned, but they were even more humiliating. I had no idea how it could possibly be true, but I could feel a climax coming, despite the infuriating thickness of the training panties and the way they kept Cal’s fingers from doing what I really wanted them to do.
He took his hand away. I cried out in mid thrust, and then I went completely limp over his thigh. Cal let go of my wrist, and instead of struggling I brought it forward so that I could cover my burning face with both my hands, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. I sobbed into my hands, in embarrassment but also, and much more, in frustration and desperation.
“That’s your first lesson, darlin’,” Cal said quietly, and he put the hand that had just almost made me come on my back, under my dress, and rubbed a slow circle there, as if comforting me at having lost a toy, or having two scoops of ice cream fall off their cone into the dirt. “Would you like to ask me for your second one?”
I shook my head violently, feeling the backs of my hands move against the slightly scratchy wool blend of the couch’s upholstery with the motion of my face.
Cal chuckled, not a mean sound but rather a gentle, sympathetic one.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” he said, and kept rubbing my back. “If you want your second lesson, all you have to do is say Sir, please take my panties down and teach me my lesson.”
Oh, no. How could he… how could he possibly put it that way? I could never speak those words. Never. I felt my face crumple into a theatrical pout. To my horror, my hips decided to have their wordless say: they jerked again, seeking for the hand that had deserted my pussy and sending the ghost of a jolt of pleasure traveling out from my clit as if to tell me how badly I needed to come.
I thought again of Jake and Shelly, of how she had had to beg for her husband’s hard cock in her pussy. I thought of how the sound of her plea had driven me frantic with my own need down there, where part of me had begun to yearn for Cal to put his own rigid penis.
I’m pretty sure that’s not true. He hadn’t said, You’re lying when you shake your head, because I could feel the heat of your pussy through your panties.
Oh, God. Had I gotten them wet? Had I soaked through even that thick fabric?
He shifted his left arm to put it across my back and take hold of my waist under my dress, lightly but with enough firmness to make me feel that he intended to keep controlling my movement as necessary. The combination of the idea—control, training—with the touch of his fingers on the soft skin of my hip sent an electric shiver through me.
That little tingling sensation, though, gave way an instant later to a surge of helpless need and pleasure as Cal’s right hand went back between my thighs, with much more force than he had used before. I cried out as he took me into the grasp of his strong fingers, his thumb pressing even more firmly against the cotton that hid the dark crease of my ass, going so far that I felt the fabric against the tiny pucker of my anus. At the same time he rubbed my clit, and I sobbed both at the rough caress and at the unmistakably wet sound it made.
I rode his thigh like a jockey on a racehorse, it felt like, my backside obeying the urgent rhythm of his fingers.
“Oh… oh… oh, God…” I whispered. “Please… please…”
He stopped again. The delicious, shameful pleasure it seemed he could give me even in my training panties went away. I cried out pitifully in frustration and unsatisfied need.
“Is there anything you’d like to say?” Cal asked quietly. I could imagine another man—Jake, even—saying it teasingly, or even mockingly. Cal just asked it as a question. A very important question, from the gentle seriousness of his tone.
“Oh, God,” I repeated. “Oh… I…”
My voice fell to a whisper, as if I wanted to make sure even I couldn’t hear my words.
“Please, sir…” I bit my lip. I couldn’t really say it, could I? I couldn’t beg to have my panties taken down, could I?
“Yes?” Cal asked quietly.
“Please…” I swallowed very hard, then breathed, as rapidly as I could, “Takedownmypanties andgivememysecondlesson.”
His right hand returned to my bottom, but only to hold the little cheeks, possessively but without any of the friction my body so desperately longed for. Now his voice became just the tiniest bit teasing—but not to make fun of me, I could tell; more as if he wanted us to share a naughty secret.
“What’s that, darlin’?” he asked. “I couldn’t really hear.”
I squeezed my eyes shut even harder. My heart pounded so hard in my chest I felt sure Cal could hear it. I bit my lip and heard a little whine come from my nose. I heard the words as if they came from another girl who had happened to end up over her suitor’s knee. The girl’s voice sounded tiny, but nevertheless distinct.
“Please, sir, take down my panties and teach me my second lesson.”
I felt the words before I heard them; I didn’t know if that was because I wanted Cal to say them so badly that I somehow started to hallucinate his voice or simply because my body had fallen so thoroughly under the spell of his that the special, crucial phrase had become as physical as it was verbal.
“Good girl.”
He said the words slowly, softly, and very distinctly, and he rubbed my bottom cheeks through the training panties at the same time. It felt so controlling, patronizing, and possessive that my face flashed as hot as the inside of a star. At the same time, abandoning any attempt at keeping myself in check, I arched my back and shamelessly pressed my ass further into his grasp—his mastery, his dominance, his training.
He moved that hand, and he took the waistband of my underwear into the grip of his fingers. I whimpered as I felt it, the most intimate skin-to-skin contact he had made with me. The sound from deep in my throat brought a word floating up into my consciousness, because I didn’t think another term existed that could describe it properly.
Submissive. I had just made a sound so submissive, so compliant and yielding, that I knew Cal could be forgiven for taking it as permission to do with my body—with my mouth, with my pussy, with my anus—whatever he chose, whether or not he meant to make me feel good, whether or not he intended to teach me anything when he used my body’s virgin openings to make himself feel good.
He pulled my panties down, and I let out another of those mortifyingly submissive whimpers as I felt the air moving against my still-sore bottom and the valley between its little cheeks and even the cleft of my pussy, thanks to the separation of my knees as I lay over Cal’s knee.
I heard a soft tsking come from above me, as Cal took in the sight of my bruised bottom. I bit my lip and let out a whine, from higher up in my head than the place the whimpers had come from, but just as submissive. My hips jerked, and my right hand went reflexively behind me to try to cover my bottom. Once more Cal took hold of my wrist and bent my arm behind me. He obviously had no intention of letting me get in the way of his view of my private places and the marks left by my first old-fashioned punishment.
I had looked too, in the mirror that morning at the department store. I hadn’t been able to help myself, even though Shelly had come into the dressing room to ‘help’ me try on my embarrassing new clothes. I had looked back over my shoulder, trying not to let my foster mother see my curiosity, and I had swallowed hard at the unwelcome jolt of need that had surged between my thighs at the sight: the purple welts that covered my backside from the correction Jake had given me with the strap.
“Well,” Cal said, beginning to rub three fingers gently over the bruises, “you got what you deserved from your foster daddy, I can see. I don’t want to hurt you too much, darlin’, so I’m not going to spank you tonight. We need to find a different way to teach this lesson, don’t we?”
[divider]“Wh-what… what do you mean?” I asked. I had thought the second lesson had to be me, well, coming—not anything painful. Hadn’t Cal said that?
I thought back, and realized that he hadn’t actually said that at all. He’d said that whipping and spanking weren’t the only ways to teach a lesson. He’d said that he’d teach me about my pussy and my little bottom.
He had let me think—hadn’t he?—that the second lesson would be his fingers finishing the orgasm they had made me long for so urgently.
Once again, he didn’t answer me with words. I felt his right hand move, his fingertips traveling from my right cheek toward the center of my ass. Then my eyes went wide and I let out a little cry of surprise and utter mortification as those fingertips spread my bottom cheeks and I felt the air on the tiny button of my anus.
My right hand struggled against his grip on my wrist. I tried to get my left hand up and around and back, but I found it up against Cal’s side, and then he’d seized it in his left hand and bent that arm so that he could gather both my wrists behind my back. All the while, his fingers held my ass open so that I knew he had a perfectly clear view of the little ring, the most private part of my body.
Heat surged in my face as I remembered what Jake had said the previous night about the right of the man in charge of me to touch me however he wanted… what Shelly had said about her bottom and the way it hurt to have her husband’s cock there… how scared she had been the first time Jake had told her he would fuck her in the ass. How it somehow felt good, even though it hurt.
I shook my head, rubbing my nose and my mouth against the scratchy wool, now that Cal had my hands behind me and I couldn’t cover my face with them.
“No… please…” I whispered.
“Shh, darlin’,” Cal murmured. “The lesson is just getting started. This little asshole is so sweet and pink and ready for training—just like your foster daddy told me.”
He took his right hand away and I let out a grateful whimper as I felt my cheeks close and cover my untried anus. I heard something from up above me, where his face must be though it seemed at the same time far away; a wet kind of sound. When his fingers came back to my bottom, I understood: he had moistened them in his mouth. He didn’t spread my cheeks this time; I felt his fingers on my pussy, and I cried out in relief, but that grateful noise trailed into a sharper sound of dismay as his thumb, wet with his saliva, pushed up against the tiny bud he had exposed.
I felt myself tighten against the pressure, my whole backside tensing to resist the inward movement of Cal’s invading digit.
“This will only hurt if you try to keep me out, Grace,” he said, raising his voice just a little. “It’s a lesson in submitting to the man in charge of you. If you don’t submit, my thumb is going into your butthole anyway, but it will be painful. If you do submit, though, you’ll start to learn what it means to give yourself to a man, the way you need to.”
I felt my face pucker into a mask of shame and woe. I could feel somehow in the involuntary movements of my brow and my nose how thoroughly conflicted I must look. At least Cal couldn’t see that expression—I took a tiny bit of comfort from that.
Him not seeing my face, though, didn’t make it any easier to deal with the conflict in my mind and my heart and above all my body. My hips jerked and my whole backside squirmed as I tried to keep pulling the tiny ring of my anus closed even as another part of me tried to make me push instead.
I had thought I had already experienced the maximum possible embarrassment, last night over the arm of Jake’s easy chair. Having Cal hold my most intimate places in his strong, skillful hand, though, seemed to make the fires of shame rise higher than my skin could even bear without literal flames licking along its surface—which was what it felt like as I pictured what he must be seeing: the lewd, rhythmic movements of my bottom and my thighs that despite everything I tried couldn’t do anything but appear to him to display my yielding and my submission.
Because they do display that, said an unwelcome but insistent voice in my mind. A gorgeous, good-natured guy took down your panties to teach you a lesson. He’s not even spanking you. All he’s asking…
I cried out, because Cal had started to force his way into my asshole with the moist ball of his thumb. I tightened even more as the pain shot through my lower body. Then, as quickly as the sensation had come, the pressure stopped.
“See, darlin’?” Cal asked, in the same slightly stern tone of voice he had used the moment before. “Let me in.”
The fingers up front, their tips on the hood of my desperately needy clit, gave a little rub, and to my mortification that was all it took. I let out a whining sob, and I arched my back and pushed in the most humiliating possible way. Cal’s thumb entered me, penetrating my bottom hole a full inch.
I gasped at the sensation, and I started to pant between parted lips because I simply hadn’t anticipated what it would feel like to have my anus invaded that way, then held open on a man’s thumb. To my surprise, it didn’t hurt at all: it felt good, though in a terribly shameful way, like the naughtiest, most wrong thing a girl could allow a man to do to her. Part of me thought, wildly, that I should receive a terrible whipping over the arm of Jake’s chair, simply because I had my suitor’s thumb in my ass.
“Good girl,” he said. “That’s it.”
I kept thinking I would get used to it: the strange, warm pride in my chest that brought an answering heat to my face—and also a dismaying, confusing echo down below. Cal reinforced that raging conflict, too, as if he were training a pet; he accompanied the little movements of his thumb in my anus with answering motion from his fingertips. Finally he gave my clit the friction I had so desperately longed for, and demonstrated just how much skill he had in giving this ambiguous kind of lesson.
I cried out and writhed over his knee. Each additional bit of tension in my muscles as he held me firmly in place with my arms bent behind me only seemed to add to the waves of pleasure and need crashing through my body. I struggled against his grip much more to feel how he could restrain me so easily than I did in any hope of breaking free.
“Oh… God…” I sobbed. “Sir… sir…”
I heard myself say it. I felt the word in my mouth, and it added to the shame, and to the heat, so greatly that my climax seemed to flow directly from it—from my following Cal’s instruction and calling him by his dominant title. My suitor, approved by my foster father to teach me about my pussy and my bottom… to train me to give him pleasure.
As I began to come, I felt suspended between Cal’s hands: the one on my back with my wrists in its grasp, holding me down while the other fondled me in the lewdest, naughtiest way between my legs and my bottom cheeks. The pleasure exploded outward from my pussy to seize my whole body, and it took away every bit of my control over my thoughts, so that I pictured myself on my knees in front of Cal. I pictured myself nuzzling the front of his jeans… I heard myself begging him the way Shelly had begged Jake, to let me take out his beautiful penis. My suitor had started to train me, and what else would my training be for than to make me ready to serve his rigid cock?
I came and came, because Cal made me keep riding his caressing hand, sobbing and moaning, to orgasm after orgasm. Through it all, he murmured to me, encouraging me in a patronizing way that seemed to multiply the pleasure as it increased the heat of the continuous blush in my face.
“There you go, darlin’. Good girl. Come for me. Get on my hand, now. That’s it. So nice and wet and ready.”
Ready. That word seemed to shoot through me with its own jolt of need. It brought on the biggest of my orgasms, and I screamed as my backside surged backward and forward, desperately milking all the pleasure my pussy could find on Cal’s knowing fingers.
He moved his hand, just as I had begun to think that the pleasure had become a punishment, and felt my whole body shudder with irresistible need for more anyway. He squeezed firmly, one final time, as if to make absolutely sure I knew how thoroughly he had just taken possession of my most private places, then he pulled his fingers away and started to rub gentle circles over my whole backside. I lay limp over his knee and sobbed at the comforting sensation as his palm soothed my right cheek, then my left cheek, then the back of my right thigh, then the back of my left thigh, methodically, it seemed, helping me down from the top of the cliff of endless arousal he had perched me on.
He had let go of my wrists at some point, and I hadn’t even noticed. When he stilled his right hand on my ass, just holding both my cheeks very gently, he moved his left further up under my dress and started to rub my back. Again I had the feeling of simply being in his hands, suspended between them, somehow. A new burst of sobs came from my chest, and I moved my hands back to my face to cover it, feeling the wetness of my tears on my fingers as I hid my expression—unnecessarily, again—from the world, and from Cal above all.
“Shh, darlin’,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”