by Emily Tilton
The tears in Zoe’s eyes fell, then, and her face burned. A tiny sob came from her chest. She tried to move her hands from her sides to cover her face, but ended up struggling against the webbing yet again, so that the terribly delicious feeling of being held down sent another shudder through her frame. The sob that she emitted then racked her whole upper body.
“Oh, honey,” the nurse said, all compassion now. “It’s okay. It’s very good. When Bradley gets home he’s going to talk this all over with you, and you’re going to see how good it is. Let me just get you nice and tidy for him now, and then I’ll take a look inside.”
Nurse Carter put the clippers back, then, as Zoe gave a little moan at the vibration there and the wicked buzzing, and began to shave the bride’s pussy for her wedding night. The nurse picked up the conversation again, as if she wanted to give Zoe something to concentrate on other than what she was doing between her thighs, though part of Zoe wished she could tell Nurse Carter that this particular conversation didn’t help at all.
“The program pays for aesthetician’s visits because it’s designed to make sure wives and husbands understand what a traditional marriage means. And that’s probably not exactly what you think it means, because the science the program is based on is actually pretty new, and so even though we call it traditional marriage, we’re really not talking about 1950s stuff, let alone, you know pioneer days or Victorian era or anything.”
Through all this, the clippers kept going, and little tremors kept traveling through Zoe’s body, radiating out from the places from which Nurse Carter took away her pussy hair, and then the embarrassing hair between her bottom-cheeks, to her stiff little nipples, to her toes, to her fingertips. Still, the flow of the nurse’s words did seem to help the thing feel a bit more bearable, a bit more normal. Tiny whimpers came from her chest with each breath, but Nurse Carter’s tone, speaking to a naked, bound girl in a matter-of-fact voice, even made Zoe feel that maybe she could talk to Bradley about this strange, alarming experience without dying of mortification.
“What does that mean?” Zoe asked then as the nurse stopped talking for a moment, perhaps in order to concentrate on trimming the last patches of pubic fleece, right over the place whose name Zoe had never said out loud, whether in its oddly formal real name or its filthy sounding common one. Clitoris. Clit. My clit, where Bradley... because he’s my husband... where he’ll touch me because he wants to, and I have to let him even though it’s so naughty...
The biggest clench yet happened, the biggest squirm.
“Oh, my,” Nurse Carter said, and the blood seemed to rush in a flood between Zoe’s cheeks and her pussy. Yet one more sob came from her chest.
The nurse didn’t say anything more, as if she felt embarrassed herself, despite everything she had tried to make clear about how healthy Zoe’s obvious response seemed. The clipper kept moving though, taking away the last of the golden curls from between a young bride’s thighs. Desperately trying to recover some of her composure, Zoe said, in a voice she thought sounded a little less strained, “I mean, about... traditional. And... the science?”
The clipper clicked off, and Zoe managed to keep the sound that wanted to come out from her throat, a wail of protest and a plea for the sensation’s return, from actually emerging.
All gone now, she thought despite wishing that part of her brain would just stop, if only for a few moments so she could think clearly. All my pussy hair, taken away because that’s what an innocent bride is supposed to look like, down there. Fresh, and neat, and tidy for her husband.
The clipper went back into the cabinet, and Zoe heard the sound of a plastic pouch being opened. She lifted her face again to see that Nurse Carter had taken out a clear plastic speculum. She felt her brow furrow: she hated the speculum just like everyone else, but at least she knew what it felt like, and she knew it wouldn’t do what the clipper had done between her legs—make her feel like if Bradley were there in the room she would beg him to make a woman of her, with his... his thing... his penis... right then and there, with the nurse supervising and telling her fiancé to do it harder, and harder... as hard as he wanted, even though he had only just put it inside her virgin pussy for the very first time.
“I’m going to put some lubricant on the speculum, now,” the nurse said. “It will feel cool. This will only take a moment, though. Relax your muscles as much as you can, down here.” Then a squirting kind of sound. It started to feel like Zoe’s visits to the gynecologist. Her question about the program and the science behind it had gone unanswered, and now Zoe thought she could just leave it that way, since this whole thing just turning normal and then going away, ending, seemed like the best possible outcome. She rested her head back on the table and felt her body tense and then, with difficulty, relax a little as she tried to concentrate on letting the tension go.
“Alright, honey,” Nurse Carter. “I’ll just take a look at your vagina and your hymen now.”
Zoe bit her lip as the beak of the speculum entered her, then let out a sharp puff of air as she felt the nurse start to open it, to see inside her.
“This looks fine, honey. You’re ready for sex whenever your fiancé decides you should have it. I’ll take a picture for him, now.”
Zoe’s face crumpled and she let out a little moan. No, the speculum wasn’t like the clipper, because nothing about its spreading of her pussy for the nurse’s inspection gave the slightest bit of satisfaction for the terrible, needy feeling the nurse’s words stirred in her.
“You asked about the science, didn’t you, Zoe?” she asked. “Well, the latest studies show that for the target population of this program, to create the most harmonious kind of household and build the most cohesive and energy efficient kind of community, the husband should approach sex, and family discipline, in a highly dominant way, and ensure that he has the opportunity to satisfy his masculine needs regularly and in the manner he chooses.”
Zoe’s lips had parted again, and her breath came rapidly and shallowly between them. “What... what does that mean?” she whispered.
Nurse Carter pulled the speculum out. “I’m going to go ahead and take a look inside your anus, now, honey. Try to relax your bottom for me.”
The beak pressed, and Zoe couldn’t suppress a tiny cry at the invasion.
“Well,” the nurse said, as if she hadn’t interrupted the flow of their conversation about the program at all, “one thing it probably means is that you’ll be having regular sex in here. No, try to relax, honey. Let the speculum help you learn to have the penis here. Your fiancé is going to want to enjoy himself in such a pretty bottom very often, I would guess.”
A sob broke from Zoe’s lips as she tried to obey the nurse, her mind whirling with the shameful information.
“There. That’s better. You look fine in here, too, though you’ll want to get yourself spic and span, just with soap and water and your finger. Now that you’re nice and tidy up front, I would go ahead and take a shower, then put on your prettiest pair of panties tonight. I’m sure Bradley’s going to want to have a look for himself. You can get dressed and go, once I’ve unfastened the restraints.”
Chapter Six
Bradley walked through his door with a feeling of unreality about the evening. He knew from Zoe’s last text that she was there, waiting for him, just as she had come to his apartment for dinner nearly every night for the past few months. What would happen tonight, though, would make this dinner very different from the events of every other such evening, thanks to Zoe’s visit to the clinic.
Her new life. Davies had used that phrase several times during their second phone call—the one in which the program officer had made what he called his ‘initial recommendations.’ If you want to get started the right way, in this program, you’ll want to get Zoe used to her new life as your bride.
“Hi, babe,” she said shyly, looking up from the handheld in front of her where she sat at his granite countertop. They usually ate there, rather than at th
e big table in the dining area, with Bradley just heating up something quick—if he didn’t just order pizza.
“Hi,” he said, smiling at his beautiful fiancée and feeling his heart melt a little at the uncertain look on her face. He put his laptop case on one of the dining chairs and went to Zoe, to put his arm around her and lean down for their usual chaste kiss.
You don’t want to hesitate, Davies had told him. If you show any uncertainty, Zoe will pick up on it, and that will make it more difficult for both of you to get what you need.
“There’s stuff for spaghetti and meat sauce—you can defrost the beef in the freezer. Why don’t you go ahead and start dinner?” he said.
Zoe frowned at this suggestion, which Bradley’s tone had emphasized a good deal more like a polite command than like a question.
“But,” she said uncertainly, “it’s... late? I could go get Olive Garden, maybe?”
“No, Zoe,” Bradley said. “You’re going to cook dinner tonight. It’ll take half an hour, and we’ll talk about the day while you do it. You’ll cook most nights from now on. I opened a joint bank account today for us, and you’ll use it for the groceries.”
Zoe’s lips had parted as he had delivered this news, a crease appearing on her brow. He could see in her eyes the same kind of uncertainty that had struck him so forcefully as he had watched her in the exam room that morning: she instinctively liked her fiancé calmly and decisively issuing instructions to her, but it stirred complex emotions with which she didn’t feel comfortable—including even the pleasure it gave her.
“Is this... about the... you know, the clinic?” she asked, looking up at him with a frown that made her seem even prettier than usual to Bradley. His own reaction to this small but decisive step of telling Zoe she must cook their dinner tonight had taken him by surprise: he felt the simple rightness of the dynamic for him, and for them, immediately. In fact, even his body had started to react to the mostly submissive but still slightly reluctant way Zoe had taken this first instruction.
“You could definitely say that, Zo,” he replied, smiling down at her and marveling at little at how naturally he had begun to slip into this head of household role. “There’s a lot more to it, though. We’ll talk about it once you get started on dinner.”
Her blue eyes gazed up at him with an even more troubled air. “I don’t... well, you know I can’t really cook, Bradley. Maybe I can start learning? And then do more of it, like, after our honeymoon? Let’s just have pizza tonight, okay?”
He almost backed down. He probably would have backed down, if he hadn’t still seen in Zoe’s eyes how mixed her emotions had become about this simple traditional piece of married femininity. More, how strong a connection that mixture had with what she had gone through under the hands of the nurse only a few hours before.
Most important of all, he had Davies’ advice in the back of his mind, too: Zoe may well act out, especially at first. If this program is going to work for you, you need to make it clear, for both your sakes, what the consequences of acting out are going to be in your house.
“No, Zoe,” he said steadily. “You need to get dinner started. I’ll help. First thing is to get the beef out of the freezer and put it in the microwave on defrost. Now get going.”
Zoe bit her lip, the furrow in her brow deepening. “No,” she said. “And... and...”
She seemed to search for something to say, something that might sound like a reasonable means of protest.
“And I’m not going to put my money from my job in any joint account, so you can see how I use it. You can forget about that.”
Bradley frowned then, confused for a moment about the shift in topic. Then he thought he understood. Zoe had actually fastened onto her own reaction—her own positive reaction, he felt certain—to hearing that he had opened the account, and would help her take care of her spending habits. That made him even more confident than the simple fact of her clearly ambivalent rebellion against his newly announced authority would have on its own. He knew exactly what he had to do.
“Zoe, I’m going to give you one more chance to start cooking dinner.”
Her eyes went wide as saucers at the firmness in his tone. “Or what?” she demanded, pulling away from him and trying to shake off his arm.
“Or you’re going over my knee for a spanking, until you learn that from now on you’re going to do as I tell you.” He held her closer as she struggled, wanting her to sense the love behind the words.
“No!” Zoe cried. “You can’t! I’ll... I’ll tell. I’ll tell... people.” She kept squirming, but Bradley held her tightly, beginning now to get her to her feet so he could take her to the dining chair he had decided, even before he entered the apartment, would be the spanking chair if it turned out Zoe did need a firm hand on her bare bottom.
“Tell whoever you want, Zo,” he said as he started to draw her toward the dining area.
“What... where...” she spluttered, struggling in more earnest now, a panicked response obviously taking hold her body.
“I’m taking you to the spanking chair,” Bradley said calmly, even as he worked to subdue her flailing arms. “That’s where you’ll be punished from now on. I’m going to take down your jeans and your panties, and put you over my knee and teach you to obey me.”
Be clear, Davies had told him. Be firm. Remember how she reacted in the exam.
The program officer hadn’t known, either, exactly what Bradley had seen. He had simply had the experience that came with his position, that girls whose panties ended up in the state into which Zoe had put the gray thong of which the nurse had taken that picture needed a firm hand.
Bradley had watched the exam, though: he had watched his innocent bride shaved for her wedding night and had seen what happened when the nurse mentioned the spanking Zoe should get for her rebellion—the lesson a young bride should learn from her bridegroom.
“Please,” Zoe suddenly said, a good part of the fight seeming to go out of her in an instant. “I’ll do it.”
“It’s too late, Zo,” Bradley said, overcoming a split-second’s hesitation. “You need a spanking, and you’re going to get it now.” They had reached the chair, and he pulled it out with his right hand, turning it toward the kitchen, as he kept hold of Zoe around her waist with his left.
For an instant, her struggles increased, and she almost escaped, but Bradley managed to maintain control, as he sat down heavily on the chair, the reversal of momentum carrying Zoe into him and pushing the chair a few inches across the floor. Then, suddenly, she went limp. She turned her face to him, and the expression in her eyes made his own go wide: she had seemingly evacuated every emotion from her countenance, so that for an instant she looked to him like an utterly different person, or even a ghost of a person.
“The wedding is off,” she said, clearly attempting to keep her voice calm though he could hear the tension in it.
She may even try to break up with you, Davies had said. I can’t tell you exactly what to do, in that case, but trust your love for her.
“The wedding may be off, Zo, but you’re still going to go over my knee right now,” Bradley said without even thinking about it.
All the emotion that had disappeared suddenly came back into Zoe’s face. Her cheeks went bright pink, and then she began to try to get away again, but Bradley hauled her around with his left arm so that she faced his thighs and then in a single motion so natural that it surprised him, he spread his legs and used his right arm to upend the gorgeous eighteen-year-old who might now not be his fiancée. He laid her down over his left knee and he put his right leg across both of hers, and acting purely on dominant instinct he started to spank the upraised seat of her jeans, hard and fast.
“Ow! Stop... stop it! Bradley!” Zoe yelled, but he had no intention of stopping until he had made the point he knew he had to make: that Zoe Ralston needed a spanking, for a whole set of reasons but most important because in the end it would make her happy.
She str
uggled very hard now, as the swats rained down, right, left, center, but Bradley had no difficulty even in grabbing her right wrist and bending it firmly behind her, though not forcefully enough to hurt her. He slowed the spanking, but he also lifted his arm higher, so that he could bring it down harder on the seat of her jeans.
“Your real spanking... hasn’t started yet... Zoe,” he said, giving a hard spank with each phrase.
She had started to cry, and her writhing and squirming stopped as her back heaved with a sob. Bradley realized he had been waiting for exactly that: her acquiescence, the beginning of her yielding this part of her to this part of him—elements of their characters that neither of them had ever fully acknowledged even to themselves, let alone each other.
He lowered his hand gently, and put it on the taut seat of her jeans. He rubbed a circle on her bottom, the most intimate touch, he felt, he had ever given his fiancée. Their usual petting included fumbling touches inside their clothing, below the waist, but having her here over his knee, even with her jeans still on, felt like he had begun to caress something deep inside Zoe.
She responded, too, as if she felt exactly the same way: Zoe let out a long, low moan, and her whole body shuddered against his controlling hold. Her hips moved, and she managed, despite his hand holding her wrist atop her back and his leg across her knees, to push her backside up a little, wantonly—and seemingly helplessly—pleading for her fiancé’s manly attention.
He rubbed another circle, and Zoe gave another moan, lifting her sweet bottom into the hand that had spanked it a little higher, offering it—as it seemed to Bradley—for the further discipline he intended. “If the wedding is on, Zo, I’m going to take down your jeans and panties, now, and finish your punishment for disobedience.”
