by Emily Tilton
Seven houses: seven different modes of delivering corporal punishment. Two years without any girl knowing her new friends received old-fashioned discipline the same way she did.
Nine submissive girls, their need for domination picked up via the Institute’s special algorithms, resident in the government’s screening procedures. Brought to Oak Street at age eighteen, for a new kind of training.
A stable full of prospective buyers, teased with the general outline of the project and kept on the hook with occasional updates about the girls’ progress.
The first auction, according to the assessment team’s estimate, within the month.
Charlotte’s voice cut through the quiet of the control room, as Wendy, her eyes fixed on the floor and her arousal hovering at five out of ten, pulled her white top over her head to reveal her large breasts in their beige bra.
“Did Frances hear about Wendy?”
The dean had arrived only ten minutes before, alerted by Jim that Frankie and Wendy were going to be punished synchronously, because of Frankie shutting her door—and, more important, though the girls of course didn’t know that their guardians knew this part, over the book, Best Friends, Frankie had found at last in Fred’s desk.
“Yes,” Jim answered. He typed rapidly on his keyboard, and the lower right monitor, which had been displaying a view of the Londons eating dinner at number 14, showed a segment from earlier in the day, time-stamped as having occurred about an hour ago. Laura Wood had bent Frankie over the kitchen table and raised her skirt, while Mary looked on, her mouth open. Laura’s wooden spoon, applied to the seat of the girl’s panties, was emphasizing her words to great effect.
The captions read:
Laura Wood: When Mr. Wood gets home…
Frances Wood: Ow! What about Wendy? Ow! Please, ma’am!
Laura Wood: If you think this is bad, young lady, just remember how your guardian’s belt feels! You’re going to have that as soon as he gets home, and Mrs. Kimball tells me Wendy’s going to be spanked, too. All because you couldn’t remember the rules!
Jim froze the video. He pointed to the upper corner of the monitor, where Frankie’s arousal had risen from three to six. “She got it.”
“And Mary knows, too,” Charlotte said with satisfaction.
“The transition is going to plan so far,” Jim said, nodding.
Wendy’s arousal, as she undressed, rose to seven. When she stood in her bra and panties before her guardian, now seated on the edge of her bed, she shot him a pleading look, but he shook his head and tapped the hairbrush on his palm. “Everything off, pumpkin.”
She unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor, then put her fingers in the waistband of her white cotton panties and started to tug them down. The number in the upper right of the monitor climbed to eight. All the Oak Street girls had the latest in Institute monitoring technology—the newest version of the nearly microscopic perineal monitor, installed between vagina and anus at their most recent well-visit. The little clinic in Selecta, the town run by the Institute and housing its staff as well as Selecta’s world headquarters, looked for all the world like an ordinary medical facility, and the girls’ well-visits, in the first phase of the project, had of course included none of the sexual elements involved in the Institute’s own procedures. But the doctor tasked to the Oak Street project, Dr. Franklin, had everything he needed to install the sensors the assessment team required to make sure the girls of Oak Street could have their training fully monitored.
“Jane?” Charlotte called.
Jane’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“What’s your guess? Will all three of them masturbate tonight?”
Jane wished she had better recall for Paul’s reports on Frankie and Mary, and Serena’s on Wendy, but she hoped Charlotte would forgive her for her vagueness. Still, she felt the need to hedge, since when the dean put an assessor through her paces she wanted as clear a picture of what could be known and what could not as she could get. If the assessor didn’t know, the worst possible thing was to pretend she had a certainty she didn’t have.
“Well, you should ask Paul and Serena, really, but I think Wendy definitely will, because of the naked punishments, and Frankie probably will, just because of the book.”
“You don’t think little Mary will come to soothe Frankie after the whipping, and end up playing with herself?”
“She might,” Jane offered. “But Mary doesn’t know about the book, and Frankie probably won’t tell her. I think Fred and Laura should be prepared, though, in case both their girls do masturbate.”
“Jim?” Charlotte said. “What do you think?”
“I concur,” Jim said, to Jane’s relief.
On one monitor, Frankie now lay on her bed face down, her pajamas and panties still around her knees and her bottom and upper thighs telling a tale of sternly applied discipline. Jane had to admit some affection for the Woods’ method of having their girls get into their night clothes before evening punishment, since it emphasized the sent to bed without dinner aspect with such subtlety. Frankie would not emerge from her room until the next morning, though the sun had not yet set.
The girl’s arousal had gone down to one at the end of the whipping, but it had begun to climb again, and stood now at four. She put her right hand back, and began to rub. Five. Six.
The next monitor over showed that Tom Kimball had left a similar record on Wendy’s young bottom with her hairbrush already, and had reached the final stage of her naked punishment.
“Get this bottom higher, pumpkin,” he said as he paddled it. “Show me you want to be a good girl.”
Wendy struggled over his lap, but he held her firmly in place and kept punishing her. The hair-brushings of the Kimball household might be marginally less severe than the belt whippings next door, but Wendy’s backside would still be difficult to sit upon the next morning in the schoolroom. She tried to raise her bottom, and Tom said, “That’s it. Good girl,” and gave her a final swat, the hardest of all. Wendy yelped, but she knew how her punishments always unfolded, and immediately relaxed over her daddy’s lap, understanding that this one had ended.
Jane noticed something on the lower left monitor, which currently showed the upstairs hallway of number 10, the Wood household.
“Mary’s on the move,” she said. Not in her own pajamas, but rather still in her skirt and halter top because it wasn’t even dinnertime yet, Mary Wood was creeping down the hallway, clearly fearing lest her guardians hear her approach her friend and fellow ward’s room.
“Hmm,” Charlotte said. “That’s quick. Jim, didn’t Paul say something in a report last week about watching her for precocity?”
Jane felt the heat rise into her cheeks, and she felt sure Jim’s face had grown a little hot. Charlotte had picked up on something that they, the Oak Street assessors, had missed. Well, at least Jane had hedged, and said that Paul should be the one to comment.
She did remember the note, now, though. She turned to Jim. “Should we get Paul up?”
“Probably best,” her colleague replied. He picked up his handheld. On the monitor, Mary had reached Frankie’s door, and had her ear to it, obviously listening for the other girl’s crying. Meanwhile, Tom had started to rub Wendy’s bottom, the way he usually did—one of the reasons Jane thought it extremely likely that Wendy would play with herself after her daddy had departed.
Phase two meant, above all, that the girls who had now started the transition—Wendy, Frankie, and Mary—would not find themselves coincidentally interrupted every time their hands drifted toward their private parts. For two years, Jane and the other Oak Street assessors had had as their main duty, other than writing reports, ensuring that the nine girls of the little neighborhood, despite the submissive sexuality that made them likelier to pleasure themselves than most of the female population, never had a chance to masturbate. Tonight, for three of the girls, that would change—and a good deal else would change along with it.
Ch
apter Three
Wendy couldn’t suppress a little moan as her daddy rubbed her punished bottom-cheeks, speaking to her in the low voice he always used after a spanking.
“I’m sorry I had to do that, pumpkin,” he said. “Mrs. Kimball and I know you’re a good girl, but sometimes even good girls need to be reminded to follow the rules.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Wendy whispered.
“Come sit in Daddy’s lap.” He helped her up into a sitting position, careful now to let her cover herself as she chose even though he was always so strict before a spanking about Wendy not being allowed to hide her well-developed breasts or her still rather sparsely thatched pussy from his sight. He put his arms around her tightly and cradled her face against his chest in its crisp white shirt, stroking her cheek.
Wendy gave a little sob at the comforting feeling, as the release and forgiveness that always seemed to follow a spanking surged into her heart. Down below, between her thighs, the confusing feelings had also begun. She couldn’t help thinking of the book, Best Friends, and of how the two friends both found older men with whom to have sex for the first time. She knew it was a very wicked thought—not a good girl thought at all—but she found herself wondering what it would feel like if her daddy were to kiss her on the lips, instead of on the top of her head. What if, when he rubbed her bottom after a spanking, he told her gruffly to spread her legs, so that he could reward her for taking her punishment like a good girl?
She squirmed a little in his arms as she thought about these things. She seemed so warm down there, not just in the bottom Daddy had spanked so hard with the hairbrush but further forward, in her pussy—just the way she had felt when she and Frankie were reading the book, and talking about it while they sat on Frankie’s bed, before Mrs. Wood came in and everything got ruined.
Did Mr. Wood spank Frankie as hard as Mr. Kimball spanked Wendy? Did Frankie get the hairbrush, and did she have to take all her clothes off for her punishments? Why did it make Wendy feel lightheaded to think about it, and why did it seem to make the warmth, and the wetness, and the squirming in Daddy’s arms, so much worse?
When Mr. Kimball finally said, “Alright, pumpkin. You may go ahead and get dressed and come down for dinner when Mrs. Kimball calls you,” Wendy felt relieved, because she had begun to worry she might leave a wet spot on her daddy’s slacks.
After he had closed her bedroom door, she went to fetch her panties. As she picked them up, though, she remembered that when she and Frankie had read the book she had gotten nearly as wet as she had on Daddy’s lap. She looked curiously at the gusset of the white cotton underwear and felt her face get bright red as she noticed that her pussy had left a strange discoloration there, where she had dampened the gusset.
Wendy didn’t know what made her lift the panties to her face, then, even though it made her feel faint and fluttery to look at them, let alone to do the naughty thing she now did. She sniffed. She held her underwear against her nose and smelled the place where she had made the wicked stain. It smelled dark somehow: musky and earthy but also, strangely, a little intoxicating, like she wanted to smell it again. She did, and then without thinking about it she lowered the panties and took the gusset in her fingers and rubbed the cotton against her pussy, to make them smell more strongly of her naughty pussy.
A soft, happy cry burst from her chest at the feeling of release, of a pleasure locked inside that she had never before thought might be let out.
Why am I doing this? she asked herself, and received no answer except, I want to.
The girls in the book did this, didn’t they? They played with themselves. They even did it in front of each other, so that they could see each other’s fingers do the naughty work of making a wicked girl come. Frankie said she had never come, and Wendy had admitted the same thing. They had both had health classes in the corporate schools that covered sex, but neither had been a good student even for that course.
What if Mrs. Kimball walks in? I’ll get spanked again! What I’m doing is wrong! Isn’t it?
How did she know that it was wrong to rub her panties against her pussy? To look in the mirror and see herself do it? To whimper as softly as she could, with the way releasing the pleasure seemed to increase the need for it so much?
The classes in the basement of the Kimball house didn’t have anything to do with sex, of course, except to the extent that the Oak Street girls knew how to behave on a date. No hint that a date might occur in the foreseeable future, though, was ever given.
Still, even that sort of lesson gave the firm impression that sex was something for which an Oak Street girl must wait—perhaps even for a long time. A fact of life, but a decidedly naughty fact of life.
So when the girls in the book worried they might get caught playing with themselves, and when their older men called them naughty when the girls confessed to having done it—despite it being clear that their lovers found it charming, in its own sexy way—it had made sense to Wendy. Touching your pussy this way, to make yourself shudder, and to make your knees so weak that you had to sit down on your bed, then to lie down against the pillows, with your legs spread wide, still looking in the mirror even though it made your cheeks as hot as you felt down there… you would get in trouble if you got caught, and your daddy would spank you so hard… even harder than for being in Frankie’s room…
“Oh, God,” Wendy couldn’t help whispering, when her left hand crept around to hold her punished bottom, and the sensation seemed to explode forward into her pussy, into her clit, where the girls in the book seemed to know to spend most of their fingers’ efforts.
Oh, God. How could she keep from screaming, as she understood just how much pleasure the girls in the book had felt? She could see her climax ahead of her, but she knew that it lay up a steep slope of pleasure even greater than what she felt now, and she knew she would positively scream unless she could gag herself somehow, but how could she stop rubbing with the now-soaking panties and with her slick, wicked fingers?
Wendy turned her head desperately, mouth open in a sobbing moan, and managed to get some of her pillow between her teeth. One of the girls in the book had done that, when her older man had taken her virginity from behind. Wendy couldn’t help it: she imagined Mr. Kimball, her daddy, doing that, here in her room, thrusting his penis into her maiden pussy as she bit the pillow.
The mingling of her fingers’ rapid movement on her clit, her hand holding her spanked bottom, and the lewd image of her daddy fucking her so hard with her face in the pillow, seemed to rush her up that hill of pleasure, and her whole body seemed to stretch itself out and then to clench in every part. The pillow muffled her cry, but she couldn’t even tell whether it might still be loud enough for her guardians to hear, because she had lost all her reasonable senses and only the wild, pleasurable ones seemed to work. She couldn’t stop rubbing now even if her daddy had walked in the door, and she came and came and came for what seemed like an hour, until finally she lay limp and exhausted, still naked on her bed, with the very, very naughty panties held lewdly against her face, smelling so strongly of her self-pleasure that it made Wendy feel faint all over again.
“Wendy, honey,” Mrs. Kimball called from downstairs. “Time for dinner.”
* * *
Wendy resolved, waking up on Saturday morning and just catching the lingering fragrance of her naughtiness the previous day, to forget about it, and not to do it again. When she went over to the Woods the way she usually did on Saturday, to hang out by the pool with Frankie and Mary and Ginnie Samuels and Heather London, she couldn’t meet Frankie’s eye at first. Nor did it seem like Frankie could meet Wendy’s, which made Wendy wonder whether Frankie knew that she, too, had been spanked.
It would, Wendy thought, have remained there, and she would eventually have gotten back to normal with Frankie, except that Mary, looking very pretty in a skimpy blue bikini, came over to Wendy as she sat on the side of the pool’s shallow end, and said in a very low voice, “We know you got sp
anked last night. Frankie got the belt, too, and Mrs. Wood spanked her with a spoon beforehand.”
Wendy swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush to her face. “Oh,” she said, because she had no idea what else to say.
“What did you get spanked with?”
“I… why?” Wendy fixed her eyes on the shimmering water of the pool.
“Because we want to know,” Mary said frankly. “Don’t you want to know about Frankie? Why do you think she’s wearing shorts? Her thighs have welts from what Daddy did with the belt.”
Wendy had wondered—she couldn’t help admitting it to herself. When she had put on her own bathing suit, she had had to choose a black one-piece that would cover up her own lingering marks from the hairbrush.
“Her thighs?” she couldn’t help whispering back to Mary.
Mary nodded her golden head. Wendy often wondered if Selecta had put Mary in the Wood household because she looked rather like Frankie despite their not being related, or even from the same part of the country: both girls were blonde and petite, with small breasts and bright blue eyes.
“Daddy whips our thighs, too,” Mary confided, making a face. “Do you want to see?”
“What?” Wendy asked. She thought her eyes might bug out of her head. She swiveled her head around to see whether Heather and Ginnie had heard—let alone Frankie herself. Heather and Ginnie were deep in some conversation about a TV show, thank goodness. Frankie, though, who sat with them, seemed not really to be following the discussion, and now she looked back at Wendy and blushed.
“You have to show us, too, though,” Mary was saying.
“Show you what?” Wendy’s breathing seemed to be getting rather heavy, and the faint feeling had returned. She no longer felt so sure that she could keep her resolution never to touch herself again.
