Paul Federico—Master Paul, as Heather would soon learn to address him—smiled down at the younger, to his eyes more beautiful first daughter. Most commentators on the matter in the Adanacian and international media seemed to prefer the taller, curvier June. Not Paul: Heather’s slimmer build appealed to him greatly, and the sassiness in her slightly upturned nose made him want to kiss the scowl off her blushing face and replace the reproachful confusion in her sea-blue eyes with a different kind of mingled emotion.
She hung up the call and lowered her phone from her cheek.
“Are you ready to come with me, now, Heather?”
She started at his use of her first name, with its implication of authority over her. It sent the color surging again in her fair cheeks.
“No,” she said defiantly, her hands thrust down at her sides, the knuckles of the right starting to go white around her tightly clutched phone. “No, I’m not ready. I’m not coming with you at all.”
“Her arousal’s at 9,” Jessica Logan said through the audio implant in Paul’s ear. He suppressed a smile: as in almost every case throughout his career at the Institute, he had no need of the numbers from the sensor data. He could feel the sexual electricity coming off Heather like a haze of static that might shock anyone who came near into the same hunger to dominate her that Paul now felt.
Paul loved brats, especially brats who hadn’t yet realized that they longed for bare-bottom discipline even more than they dreaded it. Especially brats whose sexuality lay firmly within the constellation of their rebelliousness.
Heather had, the Institute knew, kissed plenty of boys, but no more: the shame Marjorie had instilled in her girls about sex had ensured that every young man who had tried to get to second base had found his hand firmly repelled. Heather’s brattiness, however, had meant that after arriving at New Modesty College, where the living conditions and the curriculum represented the fruit of Selecta’s latest research into stirring up girls’ repressed submissive cravings, she had quickly become a sexual powder keg.
The paddling, whipping, and caning she had received hadn’t curbed her defiance or her erotic needs—they hadn’t been meant to put that fire out but rather to bank it, as the Institute laid more fuel atop it. All the conflicting messages about sex and modesty, discipline and obedience, the importance of traditional marriage and old-fashioned gender roles, had brought Heather Gerber to a point where if she had been able to go through with the plan for bringing boys, drinks, and drugs to the dorm basement she would have gone well past second base, as an act of rebellion.
The caning she had received for making that plan, and—as Heather would inevitably have understood it—for those wicked thoughts of defloration in a dark corner, had raised the stakes as high as they could go before her first trainer actually took possession of her and began to break her. The Institute’s efforts had, that is, linked up Heather’s submissive sexuality with her brattiness. Though the messages of shame and modesty remained powerful in the second daughter’s mind, her subconscious need both to reject them and to be punished for that rejection had grown equally strong.
Now Paul would have the pleasant—if challenging—job of taking that need for forced submission to its logical conclusion, at least from Selecta’s perspective: Heather would now be broken so that the Institute could sell her to the highest bidder, for a year or more of sexual service. If her owner wished to keep her at the end of the year, it would be Heather’s decision whether to remain with him, but until then she would not know of her freedom of choice: from her perspective, the younger daughter of the prime minister of Adanac would be the abducted concubine of the man who had paid millions of dollars to deflower her and keep her for his own pleasure.
From the perspective of the rest of the world, Heather Gerber would have gone on a private trip to find herself, of the kind that famous young people often did to avoid the burden of their fame.
Paul reached out almost casually and took the first daughter of Adanac by the upper arm. Without a word or any further indication to Heather, he began to march her out to the Selecta van that waited in back of Stearns Hall.
“Wait!” Heather yelled. “You…”
She resisted, struggled, tried to get away, but her feet kept moving. Paul’s size and strength made ensuring her compliance easy.
“Help! Somebody help!” She stopped moving her feet when they reached the dorm’s back door. Paul picked her up and put her over his shoulder.
“I’m… I’m Heather…” She screamed at the top of her voice now, as Paul pushed the door open and carried her through it. “Gerber! Heather Gerber! Stop!”
But the girls of New Modesty College had received very thorough indoctrination in the rightness of the way things happened there, above all if a man were the one making them happen. Above all, if the man had a gray van with the name SELECTA in red on the side. Heads turned, but the distance to the van was short, and Paul’s driver had opened the sliding side door for him, so he could dump Heather unceremoniously, if gently, on the floor of the van, climb in himself, and close the door between Heather’s protests and the outside world.
Paul took his place on the bench seat opposite the door. Heather rolled onto her right side as the van pulled out from the little parking lot behind Stearns Hall and began to head for the exit at the glacial speed required on campus.
Heather glared up at him, her face red and her pretty green dress riding up her thighs.
Oh, this will be a fun ride.
“Let me out this instant,” she said, trying a low voice that she meant to drip with offended majesty.
“Give me your phone, Heather,” Paul said. “And come sit next to me.”
A spark of rebellious hope glowed in Heather’s eyes.
“They can track me with my phone. You won’t get away with this. My father…”
“I thought we settled that, Heather. Your father has given the college and the Selecta Corporation permission to take you in for remedial discipline. Your phone has been disabled for the past five minutes. You’re going to give it to me now as a sign of your obedience and so that it won’t distract you as you get used to your new life.”
Her eyes and her mouth went wide.
“10,” Jessica said in Paul’s ear.
Obedience. New life. For a New Modesty girl, that kind of phrasing evoked sex and discipline in the powerful way only repression could make possible.
Paul pressed the advantage, knowing what his voice could do. He spoke in a calm tone, but slowly and without breaking his intense eye contact with the girl he would break to submissive service.
“After you give me the phone, you’re going to take off your clothes.”
Heather’s mouth closed, and she gave a tiny whimper, only audible because the van still rolled so slowly through campus. She sat up, suddenly, and put her back against the van’s sliding door, curling her legs under her and smoothing down the skirt of her dress, her face a mask of confusion as she tried to get as far away from Paul as possible.
Jessica spoke again, and he could hear the satisfaction in her voice. “Recalibrator. Nice work, Paul.”
“I d-don’t understand,” Heather said weakly, to her lap. She raised her eyes, clearly struggling to reach some kind of reassuring comprehension. “You mean, like… like in Dr. Sellers’ office?”
“Yes, that’s right. You were caned naked, weren’t you?”
Heather nodded mutely, her brattiness gone for the moment, as the conversation with Paul ensured a delay of her need to obey. He read on her face the understandable notion that she had begun to figure things out, and that she could turn her analysis into leverage, to avoid the darkest things her imagination had called up—the very things, of course, Heather desired most even as they troubled her terribly. The defiance would return, of course, but Paul would make certain that when it did he would be able to use it properly, to open the process of breaking her properly.
“Why do you think Dr. Sellers punished you that way, without your clothes? Why do you think your housemistress made you shave between your legs before you went to the dean’s study?”
She clearly hadn’t connected the two things in her mind—at least not in the way Paul meant her to connect them now. Her furrowed brow showed him that the answer didn’t lie deeply buried.
The van picked up speed. They had left campus and were headed for the highway. The Selecta facility where Heather would be broken was only fifteen miles away.
“Because… because…” He watched her shy away from the real answer—the answer he wanted. “Well, Mrs. Weston said it was because naughty girls have lost the right to modesty, and they have to earn it back.”
Paul nodded. “That’s right, Heather. But it’s not the whole story. Who is it who’s responsible for a girl’s modesty?”
Heather frowned. “Her husband? But… I don’t have a husband, so…”
“So when you’re away at school, and you’re a young woman who gets into the kind of naughtiness you do, who takes the husband’s place?”
The logic made sense only from the most old-fashioned point of view, but of course Heather’s father had himself returned this nation to that traditional way of looking at things.
“The dean?” Heather asked.
“That’s right. Now why does a husband get to tell his wife when to take off her clothes, and why does he get to tell her how to take care of her private parts?”
The girl’s face, whose color had receded a little as she considered Paul’s questions, went bright red once again. Her brattiness returned, right on cue.
“I’m not going to answer that! What kind of a program is this? Maybe you can take me to some reform school or something, but I’m sure you’re not allowed to talk about… about…” Heather clearly wanted to say sex, but her modesty kept the word from her lips. She finally finished with, “…that kind of thing!”, looking a challenge into Paul’s eyes.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Heather,” Paul said calmly. “This program is all about that kind of thing. Now come over here and give me your phone. Then you’ll get undressed, and you’ll lay yourself over my knee for a spanking.”
Paul got up from the bench and took Heather by the upper arm. He pulled her to her feet, and brought her, despite her struggles, across the van. She clung desperately to her phone with both hands, but he pried the hands open and took the phone away. Holding both her slender wrists in his left hand, he used his right to toss the phone to where Heather’s book bag lay disregarded on the other side of the van.
Then he sat back down on the bench and pulled her across his lap. Holding her down firmly, he began to spank her, very hard, through the dress and the panties. Paul raised his hand high, and brought it down sharply on a bottom he knew still bore the fading welts of the terrible caning administered by the dean.
Heather started to weep almost immediately. “Please! No more! It hurts so much! Please! I’ll…” She clearly didn’t know what to promise: Paul’s intimation of the sexual nature of the discipline she would now undergo had left her without an idea to which to cling, about how to avoid this lesson over his knee.
“You’ll take off your clothes, is what you’ll do, Heather Gerber,” Paul said, still spanking her. “Because you’re going to a place where you’ll be trained as a submissive bed girl for a wealthy man. Your modesty belongs to him, now, and as your trainer it belongs to me, too.”
Nils Strindgard bid on Heather’s virginity only two minutes after the Institute put it up for sale.
For sale at private auction: Heather Gerber, virgin in every way an owner might possess her.
Heather’s contract will be available for bids until tomorrow at noon. We feel sure that the allure of initiating the second daughter of a still great, if diminished, nation into the ways of your bed will make you think very seriously about how much a once-in-a-lifetime pleasure is worth. Heather has already reached the breaking facility where you will come to enjoy her, taking as great a part in her early training as you wish.
Live video of Heather being broken by Master Paul of the Institute is available: click here.
For highlights of Heather’s punishments at college, including a paddling in class, a whipping for masturbation, and a naked caning in the dean’s office, click here.
This exceptional young woman has been classed as an A+ repressed submissive by the Institute’s assessment team. She has also been classified as a ‘brat’: the man who buys her must expect to meet her defiant nature with frequent discipline.
As a pickup, Heather will not be aware that part of the purchase price you have paid for her ensures that the Institute monitors her life as your concubine twenty-four/seven. Her training will instill in her the famous ‘chain of the heart’ that only Institute girls have, so she will not attempt to escape from your home, but she will also continue to believe that her sexual service to you is unwilling. You will have the pleasant challenge of keeping this brat in line, or, if you wish, of winning her affection. Should the Institute determine that Heather’s well-being is in danger for any reason, she will be removed from your possession. If the risk occurred because of a violation of our Terms of Service, your purchase price will not be refunded, but if we determine that you followed those terms, you will receive your money back, prorated according to the length of Heather’s stay with you.
We saved the best for last. As you’ll see from the videos, Heather is a New Modesty girl. The shame about sexuality instilled in her by her upbringing will never go away entirely, but as her master you will have the opportunity to claim not only Heather’s body but also that blushing (and, in this case, rebellious) innocence. If you are the right master for Heather, you will treasure the moments of reluctance you will overcome as she pulls her panties down at your instructions, or spreads her legs to show you her bare pussy, or comes with your hard penis in her tight little anus.
Finally, as a New Modesty girl, Heather is eligible to star on Selecta Broadcasting Company’s New Modesty Blue channel. Should you wish it, our revenue-sharing plan would offset a good deal of the cost of her contract. As with all the girls and masters on NMB, you would have the option of preserving your privacy through the obscuring of your faces by our ultra-secure masking technology.
But Strindgard would want the world to know that the prime minister’s innocent younger daughter was taking it in the ass every night. The select audience of NMB, which would not of course include Heather’s father, who had agreed not to watch the network during the course of Selecta’s involvement with Adanac, would tune in for the girl’s show faithfully every week. Each installment would, Jessica guessed based on the statistics from the channel’s first year of operation, get more than a million views within an hour of its release.
Subscriptions to the ultra-encrypted streaming service, whose images contained code that absolutely prevented it from being recorded even by a separate device, thanks to Selecta’s control of governmental backdoors into every existing digital platform, currently ran at $300,000 per year. Since NMB’s debut the subscriber base had expanded despite the heavy secrecy Selecta had enforced around it: they had already successfully prosecuted seven men and four women for revealing the channel’s very existence to others—something expressly prohibited by the extraordinarily lengthy Terms of Service signed by each subscriber. Despite Selecta’s aggressive stance on confidentiality, or perhaps because of it, NMB now had more than two million subscribers. If past debuts of high-profile shows gave any indication, fully half of them would watch Heather’s first episode as soon as it dropped.
If, that is, everything went according to plan. When Strindgard’s bid popped up in a notification on Jessica’s screen, that certainly seemed to her at least to be the case.
Jessica’s phone rang.
“Sarah.” Jessica smiled as she saw the number attached to the bid, and the details.
“Hi, Jess.” Sarah sounded cheerful. Well, as cheerful as she could sound when she never, ever sounded anything but, well, guarded. Jessica couldn’t get away from thinking of her friend’s voice that way, given for whom she worked.
The Pretorian Guard. Guarded guardians of civilization.
Jessica supposed you had to be guarded when, as Sarah had finally informed her only a few months ago, you held the absolute conviction that the world’s economy would collapse, and had taken it as your task to make it collapse in the softest possible fashion.
Right now that meant ensuring that Heather Gerber went to Nils Strindgard’s bed as a submissive concubine, and that the fact registered on the anonymized laptops of millions of very wealthy, mostly dominant men and women around the world.
“Looks good from here,” Jessica said, adopting the chipper tone she never seemed able to avoid, as a kind of reaction to Sarah’s gloominess. Her friend wasn’t really gloomy, Jessica knew—especially not in person. Jessica felt a little heat creep onto her cheeks as she remembered the last time she and Kevin had stayed with the Bennetts in New York, when she had spent a very long time with Sarah’s lovely pussy pressed against her face, at Kevin Logan’s and Robert Bennett’s command that the slightly older Sarah queen Jessica to three orgasms before the girls would be allowed to have cocks inside them.
“I think he’s lowballing,” Sarah said flatly.
“Lowballing? Thirty million is lowballing?” The plan called for Strindgard to make a prohibitively high bid. Thirty million seemed about right to Jessica.
Another bid popped onto Jessica’s screen: a Seattle trillionaire. He had offered forty million for Heather.
“See?” Sarah said. “Our model predicted the possibility that…”
“But that’s already twice the largest purchase price—”
“Hush, sweetie. Our model predicted—”
Oh, but Sarah could be infuriating. Jessica didn’t hush: she interrupted, as coldly as she could. “I’m assuming this is a model that wasn’t shared with the Institute?”
“Look,” Sarah replied, sounding exasperated. “What am I supposed to say but the same thing I say every time? The Guard can’t share its complete models. The factors at work here link dominant-and-submissive sexuality much, much more broadly than the Institute’s analysis of individual sexual response. Not only would it endanger everything the Guard is working for, to give Selecta those models, but it would thoroughly distract the Institute team from what they do best.”
Jessica fumed silently. She sat at her desk in the Logans’ apartment. Kevin was in bed, and Jessica considered waking him up for the sole purpose of whining to him about Sarah. She would probably go over her husband’s knee for that, but really she wouldn’t mind so much, except that Kevin would probably refuse to punish her until she had finished her work—nor would he likely give her body the release she so badly needed, rightly understanding that Jessica just meant to manipulate him at the cost of his sleep.
He had had a long day in the corridors of power, and he had still had dinner with Jessica and fucked her tenderly before he went to sleep, at her request because she needed to keep her mind off the coming auction. The inconvenient part of having a handsome, dominant husband who had trained you for his pleasure was that your body cried out for his touch all the time. She wished now that she had requested a whipping and a rough fucking instead, but it wasn’t fair to Kevin to wake him for that.
“Okay, Jessica?” Sarah said.
“I was saying that our model predicted that given the current global financial climate, this auction could break all the records.”
Another bid came in. Forty-one million from New York. The Institute represented an expensive proposition, but even with the revenue-sharing agreement they had reached with the Adanacian government that kind of bid meant a significant chunk of the yearly budget.
Forty-two million, from the Seattle bidder.
“Damn,” Sarah said mildly. “This is out of control. Strindgard has to get her. Plan B is not attractive.”
Jessica knew from experience that Sarah would never tell her what Plan B involved. Chances were that it had nothing to do with Selecta or the Institute, at least. It might well include assassinating a world leader or starting a medium-size war, but Heather Gerber would become an ordinary concubine, rather than the Trojan horse the Pretorian Guard had asked Jessica to send to Sindland.
“Look,” Jessica said, her frustration starting to get the better of her. “Even if we don’t know geopolitics, we do know auctions for concubines. Maybe the scale of the demand is a little bigger—”
“A little?” Sarah snorted.
Kevin, looking sleepy, wandered into the office the Logans shared. Jessica shot him an apologetic but grateful look, certain that some combination of her voice and her body’s needs had woken him. He kissed the top of her head, smiling. Jessica pointed to the log of bids on her screen and raised her eyebrows at her husband in inquiry: Does this look like a problem?
At that moment, a chat window popped up on the screen.
CEN: I’m calling Strindgard. This will be fine.
Charlotte Elkins Nakama, dean of the Institute. Jessica’s heart lightened by several figurative pounds.
“You see that, right?” Jessica asked Sarah.
“Yes,” Sarah confirmed. Jessica could hear in the flatness of her friend’s voice that Sarah knew better than to question the basis for Charlotte’s confidence, but remained skeptical.
The auction log came to life.
New bid: NStrindgard: $100 million.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Sarah said. She sounded like she had tried very hard to keep the admiration out of her voice, but failed. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” The call ended, as abruptly as all calls with Sarah did. Spies for super-secret organizations might have their soft submissive sides when their masters tied them to you in a wicked forced sixty-nine, but business was always business for Sarah in a way that it wasn’t for Jessica—probably because she worked for Selecta, alongside the man who had begun to rub her back.
Half as a matter of duty and half because she felt sure what they would see would turn both of them on, Jessica clicked open Heather’s video feed from the breaking facility. She was naked in the dark, tied on her back to the big bed of the room that resembled nothing so much as a rather spacious hotel accommodation, her arms and legs spread-eagled. The data feed indicated that the girl was half-asleep, but her arousal stood at 9. Infrared imaging, in the lower right corner of the main video window, which showed a standard low-light picture of the obviously needy Heather, told a tale of a pussy several degrees warmer than the rest of her body. A telltale glistening on her thighs indicated that Paul had rewarded her for some small act of obedience earlier, perhaps bending over and spreading her bottom-cheeks to show him her anus.
As they watched, the door to Heather’s room opened, and Paul entered. Heather went from drowsy to alert in an instant. Her arousal hit 10, and flashed.
Paul flipped on the light, and the camera switched smoothly to regular illumination, colors popping into view: black cuffs around slender white wrists. Pouting pink lips, very wet, between the first daughter of Adanac’s thighs.
“You’ve been sold, Heather,” Paul said. “Your owner is going to come here tomorrow to deflower you.”
Heather’s mind simply couldn’t grasp it, at first, despite everything Master Paul had said in the van and then here in this strangely comfortable room. She told herself: she couldn’t grasp it. She comforted herself: she couldn’t grasp it. She didn’t understand how she could have ended up here.
This strangely comfortable room, where I’m bound to the bed. Where when I refused to get into to the lacy white nightgown, Master Paul paddled me until I screamed.
To which I had to walk from the van, naked, my bottom already red and sore from my spanking over his knee, on top of the welts from Dr. Sellers’ cane that still sting a little even now.
Master Paul had made her stand before him, as the van raced down the highway, in her underwear: white stretch cotton bra and panties, the standard issue for girls at New Modesty College; likewise the beige garter belt—such a throwback to old modes of modest femininity that it always made Heather blush to put it on and feel how the belt and suspender straps framed the tender triangle that Mrs. Weston had made her bare. When Master Paul reached out to pull down her panties, when he said, “Let’s have a look at that naughty pussy, Heather,” when he told her to keep her hands on her head… Heather had obeyed because he had spanked her so, so hard.
Just as she had, right after the punishment over his knee, gotten out of her pretty green dress, dropped it to the floor of the van to lie forlornly near her book bag and her phone, the symbols of a life that this man in the dark suit had now told her would no longer be hers.
“I am Master Paul,” he had said once he had lowered her panties. “I’m going to touch you between your legs, now, just to make sure you understand why you’re here.”
Heather hadn’t understood, though, had she?
His fingers, gently rubbing, where no one but Heather had rubbed before—and earned a terrible whipping for it, and promised never to abuse herself again. Master Paul, touching her where only a husband was allowed to touch. Heather, bending her knees, whimpering, trying to rub back against his hand because her bottom hurt so much, and he had spanked it so hard.
But she hadn’t understood. She refused to understand. She hadn’t meant to bend her knees any more than she had meant to get wet down there. You couldn’t help that—that was just a physical response, and it didn’t mean you were immodest. Mrs. Weston had told her that, when the housemistress had whipped Heather for touching herself.
Still rubbing, so gently, so very differently from the way he had treated her poor backside, over his knee, Master Paul had continued with his shameful disclosure. As he had spoken, he had focused his attention on Heather’s pussy, and the sight of him looking at her that way had made the heat blaze up in her face, her only consolation being that it seemed Master Paul had no interest in her face at the moment.
“Your profile will go live for a private auction tonight, honey,” he had said, his voice suddenly becoming soft and confiding and even tender. Because I obeyed him? Heather had wondered as she had struggled so hard not to ride the hand that made her warmer and wetter the more it caressed her, made her ache for the release Mrs. Weston’s strap had denied her, but which she had seemed to glimpse that awful night in bed, with Claire across the room.
“You will be bought by a wealthy man, and you will serve him as he chooses. If you obey him, and learn to give him the pleasure he’s paid for—the pleasure which your body craves even when it brings you also the pain of a sore bottom—you will have a wonderful life of luxury. If you defy him, you will find your life very difficult, until you learn to put aside your ideas of modesty and allow your master his way.”
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