by Emily Tilton
Mary looked at Frankie, whose seatbelt Master G had just fastened. She reached out her hand again, just as she had in the bedroom, and Frankie took it, looking sympathetically into Mary’s eyes.
“That’s it, girls,” said Master S. “Help each other through it. The man who buys you will be the kind of master who likes to see his girls show each other lots of affection.”
Chapter Four
On the way to the Institute, still holding Mary’s hand, Frankie thought about what lots of affection might mean. She did love Mary, even if sometimes she didn’t like her younger fellow ward that much. Mary seemed to love to get into trouble, and to drag Frankie into that. And because Mary had arrived on Oak Street later than Frankie and Wendy, she always got in the way of doing stuff just with Wendy the way Frankie usually wanted. Then Frankie would feel bad about excluding the younger Wood girl, and that made her even less likely to look on Mary favorably.
But now, when they had to go the Institute to be sold for sex, it felt good to have a hand to hold, and even better to know that the owner of the hand was the girl you walked to Mrs. Kimball’s little school with, and had family dinner with every evening. Frankie had known a great deal of fear, and even of anger, when Mary had refused and the older girl had thought they both might get whipped for it, but now she wished she could tell Mary that she appreciated the way Mary had defied the course of this strange day.
Just as deep down Frankie appreciated Mary’s insistence, in the pool house with Wendy three weeks earlier, that the friends take their bathing suits down and show each other the welts left by their daddies’ firm hands. When Mr. Kimball had caught them there, the special lessons had begun, and then Wendy had gone in this van, and come back as the bed girl of a wealthy man.
Poor Wendy, not to have a friend whose hand she could hold, in the van, Frankie thought. Not to have another girl who had to take off her clothes with you, who had to show you lots of affection, just as you showed lots of affection to her, when your new master commanded it.
Daddy, too, in the house that had faded now into the distance behind the van, liked Frankie and Mary to show lots of affection, when they came to the master bedroom for special lessons. The first time Frankie had to kiss Mary on the lips, it had felt very strange, but not as strange as having to kiss Mary’s pussy after shaving it.
Learning how to help the younger girl climax, with her fingers and tongue, under Mommy and Daddy’s supervision, made Frankie feel proud, even as it made her blush—and grow very warm herself, between her thighs. Daddy had Frankie get over Mary’s face, usually, after she had made Mary come, and ride the little mouth and nose while he rubbed her bottom, and spanked it gently sometimes to encourage her. Frankie always had her own orgasm so quickly that Daddy had her stay there and keep pressing her pussy down on Mary’s face until she came again.
That always got Daddy very hard, Frankie remembered, and she remembered how funny it made her feel to see his cock there, so long and thick. He would pump it in his hand and Frankie wished he would put it in her pussy, but she knew he couldn’t because the first penis inside her, down there, would belong to the man who would buy her and Mary. Usually Mommy would have to lie on her back at that point, with her knees up and spread, for Daddy to fuck while the Wood girls watched their mommy under the cock. They held onto his strong arms and rubbed their little pussies against his muscular thighs until he shouted out his orgasm, and told Frankie and Mary to kiss each other again, the way best friends should, before having them both kiss Mommy’s pussy so that the pleasure might be shared as equally as possible.
Thinking about it, and wondering whether the man who would buy them would want them to show their affection for one another the same way Daddy and Mommy liked to see, she gave Mary’s hand a squeeze. The younger girl turned to Frankie, her lower lip caught between her teeth. For a moment Frankie worried that Mary might break the rules and say something, but then her fellow ward—gulp, her fellow bed girl—winked.
Frankie almost giggled, and had to conceal it with a little cough. That Mary could find it in herself to wink, given where they were and how severely Daddy had whipped her, made everything much better.
“You okay, sweetheart?” asked Master S, turning around from the passenger seat at the front of the van. At the last moment, Frankie remembered to lower her eyes.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
* * *
The van pulled up somewhere: Frankie couldn’t really see because the only view she had was through the windshield, and she kept worrying that if she looked in that direction she might make eye contact with Master G or Master S without even really meaning to do it. She thought she could see a very big house—a castle, really, or maybe even a chateau. Mrs. Kimball had given them a course on the history of architecture that Frankie had really adored. She felt a little embarrassed, actually, by how much she had loved to learn about royal palaces and stuff like that, because she knew it came from the fairy princess dreams of which she had never truly let go even as the system moved her from foster home to foster home, and state-run dorm to state-run dorm.
The van door slid to the side, and revealed the portico of what could only be a mansion modelled after a chateau. The kind of chateau where a princess lived, or at least a duchess.
Frankie’s heart skipped a beat.
Or, she thought, the scullery maid whom the duke fucks whenever he wants.
She swallowed hard as her face got hot, but not quite as hot as her pussy. She shifted self-consciously on the van seat, at the mercy of her conflicting ideas, emotions, and above all sensations. Next to her, to Frankie’s surprise, Mary gave a tiny whimper. Frankie squeezed her hand again, suddenly sure that Mary had felt something similar to her own reaction just to the sight of the stately home where their virginities would be sold: a matched pair of young, untried pussies and bottoms.
“Welcome to the Institute, girls,” Master G said.
Frankie moved to unbuckle her seatbelt, but Master S, standing to the right of the door, stopped her. “I’ll do that, sweetheart,” he said, stepping into the van and putting his hands down at her waist where the buckle lay over her tummy, which fluttered at the assured touch of his big hands, so close to her privates. Beside her, Master G did the same for Mary.
She had no idea what to think about the effect that these masters had on her, because she had no idea what role they would play in her life—no, in my training, she thought with another involuntary swallow. She kept her eyes on their shoes as they helped first her, then Mary, out of the van. A big door, a few feet away up a stone step swung inward to reveal a beautiful middle-aged woman in a short white nightgown that made Frankie’s breath catch in her throat.
A nightgown? That kind of nightgown? On a Sunday?
The woman’s blonde hair fell to her shoulders. Her face had a mixture of kindness and authority that made Frankie simultaneously want to take a step back and a step forward.
“Good afternoon, Frankie,” she said in a warm voice that seemed to make the pull toward her stronger. “Good afternoon, Mary. I am Miss Charlotte, the dean of the Institute. I know you’re anxious about what’s going to happen now, and I’m going to do my best to help you feel comfortable.”
Frankie gave a nervous smile. The lacy nightgown, which left very little of Miss Charlotte’s stunning, shapely body to the imagination, was a little off-putting, but it seemed like the dean meant to make them feel at home. It almost seemed like they had come to stay at a countess’ lovely manor house.
But then Miss Charlotte spoke to the masters.
“Bind their hands, please.”
“What?” Mary said, looking from Miss Charlotte to Master G, then dropping her eyes immediately, her cheeks going pink. Frankie’s heart started going a mile a minute.
Master S chuckled beside her. “New protocol, Miss Charlotte?”
The dean nodded, her eyes now turned steadily upon Mary and a severe expression on her lovely face. “Mary Wood, look at me,” s
he said in a very sharp tone.
Startled, Mary raised her eyes to Miss Charlotte’s. Frankie felt her own knees tremble under her.
“If you speak out of turn again, Mary, you will learn very early on in your time here what it means to be truly punished. The whipping you got from your daddy earlier will seem like a fond memory to you. You will be bound to a punishment horse and caned until you cannot bear to wear panties, let alone sit down, for a week. Do you understand me? Say Yes, Miss Charlotte.”
Mary took quick, panting breaths through slightly parted lips. “Yes, Miss Charlotte,” she said quietly, then dropped her eyes to the step upon which the dean stood.
Master G had brought out a length of rope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Hold out your hands, sweetheart,” he said to Mary. “Inside wrists together.”
Frankie’s eyes went wide, her attention so rapt that she didn’t notice Master S had a rope of his own until he spoke, too.
“You too, Frankie. Hands in front of you.”
Quickly and efficiently the masters bound the Wood girls’ hands before them. Frankie felt she might faint dead away there in the portico before even crossing the threshold of the Institute. It didn’t hurt; it wasn’t even uncomfortable, really. But even if this were a new protocol—had it not happened to Wendy, then, maybe?—it seemed horribly effective at making Frankie feel that all the experience of her special lessons with Mommy and Daddy back on Oak Street hadn’t removed the essential innocence and modesty that her guardians had fostered so thoroughly in her time in their home.
“Girls,” Miss Charlotte said when both Frankie and Mary stood before her in their Sunday dresses with their hands bound, like innocent, captive maidens at the mercy of a wicked nobleman, “as I said, I will try to make you as comfortable as I can. But no amount of reassurance from me can change the facts of your situation. You are here to be sold at auction to a man who will deflower your vaginas, and have you trained for his pleasure according to his preferences. Soon enough, he will also deflower your bottoms, and you will return home with him to live as his bed girls.”
Frankie felt her brow crease deeply. She sucked her lips into a tight line as she felt a sob building in her chest, though she couldn’t have said what emotion, or even what mixture of many emotions, the sob would have expressed. How could any part of her yearn for the terrible things this woman had just described?
“That is why your hands are bound,” Miss Charlotte said, her voice suddenly sounding gentler. “The restraint will remind you, and those gathered to bid upon your virginities, that you two lovely, proper young ladies are here for them—for their use and their pleasure, if they should prevail in the bidding. A good concubine knows she must not interfere with her master’s enjoyment, but you girls are not yet trained, and it will help you and your new owner to have the matter put beyond doubt. Do you understand me, girls?”
“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” Frankie whispered.
“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” murmured Mary beside her.
Yes. When my master wishes to use me, my hands cannot be allowed to get in his way. His hands, and then his hard penis, will go wherever he wants to put them, for I will belong to him.
Chapter Five
In the grand salon of the Institute, Johann Bonner listened to his acquaintance Greg Yost with only half an ear. Greg had an inordinate love of his several racing yachts, and while Johann didn’t dislike the sea, he had a fairly low tolerance for sailors—the wealthy take-the-wheel-for-a-few-minutes-when-it-doesn’t-matter sort at least. He supposed his childhood in mostly landlocked Germany had left him with the prejudice, despite giving him only the merest trace of an accent.
“Listen, Johann—you have to come out on the Dancer for New Year’s. You’ll be in San Diego anyway, won’t you?”
Johann nodded. “I think so.” Then he crooked a left-sided smile. “Depends on what happens here, though, doesn’t it?”
Greg chuckled. “Definitely. I really regard these high-ticket things as social occasions, though, don’t you?” He scanned the room. “Dupont’s going to get these girls, after all. I’m not sure I’m even going to bid.”
Johann regarded the figure of Chip Dupont IV, standing across the salon, arrayed for this auction in a fashion only slightly different from the way it had been on his previous visit, for the ass night of Johann’s first and only concubine, Caroline. Her two years of service in his sumptuous beds in New York, San Diego, and Bordeaux remained a vivid memory despite Caroline’s being well into her psychiatric residency in Boston. She intended to come work here at the Institute if she could get a position as an assessor, and given how much she had taught Johann about dominance and submission, he couldn’t see the Institute being foolish enough not to give her one.
He shook his head slightly to try to clear it of the glowing golden memory of entering this room and seeing the training masters in chairs like the ones placed near the dais now for the bidders who were currently standing about and enjoying the open bar. The masters had sat like lords, just as Johann, Greg, Chip, and the dozen or so other well-heeled alphas gathered here would, to bid on the Wood girls, but on Caroline’s ass night the space closest to the dais had gone to a more interesting audience. All the concubines had knelt on their mats up front, so they could watch him deflower his own bed girl’s anus.
The memory had gotten its hooks into him far enough that he had to clear his throat and scan the room, doing everything in his power to keep himself from shifting his weight to accommodate his suddenly growing erection. If he won this auction—which he did not regard as a social occasion any more than he felt sure Greg truly did—he would have two young pussies and two young anuses to deflower. It seemed very difficult to concentrate on remembering the name of the gray-haired gentleman talking to Chip across the room from Greg and Johann, who Johann had a distinct impression was an advisor to the president.
Greg, helpfully oblivious to the mood of any given conversational partner, as far as Johann had ever been able to tell, forged ahead with the chit-chat. “You had that gorgeous redhead for a year or two, right? Chloe?”
“Caroline,” Johann corrected, a little reluctantly. Unwilling to let Greg steer the conversation now into waters that might prove painful—for Johann had wanted to marry Caroline—he turned the tables. “And you’ve had, what? Three concubines?”
Greg smiled. “Yes. Only the last one from here, though. Can’t ever go back, I’m afraid, after you’ve experienced the Institute’s level of service. I know I sound like one of those over-the-top marketing emails they’re always sending, with the crazy brochures attached and the pictures…”
To Johann’s surprise, Greg seemed to be getting a little sidetracked himself, into an almost wistful frame of mind. Liking the man a little better, and promising himself that he would go out on Greg’s yacht at New Year’s, if he went away disappointed today, Johann decided to help him out of the conversational jam.
“Don’t I know it,” he said. “And now, with Oak Street…”
Greg nodded, smiling broadly. “My personal kryptonite. Did you do much ageplay with Caroline?”
“More and more as the time went by,” Johann confirmed. He considered whether he wanted to go another level down, and inquire about Greg’s proclivities with his own girls, but found himself very grateful that at that moment a gong rang, and the men—as well as, Johann saw now, two women—found seats in the gilded armchairs before the dais. One wore an elegant pantsuit, the other an evening gown. Johann thought he recognized the former from the anchor desk of the country’s leading news network and the latter as a Hollywood producer.
Each chair had a small table set in front of it, for the occupant’s drink, and now girls in white, pink, and blue nightgowns began to circulate among the potential bidders to take their orders. Johann didn’t think one could even call it a trick, to try to get the customers drunk and loosen their purse strings, so old a practice was it. He had a whiskey of his own to sip, and in fact he hoped
to reach the edge of inebriation before the bidding started; buying a set of virgins, he firmly believed, should not be something to which inhibitions applied, once a man had made the decision to go all in.
Which Johann had done the previous weekend, after watching the livestream of Wendy Kimball’s auction. He had made that decision with a whiskey in his hand Sunday night, and confirmed it with his investment account statement and coffee Monday morning. He had finally gotten over Caroline, and he had realized a windfall from the energy markets. A brace of sweet, innocent, blonde Oak Street girls would make the transition back to the marriage market much more pleasant.
On the dais stood the podium where Miss Charlotte would stand, and two spanking benches fitted with supports for the girls’ elbows and knees as well as the standard leather straps to restrain them. Johann had long known himself as highly susceptible to the charms of dominating lovely young women, but his tumescent reaction to the mere sight of the spanking benches surprised him a bit.
Of course, he reflected, like everyone seated in those armchairs Johann had a well-developed ability to imagine Frankie and Mary Wood strapped to the benches. Johann felt sure that they all had watched the girls’ special lessons with their mommy and daddy over the past month, either on the livestream or via the highlight reel helpfully sent to the Institute’s past clients to whet their appetites.
The memory alone of the expressions on Frankie’s and Mary’s faces as they watched their daddy fuck their mommy’s bottom could make Johann’s cock stand to firm attention. He couldn’t believe that behind the bland social expression of every billionaire in that room there didn’t lurk the same level of arousal, the same craving to have the Wood girls to him or herself in the Institute’s pleasure cottage tonight.
Miss Charlotte, that paragon of updated old-world elegance and consummate, understated marketer of the erotic charms of her stock-in-trade, stepped from a door at the side of the salon and made her way to the podium.
