The Oak Street Method

by Emily Tilton

  “You know,” Mary said. “Your bottom. Like in the book.”

  Oh, no. “What book?” Wendy hissed, trying desperately to make the lie sound convincing.

  “Come on, Wendy,” Mary said, her voice now full of mischief. “I made Frankie tell me, and…”

  Wendy swallowed, and looked at Frankie again. Her best friend’s mouth had drawn itself into a tight line. Frankie got up and made a little beckoning gesture, tilting her head toward the pool house, where Wendy knew there was a changing room with a door that locked.

  “And what?” Wendy said, turning back to Mary and hardly knowing what she either hoped or feared.

  “And we did it, like in the book.” Even Mary seemed to find this a little shameful, because her cheeks had turned flaming pink.

  Wendy felt her jaw drop. “It?” she whispered weakly.

  “Well, not… everything. We didn’t do it with each other. But…”

  Now it came out of Wendy in a blurting breath. “I did it, too. Last night.”

  Chapter Four

  Tom Kimball watched the action in the Woods’ pool house from his laptop, sitting in his home office next door. In his ear, he received his instructions from Serena at the Institute.

  “Okay, Tom—start moving now.”

  That was a shame, really. The sight of the three red-faced girls comparing Frankie’s bottom with Wendy’s made him reluctant to close the laptop and put the plan in motion. His little Wendy, whom Tom had had such a struggle last night not to soothe between her thighs, where her adorable virgin pussy awaited the attentions of her eventual owner, lay over the back of the little couch in the changing room. Next to her lay Frankie, both of them where Mary had put them, demanding in a whisper despite the room’s closed door, “You know you want to, Frankie! Wendy, she was saying last night that she wanted to know how you got spanked. Come on!”

  Yes, Mary Wood (whose real last name was Rogers) was precocious, at least among the carefully selected girls of Oak Street. In another context, to call an eighteen-year-old precocious with regard to her submissive sexuality might seem strange. The genius of the Oak Street project, Tom thought, though, lay in its taking into account that such things, at least for girls aged eighteen to twenty-five, could be seen not in absolute but in relative terms—at least in the eyes of the wealthy men who would bid for them at the beginning of phase three.

  Mary, a new girl on Oak Street, had surprised the assessment team by joining Frankie in her room after the whipping. The original intention for the younger Wood girl’s training was that she observe her friends’ discoveries from afar, and then be brought to phase three a month or two later than Wendy and Frankie, at which point Mary’s progress would set off Ginnie Samuels and Heather London, with the help of the sharing of Best Friends and some well-timed family discipline.

  The timing of the project, though, had always represented a part of the plan that the assessors said could be rendered flexible. The master blueprint for bringing the nine girls to the auction block, to their new owners’ beds, and then to the Institute itself for their further training read like an orderly procession of young ladies to the submissive altar: Wendy Kimball, Frankie Wood, Mary Wood, Ginnie Samuels, Heather London, Tricia and Luisa Giuliani as a pair, Delia Chichester, Renee Dalton. By the time Renee was sold and deflowered, new girls would have arrived to fill the empty nests, and the process, if the Oak Street girls had fetched high prices, and Charlotte had established Oak Street as a boutique brand in the concubine market, would keep going.

  The number of possible contingencies, though, was so great that the assessment team didn’t even have contingency plans so much as they had contingency strategies. The lewd scene of side-by-side masturbation in Frankie’s room the previous night, and the way it had sparked this scene in the pool house with Wendy taking off her black bathing suit and Frankie pulling down her pink shorts and polka-dot panties, had advanced things more rapidly than the assessors had foreseen. Oak Street, however, had a great variety of spaces like the Woods’ pool house and various basement rumpus rooms for exactly this reason—so that when the time came the girls who had started to transition would be able to sneak off to play their new panties-down games.

  Or rather to think they were sneaking off, thanks to the whole neighborhood’s being wired for video and sound, and the girls’ own body sensors continuously telling the tale of their arousal or lack of it. Mary could speed things up for the project, yes—the original projection for today had been that Wendy and Frankie would only talk about what had happened the previous day, and then masturbate alone in their bedrooms, with Tom catching Wendy in flagrante—but that increase of pace couldn’t derail matters, because matters on Oak Street couldn’t really be derailed.

  The prospective buyers were already lined up to bid, and although if Wendy, Frankie, and Mary all had to go under the hammer in close succession their sale prices might be a little depressed, all indications were that the Institute would still make a very tidy profit. Indeed, some of the assessors had speculated from the beginning that an auction in which multiple Oak Street girls went to the highest-bidding billionaire might raise prices thanks to well-known auction effects. That idea stood in much dispute, however, because most of the team considered the sale of submissive concubines a very different affair from the sale of art, or of horses.

  “Tom,” Serena said in his ear, the faintest hint of urgency now creeping into her voice, “get moving, please.”

  Tom’s last sight of the scene in the pool house—at least before he saw it live in person and had regrettably to put an end to it—featured Mary telling Wendy and Frankie her impressions of the severity of the punishment they had received. Wendy and Frankie were looking back over their shoulders at her, and exchanging rather red-faced glances with each other.

  “Is yours still sore, Wendy? It looks like it. I know Frankie’s is, because Daddy whipped me last week and it still hurt after two days. Doesn’t it make you want to touch yourself, to make it feel better? Last night, in Frankie’s room, seeing what Daddy’s belt had done, I don’t know—I just had to, and then Frankie asked me what I was doing…”

  Tom closed the laptop and headed out the door, calling to Wilma, “Going to catch the pumpkin being naughty.” Wilma could hear the same audio feed he could—most of the time all of Oak Street listened in on the same loop—but Tom and Wilma, partners in Wendy’s training, liked to pretend things on Oak Street had a veneer of normality. The ‘Kimballs’ felt a genuine affection for each other, and fucked happily enough every night, as specified in the Oak Street master plan, with a view to provoking the girls’ curiosity and prurient interest in the submissiveness latent in all their characters but repressed until now.

  Tending to that submissive sexuality in an utterly new way, a way that nurtured the girls of Oak Street and aroused the men who watched from the comfort of their own devices thousands of miles away, represented the innovative genius of the project. As the Institute enticed the buyers with the prospect of the coming auctions, it made certain that the special girls chosen for this unusual environmental finishing school blossomed into their sexualities with the confidence and self-knowledge that only Institute training could provide. The moments that would happen very quickly now—especially with the apparently incorrigible Mary Wood involved—would stir shame in them, of course, and many spankings and whippings would be meted out before each girl went happily home with her owner. The shame and the discomfort, however, handled as trainers like Tom and Wilma ‘Kimball,’ and Fred and Laura ‘Wood,’ knew how to do, would in the end call forth in their wards a capacity for pleasure and discovery greater—the assessors thought—than even Institute concubines had ever known.

  Tom found it hard to argue with that proposition, as he made his way down the little path that divided 6 Oak Street from 10 Oak Street and led to the Woods’ sparkling pool. Paul’s report on the Wood girls’ conduct after Frankie’s spanking the previous night suggested that submissive self-knowle
dge, and the heightening of pleasure that came with it, had taken firm hold at least on this part of the little neighborhood.

  Obviously, arousal levels are just as high as we expected. Both Frankie and (a little more surprisingly, since she didn’t have the extra stimulus given by the whipping) Mary recalibrated their arousal scales as they masturbated: Frankie twice and Mary once.

  Tom had watched the video after watching Wendy play with herself for the first time: Frankie turning over onto her side as Mary came in, her eyes red from the tears drawn from her by her daddy’s belt, and angry at her housemate’s barging in. Mary’s apologetic look, her eyes glancing down to where Frankie’s neat blonde triangle of pubic hair was just visible through the carelessness of the pajamas and panties being left around her knees.

  Mary asking what had happened. Frankie hesitantly telling her about Best Friends, showing her the book, begging Mary to put it back in Mr. Wood’s desk so that it wouldn’t be missed. Mary reading, as Frankie’s face turned red. Mary’s own blush mounting high into her cheeks as she read. Mary’s hand creeping down to find the front of her green skirt, her eyes darting up to Frankie’s face, to Frankie’s whipped bottom, to Frankie’s pussy.

  Mary raising her skirt, lowering her panties, as Frankie’s breathing grew heavy, as if wanting the two girls to be equal in what they could see. Frankie hissing, “What are you doing?” Mary, silent, her fingers beginning to rub in her own flaxen little bush. Frankie’s hand, as if of its own accord, moving as if in imitation of Mary’s. The book falling to the bed so that Mary could raise her skirt with one hand and masturbate with the other.

  The arousal numbers on the video feed showed both girls hitting ten, and that number then flashing to show that the girls’ arousal had exceeded previously measured levels and forced a recalibration of the pleasure she could feel. They came nearly at the same moment, Mary with her left arm flung across her face to stifle her cry and Frankie burying her face in her covers. Then Mary took the book and darted out of the room without another word.

  Positive development is confirmed by both girls’ masturbating a second time, on their own, later. Again, the level of Mary’s prurience, though always a possibility, is surprising, and will complicate matters slightly.

  Only slightly, though. Tom felt more than prepared to deal with what he would find in the pool house.

  “Hi, Mr. Kimball!” athletic, redheaded Ginnie called as he came in the gate. She looked gorgeous in a pink bikini under a sheer white cover-up.

  “Hi, Mr. Kimball!” full-figured and vivacious Heather echoed, her dazzling smile flashing white under her extremely sexy Wayfarers, framed in long, straight ash-blonde hair. Her white one-piece emphasized her curviness deliciously—especially in the matter of her rather large breasts, the best-developed set on Oak Street, including the mommies who were all approaching middle age.

  “Hello, girls. Where’s Wendy?”

  Heather pouted, as if disappointed Tom wasn’t here to flirt with her. The perks of being a man in his forties assigned to a job—if one could even call it that—on Oak Street could hardly be overestimated. The project hadn’t even fully entered phase two, yet, when the mommies and daddies would start to teach the Oak Street girls about what their young bodies were good for, but the simple joys of knowing that every beautiful girl in this beautiful neighborhood was a little bit in lust with every daddy without quite knowing what it meant… well, you could hardly put a price tag on that, could you?

  For the men chosen as Oak Street daddies, Institute trainers who had aged out and had expected to be assigned desk duty if they wanted to stay on, the project seemed heaven-sent. If they had been sensible with their bank accounts every trainer could retire at forty, if they wanted, but all the men who did that said life felt very dull, even with all the pleasures a well-built, well-endowed dominant man could enjoy in the world beyond the Institute’s walls. Oak Street had given seven of them ten more years of practicing their natural talents at teaching submissive girls to serve wealthy owners and receive boundless pleasure and erotic fulfillment in return.

  “She’s in the pool house, with Frankie and Mary,” Ginnie said a little doubtfully. Tom imagined the analysis to which Jim Setter, as Ginnie’s dedicated assessor, would subject the girl’s tone. Clearly Ginnie, and maybe Heather, too, had caught wind of something naughty, thanks to Mary’s early discovery of her submissive needs. The master plan called for a chain reaction, but the assessment team’s hope had been for one that unfolded slowly—what was going to happen right now might well act as an accelerant, though.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Tom said, and walked to the French doors of the pool house, opened them quietly, proceeded into the main room with the bar and the pool toys, went straight to the changing room door, and turned the knob.

  The girls inside, of course, thought they had locked the door. Indeed, Mary had locked it, and Wendy and Frankie had both tested it, before they began their naughty little chat and lewd demonstration. The construction of every lockable door on Oak Street, however, provided that the lock could be opened remotely from the Institute. As Tom started to turn the knob, he heard a click and felt the vibration as Serena unlocked the door for him.

  He started to speak, as if he didn’t know he would see anything unusual. “Wendy, I j—”

  “Daddy!” Wendy cried, looking up wide-eyed and fearful from where her eyes had been fixed on Frankie’s pussy. Her bathing suit was completely off, now, as were those of Frankie and Mary. The naked girls sat on towels on the floor, backs propped up on cushions from the couch, legs spread, and feet nearly touching as they showed each other how much they had already learned about masturbation.

  Chapter Five

  Wendy hadn’t even wanted to come into the pool house with Mary, had she? She definitely didn’t think she had wanted to, once her daddy had somehow walked through the locked door. Mary had said that the door was locked, and no one would know, and didn’t they want to see, about the spankings?

  Wendy wasn’t sure now how Mary had convinced the two older girls to lay themselves over the back of the couch, as she tugged off first Frankie’s shorts and panties and then Wendy’s bathing suit. Nor how Mary’s half-sympathetic, half-giggling inspection of Frankie’s bottom and Wendy’s own had turned into Wendy looking at Frankie’s trim thighs and pert backside, both very well streaked with marks from Mr. Wood’s belt. Yes, Wendy had wanted to see—especially after Mary told her about what had happened the previous evening in Frankie’s room. But she knew enough about the rules of her household to know that this kind of thing wasn’t what young women should be getting up to with one another.

  When Frankie demanded to see Wendy’s bottom, of course, well, Wendy was already naked, she guessed—and it was only fair, because despite a petulant little protest Frankie had allowed the viewing of her own punishment marks. That made a little more sense.

  And Wendy supposed it made sense that they had then sat on the towels, because looking at Frankie’s whipped bottom, and having her paddled bottom looked at, made her suddenly long for Frankie to touch her, and rub her there the way Wendy’s daddy did. That, in turn, made her think of the release she had found after her spanking, in bed. Then she had, without even thinking about it, put her hand there again, and started to do it.

  Then Frankie had told Mary to take off her clothes, because that, too, was only fair. The older Wood girl had watched Wendy’s fingers at play down between her legs, and started to do the same, as if by some kind of naughty chain reaction. That was when Mary had laid the towels on the floor.

  “What about Ginnie and Heather?” Wendy had asked.

  “We’ll be quiet,” Mary had said.

  “But they’ll wonder what we’re doing.”

  Frankie had said softly, “It won’t take long.”

  Nor would it have taken long, because the sight of Frankie and Mary playing with themselves, and the signs of Frankie’s awful whipping still on her bottom, and the little whimpers her fri
ends made, had all gotten Wendy very close to what the book called coming, when the door opened to reveal Tom Kimball.

  Daddy’s face had grown dark with anger.

  “You girls are going to get dressed at once. I’m going to step outside and close the door, and the three of you will come out and join me, fully dressed. Then we’ll see about how to handle this… this incident.” Mr. Kimball didn’t raise his voice, but the righteous authority in his tone made Wendy quail and look over to Frankie and Mary, who had turned their eyes to the floor.

  “What about Heather and Ginnie?” Wendy asked, her voice catching a little at the thought of their friends knowing what had happened.

  “I’m going to tell them to go home, because you girls are in trouble.”

  “No, please… please, Mr. Kimball,” Mary pleaded.

  But Wendy’s daddy said, “Mary, what your friends think about hearing that you’re in trouble is the least of your worries. The trouble is going to make you forget all about Heather and Ginnie.”

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  “Mary,” Frankie hissed.

  Mary’s face had become a mask of woe. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know. And… and I’ll tell Mommy and Daddy it was my idea.”

  The eighteen-year-old seemed so distressed that Wendy couldn’t help forgiving her—or at least starting to.

  “You didn’t force us,” she said quietly as she pulled her bathing suit back on. “And… we’re grownups, right? We can do what we want with our bodies.”

  Wendy tried to speak these words with defiance, but they came out much more weakly than she had intended.

  “Yes,” Frankie hissed. “But most grownups don’t have to call the couple they live with Mommy and Daddy.”

  “Most grownups don’t get the belt,” Mary added mournfully, clearly aware that her bottom would in all probability resemble Frankie’s before too much time had elapsed.