by Emily Tilton
Lauren, who wore now only her lingerie and stockings, gave a little sob of fear as she seemed unable to take her eyes off the hairbrush. Then, tearing her gaze away, she did turn, and slowly bent over, feeling the usual crease of shame and worry appear on her brow.
She felt Mrs. Fredericks’ fingers in the waistband of her panties, pulling them down underneath the suspenders of the garter belt, to the tops of the nylons.
“Arch that back, slut,” said the matron. “Show me what your owner likes to see, so nicely framed in that shameful underwear.”
Lauren whimpered as she tried to obey.
“Do not dare to part those knees, Lauren!”
“But…”
“You know very well that I did not mean I want to see your vagina, girl.”
Did she? Lauren supposed she hadn’t even been thinking: Mrs. Fredericks had instructed her to show what Mr. Killington liked to see, and Mr. Killington liked to see Lauren’s pussy, didn’t he? Didn’t Mrs. Fredericks herself wax her girls between their legs? Lauren closed her knees again, very tightly, her face blazing like the sun, wondering why things could make such sense erotically without making any sense at all, logically.
Mrs. Fredericks made a dissatisfied sound in her throat. “I suppose I shall have to live with that hint of your disgrace as I punish you, in order to make certain you know to present yourself properly.”
What did she mean? Then Lauren pictured it, and saw the hint of her private furrow peeping out between her thighs, and the image in her head brought a sob from her throat.
Mrs. Fredericks put her left hand on Lauren’s waist, atop the garter belt, and tapped the hairbrush on her bare bottom.
“What happens to girls who wool-gather instead of getting ready for the lovely date on which a gentleman is going to take them, honey?”
It never failed, that sweetness in the matron’s tone after the girl about to be punished had shown herself submissive and compliant, with a wish to please—and to be modest and demure to the extent possible for a schoolgirl brought so decisively to womanhood and sexual service. The tears of mingled sorrow, fear, and gratitude welled up in Lauren’s eyes.
“They get spanked,” she whispered.
“Where do they get spanked, honey?” The hairbrush moved in gentle circles on the place, as if to give Lauren a wholly unnecessary hint as to the answer.
“On their bare bottoms,” Lauren breathed.
“Why, honey?”
Lauren knew this—oh, how she knew this. “To teach them a lesson.”
Then Mrs. Fredericks started to spank her on her bare bottom to teach her the lesson she needed so very badly. The hairbrush didn’t hurt as much as the paddle, but the weight of the thick hardwood made it hurt much more than Mrs. Fredericks’ hand, or even her spoon, with which Lauren had been punished the previous week for forgetfully closing the bathroom door when she went to pee.
Lauren bounced so much on her knees, and squirmed so urgently under the matron’s hand and the hairbrush, that Mrs. Fredericks had to take her garter belt firmly in her grasp to keep her still for the spanking. “Hold still, honey,” she said, clearly acknowledging the severity of the hair-brushing in the understanding tone she employed. “I am almost done teaching you your lesson. Five more, now.”
Part of Lauren desperately wanted to know what the content of the lesson, and of so many of the lessons she had learned in this program, really was. Another part of her had no need to fill the word in with anything at all: to do so would have made perfectly clear just how different Lauren was—and, she supposed, Jessica and Yo and all their friends were—from what an eighteen-year-old girl in the modern world was supposed to be.
She looked down at the pink comforter on her bed, saw the little wet spot her tears had made, and yelped each time the horrid hairbrush fell again on her poor bottom.
“There,” said Mrs. Fredericks, finally. “You may pull up your panties, Lauren, and finish getting dressed. You will have something to remind you throughout the evening to remain respectful and obedient.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anita listened to Mr. Killington and Lauren come in from their date. The Mr. Stevens situation certainly presented some difficulties, but Anita had to admit that she enjoyed the challenge. Had she not guided Lauren with great success to keep company fully and gratefully with Mr. Killington? Though the session of advanced company-keeping, as Anita thought of it, would come rather soon for Lauren, Anita felt that especially with the spanking in her bedroom, wearing her grownup lingerie, Lauren would be ready.
Sitting in the living room reading Persuasion, her favorite Jane Austen novel, Anita heard Mr. Killington kiss Lauren, then murmur something in a tone that the matron knew even without hearing the words must be exceedingly immodest. She smiled, feeling the little pang of jealousy she always felt. Mr. Fredericks had talked dirty sometimes, the way men do, and though it had always caused Anita to blush, it had felt proper, to her—though in some very improper way she had never felt the need to examine too closely.
Jessica had gone up to the penthouse with Mr. Graves, to keep company with him there; given his proclivities she probably had the penis deep in her bottom by now. Mr. Fredericks had been rough with Anita, when she had tried, shame-faced, to deny him her anus in the early days of their marriage, but Jessica, and now Lauren, knew their duty to the men who took care of them better than the young Anita had—Mrs. Fredericks herself saw to that, alongside the owners of the club.
She heard the door of Lauren’s bedroom close behind the couple. The tendrils of warmth brought about by the sound of the kiss and the low voice of Mr. Killington seeped through sinews of her still reasonably slim, even taut, hips and bottom-cheeks. Should she cross her legs? Anita wondered. She had not crossed them in several days, and she knew she would soon hear Lauren crying out as she was made to keep company in her little bed. If she crossed her legs, the sounds would be more bearable.
Anita had learned to cross her legs on her honeymoon, twenty-five years ago. Mr. Fredericks had awakened her, and possessed her, all through their wedding night, teaching her to keep company the way a firm-handed man does, instructing her with his voice and his hands in the duties of a bride. He had left her sore down there, but also aching, always aching, for more—and not knowing how to get it.
“Mr. Fredericks,” she had asked timidly the second morning, after her bridegroom had introduced her to anal sex the previous night, riding her young bottom until her cries echoed from the walls of their honeymoon bungalow, “thank you for teaching me to be a good wife.” She meant to ask him about something she had heard, about how husbands could bind their wives to them with tender affection by taking thought for a young woman’s pleasure.
He had smiled in that wolfish way he had. “You’re welcome, darling. You’re learning very quickly. Come kneel in front of me and suck my cock, now.”
“Oh, but…”
Mr. Fredericks’ tone took on a note of warning. “Remember what I told you on our wedding night, Anita, before I popped your cherry. Who’s in charge, in the bedroom? Is it the wife, or is it the husband?”
Anita’s face had blazed with heat. “The husband,” she had whispered, remembering how he had told her what to do, that first night, as he had enjoyed her again and again: “Take off those panties now, Anita, and show me your pussy.” “Spread those legs for me, darling. Nice and wide.” “Hold your breasts together, so I can move my cock between them.” Then, last night, “Reach back and spread your cheeks for me. It’s time for anal.”
Mr. Fredericks had turned out to be a very selfish man. In the end, Anita wouldn’t have wanted him any other way, because it made him very easy to understand and relatively easy to please. As long as they were married—seventeen years—he had taken no thought for his bride’s pleasure except to tell her that she would be spanked if he caught her playing with herself.
But as she, wearing her lacy little honeymoon nightie, had moved to obey him, rising from her wick
er chair to walk with downcast eyes and blushing face around the little breakfast table on the bungalow’s tropical veranda to kneel and take him in her mouth the way he had taught her on their wedding night, she had discovered something.
So insistent had the ache between Anita’s legs become by then that merely exercising her muscles the very little it required to rise from her chair had sent a frisson through her whole body that nearly took her breath away. As she had knelt to fellate her handsome husband, her eyes on the long, hard penis he held arrogantly in his right hand, pumping gently to prepare himself for his young bride’s mouth, she had managed, by surreptitiously placing her right foot in front of her left, just before she knelt, to cross her thighs. The merest squeeze down there, just before she had bent to her duty, had made her whimper—a sound that Mr. Fredericks had undoubtedly taken as a compliment to himself.
When he had released his seed into her mouth, telling Anita she must not spill a drop but rather swallow it all like a good wife, then thanked her—as he never failed to do despite his essential selfishness—and went to shower with Anita still on her knees in front of the chair, she had wasted no time. Though it made her face feel hot, she had returned to her chair and crossed her legs, the way her mother had taught her modest girls always did.
Then she had kept crossing them, and crossing them, until she cried out, grateful that Mr. Fredericks was in the shower. She had cried out that first time, yes—but she had never cried out again, no matter how great the release she had received by crossing her legs.
Crossing one’s legs was not masturbation, after all. Anita didn’t care what a doctor, or anyone, might say. She knew the reasoning to be in part a rationalization, of course, because certainly she would never deny that she felt pleasure when she crossed her legs. But the pleasure served as the means to release the tensions she must, as a woman, feel in the course of performing the duties she must perform as her girls’ chaperone and matron. How could a healthy widow spank two exceedingly pretty bottoms on such a regular basis, give enemas and paddlings and hair-brushings to girls in lovely, lacy lingerie, without some means of release?
To cross your legs, and squeeze with your muscles, was not to touch yourself. Anita’s fingers never approached the vulva she had kept neatly shaved, the way Mr. Fredericks had required, even all these years after he had departed the earth. She had been spanked by her husband many times, of course, for negligence in household duties, but never for masturbation. That alone indicated to Anita that to cross her legs, as she did now listening to Lauren keep company with Mr. Killington, represented only a means of seeking release.
She pictured the pretty girl with the auburn hair in her white lingerie, bent over the bed again, just as Anita had made her bend over it in the afternoon. White—even though Mr. Killington had taken away her traditional right to the color the previous night. Anita bit her lip as she began to squeeze her thighs.
Lauren cried out. Mr. Killington must be in her bottom, now, keeping company very resolutely, just as Mr. Fredericks always did. Big hands must hold slim hips still, so that the hard penis could enter at full length, where the seed would make no baby. Mr. Fredericks had proven infertile despite his rather inordinate libido; he had released his seed in Anita’s womb just as often as in her mouth and her bottom, but she had not been blessed with children—though she felt her maternal instincts, otherwise frustrated, had found a worthy outlet in serving the owners’ club.
More cries emerged from Lauren’s room, these sounding to Anita more ambiguous. Perhaps Mr. Killington had instructed the little slut to touch herself while he impaled her along her narrowest passage. Little slut. Anita squeezed. Oh, you little slut. I had to spank you, didn’t I? I had to spank you with the hairbrush. Your little bottom got what it deserved, just like mine did when I didn’t have dinner ready for Mr. Fredericks, and he told me to get the hairbrush—the very same hairbrush, and he never knew that I hadn’t made dinner because I was crossing my legs all afternoon. And when he fucked my little bottom so hard after the hairbrush, and told me that wives who don’t get dinner on the table for their husbands get fucked in the ass until they learn their lesson, I knew I would cross my legs after he went to sleep, thinking about all the wives who had to learn that lesson, the way I did, and how we were all little sluts just like Lauren O’Hara who has a hard penis in her bottom right now.
A manly grunt. Lauren’s cries changing to a scream of pleasure.
The cock is so deep, now. The cock is spurting into her. The bottom is well fucked now.
When she crossed her legs, as the release came over her, again and again, for Anita could cross her legs for an hour, if she had abstained for a few days and she was listening to one of her girls keeping company, her mind freed itself of the strict constraints under which she ordinarily bound it. Words only men should use floated through her thoughts, and they made each squeeze of Anita’s thighs so much more intense that she knew it could only be right to think them, when they came—for how could she help it?
The noises in Lauren’s bedroom quietened. Anita, a little reluctantly, uncrossed her legs, chastising herself for the reluctance. Leg-crossing represented a perfectly acceptable thing, in her ethical world, but like all things, it had to be kept in balance and within bounds. At such moments, as the murmurs in the girls’ rooms faded, and she knew that the owners held their young ladies tight and stroked their hair, kissed them gently, and praised them for their progression their company-keeping skills, Anita always wished she had someone to whom to confess her leg-crossing. Who spanks the spanker? she thought, a little dreamily.
The door of Lauren’s room opened, and Mr. Killington departed. His own apartment, like those of the other owners, was just one floor below the penthouse. Lauren might go live with him there for a few months or even a year or two, the way Heather had done. Or, Anita supposed, with the advent of the mysterious young Mr. Stevens something unusual, and interesting, might occur.
She got up from her reading chair, the silk blend of her favorite blue pantsuit whispering as her thighs rubbed together. Anita realized that she had gotten the gusset of her own white cotton briefs—the only kind she wore, or had worn, since the death of Mr. Fredericks—quite damp. That happened when one crossed one’s legs, of course, but it required swift changing of the briefs in order that the dampness not prove a temptation that resulted in further leg-crossing.
Before she went into her own bedroom, though, she couldn’t resist knocking softly at Lauren’s door, and entering to find the sweet auburn-haired girl in her pretty cotton nightgown, sitting up in bed and just about to turn out the light.
Lauren looked up, a little startled, but with a shy smile on her face. “Hi, Mrs. Fredericks,” she said, her voice sleepy but cheerful.
“Hi, honey,” Anita said. “Did Mr. Killington tuck you in?”
Lauren nodded, the smile on her face broadening. “He likes to watch me put on my nightgown, I think.”
Anita smiled back. “Who would not, honey? You look so innocent, now.”
The girl frowned. “Really? I… well, I guess I feel innocent, too, but…”
Anita helped. “But you know you are a little slut, too?”
Lauren’s eyes went very wide, as if she had been taken completely aback by Anita’s using her gentle voice to say the words the matron usually only said in her angry one. She bit her lip and nodded, very slowly.
Anita walked over to the bed. “That is the best part, honey,” she said, and kissed the top of Lauren’s head. “Now go to sleep and dream of how obedient and respectful you will be for Mr. Killington and his friends tomorrow night, when you all keep company together.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lauren and Jessica rode the elevator with Tricia and Yo, accompanied by Mrs. Fredericks and Mrs. Wentworth, at seven p.m. They were dressed in their school uniforms, having all eaten an early dinner together in Mrs. Wentworth’s apartment. Mrs. Wentworth, who seemed to like to be a little bawdier than Mrs. Frede
ricks, had said, “Eat up, girls, but don’t spoil your appetites. You have a lot more eating to do tonight, even if it’s less nutritious!”
“Edna,” Mrs. Fredericks had said, “that is not appropriate.”
“Oh, you love it, Anita,” Mrs. Wentworth had replied, but Mrs. Fredericks had frowned. Mrs. Wentworth had looked at the girls, then, and winked. “I meant ice cream, girls. What did you think I meant?”
According to Yo and Tricia, Mrs. Wentworth sometimes had what the matron called gentlewoman callers, something Jessica and Lauren couldn’t imagine Mrs. Fredericks ever doing. Mrs. Wentworth’s charges didn’t know whether their matron did anything improper with these women—they never went into her bedroom, at least when the girls were around—but comments like the one about the ‘ice cream’ seemed to indicate a rather different approach from Mrs. Fredericks’ to the matter of sex.
When the elevator door slid back to reveal the penthouse, it certainly didn’t seem like ice cream would in fact feature in the remainder of their evening. They could see, in the living room, five men in matching black bathrobes, with a discreet red seal embroidered on the chest, the way the hotel symbol would be at one of those nice resorts where Lauren had stayed once on Hawaii, during a brief time in her girlhood when her father had been doing well in his business.
There were four big chairs and a long couch, and also a sort of table with a black upholstered surface that clearly had enough padding to be used for sex when such a surface proved necessary, as Lauren knew with a blush it would almost certainly be. Mr. Killington sat in the nearest chair. Mr. Stevens sat on the couch. In the other chairs Lauren saw Mr. Graves, Mr. Philips (Yo’s owner), and a man she hadn’t met before but who must be Mr. Diaz, who owned Tricia.
