On Sunday morning the unmarked white van came for Frankie and Mary. The van showed no sign of the organization to which it belonged, but to Frankie, the elder of the two Wood girls, it might as well have had SELECTA on its side in big red letters, like the gray van that had brought her to Oak Street more than a year ago.
Frankie knew who owned the van, and why it had come. She thought when she saw it pull up that she had never known what butterflies in her tummy felt like, before. Or maybe she had hummingbirds in her tummy today. Or maybe pigeons.
Looking out the window of the Wood house at 10 Oak Street, watching the driver in his black suit get out of the van and come around to open the sliding side door, her mind seemed completely out of her control—only interested in figuring out what sort of flying creature had taken up residence inside her, making everything flutter from her shoulders down.
“Mary,” she called up the stairs, hearing in her voice despair mingled with the littlest bit of excitement that she simply couldn’t help. Their friend Wendy Kimball had gone in the van a month ago, and come back last Sunday, and now their turn had come at last.
Frankie had tried hard to suppress her anger at Wendy, her best friend, but without much success. It seemed Wendy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell the Wood girls—not sisters but treated that way by their mommy and daddy, who weren’t actually their mother and father at all—what had happened when the white van had taken her to the Institute.
“Frances Wood, don’t you raise your voice in the house,” said her mommy, coming out of the kitchen. “Do I have to tell the man from the Institute that you need spanking in the van, before you even get there?”
“No, ma’am,” Frankie said, feeling a crease develop in her brow. That would be all she needed: having her bottom bared in the van. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that her mommy would tell the driver to spank her, or that the van would prove of a design to facilitate punishing naughty young women. Life on Oak Street was like that.
It had been like that, really, from the beginning: Frankie and Mary had always received regular spankings with their mommy’s wooden spoon and whippings from their daddy’s stout leather belt. In the past ten days, though, Oak Street’s true nature had become clear at least in the Wood and Kimball households.
Frankie and Wendy, and then Mary, had begun to play what their guardians called big-girl games. They had thought they could keep their panties-down exploits a secret, but it turned out that their guardians had kept watch for exactly that kind of lewd behavior. The girls had been caught playing with their clothes off.
After a sound spanking for their lewd behavior, their special lessons from their mommies and daddies had begun: Frankie and Mary and Wendy had learned to suck their daddies’ penises and kiss their mommies’ vaginas. Frankie and Mary had had to come to the Woods’ master bedroom every night to watch their guardians have sex, and see how Mommy had to do everything Daddy said, even when he told her he would have sex in her bottom.
The girls’ pussies were bare now: Mrs. Wood had taught them to shave each other. As Frankie shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, casting an imploring, penitent look at her mommy, she felt the strangeness of that, inside the modest beige panties under her pink Sunday dress. She remembered—for how could she help it—why Mommy insisted that her girls no longer have grownup hair between their legs and even their bottom-cheeks.
Mommy had said that the man who would buy her girls wanted to put his hard penis into two pussies that looked ‘neat as a pin’ for his cock.
Now, seeing how Frankie had responded to the threat of a spanking in the van, Mrs. Wood opened her arms to give her elder girl a hug.
“I know you’re frightened, Frankie, and I know you’re excited, too. It’s all mixed up inside you, isn’t it?”
Feeling an unexpected tear splash down her cheek onto her mommy’s cardigan, Frankie nodded into Mrs. Wood’s ample bosom.
“Don’t worry. I promise that the Institute won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Frankie looked into Mommy’s eyes, trying to beam her question there somehow. How could Mommy say nothing bad could happen, when she and Daddy had told them over and over that when they went to the Institute, they would be sold to a man who wanted to discipline them and have sex with them, and they didn’t have any choice in the matter?
The doorbell rang.
“Go up and knock on Mary’s door like a proper young lady,” Mommy said, “and tell her that it’s time to go.”
As she slowly ascended the stairs, alternately wanting to dash upward and to stop altogether, Frankie remembered what she had seen the day before: a limousine pulling up at Wendy’s house, and a man getting out, then disappearing inside. The Woods had cooked out with the Kimballs later, and Frankie had whispered to Wendy a question, “Who was he?”
Wendy had turned red and shaken her head, casting a fearful glance at her daddy. “I’m not allowed to tell you,” she had whispered back. “But… but you’ll know… soon.”
Frankie knocked on Mary’s door, then opened it to find Mary wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
“Mary!” she said, thunderstruck. “You know… they’re here!”
“I’m not going,” Mary said, crossing her arms across her chest, under her small but quite pert breasts.
“What?” Frankie turned and looked down the hallway, as if expecting to see their daddy approaching with his belt wrapped around his hand. She put her hand behind her in a nearly unconscious gesture of fearful warding off. The way their guardians’ justice usually worked, Frankie would get whipped even harder for not setting a better example and somehow avoiding her fellow ward’s disobedience by teaching her the value of respecting her guardians’ wishes.
As if anyone could teach Mary anything. Since the day she had arrived, six months after the slightly older Frankie, who resembled her new friend despite their being completely unrelated, had felt mingled love, irritation, and a strange sort of awe for her younger housemate. When Mary had insisted on being part of Frankie and Wendy’s big-girl games, and had even been the instigator of the scene in the pool house that got them all so thoroughly disciplined before they knelt to suck their daddies’ penises for the first time, it had seemed perfectly logical to Frankie: Mary might be younger, but she had a lascivious demon, or perhaps some kind of naughty genius, inside her.
“Girls?” Mommy called from downstairs. “Come down and meet Master G.”
Frankie looked into Mary’s eyes and saw defiance and determination there for a moment. Then Mary bit her lip and her nose twitched. When she spoke again, her voice quavered. “They can’t make me. I don’t want to go.”
“Mary, they’re going to punish both of us!” Frankie exclaimed. “You know we have to go. Get into your dress right now, and I’ll go down and try to cover for you.”
“But they can’t! They just…” Mary’s voice trailed off, her head hanging and her brow troubled, but a moment later she raised her face again to Frankie, tossing her blonde ponytail. “They can’t. There must be some escape clause or something that if we show them that we really don’t want to… to… you know—go there—then they have to let us go.”
Frankie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, very fearful now of what would happen when Mommy and Daddy and this Master G discovered Mary’s defiance. Why was Mary doing this? She remembered how Mary had seemed so proud just the night before, when Daddy had come in her mouth, and how the younger girl loved to watch when Mommy had to have the big butt plug in her anus because Daddy said so.
That made her think of something else to say to Mary, though she could only say it in a whisper.
“But we do want to go there.”
“I don’t!” Mary insisted, but in her voice Frankie could hear more uncertainty. She wished she could figure out what it all meant—the excitement and the fear and the burning in her panties that she still couldn’t seem to get used to. She knew she shouldn’t want to go to the Institute to be sold as a concubine, but that somehow made it much more difficult to puzzle out whether or not she really did want it.
“But… you started it, Mary,” she protested.
“No, I didn’t. You and Wendy did with that stupid book.” Mary’s face had gone very red, and Frankie knew that her fellow ward didn’t really mean it. How could they regret Frankie finding Best Friends in her daddy’s desk, and sharing its naughtiness with Wendy in her room, and getting whipped because they had closed the door? How could Mary regret stealing into Frankie’s room after the whipping and asking all about it?
Frankie started to try one more time. “But—”
A heavy footfall came from behind them on the landing. Frankie turned in fear to find the fear fully justified. Daddy stood there, tall and angry in his jeans and work shirt, clearly summoned in from his landscaping. His belt was indeed wrapped around his fist.
“What’s going on here, girls? Mary, why did you change out of your Sunday dress? You knew the van was coming today.”
“Daddy, I—” Mary said, suddenly seeming even less certain about her defiance than she had been before.
“Turn around and bend over your bed, Mary,” Daddy said in a voice of thunder. “Hands flat on the mattress.”
“Daddy, no!” Mary cried. “Please… I just don’t want… You can’t…”
“Do it, Mary, or it’s going to get much, much worse. We told you, when we started your special lessons, that we can and we would send you to the Institute to be sold. We promised you that it’s for your own good. We told you that you’d be whipped if you tried to refuse. Now you’re going to get what you deserve for this disobedience, and the man who buys you will be able to see from the welts I’m going to make that he’ll need a firm hand to keep you in line.”
Frankie had quailed up against Mary’s desk, at the side of the room, as her daddy spoke these terrible words. It seemed like he didn’t mean to whip her, too. But the Woods had drilled into their older girl the idea that she bore some responsibility for Mary’s actions. Frankie felt terribly conflicted, and the way she had responded between her legs to the sight of Daddy’s belt, and the sound of his voice telling Mary to assume the position, made it even worse.
“Please, Daddy,” she whispered now. “Please don’t.”
Mr. Wood turned to her with a glowering eye. “I’m an inch away from tanning both your hides, Frances. Watch Mary’s whipping and learn from it.”
“Yes, sir,” Frankie whispered, and swallowed hard. The hummingbird in her tummy started beating its wings faster and faster.
Mary still stood her ground, though she held her hand out beseechingly to Daddy, or maybe to try to ward him off. She had the inside of her cheek in her teeth, and a deep crease stood between her perfect golden eyebrows.
Clearly frustrated but also, Frankie could see, in complete control the way he always was even when angry, Daddy strode into the room and took Mary by the shoulder, turning her to face her bed.
“Bend over right now, Mary Wood,” he growled, “and take down your jeans and panties for me, or you’re going to wish you had.”
Mary’s bratting had featured in ninety percent of the models the Oak Street assessors had run on the transfer of the Wood girls to the Institute for auction. Paul Farmer, lead assessor for the Wood household at Number 10, kept one eye on the feed from Frankie’s sensor data and the other on the one from Mary’s as, trembling, the younger girl turned and unbuttoned her jeans with shaking fingers.
Frankie’s arousal, reflected on the monitor dedicated to her here in the Institute’s underground control room by an overall number in the upper right and a more granular data crawl in the chyron at the bottom of the screen, had risen very quickly to an overall 9. Mary’s, as befit a girl about to be whipped, had spiked to 10 and then immediately descended to a fearful 8. It would go down much further as Fred Wood (real name Joe Davis) carried out the punishment she dreaded and needed in nearly equal amounts—and then, of course, after the belt whipping it would rise, perhaps even to a flashing 10. That would mean that Mary had just recalibrated her arousal scale, feeling more sexual need than the assessment team had yet observed from her.
The tiny sensors implanted between the girls’ vaginas and their anuses supplied the majority of the data going into that number, through a combination of temperature, humidity, and galvanic skin measurements. Biometric algorithms run on the high-quality images coming from the several cameras in Mary’s room, analyzing their body language from the angle of their knees to the quivering of their upper lips, provided most of the rest. Those algorithms represented the Institute’s most closely guarded intellectual property, and provided the edge on the competition that had made every self-respecting dominant billionaire lust after the acquisition of one or more Institute concubines as the ultimate trophy and the ultimate self-indulgence.
The Oak Street brand constituted the Institute’s newest attempt to secure its almost hegemonic market share while at the same time ensuring that the market as a whole would remain at its beck and call—just as it had been for almost sixty years. Even before Wendy had gone to Jacob Weaver at auction for three point two million, Oak Street had seemed quite likely to grab the imagination of the concubine-buying set.
The notion of purchasing a virgin schoolgirl for defloration, further training, and finally sexual service in a wealthy man’s home captivated the Institute’s clientele. The details, whereby each girl was kept innocent until her illicit awakening to her submissive nature, iced the cake of the Institute’s triumph.
In the gracious suburban setting of the Oak Street subdivision, where all the young women were regularly spanked to teach them modesty and manners, those with the resources to bid on their virginities could watch their development through the livestream provided by the Institute. The girls themselves, however, didn’t know that their friends also had to go bare-bottomed over their daddies’ knees or the spanking stool in the kitchen or the punishment bench in the basement, just as they did.
The discovery that another girl also got spanked provided the spark that led onward to an Oak Street girl’s sexual awakening through a combination of forbidden self-pleasure and more forbidden exploration with her friend. The process had occurred in an explosive way with Wendy Kimball and the Wood girls a little less than a month ago. Now Wendy, after her defloration by Jacob Weaver in the pleasure house on the Institute’s grounds, had returned home, in accordance with her owner’s wishes. For the next few weeks, as her special lessons from her mommy and daddy continued in the bedroom, Weaver would visit her and take her to the basement of Number 6 Oak Street for spanking and sex.
Frankie and Mary Wood’s time had come: after this fully anticipated little scene, currently being livestreamed to a large monitor in the Institute’s grand salon, where the girls’ auction would soon take place, the van would take them straight there. Following a modicum of preparation, Frankie and Mary would be led into the salon and displayed to the assembled titans of industry, finance, and entertainment. Charlotte Elkins Nakama, dean of the Institute, hoped they would fetch seven million at least. Matched sets of concubines came on the market very rarely, and a pair from Oak Street could well prove the must-have luxury item of the season for the men who ran the world.
“You’re good to go, Fred,” Paul said. “In case you didn’t know. Mary’s at 8.”
The experienced trainers who gratefully took the roles of the mommies and daddies on Oak Street had so much experience awakening young women’s submissive sexuality that most of the time they could predict a girl’s arousal number from the arch of her back and the scent of the need between her legs.
“Get those panties down, Mary,” Fred said gruffly. “You have a bare-bottom whipping coming for this disobedience.” Whimpers answered him, from the throats of both girls. Frankie’s arousal went to 10, Mary’s to 9.
Very sluggishly, her knees shaking, Mary obeyed, a bit. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the beige panties worn by all Oak Street girls—at least before their sale; Wendy had some lovely, lacy things now. Mary gave her daddy one last mournful look over her shoulder.
With a growl of convincing frustration—for Fred wasn’t really angry at all, of course—Mary’s daddy put his left hand on the small of her back and bent her forcefully over the bed. At the same time, with his right hand, in which he held the belt, he grasped the panties at the back and drew them down to mid-thigh.
Mary cried out. Frankie gave a little sob. Paul had to admit that he himself found the sight of Fred’s thick black belt against Mary’s creamy skin extremely moving.
“Please, Daddy!” Mary said, genuinely fearful now.
“Mary’s at 7,” Paul said. “Frankie just recalibrated.” He glanced down at the crawl inching along the bottom of the screen and found the number he sought: HM 78%. HM: hand movement. The percentage represented a rough estimate of the chances that Frankie would touch herself in the next minute. As he watched, the number went up: HM 85%. “Heads up that Frankie may masturbate. She’s super wet right now. I’ll let you know.”
In the dreamlike setting of Oak Street, made much more so for the Wood girls now that their special lessons had gone on for a month, the lines between discipline and pleasure, and innocence and experience, blurred very easily. Frankie and Mary had both had it impressed upon them from the day they arrived on Oak Street that playing with their private parts, or even spending too long in the bathroom, would result in a spanking. Laura Wood (real name Greta Isaacs) had inspected their panties every night, on her bedtime visit to the girls’ rooms.
Because of the philosophy Charlotte and her team had adopted for Oak Street, as a way of enhancing both the brand and the girls’ eventual ecstasy, however, masturbation wasn’t merely forbidden in the five households of the subdivision: the mommies and daddies of Oak Street actively prevented it, with the help of the assessment team. The Institute’s data, and its ability to analyze that data, allowed the assessors to identify pre-masturbatory states early enough that the girls could be interrupted and their attention refocused before their hands even found their way into their panties.
It had resulted, just as Charlotte had hoped it would, in Oak Street becoming a powder keg of submissive sexuality. As the months of the initial phase of the project had gone by, before Frankie found Best Friends in her daddy’s desk, the need for interruption had become quite acute in every house. Midnight visits to all the girls’ rooms, twice a week or more, had come to represent the norm, supplemented by the policy that doors must remain open during afternoon study sessions—though even with that policy the mommies regularly found themselves summoned by the comm links in their ears to check on their girls’ homework progress and pretend almost to notice their wandering hands, and almost to carry out an impromptu inspection of their modest panties and their untried vaginas.
Now that Wendy, Frankie, and Mary had started special lessons, though, with Ginnie Samuels of Number 2 and Heather London of Number 14 nearing their awakenings as well, the assessors’ handling of self-pleasure had to adjust. Extra vigilance was the watchword for Ginnie and Heather, with frequent reminders that a girl’s private parts must be kept clean, but not indulged any further than a washcloth could indulge them. The Wood girls, on the other hand, had progressed a fair ways under their mommy’s and daddy’s tutelage: Frankie and Mary were allowed to masturbate now, but only with permission from Mr. or Mrs. Wood.
Of course it was terribly embarrassing to ask for that permission, and so—as the assessors had planned all along—both girls had on separate occasions been caught playing with themselves without it, and spanked hard with Laura Wood’s wooden spoon. As their mommy asked them in a cold voice whether her spoon “felt as nice as your naughty fingers down there,” Frankie and Mary, watched closely by their potential buyers, learned the price of pleasure.
Afterwards their mommy had taken pity on them, as they had lain with red backsides over her lap.
“See? When you’re a good girl and take your spanking well, you earn Mommy’s fingers down here,” she would say as she taught them new lessons about what little girls should and shouldn’t do, where their terribly needy pussies were concerned.
The Wood girls had each come very hard under Laura’s skillful fingers, their little bottoms clenching lewdly with pleasure as they had with pain only a few moments before. The miscreant also received a visit from her daddy in the night to discuss her infraction, and came again as she sucked his cock with the growing skill that her owner would soon appreciate.
Now the chance of Frankie touching herself grew in part, Paul knew, because of the way her new relationship with her pussy purposely had very loose boundaries. Part of her mind certainly told her that of course she would have permission to masturbate while she watched Mary whipped, since her daddy had said she should learn from the sight, and her daddy had taught her so many special lessons about her pussy in the past ten days.
The idea that she belonged to her daddy, between her waist and her knees, had begun to ingrain itself in her heart: wouldn’t Daddy, Frankie might well be thinking, want to see his pussy right now, while he whipped another girl? Wouldn’t he want his good girl to play with his pussy and make it feel good?
As Paul expected, though, the moment the belt came down on Mary’s raised bottom and drew a cry of anguish along with the sharp slap of leather on tender skin, Frankie’s hands, which had wavered a little in front of her waist, returned to her sides. HM 23% read the data crawl now, and Frankie’s overall arousal had descended to 8 as she felt a sympathetic fear for her own bottom despite her continuing submissive craving for discipline.
Fred Wood whipped his girls hard and fast, and he was quickly holding the screaming Mary in place with his left arm around her waist as the belt kept flashing down to teach the needed lesson in the place best suited for it.
“No, Daddy,” Mary sobbed. “Please, no more. I’ll go… I’ll go!”
Frankie whispered her own, “Please, Daddy,” but Fred kept whipping Mary’s bottom-cheeks and thighs until she had a network of curling red welts across her whole backside and she hung limply over the bed.
When he stopped at last, he held Mary like that for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m sorry I had to do that, sweetheart.”
“Yes, sir,” Mary choked out.
“Yes, sir, what?” Fred said a little severely, though he had dropped the belt to the floor now and begun to rub the poor punished bottom gently. Mary instantly spiked to 9, then 10.
Frankie said, “Please say it, Mary. Please.”
A pause, and then Mary whispered, “Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Fred replied very warmly. “You may go ahead and stand up, then get dressed to go in the van.”