Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Something about the way the baron used the third person seemed to take me back to my school days—my childhood, even. I had read in books, with widening eyes, about how children had once, long ago, received spankings when they misbehaved. It felt as if my master wanted me to understand myself as a child, my new life as a sort of fresh start, where I had become utterly dependent on and completely submissive to him.
Children must obey their elders. The lesson had represented an essential part of my life at home, half a galaxy away. Here in his lordship’s house, a bed girl must follow the same ancient maxim—with the threat of the ancient penalty that accompanied it: a disobedient bed girl would find herself upended, her bottom bared, her owner’s strong hand raining down hard swats to teach her proper behavior in his sumptuous home.
I shuddered as I grasped the mortifying idea, and I gave one final show of struggle, exhausting my limbs as I tried to twist myself from my master’s impossibly strong hold on me.
He had stopped speaking, but he hadn’t stopped spanking me. The agony in my backside, the sun-like glow of my bottom cheeks and my upper thighs, made me jerk over his knee with each new swat, let out a piteous sob every time I felt his enormous hand return to crack against my backside. The baron clearly meant to show me how thoroughly he intended to punish me, when he decided I needed correction. My tears flowed freely, and yet to my chagrin, I still had the crazy voice in my mind, as if from another young woman, hovering far above the humiliating scene.
Yes… yes… she needs a sound spanking… she got her master’s trousers wet with her naughty cunny’s juices. She needs a firm hand on that little bottom to teach her the obedience a pleasure girl owes her master.
Abject shame filled me at that helpless thought, at the way it echoed in my mind despite the opposite ideas that still clamored at the back of my head, more faintly but also much more reasonably. That feeling of utter abasement made my sobs more wrenching, as if the terrible burning in my rear end somehow grew more painful in the way it could draw a horrid, involuntary complicity from my mind.
Suddenly, the baron stopped. At the same moment, I became aware that the ceaseless rhythm of the spanking had come to an end. I felt him changing his posture, tipping me over onto the floor and at the same time guiding me with his hands.
“On your knees, now, girl,” he told me, his voice sounding rougher, thicker than it had before, as if something about punishing me had affected him—as if it had made my master feel a sort of need that corresponded to my own, one that he meant to obtain satisfaction of… right now, from me.
I found myself on the beautiful carpet, my knees sinking down into its soft, slightly scratchy pile. My hands were free for no more than a second or two, for Mistress Franla took control of them again, holding them behind my back. I wondered for a moment if she had knelt down herself, or crouched, or stooped. I turned to look behind me and found on the contrary that my mistress had seated herself on a low chair of her own, which let her secure my wrists in her strong hands once again, holding them behind me.
“This is a mistress’ seat, Chalondra,” she told me, meeting my widening gaze. “Women like me have sat here countless times, to assist in this important part of a bed girl’s training. Now turn around and face your master. He has something to show you.”
I felt my eyes go even wider. All thought of disobedience vanished. I told myself I complied with her command because of the terrible agony that lingered in my backside from my master’s hand, but I knew, to my dismay, that truly I turned to face the baron because I so desperately needed to see what he wished me to see.
I looked up into his handsome, bearded face, at first, and I didn’t understand. My master wasn’t holding anything up in his hands: he seemed to have placed them in his lap, the better to gaze into my eyes, his brow slightly furrowed in apparent concentration.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw him lift his right hand and reach it towards me. I felt his fingers curl around the back of my head, his thumb gliding along my cheekbone. His grip tightened a little, and my eyes went even wider at the breathtaking sensation of control.
“Eyes down, Wetquim,” he said, his tone harsh.
I became suddenly conscious that something unusual had begun to take place, in his lap, a few centimeters below my chin. Breathing in through my nose, I caught a fragrance I had never scented before: earthy and musky and somehow very naughty—it reminded me of my own shameful private scent, the fragrance my master had made me breathe in, in his car… the scent of my helplessly aroused pussy, my wet quim.