The Oak Street Method_Frankie and Mary

by Emily Tilton

  With a growl of convincing frustration—for Fred wasn’t really angry at all, of course—Mary’s daddy put his left hand on the small of her back and bent her forcefully over the bed. At the same time, with his right hand, in which he held the belt, he grasped the panties at the back and drew them down to mid-thigh.

  Mary cried out. Frankie gave a little sob. Paul had to admit that he himself found the sight of Fred’s thick black belt against Mary’s creamy skin extremely moving.

  “Please, Daddy!” Mary said, genuinely fearful now.

  “Mary’s at 7,” Paul said. “Frankie just recalibrated.” He glanced down at the crawl inching along the bottom of the screen and found the number he sought: HM 78%. HM: hand movement. The percentage represented a rough estimate of the chances that Frankie would touch herself in the next minute. As he watched, the number went up: HM 85%. “Heads up that Frankie may masturbate. She’s super wet right now. I’ll let you know.”

  In the dreamlike setting of Oak Street, made much more so for the Wood girls now that their special lessons had gone on for a month, the lines between discipline and pleasure, and innocence and experience, blurred very easily. Frankie and Mary had both had it impressed upon them from the day they arrived on Oak Street that playing with their private parts, or even spending too long in the bathroom, would result in a spanking. Laura Wood (real name Greta Isaacs) had inspected their panties every night, on her bedtime visit to the girls’ rooms.

  Because of the philosophy Charlotte and her team had adopted for Oak Street, as a way of enhancing both the brand and the girls’ eventual ecstasy, however, masturbation wasn’t merely forbidden in the five households of the subdivision: the mommies and daddies of Oak Street actively prevented it, with the help of the assessment team. The Institute’s data, and its ability to analyze that data, allowed the assessors to identify pre-masturbatory states early enough that the girls could be interrupted and their attention refocused before their hands even found their way into their panties.

  It had resulted, just as Charlotte had hoped it would, in Oak Street becoming a powder keg of submissive sexuality. As the months of the initial phase of the project had gone by, before Frankie found Best Friends in her daddy’s desk, the need for interruption had become quite acute in every house. Midnight visits to all the girls’ rooms, twice a week or more, had come to represent the norm, supplemented by the policy that doors must remain open during afternoon study sessions—though even with that policy the mommies regularly found themselves summoned by the comm links in their ears to check on their girls’ homework progress and pretend almost to notice their wandering hands, and almost to carry out an impromptu inspection of their modest panties and their untried vaginas.

  Now that Wendy, Frankie, and Mary had started special lessons, though, with Ginnie Samuels of Number 2 and Heather London of Number 14 nearing their awakenings as well, the assessors’ handling of self-pleasure had to adjust. Extra vigilance was the watchword for Ginnie and Heather, with frequent reminders that a girl’s private parts must be kept clean, but not indulged any further than a washcloth could indulge them. The Wood girls, on the other hand, had progressed a fair ways under their mommy’s and daddy’s tutelage: Frankie and Mary were allowed to masturbate now, but only with permission from Mr. or Mrs. Wood.

  Of course it was terribly embarrassing to ask for that permission, and so—as the assessors had planned all along—both girls had on separate occasions been caught playing with themselves without it, and spanked hard with Laura Wood’s wooden spoon. As their mommy asked them in a cold voice whether her spoon “felt as nice as your naughty fingers down there,” Frankie and Mary, watched closely by their potential buyers, learned the price of pleasure.

  Afterwards their mommy had taken pity on them, as they had lain with red backsides over her lap.

  “See? When you’re a good girl and take your spanking well, you earn Mommy’s fingers down here,” she would say as she taught them new lessons about what little girls should and shouldn’t do, where their terribly needy pussies were concerned.

  The Wood girls had each come very hard under Laura’s skillful fingers, their little bottoms clenching lewdly with pleasure as they had with pain only a few moments before. The miscreant also received a visit from her daddy in the night to discuss her infraction, and came again as she sucked his cock with the growing skill that her owner would soon appreciate.

  Now the chance of Frankie touching herself grew in part, Paul knew, because of the way her new relationship with her pussy purposely had very loose boundaries. Part of her mind certainly told her that of course she would have permission to masturbate while she watched Mary whipped, since her daddy had said she should learn from the sight, and her daddy had taught her so many special lessons about her pussy in the past ten days.

  The idea that she belonged to her daddy, between her waist and her knees, had begun to ingrain itself in her heart: wouldn’t Daddy, Frankie might well be thinking, want to see his pussy right now, while he whipped another girl? Wouldn’t he want his good girl to play with his pussy and make it feel good?

  As Paul expected, though, the moment the belt came down on Mary’s raised bottom and drew a cry of anguish along with the sharp slap of leather on tender skin, Frankie’s hands, which had wavered a little in front of her waist, returned to her sides. HM 23% read the data crawl now, and Frankie’s overall arousal had descended to 8 as she felt a sympathetic fear for her own bottom despite her continuing submissive craving for discipline.

  Fred Wood whipped his girls hard and fast, and he was quickly holding the screaming Mary in place with his left arm around her waist as the belt kept flashing down to teach the needed lesson in the place best suited for it.

  “No, Daddy,” Mary sobbed. “Please, no more. I’ll go… I’ll go!”

  Frankie whispered her own, “Please, Daddy,” but Fred kept whipping Mary’s bottom-cheeks and thighs until she had a network of curling red welts across her whole backside and she hung limply over the bed.

  When he stopped at last, he held Mary like that for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m sorry I had to do that, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mary choked out.

  “Yes, sir, what?” Fred said a little severely, though he had dropped the belt to the floor now and begun to rub the poor punished bottom gently. Mary instantly spiked to 9, then 10.

  Frankie said, “Please say it, Mary. Please.”

  A pause, and then Mary whispered, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Fred replied very warmly. “You may go ahead and stand up, then get dressed to go in the van.”

  Chapter Three

  Mary got spanked and whipped often. There was no way around that fact. Mommy usually spanked the girls with her wooden spoon, over the kitchen table. Daddy always whipped them with his belt, in their bedrooms. Most often he did it over his lap, but Mary supposed she had earned this different kind of whipping through the urgent nature of the infraction she had—for reasons she didn’t fully understand—committed.

  Why had she decided to get out of her dress and into her jeans, which she wasn’t even allowed to wear on Sundays unless she was helping Daddy in the yard?

  Well, because she knew the van from the… the place was coming.

  But didn’t she want to go to the place? The—Mary always bit her lip when she thought of the name Mommy and Daddy had told her, the very simple name that nevertheless made Mary’s heart thump even as it made those other things happen, further down.

  The Institute.

  The Institute for what?

  For the correction of naughty girls like Mary.

  For spanking them and whipping them, on their bare bottoms, just as Daddy had only a moment ago finished whipping Mary with his belt, leaving her bottom so sore.

  For the training of girls like Mary. For teaching them more of the special lessons she and Frankie had learned in Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom, this past month.

 
For the selling of girls like Mary, to men who would fuck them.

  Mommy and Daddy said that Frankie and Mary needed to go to the Institute, because the people who had brought them to live on Oak Street knew how to select girls for training. Then they usually told the girls to strip down to their panties and kneel on the bed so their guardians could teach them about their pussies, and about Mommy’s pussy, and about Daddy’s penis.

  Mary liked Daddy’s penis, really, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She even kind of wanted it inside her pussy—and even in her little bottom, if Daddy wanted to put it there. Daddy said her owner would be the one to do that first, but that then he would probably get to do it, too.

  That made Mary pout, but Mommy had said that if she pouted when her owner decided the time had come to fuck her, Mary would learn what it meant to be truly punished.

  Mary’s eyes always had gone wide at that, and her heart had beat very fast. “What does that mean, Mommy?” she had asked.

  “That depends on your owner, sweetheart. But most men who buy girls like you don’t hesitate to use the cane across their bare bottoms, when they’re very naughty.”

  Mary had bit her lip and whimpered, and wondered how she could possibly want to know what it felt like to have the cane across her bare bottom, before her master fucked her pussy for the first time.

  She wanted it, but a pretty big part of her didn’t want to want it. That seemed to be the problem, and it seemed to be the reason she had just gotten the belt before she had even seen the van and the men inside it—the same van, she felt sure, and the same men, that had taken Wendy away three Sundays ago while Mary watched through her bedroom window, unable to keep her hand out of her panties.

  What Mary couldn’t figure out now, with her bottom blazing from Daddy’s belt and making her panties feel strange and uncomfortable now that she had pulled them up and started to get changed into her Sunday dress, was why no part of her truly didn’t want to go in the van. Mary absolutely didn’t want to get whipped again… at least not right now when her backside already hurt so much.

  She looked at Frankie, still standing against Mary’s desk and now looking terribly guilty. Mary felt sure she knew why, for she had felt the very same guilt when she had played with herself as the men helped Wendy into the van.

  Mary had done all of it. She had even told Mommy that Frankie and Wendy had Frankie’s door closed. She had tattled because she had felt certain the older girls had decided to exclude Mary from something… something very naughty, but also something that Mary knew she craved—no, needed—without even knowing exactly what it was. She had caught a glimpse of the cover of Best Friends, with the two college girls and the man standing behind them holding…

  Mary always had to swallow hard when she thought of it, for the handsome older man on the cover held a cane.

  She reached her hand out to Frankie, after putting on the little bra she didn’t even really need but upon which Mommy insisted. Frankie took it.

  “I’m sorry,” the older girl whispered.

  Mary smiled back at her fellow ward, though she felt the tears from the whipping stinging her eyes a little and blinked against the sensation. “That’s okay, Frankie.”

  * * *

  They came down the stairs to find the tall man in the dark suit waiting by the door. He seemed about thirty, very clean cut and with an air that reminded Mary very much of her daddy: kind and gentle when a girl knew how to behave, but always in command of the situation and ready to guide with a firm hand when necessary. She thought it quite remarkable that a man so young could have that experienced air, but she supposed that some men were just different than others. No man she had met in her eighteen years of foster care, moving from house to house, had prepared her for Mr. Wood and the other Oak Street daddies. Mary had assumed age and proven success had something to do with it, but maybe something more fundamental determined the way a man held himself.

  “I’m Master G,” he said, his dark eyes fixing first on Frankie and then on Mary. “You’ll call me Master, when you speak, but you won’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Do you understand, girls?”

  “Yes, Master,” Frankie said in a shaky voice.

  Mary swallowed hard, then cleared her throat. Her voice seemed stuck. She lowered her eyes to Master G’s black shoes, her face hot and the pain from her bottom throbbing much more noticeably than it had a moment before.

  “Mary, sweetheart,” Mommy said from behind her. “Master G is waiting. Don’t make him punish you on top of that whipping, please.”

  Oh, no. Why did she get so warm like that, down there, and why did it always seem so embarrassing? She should be used to it by now, as strange as it had seemed only ten days ago when she had crept into Frankie’s room after the older girl’s whipping, and heard all about Best Friends. But to acknowledge to herself that the thought of being disciplined, guided, punished… used by a man like Daddy or this Master G… it just seemed impossible.

  But her bottom hurt so much.

  “Yes, Master,” she mumbled.

  “Louder, please,” Daddy said in his frustrated voice.

  “Look me in the eye, please, Mary,” said Master G.

  Cheeks burning, she lifted her blue eyes to his dark brown ones. She bit her lip.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, softly but distinctly.

  Master G smiled, then, and Mary’s heart did a funny flip-flop in her chest. It didn’t come just from his handsome face and his broad shoulders—it didn’t come even mostly from that. The smile itself, and the way it suggested that if Mary could be a good girl she would find herself rewarded in ways that were as naughty as they were nice, seemed to take away her doubt, if not her fear, about whether she needed to go to the Institute.

  “From now on,” Master G said, looking back at Frankie, then at Mary again, “you girls may not look a man in the eye unless he tells you to. Lower your eyes right now, please.”

  Mary felt her jaw drop, and for a moment she couldn’t even figure out how to obey him. Then she found herself turning back to Mommy and Daddy, beseeching them to say that Master G was wrong, or to laugh at his funny joke.

  It seemed a simple thing, not to look men in the eye—in fact Mary had always had trouble with eye contact, where Daddy himself was concerned, because it usually made her blush. Really she thought maybe she should be grateful that she didn’t have to see the eyes of men like Master G, and of the man who would… buy her. But the control it implied over her, not just of her body but of her soul, because…

  Because the eyes are the window of the soul, aren’t they? Mary thought.

  Mommy and Daddy looked back with serious expressions, and Mommy nodded. Shouldn’t they have covered this part in special lessons? Mary knew her time was running out yet again, when she saw Daddy’s face turn severe. She wasn’t allowed even to look her daddy in the eye without permission, then?

  Desperately she turned to Frankie, who had lowered her chin and seemed to be gazing, with bright pink cheeks, at Master G’s shoes. Frankie must have seen Mary looking at her, though, out of the corner of her eye, and she lifted her eyes and turned her own head to meet the look, a little fear showing in the tuck of her chin and a furtive glance at Master G demonstrating that Frankie thought she might get spanked even for returning another girl’s gaze.

  Frankie’s eyes seemed to say, You have to. You know you have to. You know you need to. You need training, just the way I do. If a man like Master G says we can’t look him in the eye, we lower our heads and hope he’ll let us play with ourselves while we think about his cock.

  A little sob rose in Mary’s chest, as Frankie turned back to Master G, eyes down, and said, “Yes, Master.”

  Mary closed her eyes for a moment, seeing Master G without his suit on behind her eyelids though she really didn’t want to see that at all, did she? She drew her lips into a tight line to suppress the same kind of noise Frankie had just made, and then she said, “Yes, Master.” She opened her eyes and fix
ed them on Master G’s shoes.

  “Good girls,” said Master G. “Hug your mommy and daddy, and then come with me. Master S is waiting in the van.”

  * * *

  Master S proved just as tall and just as handsome as Master G, but so fair-haired and blue-eyed that Mary thought he must be a surfer when he wasn’t training girls. Of course Mary could only look at those eyes when Master S wasn’t looking at her. Once, as he fastened her seatbelt for her, he caught her looking. How could she help it, when she felt his big hands around her waist, so close to where this whole terrible experience made her burn in her modest panties, under her old-fashioned slip, under her proper blue Sunday dress?

  “Did Master G tell you to keep your eyes down?” he asked, his voice full of authority despite it being a little higher and less growly than Master G’s. Before Mary lowered her gaze to the pearlescent buttons on his white shirt, she saw the blue eyes narrow, and that made her cheeks go hot yet again.

  “Yes, Master,” she said softly.

  “I won’t warn you again,” Master S said. “I can spank you right here in the van if I have to.” It was true: the van was configured with a long upholstered bench stretching front to back along the side opposite the sliding door. The girls sat side by side on the bench now, but one of the masters, it seemed quite clear, could take a seat there and pull a girl over his lap to teach her how to behave, skirt up and panties down.

  Mary bit her lip and felt that little sob rise again.

  “I’m sorry, Master,” she said. “Please don’t spank me.”

  “That’s alright, sweetheart,” he replied. “I know this is all very new. But it’s important that you learn to follow the rules right from the beginning. Your owner has the right to expect a well-trained girl in his bed.”