by Emily Tilton
So Ginnie and Heather had talked about how Tricia and Luisa Giuliani were learning to cook real Italian food, and how Heather envied that because her mommy and daddy almost always just picked up takeout on their way back from work. From time to time Ginnie or Heather had glanced at the pool house, and once Heather had said, “What are they doing?”
Then Mr. Kimball had arrived, with a serious, almost angry look on his face.
“Hi, Mr. Kimball!” Ginnie had said, feeling her insides strangely stirred up by handsome Mr. Kimball’s dark good looks.
But he had only wanted to know where Wendy was, and then, when he emerged, he had sent Ginnie and Heather home, and that had seemed the end of it, strange as that end might be. Now, in bed, Ginnie simply couldn’t stop wondering: what had Wendy, Frankie, and Mary been doing in the pool house, and what had happened afterward?
Chapter Four
Jim Setter watched Ginnie’s video feed very carefully. The mental process through which the adorable young woman was clearly going seemed to unfold on her still sleep-softened face, imagined scene by imagined scene. Not for the first time he wished the Institute had invested some of its billions in developing some sort of telepathic technology: his job would be so much easier if he knew exactly what Ginnie saw in her mind’s eye as her left hand, currently located against her pink-pj-covered tummy, began to creep downward.
He was the only assessor on duty in the Oak Street control room deep below the Institute’s manor house, at 6:30 a.m. this early Saturday morning. Serena, whose special responsibility was Wendy Kimball, and Heidi, who handled Delia Chichester, would be in at eight, but the four a.m. to eight a.m. shift on Oak Street had always been single-manned (despite most Institute assessors actually being female).
Now that things in everyone’s favorite ageplay neighborhood had begun to get moving in earnest, that might have to change, Jim realized, as he split his attention among the girls currently awake and aroused: Ginnie, at an arousal level of eight; Wendy, stirring in her bed one door down, at six; and Delia, across the street, at five. If all three girls began to play with themselves, Jim would either have to call in help from one of the main Institute teams in a neighboring control room or send Wendy’s and Delia’s mommies in to interrupt them at an earlier stage than would be optimal for the girls’ development.
An alarm went off, and Heather London’s video feed popped onto the big screen in front of Jim, in the lower right corner of the display. She had just woken up, at an arousal of seven.
Damn it. He had taken this shift because he had suspected this would turn out to be the crucial first time getting nearly to orgasm for Ginnie, which would send her to Wendy that morning with insatiable curiosity. But the timing had to be handled delicately—all the Oak Street data so far showed that the way a girl got interrupted while masturbating, and even the minor circumstances of the intervention, let alone whether she was accused and punished, made a big difference in her progress. Having to handle three other girls on the brink of self-pleasure would make it very difficult to ensure Ella Samuels stopped Ginnie at the right moment and in the right way.
“Good morning, Jim,” came a voice from behind him and above him in the small control room’s sloping amphitheater-like space. He turned to see Charlotte Elkins Nakama, the Institute’s academic dean, moving to take her place at the top table, dressed impeccably in a black skirt and a blue silk blouse. Nothing about her gave the slightest hint that she would soon change into a lacy white nightgown to greet the Institute’s new captured concubines in the grand foyer.
He laughed. “Do you sleep?”
“Not when my Oak Street girls are threatening to boil over,” she said in her most businesslike voice, as she slipped on her headset. “You concentrate on Ginnie. I’ll take the others. I’ve called in Paul, too. He should be here in a few minutes.”
A legend among the assessors declared that Miss Charlotte, as the concubines knew her, had an alarm set for every girl at the Institute and on Oak Street. Jim couldn’t believe that, because no one could maintain Miss Charlotte’s also-legendary composure with that much to worry about from minute to minute. He did suspect that she had inherited from her predecessor Miss Abigail, a known genius at coding the software that handled the Institute’s vast flows of data, a secret tool that notified her when her presence was required. If the code did exist, Jim supposed it made sense to keep that confidential, since Selecta’s competitors might well kill to obtain it.
“Good morning, Wilma,” Charlotte said into her headset, waking Wendy’s mommy. “Yes, hi. Please get ready to knock on Wendy’s door in…”
Feeling a rush of gratitude, Jim turned his attention back to Ginnie’s feed. Her arousal had hit nine, and she moved her knees in a gentle rhythm, almost as if on a bicycle. The hygrometer in the tiny sensor placed between her pussy and her anus showed that she had already dampened her pink boy-shorts considerably. Her breathing grew rougher. Her little hand, detected under the comforter with the room’s infrared sensors, moved lower, her fingertips now undoubtedly on the bare skin of her tummy, perhaps beginning to run along the inside of her pajama bottoms’ elastic waistband.
When Ginnie had woken up a half hour earlier, Jim had roused Ella Samuels. She had gone downstairs to start breakfast, rather noisily so as to let Ginnie know her mommy had gone to the kitchen. Now he opened the line to her again. “Ella, get ready, please. I’m hoping you can give her the impression that you’re nearly positive she was masturbating. If you can, please work in the idea that you might inspect her vagina to determine whether she was or not.”
He heard the answering double tap at Ella’s implanted microphone that indicated she copied. On Wendy’s video feed, just above Ginnie’s, he saw Wilma Kimball walk into her charge’s bedroom, an angry expression on her face. Now that Wendy belonged to a wealthy businessman, who had decided on Miss Charlotte’s advice to return her to Oak Street for a few months to put the final polish on his concubine’s training as a submissive young lady, her life differed in certain respects from that of the other Oak Street girls: notably, right now, in that her mommy was making her lie naked on her back with her knees raised and spread for a pussy spanking.
The captions told a different sort of tale from the one that would soon be enacted in Ginnie’s room, too.
Wilma: This belongs to Mr. Weaver, Wendy. You know that. You know you’re not allowed to play with it unless he gives permission.
Ginnie, just below, hit ten, and the number flashed.
“Ella,” Jim said, “go, please. Make noise on the stairs to give her warning.”
He wanted to cut this as close as possible, to maximize the effect on Ginnie’s progress, but had he gotten distracted by the moving scene in Wendy’s room? Jim cursed himself inwardly. Behind him he heard the soundproof door of the control room open, undoubtedly to admit Paul. A third assessor’s presence at the monitors would be able to dispel any remaining anxiety that the several Oak Street girls currently on the verge of taking themselves to the kind of Saturday-morning orgasm beloved by libidinous, single young people but inappropriate for a young woman in training as a submissive concubine, would reach completion.
The problem at hand, though, was whether Ginnie despite all Jim’s care would reach the first orgasm of her young life before Ella could knock. Her hand, outlined beneath her covers by the sensors in her bed, almost as if in an x-ray, was inside her pj’s now, the fingertips moving up and down. The audio feed from her room, audible in Jim’s headset, picked up her slightly labored breathing; then her lips parted so that she could gasp a little with the sensation.
Her ten flashed again, turned red. The pre-orgasm alarm sounded.
Ella had had to turn off the stove, wipe up some batter. Jim managed to keep himself from trying to get her to move faster; the trainers playing the Oak Street mommies and daddies were the best in the business. If Ginnie came, it would be Jim’s fault.
“As much noise as you can, please, Ella,” he said, keeping
his voice as mild as possible.
The theory behind denying orgasm to the Oak Street girls until the time had come to awaken them sexually and then send them to the manor house for sale at auction had its obvious dimension. Dominants like the trainers at the Institute and the men who would buy these girls’ contracts understood the value of controlling a girl’s pleasure. A client of this most exclusive boutique would spend millions of dollars on a lovely submissive woman who behaved instinctively like a modest young lady but could be rapidly trained to provide her master with the pleasure to which his prosperity entitled him. He naturally enjoyed knowing that she had been denied self-pleasure, in order to make her need for his cock grow and grow even before she knew that her fate decreed she would lose her virginity under his pounding hips.
The idea also had a much subtler side. The Oak Street brand—which, after Wendy’s highly successful auction, had clearly created just the niche for itself that Charlotte had envisioned it might—depended on the idea of innocence that came with the picture-perfect housing development Selecta had built from the ground up in a patch of desert. As the development team, led of course by Charlotte herself, had drawn up the protocols for the crypto-training of submissive girls in households that looked and for the most part worked like typical suburban residences, their most important task lay in strengthening that idea of innocence as much as possible, both for the benefit of the girls’ progression in erotic awareness, when their times came, one by one, and for the marketing potential when potential buyers watched the video feed.
Simmering innocence, Charlotte had once called it, very memorably. Now Ginnie was about to boil, which would mean a setback. If Ella delivered her lecture to a girl who had just come, rather than one who had been robbed of that consolation, the effect would be spoiled—or at least greatly diminished.
But Ella found the creaky stair installed in every Oak Street house, though in a different position in each one to prevent the girls’ growing suspicious. She stepped hard, and Ginnie, in her pink bed, froze.
Her arousal sank to six in an instant, and then to three. Ella proceeded up the stairs. Ginnie ripped her hand out of her pj’s, hesitated, bit the inside her cheek, then put her fingers to her nose to inhale the naughty scent of her self-pleasure. Her arousal rose to six again, as her face went bright red.
“Nice,” commented Charlotte from behind Jim.
“Whew,” Paul said, sitting down at the table, in the chair to Jim’s right. “That was… virtuosic, Jim. You probably wouldn’t have gotten that sniff if you hadn’t timed that exactly right.”
“Thanks,” Jim said dryly. He knew Paul probably saw that the closeness of the margin hadn’t been planned but had rather represented a near-disaster caused by inattention, but he appreciated the attempt to cover it over.
“We could deal with a little less virtuosity, I think,” Charlotte said, but not unkindly.
“Ella, you stopped her,” Jim said into his headset. “Just knock and go right in, please.”
Ella knocked, and entered Ginnie’s room.
Despite having stopped masturbating, Ginnie sat up in a clearly guilty way the moment her mommy entered.
“Hi, Mommy,” she said, the effort to appear nonchalant so obvious that Jim wondered how Ella kept from laughing.
“Good morning, Ginnie-bear,” she said warmly. The second camera in the room picked up Ella’s face as she put a near-theatrical frown of puzzlement on it. She sniffed, slightly less showily but still in a manner calculated to let Ginnie know that her mommy suspected something. Her pale complexion went, once again, very pink.
“What were you doing before I came in, Virginia?” Ella asked quietly.
“Nothing, Mommy,” Ginnie said quickly.
“Are you sure, Ginnie-bear? There’s nothing you want to confess?”
“No, Mommy.” Ginnie bit her lip. Ella had the luxury, of course, of knowing her ward would never admit to playing with herself, given the severity of the paddlings she had received in the Samuels’ household. In other Oak Street houses a mommy would have handled the moment differently—in the Daltons’ residence across the street, for example, spankings were less to be feared, and consequently more frequent, since Renee Dalton represented the first of the girls to be designated a brat: to ask for a confession might draw from Renee the defiant declaration that she had touched herself, and so what, her mommy should go ahead and spank her.
“Should I take a look between your legs, sweetheart, to see if you’re being truthful with me? Are your pajama bottoms a little wet?”
“No! Please, Mommy,” Ginnie pleaded. “Please don’t!” Her arousal jumped to eight, then settled to seven. “I promise I wasn’t doing anything!”
“Perfect, Ella,” Jim said. “Thanks.”
“Alright, Ginnie-bear,” Ella said, brightening her tone a little. “I trust you. Pancakes will be ready in ten minutes.”
Chapter Five
Once her mommy had left her room, Ginnie spent long moments trying to quiet her heart rate. For a few seconds she had been sure her mommy would pull down the covers to inspect her, find the wet spot on her pj’s, and then send her down to the punishment room to wait for her daddy. Mommy had definitely seemed to know, hadn’t she, that Ginnie was touching herself?
She balled her hands into little fists in front of her chest, to keep from putting them right back down under the covers, because the thought of her mommy looking between her legs—inspecting her pj bottoms or even making her pull them down so that Mommy could look at her pussy and see how wet it had gotten—seemed to make things even worse. Mommy would look, and she would call Daddy in to look, too, and Daddy would say Ginnie had a paddling coming, but first she should show her daddy how cute her little pussy looked when Ginnie played with it.
Mommy and Daddy would stand over her bed, and the pink covers would be drawn all the way down so that they could watch their little girl do the wicked thing she couldn’t help doing when she thought about her daddy paddling her. Ginnie would close her eyes as she whimpered out the helpless pleasure her fingers gave, moving in her little slit, through the crisp red curls that made her blush whenever she caught sight of them in the mirror.
“That’s it, Ginnie-bear,” Daddy would say. “Rub right at the top, now. A little harder. It’s alright to make those big-girl noises now, since you’ve got a paddling coming anyway.”
“Look how pretty our little girl’s pussy is,” Mommy would say. “Listen to the way her fingers make naughty sounds down there. Wouldn’t you like to put your big cock in that pussy, Daddy, and have some real big-girl time with our cute girl?”
As she imagined these wicked things, unable to stop her mind from going further and further into a region that made her face blaze with as much heat as seemed to rage down below, Ginnie couldn’t help moving her right hand to her face, couldn’t help taking another little sniff of the naughty fragrance. My pussy, she thought. My pretty pussy smells like that when I need big-girl time. When I need a hard penis in me for the very first time, opening me and teaching me to be a very good girl.
If Daddy did that, and taught her about real big-girl time, would he still paddle her? It would hurt, to have his big penis inside her the first time, wouldn’t it? Maybe that would punish her enough? If he turned her over and made her have it from behind, maybe over the bench in the punishment room, so that his hips slapped her little bottom as his hardness came and went, and Ginnie screamed as loud as she ever did when the paddle came down to teach her how to behave?
“Ginnie?” her mommy called. “Are you coming?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ginnie called back, guiltily taking her hand from her nose and moving to get out of bed at last. What was happening inside her? Something about what had happened with Wendy and the Wood girls had stirred a part of her she hadn’t known about, or had wanted to pretend wasn’t there.
Standing at her dresser, Ginnie guiltily took off her damp pj’s and buried them in the hamper under two t-shirts and a
pair of gym shorts. She looked at herself in the mirror, blushing yet again at her naked body and especially at the tight red triangle between her thighs. She turned a little to have a look at the pert, pale bottom that hadn’t received the paddle since she had failed a test at school the previous month.
Did Daddy want to have real big-girl time with her? She guessed she had always wondered about that, just as all the Oak Street girls had always wondered about whether the purpose of the project had something to do with sex.
She hastily pulled on a pair of pink cotton panties, and realized immediately that even the new panties would fail inspection, since her pussy wouldn’t stop feeling warm and, well, needy.
“Ginnie!” came her mommy’s voice, now exasperated.
Ginnie grabbed a pair of shorts. “Coming!”
She couldn’t just wonder about all this: she knew she would give in, eventually, and earn a terrible lesson in the basement, unless she had some more information to help her understand. She would have to make Wendy tell her something, just so she could figure out how to think about the new reality on Oak Street.
* * *
Ginnie cornered Wendy in the Kimballs’ backyard, after she had gone for a perfunctory run on the route that took her into the uninhabited foothills that had signs all over saying, “Property of Selecta Corporation: Keep out.” It had occurred to Ginnie before that those signs might as well be posted on the Oak Street girls’ bodies, but the thought had never distracted her as thoroughly as it did that morning.
She usually ran for forty minutes, but today she looped back early, so that she could try to find Wendy. She wasn’t breaking any rules, but she knew her conduct was deceptive, because her mommy and daddy would think she had taken her usual route. That, too, made her feel funny.
