by Emily Tilton
Heather’s jaw dropped in shock. Her own voice came out in a whisper to match her friend’s. “What? Of… of course not. How can you even ask that?” Hurt and eagerness and even a little fear all seemed to get jumbled up in her chest. “We’re… I mean, we’re…”
But Tricia didn’t let her say best friends. Nodding, she said in an even lower voice, “I know… it’s just that it’s so… I mean…” As if she thought, without any cause, someone might be listening, she turned her head to the right and left to see if the coast was clear. Then she breathed, a deep crease appearing on her forehead, “dirty.”
Chapter Four
“Heather just hit eight,” Jane’s voice said in Delilah London’s ear.
Delilah (real name Julie North) waited in Holly Giuliani’s (real surname Jasper) Audi station wagon just out of view of every easily accessible spot in the Oak Street neighborhood. Thanks to Oak Street’s excellent sound system, she and Holly, who sat in the blue station wagon’s driver’s seat, could hear not just the assessors in the Institute’s Oak Street control room but also a full audio feed from the Giuliani home.
There, with Tricia’s help, Delilah’s curvy little Heather would soon begin her journey into well-disciplined sexual servitude. Rather to her surprise, the news that her sweet, dreamy pumpkin had just gotten wet at the sound of the word dirty filled Delilah with so many different emotions that she had to take a mental step back and do a kind of emotional—if also an erotic—inventory.
Alone of all the Oak Street mommies and daddies, Delilah had been awarded not only a different surname but also a different first name. The fact pointed, in a way, to the Londons’ special place on Oak Street, topographically speaking—the house at the end of the street, fulcrum between the even-numbered households that would go first in the process of the girls’ awakenings to their sexual needs, and the odd-numbered ones whose turn had now arrived. From the beginning, Miss Charlotte had wanted to do something new with Number 14, and with the help of her assessor team and Delilah herself—Julie, as she sometimes struggled to remember these days, so immersive had life on Oak Street become—the dean had decided on something quite special.
Miss Charlotte had chosen the name Delilah to go with the house, rather than with the erstwhile Julie North. The dean’s concept for the London household had at its center a single criterion for choosing the girl who would live there with her mommy and daddy until the time came for her to be sold to a wealthy master or mistress: an intensely embarrassing sexual peccadillo. Delilah, everyone involved in the planning had agreed, represented the perfect name for a mommy who would need to be very strict with her misbehaving little girl, in order to ensure that the naughtiness she had displayed not return.
Or, rather, not until the time had come for her to learn the true meaning of naughty.
Heather, too, had played a very important role in the design of Number 14’s dynamic. When her profile popped up on the Institute’s almost-literal radar screen as an excellent candidate for Oak Street, with the extra qualification that the dorm matron at her Selecta youth hostel had caught her on her bunk with a boy, being fingered with her panties down, her special bodily characteristics had in a sense turned Julie North into Delilah London. For Delilah London had the same ample, curvy figure as Heather, just as Marco Giuliani shared Tricia and Luisa’s Mediterranean complexion and Ella Samuels shared Ginnie’s red hair and green eyes.
One of Miss Charlotte’s strokes of genius in developing the Oak Street project, Delilah often thought, lay in this suggestion of kinship, this putting together of submissive girls with mommies and daddies who might appear to be related to them, without actually being related at all. With the added wrinkle that in the Wood and Giuliani households the strategy extended to non-related sisters, it made for precisely the feeling of domesticity on which Miss Charlotte had wanted to found her new brand.
In each case, the dean had chosen one of the two grownups in each household from the available Institute case agents as a match for a girl the assessors had flagged for pickup and conveyance to Oak Street. Blonde, brown-eyed Julie’s career with the Institute had received significant enhancement from her statuesque figure, which the assessors had many times pronounced very well suited to the breaking and training of girls earmarked for certain kinds of owners. Matched with handsome, dark-haired, beefy George Collinsworth, with whom she had in fact had two torrid flings in years past, one of them lasting three weeks—practically an eternity for an Institute case agent still on the job—the newly christened Delilah, half of the newly christened Londons, had happily moved into Number 14 to await the sweet, dreamy, naughty girl who would become the third member of their paradoxically highly unusual and yet very traditional little family.
Once she had discovered her vocation as a professional switch who enjoyed submission and dominance in nearly equal measure, Delilah had come to terms with her Rubenesque curviness without too much trouble. Nevertheless, the moment she looked into Heather Davis’ eyes and prepared to tell the beautiful girl, whose still-developing buxomness only enhanced the dimples in her round cheeks, that she would henceforth be Heather London, all the leftover emotions of coming into her adulthood at eighteen had filled Delilah’s heart.
Above all, she had felt anew, her long-vanished ambivalence concerning the changing shape of her body. Delilah didn’t know if all the Oak Street parents felt something similar about the girls who resembled them, but the way Heather’s eyes had lit up when she saw that her new mommy shared her body type had fastened the girl deep inside Delilah’s heart forever with the aching sympathy that had beaten in her chest at that moment.
Since then, complicated and urgently enhanced by the gradual strengthening of the erotic element in Delilah and George’s relationship with their little girl, every time Delilah looked at Heather, the fellow feeling had seemed to grow. It happened in a small way at the dinner table, and when Delilah went to the Giulianis to fetch Heather on Delilah’s return from work. It happened much more heart-rendingly—but also in a way that rendered Delilah’s panties very damp and raised her heartrate—when she had to tell the girl to go upstairs and wait for her daddy to come home to mete out another bare-bottom spanking.
And today, hearing that Heather had herself just moistened her schoolgirl cotton briefs when Tricia Giuliani informed her of the existence of a dirty secret, it had just happened most strongly of all, bringing a tear to the corner of Delilah’s eyes.
“Hey,” Holly said next to her, “you okay?”
Delilah gave her half a smile. “Yeah, thanks. Mixed emotions, you know?”
“Of course,” Holly said. “I’m probably going to cry when it’s Tricia’s turn.”
“Girls are up in the master bedroom,” Jane said over the comm link. “Wish you ladies could have seen the way Tricia put her finger to her lips.” Delilah could hear the incipient laughter in the assessor’s voice, and it broadened her smile. As emotionally invested as the mommies and daddies got in their naughty little girls, the element of humor never seemed far behind. Living in a neighborhood built to give submissive young women the impression of old-fashioned straitlaced suburban living when the truth strayed so very far from that veneer tended to produce a good deal of levity that only the mommies, daddies, and assessors could appreciate.
At least until the girls who had gone up for sale returned—then they too got to join in, as Delilah had seen in the schoolroom over the video feed in her office. Delilah’s job constituted mostly of keeping an eye on Oak Street while occupying an office in the nondescript industrial park five miles down the road—all the mommies and daddies who ‘worked’ had those same light responsibilities.
Of the seven mommies, only Delilah London and Carol Dalton ‘worked,’ while of course all the daddies did—how could one even call it a traditional suburban setting if a daddy were home during daylight hours on a weekday? How could a mommy tell a girl to “wait until your daddy gets home” if Daddy weren’t in some half-imaginary faraway wor
kplace where daddies must—or so an Oak Street girl would naturally, guiltily assume—discuss their little girls’ changing bodies and the means necessary for keeping their behavior well-regulated?
“Tricia’s taking down the box.”
Heather’s voice came over the comm link clearly despite the breathiness that meant she was speaking in an urgent whisper. “What’s in it?”
“Nine for Heather, eight for Tricia,” Jane said. “Holly and Delilah, stand by, please.”
Holly started the car. The two mommies had been sitting there for an hour, after picking up several convincing department store bags full of new clothes at Delilah’s office, courtesy of the Institute support staff. Not a single shopping mall or store larger than a gas-station minimart existed within fifty miles of the Institute, but the illusion of traditional domestic life thrived on this sort of detail. Delilah had gone shopping with Holly, the girls would think—in the unlikely event they even wondered, after the mommies interrupted the little pornography-viewing session now unfolding in the master bedroom of Number 9.
“Tricia’s opening the box.”
“Oh,” said Heather, a very little sound. Delilah felt her heart go out almost physically to the wonderful girl with whom she had had to be so very strict for the last eighteen months. Sweet Heather often had to weep over a well-warmed bottom when Delilah came to tuck her in at night, but both her mommy and her daddy thought the girl’s dreaminess and tendency to forget her responsibilities required stern regulation, no matter how much they loved their little girl. Heather would thank them, they knew, after she had gone up for auction and become the sexual servant of a powerful man or woman who wouldn’t hesitate to whip her well-rounded bottom without mercy for the sort of forgetful infraction the girl committed regularly at home on Oak Street.
Heather, too, had clearly benefited greatly. Yes, the frequent reminders of the way she had let the boy have his way with her, for those brief moments before the arrival of the matron in the dormitory, always turned her face bright red. The knowledge, though, that she had a mommy and a daddy who would hold her responsible for her actions and wouldn’t hesitate to discipline her as necessary had made her less forgetful and more confident—happy with her life and with the curvy body type she shared with Delilah.
George had to spank Heather only once a week or so, now, though the girl’s erotic response had through a kind of concentration grown stronger and stronger. Last week after a spanking for neglecting her chores, Delilah had had to interrupt Heather three times in the midst of what the assessors called pre-masturbatory activity—‘fidgeting’ as Delilah called it when addressing Heather.
Today, however, that powder keg would be lit for the first time. At that thought, her tears forgotten, Delilah had to smile as she pictured lovely Heather peering into the box full of beefcake, seeing the hunk on the cover of the top Playgirl.
“Tricia just took out the top magazine. She’s opening it to the centerfold.”
“I…” Heather said. “Sh-should?”
Holly giggled as she pulled the Audi out onto the road for the two-minute drive to Oak Street. Delilah nearly did: Heather obviously had nearly lost the power to speak under the influence of the naked man with the hard cock, leaning against his pickup truck.
Delilah enjoyed pornography as much as the next female Institute case agent, though probably not as much as her male colleagues. She remembered her early post-eighteen explorations, though, and how strong an effect a girl’s first pornographic image could have upon her. In particular, Delilah remembered the strange dizziness and the illogical but terribly urgent question in her mind: they can’t actually do that, can they? They can’t actually take a picture of a man with a hard penis, can they? I can’t really be looking at a naked man, can I?
Before Jane’s wonderful box had gone onto the shelf in the closet, she and Holly had taken a long, fun look at the Playgirls inside it. Delilah couldn’t find any reason to disagree that Danny Gaveston in the woods with his cock out, clearly ready to fuck some unseen wood nymph he had tied up in the back of his truck, represented the pinnacle of heart-stopping male prowess. Certainly he induced a certain envy even in Delilah, a woman who had experienced the cocks of so very many men—she couldn’t say she had ever seen a more beautiful penis than the one her little Heather now beheld, standing in the Giulianis’ master bedroom.
Chapter Five
Heather felt very faint, as she looked at the picture of the naked man in the magazine. Something about how old the magazine looked, or maybe about how glossy the paper was… or maybe about the way the muscular woodcutter seemed to have driven his truck naked, or to have taken his clothes off for some reason, out there in the woods…
She couldn’t even finish the thought, at first: Heather didn’t know what the images of him, of his big penis when it hung down as he stood against a tree, of it much bigger, when something had made him excited, she guessed, and ready to…
Her brain wouldn’t form proper sentences. Her face had gone so hot she couldn’t even turn her eyes to see how Tricia’s face looked, though she thought she could tell from the sound of her best friend’s breathing that the pictures had something like the same effect on her.
Dirty. What the boy had wanted to do with Heather on her bunk in the hostel had been dirty, too. He had had his hands at the waist of his jeans when the matron walked in. He had wanted to take out his… the same thing the man in the woods had just decided to show everyone who might be there.
Mrs. Kimball had made sure that the Oak Street girls knew the rudiments of human reproductive biology with the help of a little book called Your Changing Body and You. The intensely embarrassing lesson had proceeded in silence: the girls had read the book, and then they had had a quiz. When Heather’s mommy had gotten home that day she had told Heather that Mrs. Kimball had reported Heather as knowing what she needed to know about the ‘precious gift’ of her sexuality.
“When the time comes,” Mrs. London had said, “the right man will teach you more.”
In her mommy’s voice Heather had heard loud and clear, not like the boy in the hostel.
The one who had said, as he kissed her, as he lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties to touch her terribly wet pussy, “My cock is so hard. I need to put it in your pussy. I need to fuck you.”
Which was how Heather knew the dirty word for penis that kept running through her head as she looked at the man who had come to the woods in his pickup truck to take his worn jeans off and get his cock ready to… to…
To fuck a pussy. The long hard shaft with its fascinating sort of helmet at the end… it went into a girl’s vagina. If she had never had a penis in there before, and the man pushed in hard, it would hurt, but only for a little while. Then he would be able to fuck her as much as he wanted.
If the man in the woods had brought a girl with him—maybe she was taking the pictures? The thought made Heather feel faint all over again, just as she seemed to be regaining the power to think.
Feeling her breath coming in little pants, feeling the funny feeling in her tummy and the wetness down below, she resolved to finish the thought.
If the man had brought a girl, he obviously meant to fuck her pussy, didn’t he? In the truck, maybe? He would take her panties down and bend her over. If she said she wanted to wait to have her pussy fucked by his big cock, if she protested that his hard penis would hurt her because she had never had sex before, the naked man would spank her the way Daddy spanked Heather over his knee. The woodcutter’s hand on the girl’s bare bottom would convince her that his penis belonged inside her, that the time had come for her virginity to end.
Heather found herself speaking though she hadn’t intended to say anything. “Why…?” Then, “It’s so…”
Tricia whispered, “I know.” Heather really had no idea to what she herself had referred. Now she felt a terrible, burning desire to figure out what Tricia meant. It’s so…
Dirty.
Shameful.
>
Worthy of a terrible lesson, delivered by a firm hand, to a young woman’s bare bottom.
Tricia continued, in a voice so low and words so slow they seemed like part of a nightmare that nevertheless seemed on the verge of becoming the most delightful dream Heather had ever known. “It’s so big. It would… I mean, it would hurt, wouldn’t it?”
A wave of heat seemed to wash over Heather’s whole body as her friend’s words revealed that the dirty pictures of the man in the woods had made Tricia, too, think of what would befall the unseen girl he must have brought with him. Suddenly the shock of the initial sight of his nakedness shifted inside her, and she found herself looking at the magazine that had lain under the one with the woodcutter and was now atop the pile—the big pile—in Mrs. Giuliani’s naughty box.
It had to be Mrs. Giuliani’s, didn’t it? Heather wondered. But how could a mommy have something like these magazines? Like the one with the man in the woods?
Like the next one down, with the businessman who seemed, on the cover, to have taken his shirt off in his office. He didn’t have quite the same number of muscles as the woodcutter, but his face had an intelligence that made Heather’s tummy do flip-flops as she reached, apparently unable to keep her hand from moving, for the magazine.
“He’s handsome,” Tricia said next to her, putting the first one on her mother’s bed and following Heather’s gaze as she opened to the spread of photos in the middle of the… the…
Playgirl. The strange word made Heather’s heart race. What would Mommy think if she caught her little girl reading something called Playgirl? Did playgirls play naughty games? Did men like the one with the pickup truck, and the one who apparently felt comfortable getting ready to fuck his secretary’s pussy in the middle of the day, and the one on the cover of the next magazine down, who it seemed like to have sex on his boat… did they tell girls like Heather and Tricia, who looked at their dirty pictures, that the time had come for the girls to serve as their playthings?
